This is a place where I will drop disconnected stories. The first is a story about a Japanese retainer, called 'Soichiro Shiretoko', who can be seen escorting his young lord, Kyonosuke, along a snowy trail at the start of spring.


Shocks of white, pink and purple clouded the sky. Hairy pines with snow on their branches cut through the mist. Maples stood below, an army of them with shocking red leaves. Further down the trail, a man was taking a stroll. He was wearing a black kimono with white fringes; white socks and brown geta; and his hair was neat and orderly, in the style of the house tutor, or scribe. At his side, a black katana; a tanto fitted across. He walked slowly, calmly, pushing a pram. In it, a small baby babbled.

The boy in the pram was red-faced, with a plump nose and a good set of hair. He looked up at the sky, painting pictures with his thumb. He tossed a spool of blue silk in his right hand. He seemed to enjoy tugging on it, as if the knot intrigued him. He was the hope of a generation. As intelligent as he was proud. He cared not for the cold. In fact, he seemed to be having a great deal of fun.

''Hm...?'' Soichiro murmured. He had stopped at the foot of the trail. He had almost lost his footing. He looked along the path, then studied the ice, realising the road had not yet thawed.

Steering the pram off the trail, Soichiro went down towards the lake instead. The water was creaming softly against the shore, like a thought lapping at the edge of his subconsciousness. The pram went on, bumbling as it went, and Kyonosuke could be heard giggling excitedly. The pram suddenly picked up speed; and sure enough, Kyonosuke warbled enthusiastically. Soon enough, the pram was rushing around the shoreline, taking up such a speed that the ducks and mallards kicked up in the air, shedding feathers.

In that moment, Kyonosuke saw the bamboo of the forest towering over him. The stalks resembled tall ladders. He imagined climbing them and entering a temple in the clouds.

Soichiro took the boy to the end of the trail; and over a low bamboo bridge, the sun had begun to rise.

They stopped in the middle of the bridge to laze in the sun, Soichiro gazing around protectively, Kyonosuke babbling as he looked at it head-on. The fate of the clan was in that boy, and there was a soft chime throughout the forest. Of ancient bells left there by Kyonosuke's ancestors. Somewhere, the spirits heard the call.

Soichiro seemed to move, his kimono bathed in the warmth of the sun. He stooped to break off an icicle. Then mixing some snow and ice together, he leaned off the trail to pick some blackberries as well. Soichiro came to the young Lord, then offered him the snow cone. The boy's lips were soon black with sugar and snow. The boy kicked his legs enthusiastically as his eyes turned very round. He was eager and defiant for more, as he should be.

''Lord Kyonosuke,'' Soichiro spoke in Japanese. ''We live a good life.''

Soichiro went to turn the pram around, but not before he noticed something. A murder of crows. Low upon the horizon. Not far from the bridge, and a good amount of damaged trail leading towards them. Bamboo with its bark cut and split apart, and perhaps a little blood on the running boards, leading down towards the lake.

The man reached for his tanto, then, taking the pram, steered it calmly towards the signs. For once, the Lord did not babble. Perhaps, he too, could sense that something was wrong...

Soichiro looked on at the scene. The lake was dotted with ice bubbles. From here, it looked as if the water was crystal clear, but he knew from experience that the majority of it would be at least three feet of solid ice with thinner patches here and there. As long as he was careful, he should be fine.

He took the pram to one side and settled the boy beneath a cherry tree. A single leaf fell onto Kyonosuke's nose, painting his face pink. The boy babbled and grabbed the leaf, looking upon it curiously.

''I will be back shortly, my Lord,'' Soichiro whispered intently. He was already half a mile away; down upon the lake; through the reeds and stepping out onto the ice.

The lake crunched beneath his feet as he made his way across it. It felt as if it would hold, though he had no inclination to test it. Up ahead, it looked as though a troop of mushrooms had burst from the ice. They were three or four feet tall, shapeless in mass, and were being picked at by crows.

''Hm?'' Soichiro muttered as he came upon the first mushroom. As he neared, the crows shouted at him, as if to ward him off, but he paid them no mind. He could already see how they had drawn blood.

A horse looked back at him, six feet deep in ice. Its front hooves barely escaped the surface of the lake. Its eyes were mad, wailing with terror, and its maw showed a plucked tongue. A nearby crow cawed guiltily, its feathered belly distinctly round.

''Eh...?'' Soichiro turned, looking at the rest of the lake.

On and on it went, one horse after another, all of them embedded in ice. He stared at the event for a good seventeen seconds, confused and partly afraid. Something about this scene was very wrong, he judged. These animals had not waded in here by chance. They had been driven towards suicide. He looked back towards Kyonosuke. The pram had not moved, but even from here, he saw the unmistakable curvature of the reeds above the bank. They had burst apart, as if charged and trampled. The animals had hit the surface of the lake from there, perhaps some nights ago, and had swiftly drowned and frozen to death in an effort to escape whatever had been chasing them. What was confusing and perhaps, most horrifying about this realisation was that Soichiro had seen no wagon trails upon the road, nor animal prints in the forest. With the depth of the snow, and the lack of recent storms, he should have.

Soichiro cast one last look at the animals, then went back towards the trail. He performed a final inspection of the surrounding area, though found no evidence of any large predators; nor of human interference. It became abruptly clear to him that whatever had scared these animals, it had left no mark. No trail. He held his katana a moment longer, and realised he had been gripping it tightly for the last few minutes. His palm was clammy, and he abruptly let it go, tutting softly as he returned to Kyonosuke.

''Let us go, my Lord. We will be late for your breakfast,'' he said softly, with one last glance towards the lake. He saw the crows had resumed their feast, and with worry in his heart, and a little sweat across his brow, he went unhurriedly back to the estate; though in spite of his untroubled demeanour, he could not set aside the memory of those animals. They had been culled.

The Kurou family estate was a walled-in complex, featuring small butresses on its outer walls. Two guards manned the gate, both of them wearing blue kimonos and twin swords. Wild mushrooms grew on the outer path, which was kept sandy and was flanked by hills on both sides. The mansion itself could be seen well beyond the gate, built upon a flat stone wall with only a single set of stairs leading towards the central complex. The roof was in the Irimoya-zukuri style, built at some great expense, and there were a smattering of other buildings about the compound as well. A laundry room, a pantry, a medium-sized barracks for the Lord's retainers, a house for the servants kept in a seperate, gated compound, as well as a small armory, which was mostly packed with spears, a small collection of swords, and some bow and arrow.

When Soichiro arrived, he saw Madam Murasaki folding laundry through the opening of a sliding door. Three geisha were practicing a Noh dance in the lower courtyard whilst their tutor played the shamisen. Soichiro went silently through the grounds as not to disturb them, though Kyonosuke babbled incoherently at great length, still playing with the blue knot.

''Yui, will you prepare the Lord his breakfast?'' Soichiro stopped by the laundry room to speak to a serving girl. She was a peasant, the daughter of a merchant, with a pleasant, if not simple face. She stopped what she was doing, then bowed to him deeply, and swiftly removed Kyonosuke from his pram.

''Yes, Shiretoko-san,'' she muttered, and held the babe to her breast. She then went off in a hurry, her zori pattering against the hard-churned gravel that made up the base layer of the estate.

Soichiro went up the stairs and into the courtyard, where he saw Hachiro Tsubohachi standing guard. The man called out to him at once: ''Hey, Shiretoko! Where have you been? A Shinsengumi is here. He looks very serious...''

Soichiro frowned remotely, then stopped before Tsubohachi. The man was tall and lean, somewhat dishivelled for a landed samurai, with a shaved blue scalp, distinctly well-worn robes, and a narrow, clean face. His hair at the back was quartered and kept in a chonmage style, though as usual, it was out of its knot. He looked like the type of a man you might find in a sake den well after midnight, a man with very little interest in taking a wife or doing anything other than bullying peasants and collecting taxes. Shiretoko happened to know he had killed six Rōnin one night over a a game of Mahjong. Shiretoko liked him. He was dutiful to the point of abolutism, often awake before sunrise and practicing his caligraphy regardless of whether he was hungover or not. A rough man, but by no means an evil one.

''A member of the Shinshengumi?'' Shiretoko hummed, studying the estate. Madam Murasaki had finished folding clothes, and without getting up, she retreated into the house upon her knees, sliding the door shut. ''Did he give you his name...?''

''Kondo Isami,'' Tsubohachi recalled, grunting softly. He then looked at Shiretoko, as if to ask him if he recognised the name.

Kondo Isami? Shiretoko wondered. What is the Commander of the Tokugawa's special police force doing here?

''Of course,'' Tsubohachi went on, letting his voice fall into conjecture. ''If a member of the Edo police is here, it can only mean bad news, either with the Gaijin, or a threat to the Tokugawa. Why else would he come to see our Lord...?''

Shiretoko hummed at this, and then saw Tsubohachi's expression. He was looking at him crucially, as if to confirm his suspicions.

It was true. For the past month or so there had been plenty of noise coming from Edo, all of which was stemming from the rich merchant classes. Had the Tokugawa had enough and finally deployed the Shinshengumi to stifle the agitators? Shiretoko thought back to Yui and her father, and how the peasant girl was now attending Lord Kyonosuke in private. He let his expression fall flat, then reassured Tsubohachi.

''I am sure it is nothing. Please, excuse me,'' he bowed his head, then went to enter the mansion. He removed his geta and placed them on the rack, then entered through the sliding door, closing it promptly behind him....

* * *

Plan:
- Returns to the estate,
- Warns Tesshin about the horses.
- Kondo Isami arrives, warns him of the Black Ship, and the appearance of the Gajinn. When was this? 3 days hence. The same time as the horses drowned.

Carolina's Dream

(A long, unfinished piece of writing of what was supposed to the start of a Romance novel.)

A summer house.

Carolina was tending the garden outside. She was wearing a green dress, with a burgundy front, and her hair was done-up in a straw bonnet. Her ginger hair was curled behind her ears as she pulled weeds and threw them into a bucket by the steps that ran across the patio. Her cat, Ginger, walked the wood slats which guarded the cherry trees, prowling for grasshoppers, or otherwise chasing the field mice who lived in the back-end of the garden. She watched the rows, the eaves and the wild fields across, studying how Constable Raymond patrolled the hayfields upon the back of his black destrier with a sword upon his hip. Even from here, he caught her watching, and lifted his hand to her politely.

Carolina smiled and waved back, then dipped her head briskly to avoid his gaze.

Often, Carolina would find herself in this garden and men would walk by. She would watch them thoughtfully, sometimes waving if they waved back, but would never draw attention to herself. It was not that she was shy. She had never been shy. She knew what she wanted, and Constable Raymond wasn't it. He was too strict. He hadn't learned to smile. And he often spoke just a little too curtly about matters of the heart, which had led her to believe that he was under the assumption that his opinion was the only one that mattered. Just such an occasion had happened the week before when he'd made her an undue marriage offer, and frankly, whilst she approved of him as the lawmaker of the town, she had ultimately refused him. The rumours had already begun around town that she was something of a prude, of course. But she did not care. He simply didn't thrill her the way some men did.

It was the lumberjacks she had eyes for. The fishermen. The labourers. She would watch as they returned home from work to their pretty, doughy wives; how they would lift them up out their skirts in a flurry; and how they would rough-up their hair in their hands. As Carolina plucked weeds, she swiped at her cheek and breathed out through her nose sharply as she felt a warm feeling pass through her stomach. Large hands... gruff from mining... working the coal pits, lonely from days spent far away from home; only a glass of milk and a warm supper was needed to tend their woes, and then they would be pawing at her to come closer and spend the night in their arms. And her, feeling tense from housework, tired from working in the garden, would find herself filled with newfound energy as she sat upon a working man's lap and leaned in for the slightest of kisses, hoping such things might extend even further. To a kiss along the inside of her throat, perhaps. Her hand came up and wandered the outside of her neck with the gardening glove. Or along the nape of her collar. She felt down to the delicate gold necklace which hung between her breasts. Or perhaps, even lower still....

Ginger let out a curious meow and went sprinting across the garden, and blinking, Carolina quickly looked up to see what had happened.

At the gate — at her gate — was a man. He was broad-backed, with heavy-set arms and big, curling fists. He was attempting to haul a crate through the gate, and apparently, struggling due to his size.

She leaped to her feet at once.

''I didn't see you! Oh, I'm sorry!'' She said. Then she came and helped him tackle it. He turned towards her, and she almost gasped.

Who is this...? She wondered, and realised she felt rather funny.

A man with russet curls, deep brown eyes, and a shallow beard turned to face her. He was lean across the face, and held his eyes courteously low as he struggled with the crate. Though to his credit, he remained uncomplaining as she helped him get it inside.

''Thank you,'' he said breathlessly, his tone sounding rather strained. ''It's your sapling orders, Miss.''

Her saplings, of course! She had ordered several of them! Cherry trees! She caught herself staring at his hands and guffed, then leaned harder against the crate to lift it with her chest. With their strength combined, they hauled it into the front garden. Though by the time they set it down, they were already sweating.

He laughed. His tone was rich and melodious. Then wiping his brow with a hairy arm, he murmured: ''Hellfire, you're a strong woman,'' and glanced at her in amusement. She simply grinned back at him awkwardly, leaning far across the crate as she caught her breath.

Clearing his throat, he then chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, eyeing her a moment longer. She saw the way he was looking at her and quickly gathered herself, feeling rather shy all of a sudden. Was he... laughing at her? For grinning so stupidly? She should think not?

''Um,'' she said all of a sudden. ''You'll be wanting your payment... how far, did you happen to carry it?'' She said, getting to her feet rather curtly and adjusting herself. She turned away from him at once.

''From Glensdale,'' he answered, still knelt there and adjusting his hat. He wore a flat cap across his curls. She tried not to look at him again as she took the time to gather herself. She took a few coins from her purse, which had been sat on the warm brick outside her country cottage. She came over through the long grass and extended it out to him, forcing him to step forwards.

The man clambered up, big as he was, and she tried hard not to let her eyes falter as he came and accepted the payment. Yet her knees felt vaguely weak when she saw the way his shirt stretched across his chest. That's what had her mind bubbling with weakness; the nervous way he plodded across the garden. For such a big man, it was hysterical. Why was he so timid after hauling a crate that weighed almost as much as she did?

''Thank you Miss,'' he said gratefully, then he took the coins and bowed his head to her courteously, pocketing them in the lint-hold of his shirt. She glanced at his strapping arms, chewed her lip, then boldly stared at him, nodding matter-of-factly.

''You certainly deserve it for carrying it all the way from Glensdale,'' she just said. ''I'm Carolina by the way. This' my plot, I don't suppose you get around much? I can't recall seeing you before,'' she ventured. Then turning to her new saplings, she began to break into the box using a short prybar she retrieved from an empty plot beneath her windowsill.

''No Miss. Can't say I do,'' he smiled at her kindly. Having done fussing with his shirt, he was now fussing with his hands. She then watched as he came down; and without asking, he reached out to help her.

Adjusting the prybar in her hands, he ruggedly dug it into a vague slot she hadn't quite made out. Then glancing up at him, he nodded at her encouragingly; once, the same way her father had done when she'd been but a girl. And glancing at the box, she then put her weight behind the prybar: and to her surprise it snapped open.

''Always a nook,'' he said softly, shuffling with the lid.

She watched, curious, as he reached in and delicately retrieved her saplings from the crate.

Carolina studied the man as he lumbered to his feet, stripping the saplings from their packaging the same way a child would a sweet wrapper. The man rubbed away the crust of mud from around the plants with his bare hands, shaping them with his fingers, and she went to say she had a second pair of gloves if he needed — but he had already begun digging up the earth from one of the open plots. He went across the garden and shovelled earth into the beige pots she'd set out the day before, and smoothing them over with his hands, he dug deep before easing the saplings into their new homes. His method had her eyes gazing at him almost lazily now; and she was stunned to see that Ginger was already slipping between his ankles, purring immaculately as she studied him from beneath his legs.

''Ha,'' Carolina simply said, her mouth falling open. Then she stared at him in disbelief as he began wiping his hands on his trousers.

Don't. You'll get them dirty. And then you'll have to take them off—

The man swiped gravel and dirt on his denim, then lifted the cat and patted her over roughly. At that point, Carolina had to turn away. Her hand had already begun folding over her mouth like one of those doughy wives she had watched so enviously from behind her garden fence. She stared low at the ground as she stood up and made her way to the doors, pretending to put the prybar away. But secretly, she was confused by this man and his actions. Why had he just decided to plant her saplings without asking? She then turned back to him and found him looking up at her thoughtfully. And to him, she spurred:

''What?'' She said quite vaguely, lifting her eyebrows, not letting her emotions show whatsoever.

He blinked at her, then looked confused himself. ''I was just lookin' at you, Miss. My name's Grey, by the way. Suppose I didn't get chance to introduce myself proper.''

''No, you were too busy planting my saplings.''

A vast reservoir of silence filled the space between them. He stared at Carolina, holding Ginger in his arms, then carefully put the cat down. Carolina almost felt sorry for her when he did that, as the cat looked like she'd been enjoying herself. But still, she wouldn't let her conceit be noticed. She stared proudly at the man, as if to remind him this was her house, her plot, her land. She drew her eyes across him at length until he formed the exact expression she hoped he would.

''I'm sorry Miss,'' he said insistently. ''I like my plants as well. When I knew what they were... I just thought I'd help out,'' he confessed. ''If you want 'em somewhere else I can put 'em somewhere else?'' The man offered gruffly, his eyes rushing over hers. He then angled himself towards the garden.

Good. Better. She thought, subtly chewing the inside of her lip. At least the man had a sense of propriety.

Shaking her head, she insisted: ''No,'' coyly, curling her hands then across her bonnet, urging her curls to stay put. ''No, they're perfectly fine as they are for now. Would you... like a glass of milk?'' She wondered, turning towards the door, throwing him a look which she hoped was brief.

''If it's not too much trouble. That walk sure was somethin' else,'' he agreed, now taking off his cap to follow her inside.

''Then I'll be right out with it, Sir,'' she said, shutting the door on him quickly and shoving herself against it to keep it that way.

Inside, Carolina stood there, head slightly bowed, fussing with her curls beneath her bonnet. She felt the way her fingers were rough with grout. The sensation of mud across her cheek. Then the warmth along the back of her neck and how her hair stuck to her skin. He was quite something, that man. He reminded her of Officer Raymond in a way, though far less imperious. And raising her head, she slowly went across the porch in her muddy boots and ignored the trail she was making across the floor as she went to the kitchen and ran some water from beneath the faucet. She felt a little foolish for becoming so unbuckled just because a rugged workman had entered her yard. Not to mention how he'd hardly introduced himself before her thoughts went to his arms and the way he'd so eagerly began planting in her garden. Her palms ran with water as she attempted to scour away the dirt, and then, just as she felt herself growing frantic, she heard someone had begun to sing.

Her hands slowed.

Her thoughts died.

And then, turning towards the window, she stared through the glass with wonder.

Ginger was walking along the windowsill with her tail up, flirting with the man. He was singing to her with his back to the window, elbows set against the perch, the muscles of his back — like snakes beneath the cloth. Carolina stepped closer, watching as he he palmed his hat to his chest, did something with it, and then slapped it back onto his head. With her face to the glass, she saw the lazy, thoughtful look in Ginger's eyes; quite like the lazy, thoughtless expression she now wore. She could've stayed there forever listening to him. His voice was a low, heady purr, distinctly masculine, and yet filled with warmth.

Reaching towards the fridge, she leant down and poured the man an extra tall glass of ice cold milk before summoning the courage to make her way back to the garden.

''... Remember Carolina. He isn't Officer Raymond. Be civil,'' she reminded herself before stepping out of the house. Then taking a low breath, she summoned a smile as she reentered the garden.

* * *

Carolina sat with Grey on the porch. Her on her knees, sitting with her legs to one side; and him on the bench, dominating most of it. She was playing cards with him. They had already been talking for quite some time, perhaps an hour; and in that time, she had learned quite a lot about him. Meanwhile, the late evening was drawing close, and dusk was in her garden. Her deck looked a very supple red at this hour. Grey's boots were sitting on the cherrywood balcony. His feet were up and likewise, she had removed her Chelsea boots. They sat next to one another, little and large, with Ginger obsessively sniffing his shoes as the sun set behind her. Carolina's roses were leaning towards the last of it, basking in what little there was left like a group of redheaded young women enjoying the last notes of spring.

''So you were a merchant-sailor, a military man, and now you're telling me you were a county sheriff? That's quite a job list, Mister. Greyson,'' she said teasingly, folding yet another hand. The man was an imperceptible rogue. He had beaten her on eight accounts at Liar's Bluff. She simply could not tell when he was fibbing. ''I confess that I don't have the best reputation among men of the law, I find them rather too superior for my liking.''

''Well then, I best be off,'' he said curtly, though made no move to stand.

She let out a withdrawn laugh. Then grinning at him, he did the same in return.

''You're quite the devil, aren't you?'' She matched him at cards, and for once, he actually looked at his hand.

''I sincerely hope you don't think so,'' he chuckled uneasily, struggling with his cards.

For a moment, she was at a loss for words, feeling rather amused. Then leaning back from the cards on the deck, she cleared her throat excitedly and bit her lip.

He then put down a Jack, but she had a Queen.

''Ha!'' She said at once, rubbing the card into the deck with her thumb to crush his pathetic little soldier. He sighed at once, looking upwards with his eyes, and feigned utmost defeat. Then putting down his cards on the bench beside him, he shrugged.

''I suppose that's me cooked,'' he said softly, then tipped his hat to her. She felt rather giddy. And gathering up the cards, she shuffled the deck.

''Let's go again—?''

''That man. He's still out there...''

Carolina peered at him, then looked around.

Out beyond the fence, far across the street, and riding along the boundary of her wheat fields was a man riding a familiar black destrier. He carried a sword upon his hip, which was gleaming in the last light of the sun, and he seemingly couldn't take his eyes off the porch. Carolina could see them shining beneath the brim of his dark wool cap.

Tutting softly, Carolina said with a shake of her head.

''It's only the local lawman, Constable Raymond. He asked for my hand not a week ago. He likes to patrol here, I think more than the situation frankly demands it,'' she said with a thin narrowing of her eyebrows, scoffing as she dealt cards. But Grey hadn't taken them. Instead, he'd gotten to his feet. Walking across the deck, the man put a hand against the balcony and lifted the other to Raymond. The officer seemed to frown from atop his horse, then turning his mount about, begun riding towards them.

''Oh, what does he want!'' Carolina said in confusion and annoyance. She got up then, dusting herself down, and suddenly felt rather anxious. She wasn't fit to be seen by the Constable. She was still dirty from the garden and even a little giddy from Grey's good company. Why did he have to come and ruin it? Hurriedly, she stepped down from her porch and lightly jogged the garden.

''Constable Raymond,'' she said breathlessly, though with a hint of confusion in her voice. She held him to expectation, raising her eyebrows as she set her hands across her gate, as if that were a suggestion for him not to come in.

''Miss. Carolina. I was just seeing if you're quite alright?'' The man said from atop his horse, looking pointedly across the garden. He was in his officer's uniform. A dark blue felt jacket with white-laced buttons that dressed him all the way to his throat. She had once thought it a rather dashing uniform, but now she found it rather comical. He resembled one of the little tin soldiers children played with, in her opinion.

Grey came and stood at the head of the porch. He then leaned against the supports and frowned rather darkly. His eyes had a sharp edge them, and he was kneading his hat between his hands rather worriedly.

''Yes?'' Carolina said, glancing back towards the porch. ''Yes, I'm quite all right? Why do you ask?'' Carolina said, though not without demand. She certainly hoped it wasn't because of Mister. Greyson. Certainly he was a labourer and quite common, but not to the point where Raymond had to inquire as to her well-being?

''Pardon my saying Miss, but I happen to know that man over there from his reputation around Glensdale. I'm simply surprised to find him here so far up the Westbank, especially so late in the evening. How did he come to be here, if I may ask?''

''You most certainly will not,'' Carolina said defensively, shoving herself away from the gate. She turned up her nose at him, scoffing. ''I'll have you know I'm very well able to discern who to allow into my garden, Constable Raymond. And need I remind you that your jurisdiction ends at the Westbank. My property just so happens to be located just over the river crossing. Do not think I haven't noticed how you tour your little pony up here onto my wheatfields in order to check upon me!''

''Carolina, be civil. I don't know what on earth you're suggesting, but--'' the man said, his moustache quivering as he sat up in the saddle. For a moment, he shuffled anxiously with the reins. His lightly stubbled jaw had become the picture of pride.

''Miss Carolina, Constable Raymond,'' she reminded him sternly. Her freckles shone across her face as she then stepped away from the gate altogether. She then realised she had not worn any shoes down to the garden. But despite being dominated by the man in sheer size when mounted upon his horse, she was quite unintimidated and still very able to make her own decisions. ''I'll have you know that just because you made me a marriage offer does not give you the right to refer to me on such terms. Now please sir, return to your duty. Preferably across the river, where you belong; and leave the choosing of my house guests to me.''

She then turned on her feet, taking her skirts into her hands, and added as a quivering afterthought: ''... good day!'' Carolina then marched back through the garden, letting the man very well say his good-byes to her back.

''I'm so sorry,'' Grey said to her softly from the head of the porch as she marched past him. She glowered at him without intention, opened her front door, then threw herself inside; but left it all the way open for him to join her. Or not. She simply did not care in that moment and fancied herself craving the bitterness of a glass of whiskey instead.

Grey glanced down from the porch to where Officer Raymond still sat his horse. The man was glowering thoughtfully at him. Frowning lightly, Grey stepped inside and joined Carolina's after a moment's consideration, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Carolina's Dream, Continued:

''Do you drink?'' Carolina asked whilst rifling through the cupboards. She was banging more doors than she had any reason to.

''Not if I can help it,'' Grey murmured. His eyes were following her at length. He seemed slightly intimidated by her actions.

A glass slid across the counter. She promptly uncorked a bottle of rye and poured him one. Then taking a glass of her own, she did the same thing again.

''You men are all alike aren't you? Fussy, fussy, fussy,'' Carolina said stubbornly. She took a quick drink and put the glass down, sighing as she leaned onto the counter. Grey took the glass and just held onto it, studying her as she glanced towards him. But when he said nothing, she wrinkled her nose at him.

''I suppose you'll want to know what that was all about?'' She said, lighting the candles around the room. The kitchenette took on a dim orange glow. The curtains were yet open, facing the garden. Grey stood there for a few moments longer, then went and sat himself in a chair at the dining table. It was wearing a white-lace apron. Carolina came to him eventually and sat herself down, though in a fairly business-like sense, holding her glass to her cheek whilst raking the man with her eyes.

''Uh,'' Grey said. He then passively shrugged his left shoulder. He seemed a little overwhelmed.

''That man, Constable Raymond,'' Carolina said pointedly, ''assumes to marry me.'' She then let out a tall laugh, shirking behind the glass as she drank it all in one. Then pinching her nose, she leaned forward and suddenly rapped the table with her hands. She grimaced, hardly able to handle the whiskey, then coughed behind her right hand. Grey excused all this by shyly looking down. The man's greying brown hair tickled his cheekbones on either side. He had the rough veneer of a rogue gone to seed, bulky in his open white shirt. The man was kneading his large hands around the very small glass. He then drank, and entirely without expression, save for a slight thumb trailed across the corners of his lips as he set the whiskey aside.

''... I see,'' Grey ventured.

''Of course, he believed I would say yes,'' she then squared herself up again, blinking at the man lightly. She seemed to study how he had no reaction at all to the whiskey, then reached towards the bottle and leaned it towards him. The man shook his head, waving his hand to one side. Carolina blinked at him, then poured herself another one in due course. Grey thought it best not to challenge the little woman on it. She seemed like she could handle her rye, especially as she threw another one down; and this time, with very little fanfare.

''And you refused, I'm guessing....?'' He said.

''Of course I refused?'' She said from behind her hair. She had pulled it out of the bun and was collecting it from around her features. And for a moment, Grey studied the red ringlets that rolled through her fingers as she got herself comfortable in her own home. He'd begun to feel the warmth of the house, the comforts, and reaching towards the bottle, he gestured for it lightly. She simply handed him the bottle and continued.

''That man's interest extends as far as the land I possess. He was never interested in me before my inheritance. Not until my grandmother passed away and left me with the farmhouse,'' Carolina mused from behind her third glass of rye. She caught Grey watching her, still on his second, and nursed this shot a little more delicately to her lips. Her own eyes once again toured him in that shirt, the wooden tassels, the languid, almost lazy way they held in the stubborn brawn of his chest. Her breath caught and she glanced down, fussing her lip with her teeth.

''God, is it too much to ask for a little genuine intimacy?'' She scoffed, almost blushing. Then she got up all in a fuss, brushing past him.

As Carolina went to slip by the man however, he caught her by the wrist. She looked down at once, stunned. He was holding her at odds, and though his grip wasn't in any way firm, she found herself quite stricken by it. Her whole body seemed to lower itself to him in askance.

''Would y' mind? ... Only, I usually take it with ice?'' Was all he said. The man glanced up at her. His eyes were very lovely and green, she thought. Though quite firm in their asking. The glass was held on an angle in his hand.

''Yes,'' she said right-away. ''Yes, of course.'' She then took his glass. Then for a moment, she paused. And without even thinking, she said: ''Is there... anything else you'd like?'' She tried to shy herself away by keeping to his side. The man's bulk was wide enough to see it done. Yet her eyes were trailing him in inspection of all the ways he was not like Raymond. This man was broad were Raymond was lean, hard where he was soft, and there was something enticing about his brow; and the way it remained soft, even when asking her for something. She found herself lingering.

''Something to eat?'' He stirred, chuckling softly. ''If it ain't too much trouble?''

She shook her head narrowly. A lock of her hair was touching her lips. She was staring at the hand dwarfing her wrist.

''No. Not at all... uhm, I'll get you something. Make yourself comfortable,'' she then said. And dipping her head, she went strolling towards the cupboards.

Pots and pans clattered. Her hands went straight to work. She got out leftovers from the fridge, putting it all up on the counter as she lit the stove. It wasn't until she'd got the ice into her hands and was breaking it up that she felt the blush which had touched her cheeks. When had it gotten there? When he'd touched her wrist? The feeling of his hand upon her was still burning beneath her otherwise tranquil thoughts. She was no longer even fussed about Raymond and his little interruption. She felt lighter somehow. Decompressed. And glancing towards him as she handled his glass, she saw how he'd put his feet up beneath the small table and was ruffling around for something -- likely to read. She snagged a roll of newspaper and brought it over to him along with the glass, passing it to him lightly.

''Cheers,'' he said softly, thanking her as he took the glass into his lap. She merely nodded, studying him then. Noting how he paid no further attention to her, seeming so content with his drink and reading material.

''You're welcome,'' she said doubly, retreating from him, yet eyeing him from over her shoulder. He did not look around.

* * *

Carolina whisked around her kitchen, flicking her skirts. She had considered making him leftovers. But, in her opinion, that would not do. So she got out the batter from the ice chest and made lumps of dough, intending on making him dumplings instead. She eyed him from over her shoulder as he sat there, kicking his feet beneath the table. And a slow smile came to her which made her cheeks blush.

In amusement, she said:

''You don't really speak much, do you?''

''Ain't much to speak on?'' He chuckled. ''You've a lovely place?'' The man noted with his back to her. She filled with pride at the comment, eying him still.

''What is it you like about it?'' She prompted.

''Just cosy, ain't it?''

''Well don't go getting too comfortable,'' she lightly jested, sucking pork from the end of her finger after stuffing the dumplings into the dough. ''You'll need to return before dark. You know how the woods can get.''

''All manners of beasts and wolves. Don't fret. I know my boundaries, Miss. I'll soon be out of your hair. Can go now, if you prefer...?''

''No, no,'' she said, tucking the dumplings into the boiling water of an open-faced pan. She then threw him a quick glance. ''You stay right where you are. Honestly, making me cook for nothing...''

She felt the man smiling at her banter, and she too smiled at him discreetly. She saw a cheeky glimpse from him and blushed. Then dipping down to the oven, she wiggled in her skirts.

''So... do you have any siblings? Any brothers? You seem the type who would.''

''Aye. Several. Bigger than I am, as well. They're all working the mines in Hammerfel. I'll be here til winter, then I'll likely go up that way myself. Have to chase the labour, as they say.''

''So you'll be here a few more months....?'' She said with her head deep in the oven. She was trying for the pilot light. But her little matchstick kept going out.

''Here, let me,'' a voice said suddenly from behind her. And jumping, she quickly reclined from the oven and looked around.

He had moved up out of the chair and joined her. Surprisingly softly, at that. For such a big man, he certainly got around. He knelt beside her now, looking into the oven with one hand set across it. She peered up at him from her back with the matchbook still in her hand. A rogue plume of hair tickled her eyes, making them itch. Though, she had a feeling that was more due to the fact his shirt was wide open and revealing the smattering of hair across his chest.

''Oh. Certainly,'' she said without thinking, simply handing him the matchbook and studying him eagerly.

He took it and eyed them. Then scuffed a matchstick against the book and struck. Then heading into the oven, the man spread himself on his back; and she followed each and every movement of his legs in the heavy leather hunting trousers he wore. Soon, her eyes were delving under his clothes as she sat there, plump and well-fed, with her hands spread across her knees as she simply peered at him. He was immaculately well-built, but so very underfed. Where was his pudge? He needed a little 'grr.' Something to pin and to hold. She found herself glancing up at the dumplings rather idly before slipping back towards the oven.

''Can you find it?'' She said a little more softly than she perhaps realised. ''It's right at the back... there, you know?''

''Where?'' He growled lowly, and she found herself enamoured with the sound of his frustration. She awkwardly set her hands to his chest to climb into the oven as well.

''... Um.'' For a moment, the two of them came into most intimate contact. Him, on his back. Her, with her hands spread across his chest. Of course, she was not so improprietous as to sit on his lap. But his legs were nevertheless around her as she sat between his knees. She felt rather stifled as she reached just past his head to point at the roof of the oven.

''... There.''

She released the gas, and the man caught it with the match; and the oven lit up around them.

Orange wildfires danced in the man's eyes. The flames touring the oven begged to be stoked higher. She stared at him; as he stared at her. And together, they both grinned.

''Oh, get out of my oven before you hurt yourself, you ponderous man...''

He chuckled uneasily as she reclined. He got out from the oven and closed the door behind him. Then, as she twiddled with the dials, he simply sat there, playing with the matchbook in his hands.

''It's pork dumplings. I'll crisp them for you,'' she simply said, hiding the colour of her face as best she could under the circumstances.

He nodded. Then he looked at her, offering back the matchbook. Slowly, she took them from him, allowing her fingers to cheekily graze the outside of his hand. That afforded her yet another glance, but this time -- she ignored him. She was rather enjoying playing with his innocence, and the effect she had upon him was rather enriching; like watering her garden, or painting her home.

Or undressing him with her eyes...

''Would you like to remain useful to me?'' She then asked him, whilst still fussing with the matchbook coyly.

''Of course, Ma'am?'' Was all he said gruffly, with a slight note of interest, but confusion as well.

''Good, then you can fix the sink. The faucet is leaking.'’

He chuckled. Then nodded. And getting up, he threw her another glance -- which she once more disposed of, and instead turned towards the counter to finish up the dumplings.

As Carolina made the meal, she let him have his glances. She was so full of them by now that she felt rather elated. She danced around the kitchen, checking on the dumplings, pouring him another drink; and watched him after bringing over a rather hefty toolbox which had belonged to her father. He took to it gladly, which pleased her greatly, as he could clearly work with his hands. She saw that from how he'd already taken to opening the cabinet below the sink to fit himself inside. Ginger came along and begged for her mid-evening meal, and Carolina tended to her whilst studying how he moved. That's when she saw the small, silvery scars which toured the open front of his white-collared shirt.

''Were you in the wars, Sir? -- Only, your scars....?'' She ventured whilst fidgeting with her skirts.

''Hrm? Ah... those? I suppose so, aye. I soldiered under your Constable Raymond not too long ago. Against those upstarts from Westbank.’’

There had been a miner's strike a year past which had gotten entirely out of hand. A rock was thrown and a young woman was killed in the riots. It was an accident, surely, but the governor had ordered for all the miners to be detained; every last one of them. So all the able-bodied men from the town had been gathered by Raymond to put an end to the strikers.

''I'm very sorry to hear that... I hope your brothers weren't involved?'' She frowned whilst tending to Ginger.

''Actually, they were,'' Grey said. She glanced him in the oven. He was frowning.

''And?'' She prompted, leaning in closer to study him.

He caught her eyes, then smiled. Then coming out the oven, he lightly put down the tools and began to work the pipe.

''I knew you'd ask about him and I eventually,'' he murmured.

''You don't like him, do you?'' She said.

''No. It ain't that I don't like him. I just.... I've run amok of him and so have my brothers. He ain't too sweet on us Lowerton men.''

''What's wrong with the Westbank? If anything, it sounds like you have a lot of fun down there.''

He smiled slowly. A slight, unassuming smile. Then he glanced up at her fondly, and she returned his smile with an uneven grin.

''You can't go saying things like that now, Miss. The Westbank's no place for a woman of your station,'' he said then.

''Excuse me....?'' She laughed at him, coming down to lay her hands against the floor to gaze into his eyes.

''Well. All I mean is,'' he chuckled, removing the pipe from the bend. It clinked out of place. He then turned and studied it. ''Rusted to hell.... all I'm saying is, a proper young woman don't find herself on the Westbank. It's for working men. The pub and the gambling halls. You know the types that show up there aren't savoury. Raymond's every right to keep an eye on us.''

''He most certainly has not,'' she denied. ''You all work for your keep. You're bound to have more character than that blowhard ever could,'' she then reached for the pipe in his hand and took it from him. Then she gave him a stubborn tap on the leg. He merely looked at her and scoffed in amusement.

''Your dumplings are ready,'' she said then, standing up and smoothing out her skirts. She then offered him a rough hand, which he firmly took. And lifting him up, she hoisted him to his feet.

''... Yes Ma'am,'' he said again, though a little more thoughtfully as she turned from him, eyeing him playfully as she tapped the pipe against her shoulder.

The rest of the evening went by far too quickly. She filled the room with her voice, singing in high notes as she made a shopping list for the town. A new part for the sink. Gas for the stove. Grey ate and drank comfortably by the fire with Ginger in his lap, petting her and feeding her pieces of pork from his dumplings when he thought she wasn't looking. She frowned at him in a motherly manner, yet she could hardly stop him. And when the sun went down and the room started to go dark, she had long since found herself sitting in her mother's knitting chair. She rocked on it whilst fitting a new cosy for a tea set she hadn't yet bought, but when he stood up to bade her good-bye, she found herself wanting.

Did he really have to go? She thought as he looked at her from his empty bowl. It was only proper that he did, and yet, they still had so much to discuss.

''Well, suppose I best get gone,'' Grey said to her, opening the door on the patio. He went to step outside. ''Thank y'... for the meal.''

She'd nodded and come after him, but not before putting down her knitting. At the door however, she found herself at a loss for words. She simply put on an uneasy smile. Was he not cold? She wondered. The air was brisk enough to bring her arms about her, and yet he stood there so manfully, waiting in the porchlight outside.

For a moment, his dark eyes and stilted jaw merely observed her, and she found herself studying the careful thickness of his lips. Her hand drifted up the tall frame of the door, wandering idly.

''I suppose you must--''

''I was thinking--'’

''Were you,'' she breathed.

The man stood there for a moment, fumbling with his hat. A low, cornered smile crossed his lips; and she felt herself sigh at that. Then piercing him with her eyes, she hoped he wasn't about to say anything untoward. He was surely not about to suggest he remain here instead of taking the walk home, was he? She would never allow it.

''Sir--....''

''If you wanted to come dancing, only, it's not too late, we could join the others on the Westbank. I ain't been there for a bit, and I'm surely a bit out of practice, but you'd be welcome, ah...''

She peered at him, then slumped against the door. Ginger walked by to take a tour of the patio. The lights were playing across Grey's shoulders, highlighting the essence of his form. He was nervous and sweet, delicate in his innocence, and yet she could imagine walking the woodland trail with him into town bundled into her scarves and coats, only to peel them all off at Westbank Hall and dance with him to the sound of string instruments with a glass of dark mead or hot honeyed cider. For a moment, she was rather tempted; and she shifted a little towards the coatrack. Only then she realised she hardly knew him. Especially not enough to trust him for the mile walk into town, alone at night; without anyone aware of her whereabouts.

''I'm afraid I...'' She started. ''You know, the thing of it is....'' She put her hand to her head, then simply blushed. Her eyes were full of an apology.

''Another time, maybe,'' he chuckled awkwardly, backing off. And she wanted to grab him. Oh, he looks so wounded! She thought woefully. Her stomach steeped in regret. ''I'll see y', Miss. Carolina,'' he said. ''Thanks for the meal... and the pleasure of your company.''

Grey then bid her farewell. It was a fair thing, only it came with a little dawdling, for he was too busy looking into her eyes. She wondered how she looked then. She felt herself staring back at him far too intimately; as if she wished he'd ask her to go dancing once again. But then he walked to the end of the porch and made his way down through the garden.

Carolina stood there in the door well, gazing after him. Then she abruptly stepped back and closed the door. A sharp breath left her as Ginger hurried back inside. She'd almost caught the cat by the tail. And as she remained there, with her back solidly placed to the door, her hands explored her lips and skirt without meaning. Thoughtfully, she felt across her stomach, and even lower still, for a warm feeling had filled her thighs at Grey's offer. She then let out a low gasp and hurried into the kitchen; and saw it looked rather lonely without him. Just a little pot with a little gravy leftover from his dumplings, and the fire crackling quietly in the corner; and with a gentle slump, she fell back in her chair and collected her knitting.

The night lights kissed the window from outside. She saw Grey's broad silhouette passing through the gate. Then he was gone, up and into the woods and on towards the bridge. She stared through the cross-windows from her mother's rocking chair, idly clicking needles, and then, as her fingers grew rather busy and inaccurate, she suddenly threw them down.

Carolina reached for the corners her lips, caressing them with her thumb as she thoughtfully glanced towards the window. Then pushing her thumb in, she softly bit down on the nailbed. Then slowly, she smiled; and without knowing why, she let out a girlish giggle.

''After all, why shouldn't I...?'' She said, standing up and sweeping across the room. She fidgeted with her jacket in the hallway. And for a moment, she simply adjusted it, combing out the sleeves. Her eyes were full of something; a distant thought; a warm, comfortable fantasy; and she rubbed the fringes of her coat between her thumb and forefinger as she imagined it playing out. Her smile remained. It tickled her cheeks. But her blush had grown enormous as she let out a quiet snicker of mischief.

Raymond would be green with envy if he heard I'd gone dancing with a man from the Westbank.... and I have no intentions with this man. Do I? So what harm could it do?

Lifting the coat from the rack, Carolina hurriedly dressed herself in it; then swapped her pumps for her boots. Ginger watched her curiously whilst sitting in the hall as she hopped into them. Then taking her hat and her scarf, she threw them around her neck before calling to the cat: ''I'll be back in three hours,'' she promised, and closed the door after her.

It was cool and crisp in the garden, and her roses were busy keeping each other warm. She lightly jogged towards the gate and pulled it open, then went running after him in all her glee. It was down the trail, far into the woods where she found him. And as she came upon him, he did not speak. He did not say anything, in fact. He simply looked at her comfortably as she grinned and blushed and stood there red-faced. Then offering her his arm, she came and fell in beside him. As they walked, she blinked her eyes at him curiously, much like a cat, and huddled into him for warmth; and soon, far sooner than she would've hoped -- for the walk was already pleasant enough -- they were at the West Street Bridge; and the inn and the gambling hall looked warm and welcoming in the near-distance.

Noises came from inside the tavern unlike anything she'd heard since her grandmother had passed away, and she even felt a little nervous as they approached the French doors. The bawdy sound of men laughing and gambling coated her ears, along with the sincere smell of working men's tobacco. The doors to the inn opened; and the heat was so stifling that she felt herself looking to Grey for shelter. But he was already taking off her coat. His friends were already greeting her. And grinning to her from behind the bar, she saw the old tavernkeep, Mister Montgomery, who she had not seen in some twelve months, standing there with a shrewd look in his eye as he cleaned a tall glass in perfect irony. His gaze was serendipitous and teasing; and she knew it was because she had not been here in such a very long time, and now that she had, she had come in the company of a man. Carolina tried her best not to narrow her eyes at him too much, for she was in much too good of a mood to feel embarrassed by the tavernkeep, and sent him a playful pout instead. He simply threw back his head and laughed.

Grey grinned at her, and she blushed up at him proudly, giggling. And he took her scarf too and hung it by the door. Then smiling at the room full of bawdy men, she smoothed out her hands on her skirt, and simply allowed Grey to buy her a drink.

{There was a post here, but I've censored it for use on the public forums. However, it will be posted again with some adjustments made once the rest of the story has caught up!}

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Stepping back after my last post, I realise that I was too hard on myself, as I often am.

When I'm feeling low and contemplative, I tend to be my very own worst enemy. In actual fact, I think I am a good creator. I produce some really... fucking... beautiful pieces of text. I know that my words grab attention, and I'll be glad to extend that to my upcoming YouTube channel.

I'll write gorgeous little scripts about the written word--books I like, themes I enjoy, and Fables I adore.

I'll accompany them with clips and snippets gathered from around the internet, gorgeous old copyright-dead films with darling women and daring men. Sweet siphons of the energy they had back then, all of laid bare. I can't wait to hear my voice on moving portraits--I think it's going to be something else. The energy of a script combined with my own intonation, thick with nuance. I think that--even if the videos do get middling views--I'll be proud of them. And if they do get noticed, I can use it to promote my literature. Carolina. Grey. Beauty. The Beast. I'll be able to draw people into my worlds. I want to give a little hope to all the starcrossed lovers out there, to help them see that the world really isn't so--well, so Grey. But it can actually be full of colour, like Carolina's Dream.

W.I.P.

Not all tales are created equally. Some are lopsided. Some tales have daring young men and naive young Princesses, both of whom are starcrossed in love and bound in each other's fates. Yet this is not one of those tales. This is a tale of a young woman named <?>, whom is due to be married to a bastard named Heathcliffe. A man who--it is rumoured--killed his own father in exchange for an inheritance.

You see, in the little town of Moorbrook, the times have moved slowly. It is still fact that upon the death of a male heir, the house will pass in its posession to the most eligible male candidate, whether he be a cousin of the family, or simply a rumoured uncle. The women--the daughters--the loyal ones who, every day, made their fathers feel at home, will be left destitute and out of pocket, forced to become seamstresses or waiting women; no longer nobility, a part of the local fair.

And so our story begins. A cross-window, pattered with rain, a damsel in a maiden's dress. She is having her make-up applied by her maid, Matilda, as tears roll down her fair cheeks. She is sniffling because outside, her father argues at length with that man, Heathcliffe, who has come two days early to force their marriage. She had every intention of running, of bolting across the moors and hiding in the old, ruined castle of Aphrodite's Hall. But as her maid pressed the soft, painful foundation brush to her small, ruddy cheeks, she knew that with each stroke her fate was sealed.

The man outside was tall and oppressive. Fair-haired, with dangerous grey eyes, a straight roman nose, and thick, heavy lips; he was carved as if from stone. In another life, perhaps she would've deigned him handsome. But not tonight. He had come into their house like a gravedigger, demanding his body for the yard. His horse scared her. A great beast named Castillion. A relic from the wars. She had tried to feed him an apple once, and he had almost taken off her hand. The red welt still bruised her fair skin, and so it was with utmost clarity that she breathed her last free breath. It came out shaky and wet as Matilda finished applying her mascara. And so, she rose from the little seat in her little room, almost stumbling out of her wedding shoes as she took the first step towards her new life.

It was, perhaps then, when her father appeared at the door, looking down at her with pain-ridden eyes, his expression torn, the bowler hat in his hands worried to the point where the black felt had torn at the lip, that she knew what she must do.

She descended the staircase obediently, holding her father's hand.

She looked up at the door, and the man standing in it. He was glaring at her mild-manneredly, with his chin raised. Heathcliffe. A devil in everything but name.

And as her foot reached the hallway floor, she bowed to him ceremoniously, and whispered the words: ''I am yours, Sir. For all time.'' The veil falling across her face, hopefully hiding her tears.

Some words were said, an agreement made, and Heathcliffe reached for her hand. Perhaps she had taken it, for a moment, she did not know. Because the next thing she knew, she was flinging herself through the hall. And her father was calling: '<!!!!>' Though such did not stop her. She ran.

She ran and ran and ran, out into the yard, over the neighbouring field and into the forest. She ran until the cold bit her skin, chewing through her clothes. She ran until her silly shoes fell away, replaced by mud and earth. She ran until thorns laced her cheeks, and blood dribbled into her wedding dress. It was then, finally, some hours later--she did not know how long--that she found herself faced with some great stone ruin.

Aphrodite's Hall, <!!!> thought to herself.

Thus, she approached the ancient, derelict castle, hoping that perhaps a groundskeeper would make her feel welcome; a squatter; or perhaps that her father might come looking and hear her plea, promising not to return her to the arms of that monster, Heathcliffe.

As she walked beneath the great stone arch and into the castle grounds, the rain pattered all around in silk-black pools; and the visage of Aphrodite herself stood out from a tremendous white fountain. The Goddess pitied her and exulted her both. Pride shone in her eyes, but judgment was her staff. And <!!!> felt a chill run down her arms as she trembled. She hid herself from the goddess, passing beneath her shadow, beneath the veil. Then as she ventured inside, she found the halls strangely warm and welcoming. The old tattered banners of a kingdom for which the years had long since past fluttered all around. Broken tapestries with no weight to their heraldry touched her shoulders, like men at arms, welcoming her to the castle, and at last she felt safe.

She went up the winding stairs to the tallest tower and found a door, and when she opened it, a cubby. It was in there that a small cosy room with a broken bed and some fluttering drapes made itself home to her, and though it was shaggy and nothing like her bedroom back in town, it had a certain romantic quality to it that she could not deny. There was a spinning wheel in one corner, and a hearth in the other. If she gathered some kindle from the forest once the rains had stopped, she would have herself a fire. Perhaps she could even cut some branches from the overgrown garden which was nestled in the castle's interior even sooner. She sat on the bed, and looked out on the window, and saw little torches making their way up and down the many trails that surrounded the town. Her father's men, no doubt. But Heathcliffe's, as well. It would do her no good to make herself known to them tonight, and so she rolled over in the bed and pressed her cheek to the musty mattress, intent on weathering the storm.

The rain lashed the window, the chill still bit through her clothes, but though she was very cold, she was warmed by her daring, her cunning, and the words she told herself.

She would not marry this Heathcliffe. Not if Eros descended and shot her with his own arrow. She would brave this storm.

The words came whispered to her: ''I will brave this storm...''

Again: ''I will brave this storm...''

And she fell asleep, in spite of herself, to the sounds of raindrops against the castle exterior. And as she lay there, the thornbeds of the castle dettered unwelcome visitors. Wolves were not welcome, nor men at all. In fact, the entrances seemed to cloak themselves in shrub and rosery, anything to keep her safe. Even the drapes by the window cast themselves across her sleeping form, shrouding her against the weather outside. When she dreamed, she dreamed a deep and furtive sleep, filled with wolves, of moonlight, and of the reckless ambition of one very tall man. She clenched at the drapes, and tried shouting him away, but she had no voice. Her lips had vanished. She was a doll, passed between suitors like a plaything, made of porcelain, and easily broken. The wolves chewed at her hands and feet. The moonlight cast shadows through her veil. And nothing she did could deter them. When at last she was all ripped up, broken and shredded:

She awoke to an awful sound.

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Carolina left the inn with Grey beside her. She was laughing. She had been laughing, perhaps, for the last three hours. She was full of gin and didn't care who knew it. She walked along the little cobblestones that made up the country lane outside the inn, near-hopping from one to the other as Grey lumbered behind her with a smooth grin on his face. His eyes were down. He did not chide her for acting the fool.

''That was some tavern, Sir Grey. Some tavern indeed. Why, I haven't had a night like that -- Oh! For quite some time...'' Carolina sighed, gushing up at the moon. The pale reflection was imbedded in her eyes. It was all a'flutter. A great white circle tonight, like a silver lake suspended in the middle of the infinite, willing itself to transform. Perhaps into a butterfly. That was how she felt. Like she was flying since leaving the inn. Then, moving herself around, she took in Grey.

The man was walking towards her, smiling. Yet the smile was only in his eyes. His lips were silent. She sighed again as he came closer, and he lifted his hands to meet her; and without realising it, she did the same.

''Yes, it was quite some tavern,'' she said into his hands as he brought them towards her face. The gin cuddled her, just like Grey cuddled her. His rough palms had encircled her cheeks, and then without asking, he kissed her.

''Why you--'' She said, staggering. She stumbled away from him, wafting with her arms, quite drunk. He studied her in response--not quite boldly--though perhaps rather drunk himself.

''You ponderous man!'' She yelped, then slapped her hand against her mouth. One of her fingers did a little something. She had pointed at him -- as if to scold him, yet she also seemed to think it rather important to hide the blush that now coated her cheeks.

''I been waiting to do that all night,'' was all he said. And he was half-cloaked in shadow, and half in moonlight. She wanted to continue to argue with him; but she could see how vulnerable he looked past the half-cast light. His eyes looked tired, sweet, and rather shy.

''Well,'' she jutted her chin, pondering her next words. ''Well, I suppose given the circumstances,'' she let on as he came and stood over her. And then a warm feeling filled her belly as he once again loomed large over her person. She found herself staring up at the incline of his jaw, those big green eyes, that wondrous wavy hair. And her eyelids fell curiously low to his open shirt. She found herself trailing it with her fingers.

''I do think you intend to take advantage of me and my state, Sir,'' she whispered. Her words were in no way meant to deter him. In fact, she let her eyes meet his own, and she gazed into his eyes rather hard. It was an open invitation.

Grey came down and took her, and she fell into him quite easily. Up and off her feet, like one of those sweet, doughy wives. He hoisted her up against an oak. She had not realised they had stepped onto the ranch-trail that led to Emir's farm, about twenty or so steps away from the inn and well into the shade near the river brook. He was already pawing at her hips. She was gasping at nothing; around air. He was deep in her neck, already kissing. Her eyes did something unintelligible as she scraped her fingers across his back. She wished to say: 'Yes,' or perhaps, 'more,' but she was far too proud to will him further, less he think her wanton, or worse: a whore.

So she let him take him slide her down into his chest, where their eyes met, and by now her skin was burning. She clutched at him, feeling the sweat upon her brow. Her eyes did a lazy tour of his; and his hers. He was now panting too. The man came closer; and shyly, she leaned in as well. Then their lips came together in the briefest inspection. Just three small kisses; a little saliva shared between them; and a final lick of the tongue. It was at this moment that she felt him truly understand her needs, for the moment she parted her mouth to give him a kiss of her honey, he dove in for more; and she groaned into the roughness. The desire. He was pawing and stroking at every corner of her hair as he twisted his mouth against hers; and she too threw herself into him, gasping with each and every kiss. It grew rougher and rougher until at last she felt her dress too heavy upon her skin, and that they were far too far from home.

''Grey,'' she said. ''Grey,'' she warned. She tried clearing her throat, but he was once again at it. Biting at her neck. Then, louder, almost shrill: ''Grey...!?''

It was at that moment she saw the wolf standing not ten feet away from them, right there, in the middle of the brook. It raised its head, perked its ears, then raised its heckles; and growled. It was a thing of leery orange eyes and long white teeth. A small silver trout wriggled beneath its paw, now forgotten. Then, in short succession, three more of them appeared, each of them shaggier and leaner than the next. Carolina felt herself letting go of Grey, her hands slipping clear of his shirt. Then with an open sense of bewilderment and a very real pang of fear, she felt a lump form in her throat that just wouldn't budge. She looked to the man for aid, though he was already placing himself between her and them.

''You get ready to run,'' was all he said, though his voice was fraught with fear and caution.

Where had they come from? She wondered as she looked around. (TBC)

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