Alternate Universe. Forget everything.

Written in 61 minutes.

The port city of Wymoor had once been a bustling center of trade and commerce, its docks teeming with goods and people from every corner of Tyrathenia. It had been the shining jewel in the tiny kingdom of Rhigwyn, the envy of many.

Those days were long past, with little left but the fishermen and smugglers. The pubs, once packed to the brim with travelers and dockworkers, had dwindled until only the Hare and the Hound stood at the end of Berry Lane, and on a blustery winter night, there were few inside the common room.

But Mother Mary Mae Ward could always be found on a stool in the corner, telling her tales to the lost children of the village. She collected them — one left orphaned when the storms washed her fishermen father away at sea, two more who had survived the sweating that had swept through the region the year before, and another who had no family to call their own and never had. He’d simply showed up one day that summer, and everyone knew to send him to Mother Mary Mae.

Tonight, she told the children their favorite story — of another lost child no different than they —

“But that’s not true, Mother Mary,” little Violet piped up, sitting cross-legged in front of the old woman. The girl spoke with a lisp, her smile revealing the gap where she’d lost her two front teeth. Her sunny blond hair was clean and braided back in twin tails that hung down her back. She was the youngest of Mother Mary Mae’s brood, still believing her father would wash up alive on the shore.

Still young enough to believe in dreams.

“Not true?” Mary Mae said with a laugh. “Why do you say that?”

“She’s not a lost child, she’s a lost princess,” James said with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know much, Mother, but my father weren’t no king. And who knows what my mother was.”

Mary Mae lifted her brows. “Who’s telling this story, Master James? You or I? You asked for the story—”

“Not me—”

“I like this story,” said the little boy with no family at all. He had no surname, and only answered to Danny. “And it’s my turn to pick!”

“So it is, Master Daniel. It was a night just like this, more twenty years ago,” Mary Mae said, lowering her voice to a hush. “The castle had settled down for the night, and all were tucked in their beds. But almost none of them would see the morning.”

Across the room, a man sat at the long oak bar, a pint of ale in his hand. Locks of dark blonde hair fell across his forehead as he half-listened to the old woman’s story. She’d been telling it nearly as long he could remember — though he liked it no more now than when he’d been one of Mary Mae’s children, crowded around the stool, hanging on her every word.

The story had changed over the years, details emphasized, pauses added for drama, but the facts were true enough. Twenty-four years earlier, the royal family had been slaughtered in their beds, the only survivor the young boy prince, Steven, who had reigned as a puppet king until his death only a few weeks earlier. He’d been three when he’d lost his family, and had never been worth much. Under the weight of his advisors and the rule of the regent, the kingdom had fallen into ruin. Only the capital city prospered — they cared little for the rest of the land, including Wymoor.

No one had ever been held account for the murder of the king, the queen, the queen mother, or their servants.

And no one had ever learned the fate of the youngest member of the family — the six-month-old little girl who had fallen into tales and myth as the lost princess. And one day she’d return to slay the evil dragons to restore Rhigwyn to its glory and take her place on the throne.

It had been nothing but a foolish story when he’d been seven years old, and now that he had seen more than thirty summers, it seemed even more fanciful. The princess was long dead, and there was no one left to help them.

After the story had finished, Mary Mae ushered her children off to their beds. She made her way over to the bar, touched the man on his shoulder. “It’s rare to see you in here on a night like this. Will you sit a while and tell me what brings you here?”

He hesitated, then lifted his mug, followed her to a nearby table. Old habits died hard, he thought, pulling out a chair, helping her to settle. “I’m not here to see you, Mother Mary.”

“I know.” She’d always seemed so old to him, even as a child, but now he saw more evidence of her age. The thick braids she wore had once been a deep coal black, and were now the color of the slate, lines in the corners of her eyes dug more deeply, crinkling when she smiled. But her smile was as warm as ever, as if it had been only hours since they’d seen each other and not months. “You never are, to my everlasting regret, though you’re welcome anytime. All my children will always have a place here.”

“Even though you fill their heads with nonsense?”

Mary Mae tipped her head to the side. “You still think it nonsense? Why? Because it comes from the mouth of a woman and not Valentin Cassadine?”

He pressed his lips together, looked down. “You’ve never cared for their family, but they’ve stayed when others left—”

“Ah, yes, the generosity of the Cassadine family. My boy, did I fail you so miserably that you’d rather throw your lot in with men like Valentin?”

There was an itch between his shoulders. “It was never you, Mother.”

Mary Mae set her hand over his, the dark skin stark against his weathered golden complexion, reminding him again that for all the years he’d called her mother, it was a term of endearment and not of blood. “Then, tell me, Jason, when did I lose you?”

He opened his mouth, then shook his head. “Tell me what you need here, and I’ll see it done. Food, clothes for the children?”

She sighed, drew her hand back. “We’re fine here, though I thank you.”

“Mother—”

“Ah, I see you’ve found a way to occupy your time since I was delayed.”

The new voice broke the spell, and Jason lifted his head to find Valentin Cassadine looming over them, his long coat over one arm. He wore a smile, though it had none of the warmth or comfort of his foster mother. His eyes were cold, not very different than the gray waters of the ocean beyond their doors.

Jason drew back. “Catching up with an old friend. Thank you for the conversation,” he told Mary Mae. “You’ll tell me if you change your mind.”

“Aye, Jason. I’ll keep you in my thoughts.” She rose, and shifted her expression, her back straight, bearing as regal as the royalty whose tales she waved nightly. “My lord Cassadine, please have my seat. My girl will see bring you an ale if you wish.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mary Mae swept away, and Jason was relieved, through the air was chillier, emptier without her. Some of the light had dimmed in the room, the shadows lengthening.

Valentin took the chair that Mary Mae had vacated. “Apologies for my tardiness. The roads leave a great deal to be desired.” He sniffed, glancing around. “I’d quite forgotten you grew up here. I ought to have selected another meeting place.”

Jason very much doubted that Valentin would forget a detail like that or that he had not been late by design. Though Mary Mae might like to think Jason was in service to the Cassadine lord, the truth was simpler. Jason no had no loyalty to anyone save himself and the coin that paid for his drink, his food, his shelter, and the occasional woman. Tonight, just like other nights, it was coin given by Valentin. Tomorrow it might be another.

“You said that you had a job for me.”

“Yes. I regret that it has to be at this time of year. Ghastly season, winter.” Valentin flicked impatient eyes to the curly-haired blonde who brought the ale, waited for her to leave before returning his focus to Jason. “I’ll be removing to Tonderah tomorrow, and I have something that I require you to deliver to me there.” He paused. “Well, someone.”

It was no surprise Valentin was heading to Port Tonderah, the capital city. Jason was surprised he had not already gone. One of the few redeeming qualities of the Cassadine family was their staunch opposition to Cesar Faison, the royal advisor who had acted as the king’s regent all these long years, and had engineered the marriage of his daughter to the dead king.

With Steven’s body growing cold in his grave, and no heir in sight, Faison and his cronies were looking to secure his daughter’s hold on the throne, but a fight was brewing, and Jason was sure Valentin saw himself on the other side, perhaps taking the throne himself. Jason didn’t care who took the thankless job as monarch, as long the coin continued to flow.

“Where do you want me to go?” Jason asked.

“The far corner of the kingdom, on the other side of the island entirely,” Valentin said. “It will take you several days to travel there and even longer to Tonderah. There’s a village there…”

—

The village of Shadwell was not known for its warm community. Those who called it home did so because no one asked where you were from or cared where you were going. As long as you minded your business, looked after your land, and committed no crimes, a person could become almost invisible.

And that was just the way Elizabeth liked it. She’d called Shadwell home for nearly eight years now — the quaint little cottage at the end of the land with a small stable for her horse and cow, a garden that saw most of her needs met, and enough room and light to earn her keep as seamstress for the local shop.

It was not the life she’d planned as a child, but she’d learned over the years to embrace the quiet and the safe. She’d hoped to be forgotten by the outside world, and for many years, she believed she had been.

But in the days since news had traveled the long distance from Tonderah that the king had died, she’d felt a chill in the air unrelated to the winter winds. A raising of the hair on her neck, an itch between her shoulders, gooseflesh on her arms. Something was coming, and perhaps she ought not be there when it arrived.

She lingered too long, too hopeful that she was wrong, too reluctant to leave her sanctuary, and when something finally arrived, it came with the sound of hoofbeats coming up the lane.

Elizabeth went to the window of her home, saw the horse at her gate, the man hitching the reins to the post. Her heart began to pound, but then she realized it was not who she’d expected. This man was younger, broader in the chest, his hair longer—

Perhaps a lost traveler? Eager to redirect him and send him on his way, Elizabeth stepped out of the house, onto the path, her welcoming smile dimming when he met her eyes, the cold  wintry blue.

“Are you Elizabeth?”

At her sides, her hands fisted, and Elizabeth slowly nodded. “Aye. Have you been sent to fetch me?’

“Yes. Valentin apologizes he can’t escort you personally, but asked me to make sure you reach Port Tonderah safely.”

For a moment, the world was quiet, just the whistling of wind through the nearby branches. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Elizabeth wanted to hope, she wanted to dream —

She had to be sure.

“And once I’m there?” she asked.

The man furrowed his brow, a bit confused. “You’ll be married. You are his betrothed, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. “I suppose I am.”

+24

Written in 59 minutes.

When Valentin had laid out the task, Jason had felt the first stirrings of unease. Valentin was the heir to an old title and powerful family. Why was he sending a mercenary to fetch the woman he planned to marry? No carriage or servants to look after her or guard her reputation, just a bag of coins to secure rooms at inns between Shadwell and Port Tonderah.

But the promised price for the job could not be dismissed, and if Jason refused the contract, Valentin would simply turn to another. Perhaps someone with less conscience or morals. Jason had swept aside his concerns, assuring himself that sometimes it was better to travel incognito. No one would expect Valentin Cassadine’s promised bride to sweep into the capital without an entourage to announce her arrival. With the tumultuous tidings in Tonderah, Valentin likely knew best how to secure his future wife’s safety.

So Jason had accepted the task and headed north to Shadwell, a speck that could scarcely be called a village on the other side of Rhigwyn, almost at the border. It was a week’s ride, and would be twice to the capital from there. But the fee would ensure Jason would not have to take any more contracts this winter and could retire to the solitude of his home near Wymoor.

He’d thoroughly convinced himself that this was nothing but a guard duty. No doubt this Elizabeth was the spoiled daughter of a local lord, a minor noble who had coin or some sort of leverage Valentin intended to wield against Faison and his faction in the capital.

Then he’d arrived in Shadwell and realized quickly there was no local lord. No large estates. It was little more than a collection of buildings crowded near a river, and solitary cottages dotting the landscape.

He found Elizabeth, whose surname he was never given, at the end of a dirt road. He’d had to stop at the local inn for directions to Eldia — not the manor house he would expect to be named a goddess who sat in judgment of men, but a one story cottage, set back in a clearing with a kitchen garden and small stable just beyond.

The woman who had stepped outside was nothing like he’d expected, and as far from the spoiled pampered girl he’d already resigned himself to escorting south. She was slight, with pale, porcelain skin, and chestnut hair gathered at the nape of her neck. Though she still looked young, she’d seen more summers than a girl fresh from schoolroom.

And the resignation in her expression when she’d reluctantly admitted to being Valentin’s betrothed stirred that unease again, but Jason forced it down. She’d hardly be the first to contract an unhappy marriage, and judging from her surroundings, it would only improve her lot. Perhaps Valentin had come across her and been lured to make a socially imbalanced match by her beauty.

Whatever the Cassadine’s reasons, Jason did not care. He’d located the woman, and confirmed her identity. All that remained was securing their departure.

“You were not expecting me?” Jason asked, still remaining just inside the gate. There was nothing in her posture, in her still expression that suggested he had permission to go further. “You seem surprised to see. Perhaps you thought Valentin would send someone else?”

“I had hoped he would send no one at all,” Elizabeth said, her voice wry, almost amused. It was a contradiction to the caution he saw in her posture, and it gave him pause. She did not welcome the betrothal? Or perhaps she’d had second thoughts? And Valentin had not arranged this departure in advance?

The unease was growing, a swirling pit in his belly, wondering if this was the straightforward task Valentin had described, or something else. He forced it down, reminding him of the freedom that would be his if he could just complete this task. A reluctant bride was not an unwilling one, and she had until she stood in the temple before the clerics to speak her mind.

“Perhaps a message was lost before it reached you,” Jason said. “When can you be ready to leave?”

Her expression flattened, her lips pressed together so hard that they nearly disappeared. Then she sighed, looked back at the house for a long moment, then up at the sun peeking through the canopy of trees.

“It will be twilight soon, and it is not safe to travel at night. There are brigands and thieves along the border. I can be ready to go in the morning.” Elizabeth stepped forward now, coming fully into the sunlight, stopping just a few feet from him. He saw now that her eyes were a clear deep blue, and the simple green dress she wore had thinning fabric and frayed hems.

Valentin was marrying a woman who lived in near isolation with nothing to her name? Was there some rich relative promising a dowry? Reminding himself it was none of his affair, Jason nodded. “Morning is suitable. I assume you can ride?”

“Better than most, yes. Old Gert in the village runs the inn. She’ll put you up for the night. Do you know the way or shall I direct you?”

“I came through that way. Thank you.” Jason stepped back, nearly turned away, then looked back at her. “Will that be enough time? I was not told that it was urgent, and I am sure Valentin would understand that you had no warning.”

Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes remained sober. “I’m sure he intended it that way. You needn’t worry about disappointing him. I can be ready by the morning.” She hesitated. “You did not give your name.”

“Jason. Jason Morgan.” He tipped his head. “He did not give me your surname or else I would not have used your given name.”

“Because he did not know it. And never cared to learn. Barrett. Elizabeth Barrett.”

Barrett. The name tugged at him, but he didn’t know why. And he didn’t know what to make of the woman who bore the name or that Valentin was marrying someone whose name he did not know.

But still, he put it away. It was not for him to ask questions. If she was willing to go, then he would deliver her to Valentin, collect his fee, and leave them to their lives.

“Until the morning then, Miss Barrett.”

He nodded at her, then went back to his horse. She remained standing there, not moving, until he’d turned back towards the village, and was on his way.

—

She watched him go, the strange man who was so carefully polite with his words, but had weighed every one of her words and found them wanting. He wasn’t the kind of man she’d expected Valentin to send, but then, as she’d told Jason, she’d hoped never to find out.

Elizabeth returned to the cottage, heading straight for the back room that served as her bedroom. Into a cloth bag she carefully laid pieces of her limited wardrobe. Two dresses, a shift, chemise, and nightgown. Wool socks, a pair of stockings, and a brush for her hair.

Then she went to the large oak cupboard in the corner of the room. Inside was a trio of shelves. The lowest shelf held various jars and boxes of herbs. She sifted through them, thinking of what she might need during the trip.

The second shelf held some of her books and a collection of wax candles of varying colors. She retrieved two white, one red, and a green candle.

On the top shelf, in the corner, Elizabeth found the black box. She took it down and opened it. The box was lined with velvet and held a set of identical daggers with a jeweled hilt. Elizabeth lifted one and tested the tip, wincing slightly when it drew blood.

She tested it in her hand, then with a slight twist of her wrist twirled it in the air, then snatching it back. Her lips curved into a smile, much more genuine than the one she’d given outside.

She laid the dagger back in its velvet bed, then tested its sister for its sharpness and for her reflexes. Gratified, she closed the box and set it next to the bag she’d packed. In the morning, she would strap both to the holster she’d carried since childhood.

She closed the cupboard, then went into the kitchen to gather up perishables that would spoil if they went uneaten. There were families to the south that would appreciate the gift, and as she didn’t expect to return, it would be a shame if it went to waste. She wrote a note to her neighbors telling them to dispose of her belongings if she did not return or send word in a month’s time, and to look after her dairy cow which could be sold if necessary.

Elizabeth looked around her tiny home, every corner of it beloved to her. Precious. It was not opulent, and there was no evidence of the world she’d left behind that terrible day in her eleventh year, but it was her home, and she would miss it terribly.

But there was little point in wallowing in self-pity. It wouldn’t solve her problems or stop what was to come.

She’d enjoyed her exile, but it was unfortunately at an end.

—

There was little sun the next morning, the winter light weak and barely lighting Jason’s way as he left the inn and returned to Eldia Cottage. He half-expected Elizabeth Barrett to have made her escape during the night, and he’d spent some time determining how he would explain such a thing to Valentin.

But she stood in her yard, her hands on the bridle of her mare. She wore a thick velvet cloak with the hood already drawn up over her head, tendrils of her hair curling over her forehead.

Jason swung down from his horse. “I should have asked last night if you’d arranged for things to be sent. Or if you needed a cart. I have room in my saddle bags—”

“I have all that I need,” Elizabeth said. She gestured at her own saddlebags, and Jason furrowed his brow. They looked light, nearly non-existent.

“Oh. Then I suppose we should start south. I don’t like the look of the clouds to the north,” Jason told her. “I want to stay ahead of that storm.”

“Then by all means, let us begin.”

+25

Written in 60 minutes.

They made good progress that first day — Elizabeth was a far more skilled rider than Jason had expected, though by now he had few expectations left of the woman he’d been sent to fetch. She must hold some value, he reasoned, to wed the scion of a powerful family, and given the timing of the wedding, perhaps she had some role to play in the growing succession turmoil.

Though this reasoning made sense, it did little to quell Jason’s rising unease as the questions that had been lingering since he’d been given the task had only increased. And, he had to admit, he had Mary Mae’s warnings in his mind. She’d never trusted the Cassadines, Valentin least of all.

Elizabeth Barrett was a curious woman with her skill in not only riding, but handling of her mare. Even as the sun traveled across the sky, slipping behind clouds sending the temperatures plunging, she did not ask to stop or to locate the nearest inn and hearth. She merely tugged the ends of her velvet-lined cloak more tightly around her, the hood obscuring the profile of her face save for the occasional glimpses of the tip of her nose.

Jason had never been one for conversation, but even the quiet was unnerving. No idle chatter, no rambling, no questions, not even a question of where they were going and how long it would take to arrive.

It was as if he traveled with a ghost.

“An hour north of us,” Jason said, speaking for the first time since their departure, his voice rusty. “We’ll stop for the night. There’s a village with an inn. There won’t be another until long after dark. Will that suit for you?”

“Whatever you find necessary,” came the answer in a disinterested tone. Was he escorting her to a wedding or a funeral? One wouldn’t be able to guess, but it was none of Jason’s concern and he’d long promised himself to stay out of other people’s business.

Before long, they reached Ebonhollow, and the front yard of the Black Dragon. Jason turned to assist Elizabeth’s dismount only to see her already on the ground, a valise pulled from the saddlebag in her hand. She handed her reins to a stable boy, then looked at him expectantly.

He exhaled a long careful breath, then handed over his own reins. “Let’s go inside. I arranged for rooms in advance.”

She said nothing, but trailed after him. Their rooms were ready, arranged across from one another in the hall. The innkeeper had no sooner opened her room than Elizabeth had gone inside and closed it behind her, forestalling any conversation.

Jason stared at the wooden door for a long moment. Ignoring that growing concern that something was not right was becoming more and more difficult, but a quiet woman who kept to herself was not committing any crimes.

Jason went into his own room, looking forward to washing off the dust of the road and a hot supper.

—

Across the hall, Elizabeth let out her own sigh of relief, setting her bag on the small table. There was a pitcher of water with a bowl and a dry cloth. She eagerly went to wash her face and hands, unloosening the laces of her bodice slightly so that she could get the dust that had kicked up.

She rinsed the cloth, then left it to dry, returning to her valise. Inside, she plucked out her map of Tyrathenia, eager to locate this village on it and determine how best to proceed. “Ebonhollow,” she murmured, tracing its route from Shadwell. The corners of her mouth dipped down. They’d traveled inland, away from the ports.

She’d hoped they’d hug the coast since Port Tonderah was, of course, on the water, and the eastern portion of the island but he’d taken them towards the center. Surely he had his reasons, but how did Elizabeth convince him to go the other way?

They’d have to come back out to the coast at some point, she thought, but when? Could she take the chance of waiting? The closer they came to Tonderah, the more dense the population. The more chance that Valentin had spies waiting and watching.

She went to the window overlooking the stableyard, making an even more upsetting discovery — the stables were not close to the inn, but more than fifty feet away. Traversing that in the dark, with nothing to light her way—it would be difficult, if not possible to find her way.

With frustration, Elizabeth folded the map, set it back in her bag. She should have run a long time ago. Should never have hoped that every passing year had meant Valentin had forgotten her. Had found an easier path to the power he wanted.

Just as thought bloomed, a spiral of shame came after, just as it always did when she thought of escape. She was the last of her family, the last of her kind. And if she did run, as she planned, then there would be no one left to demand justice.

There would be no vengeance.

She retrieved the box of daggers, opened it, and drew one out, sliding her fingers over the smooth side of the blade. Every woman in her line had been given a set of these. She’d been the youngest, and now they were all gone, sacrificed in the name of power. Her line on both sides had been all but extinguished as two men had vied for control of a hunk of land.

But would the mother she’d never known wish Elizabeth to sacrifice herself? Would the family she had known want this future for her?

She could escape to one of the port cities, board a ship, and go far away where Rhigwyn and maybe even Tyrathenia was nothing but dots on a map. She could have children, maybe tell them the story of her family.

There could be a daughter to give these daggers to. Was that not also honoring the traditions? After eight years of solitude and isolation, Elizabeth finally had a choice before her.

Which would she make?

—

Elizabeth requested dinner sent to her room, so Jason ate on his own in the common room. He should be grateful to have been asked to escort a woman who made nearly no demands on his energy or time, but their first conversation continued to linger in his mind. The dread in her eyes, the sigh she’d made when admitting her identity.

The name she carried. Barrett. It was significant, though he couldn’t place it, and made a note to apologize to Mary Mae for not paying more attention during her lessons.

The storm Jason had feared had gone towards the coast, and they’d avoided it by turning in land. It would add a few hours to their trip to travel back west, but they’d have lost days even weeks if they’d run into the snow and ice.

Still, the sky was a weary overcast with no hint of the sun. The only difference between night and day had been the shades of gray in the clouds. Elizabeth was ready before he was, standing expectantly in the common room, her valise in her hands, her cloak already donned.

“We’ll stop at Elemvale tonight,” he told her while he paid their bill and gestured for her to head towards the entrance. “It’s eight hours of riding. Will that be a problem?”

“No,” she answered, her eyes still not quite looking at him. Looking past him, he realized, and maybe that the source of some of his discomfort. She’d been polite, of course, but she hadn’t really acknowledged him. Hadn’t seen him.

She said nothing else, and Jason had nothing else to offer, so off they went, making their turn back to the coast, and another long day of quiet, unsettling travel.

—

Elemvale. She’d noted it on her map as a possible escape route the night before, a sign that she should seize a chance to have a future. He was taking them back towards the coast, and Elemvale was a sizeable town, much larger than Shadwell or Ebonhollow.

That evening, when Elizabeth saw that stables actually adjoined the inn, she could have wept with joy. She’d have her chance now — able to flee into the night, taking her mare and disappearing. With any luck, she’d be at the coast in the morning, and on the water by the next nightfall.

She requested dinner in her room again, and was relieved when her guard agreed without complaint. Now that her course was set, Elizabeth turned some of her attention to the man who had disrupted her quiet life. He’d accepted her lack of conversation or interest in his person without a protest which was a relief. She’d had all manner of guards before her exile eight years ago, and she never trusted the friendly ones.

But he couldn’t be much older than her, Elizabeth though. Maybe half a dozen years? And he was clean, another improvement over many of her previous guards. His hair fell over his eyes, down to the collar of his shirt, but it, too, was clean and well kept. He bathed, a rarity in the men she’d dealt with.

And he was kind, she thought grudgingly. He’d turned more than once to help her mount or dismount, but never made a sound when his efforts were unneeded or unnoticed. He’d arranged for her to have her own room both nights, not insisting on sleeping on her floor or staring at her while she ate.

In truth, she felt the pull of worry for the man. What would happen to him when Valentin learned she’d fled? Would Jason, as he’d called himself, be held to task for not guarding her more closely?

But just as quickly, that worry hardened. He’d chosen to work for Valentin Cassadine, Elizabeth decided. And whatever punishment came his way was a just one for choosing the side of evil.

She listened at the door once more. The inn was quiet, and she’d heard Jason go into his room across the hall more than an hour ago. Surely by now, he’d gone to sleep.

Elizabeth removed the daggers from her bag, strapped them both into the special pockets of her cloak, then headed to the door, valise in hand.

It was time.

—

Jason had been a light sleeper all his life, and so when the door across the hall creaked open, his eyes had opened. He sat up in the bed, then listened again, very carefully. Was Elizabeth simply restless? Was she intending to go down to the common room? Maybe she’d heard something he hadn’t.

He waited — there wasn’t a sound again for some time. Then, there was the lightest of footsteps, the toe of a boot hitting the wooden floor. Then another. A door easing closed. Footsteps moving towards the stairs.

Jason quietly got out of bed, dressed, and threw on his cloak. He picked up his sword, and then with his boots in his hand not on his feet, he headed for the door.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, and saw nothing. So he took another moment, listened. Heard the creak of the door to the stable yard. When it was closed, he followed again.

In the stable yard, outside the inn, he grimaced — the doors to the stable were closed and locked tight, a fact that the figure standing at the entrance had only just learned. He watched Elizabeth shake it slightly, then sigh. The sound didn’t travel across the stable yard, but the quick rise and fall of her shoulders suggested the disappointment.

Jason started to step back, sure that now she realized she could not retrieve her horse and leave she’d return to the inn and he didn’t want to be seen.

But instead, Elizabeth crept towards the trees, towards the main road. And cursing himself, Jason hurriedly stepped into his boots and followed. Then she ducked into a copse of trees alongside the road, and he lost sight of her.

When he came into a small clearing, he grimaced, looking around, wondering how he’d explain to Valentin that a woman who stood no higher than his chin and could have lifted with one hand had managed to elude him.

The only warning he had for what came next was the cracking of branches behind him. Jason swirled, and just barely managed to draw his sword to block the dagger aimed at his neck.

Elizabeth hissed in disappointment, and then with another flick of her hand, from what looked like the air, she drew a second dagger.

And attacked.

+24

Written in 60 minutes.

He scarcely had a chance to deflect the dagger before it sliced through his neck, but Jason managed to lift his arm, knocking her wrist back. He made a grab for her, but Elizabeth danced backwards, doing a roll that allowed her snatch up the first dagger, glinting on the forest floor.

“What—” Jason began but had to jump back when she swiped out again, nearly taking his intestines. Grimacing, he drew his sword. He had no taste for fighting a woman, even one who was armed—

And who had been trained well enough to dodge his attack. With the sword he kept her from another frontal attack, and held up another hand, hoping to suggest he meant her no harm.

But the meek woman he’d escorted from Shadwell and traveled alongside for the last two days had disappeared, replaced with a ball of fury. The hood had fallen back, and hair tumbled and loose around her face, only illuminated by the slice of moon visible through the gray skies.

“I don’t want to hurt you—”

“Says a man who takes the coin of a murderer,” Elizabeth spat, and he blinked at that accusation, and the rage shaking in her voice. That split second of confusion gave her an opening and she flew at him, one of her daggers slicing through his upper arm.

Jason hissed in pain, decided the time had come to end this farce. He threw the sword aside, grabbed one of her wrists, wrapping his hand around it like a manacle, tightening it. She cried out and the dagger fell to the ground.

When her other hand swung around, Jason was ready and within seconds, he’d wrapped her tiny wrists in one fist and backed her hard against the bark of a tree, holding the hands over her head, leaving a hand free.

“Let me go!” Elizabeth panted, twisting back and forth. When her knee came up towards his groin, Jason had already deflected it, curling one of his legs around hers, trapping it against his own.

Her chest was heaving, her breath a white cloud fading into the cold night, but despite having been completely disarmed and literally backed against a wall, Elizabeth’s turbulent eyes didn’t show even a hint of panic or fear.

“Let me go,” she forced out between clenched teeth. “You wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise.”

“You fight well,” Jason said, not bothering to respond to her barb. “But you should have finished your training.”

Her eyes narrowed into slits, her mouth little more than a white line. “What does that mean?”

Jason arched a brow. Without taking his eyes from hers, he shifted his boot slightly, kicked it, and then reached out to retrieve the dagger she’d dropped. He held the blade near her face, the tip just beneath her chin.

And still, no fear. No panic. Just the slide curve of her lips.

If only she knew that she’d lost whatever leverage she possessed with that twitch of the mouth, she might not have smiled.

“I could slice you open here,” Jason said almost casually, the blade resting against her skin, just below the curve of her jaw. One flick of his hands and he’d have her life’s blood spouting. “You think me afraid of the Cassadine?”

Amusement flared in her eyes, and the corner of her eyebrow quirked up. “I think you very stupid. Go ahead and try it.” She tilted her head slightly, revealing more neck.

“If I value my life, it will be the last thing I do.” When her eyes came back to his, the arrogance in her eyes fading. “Or were you hoping I wouldn’t recognize the daggers from the House of Nevoie?”

She said nothing, but there was a small flare of alarm now, and his smile only grew. “These daggers are charmed to protect their mistress. They bring no harm to you. They can’t.”

Her lips parted slightly, and now, finally, there was a lick of fear in her eyes. “I know not of what you speak—”

“If I even moved this blade a hair closer, I would be on the ground, fortunate to wake up hours from now with nothing more than headaches and regrets. You think your house has fallen into memory? That no one remembers the Ladies of Nevoie?”

“I think,” she said carefully, “that you have been told stories—”

“Stories?” he scoffed, dropping the blade to his side, but not loosening his hold on Elizabeth. He had no doubt she’d be going for other discarded dagger behind him if he gave her half a chance. And while he was sure she hadn’t completed her time with Alan, there was no telling what she could still pull out from beneath that heavy cloak.

After all, the house of Nevoie was known for more than their bespelled weapons.

“Tell me why you never finished your training,” Jason said again, and she furrowed her brow, not expecting that turn of conversation.

“What makes you think I didn’t it?”

“Because Alan Quartermaine never returned a lady of Nevoie without knowing how to disarm her attacker. This,” Jason said, pressing just a bit closer, pressing her more tightly against the tree. Her chest, still rising and falling with panicked, heavy breathing, had little room to expand. “This,” he said, bringing his face a bit more close so that there was little more than a breath separating them, “was his worst fear.”

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” she said, but her voice was smaller now, almost as if she were saying the words as an affirmation, to persuade herself rather to taunt him.

Jason pressed his lips together, stepped back, releasing her so fast that she was almost spinning. By the time she came back to herself, Jason had scooped up that second dagger and sheathed his sword.

Her eyes were huge now, focused on his hands, on her weapons. She flattened her hands against the tree, her fingers digging into the bark. “Give them to me,” she said, the words bit out from behind her clenched teeth. “They are mine.”

“I have no need to take them,” Jason said, with more warmth in his tone than he’d exhibited their entire acquaintance. “They must be the last of their kind.”

“Very nearly, and—”

“After all, the house of Nevoie has been extinct these last ten years. More,” Jason murmured.  “I was young when it happened, but not a child.”

“Extinct. Is that what your master told you?”

“I have no master, save myself. And no one told me anything. You think Valentin would have let me anywhere near you if I knew who you were or what value you bring? He’d never tell someone who could use that for his own gain.”

“Oh, and you’re so noble? So honorable?” she spat. “Are you so different  that you wouldn’t steal me for yourself?”

Jason raised his brows, then bit back his instinctual response. “I have no taste for the throne,” he said, his words pitched lower. Their eyes met. “Or need to steal a woman for any other reason.”

The shadows hid her, casting her face into nothing more than gray and white. But he would have gambled any amount that she’d flushed with embarrassment.

“But I’ll forgive you that accusation,” he continued, “as we don’t know each other very well and you’ve likely seen more men of that ilk than not.”

“All men are the same.”

“Did the training end when your family died? Did they not send you for another summer because there was left to do so?”

“You would dare to speak of this to me. The audacity,” Elizabeth breathed, “to stand there with the coin of Valentin Cassadine rotting in your pocket, and speak of my family. Of my mother who he slaughtered, my sister, my only blood—”

“Slaughtered?” When she just glared at him, Jason shook his head. “There must be some mistake. The last ladies of Nevoie died in the sickness—” He stopped, looked away as awareness awakened. “A story. A lie. You say Valentin Cassadine murdered the House of Nevoie? How do you know this?”

“I owe you no more answers,” Elizabeth said, lifting her chin. “You have a choice. Return my belongings, allow me to take my mare, and I’ll cease being your concern.”

Jason looked down at the dagger in his hand, turning it to see the end of the hilt, at the small insignia burned into it. The familiar mark of his family.

“I could do that,” he said, slowly lifting his head until their eyes met, held. “But I don’t think you want to leave just yet.”

“Oh, I assure you, I do—”

“Or will it not bother you how a bastard urchin from Wymoor knows who you are? Why I know so many of your secrets?”

Her eyes burned, and if she had the power, Jason was sure, he would have been engulfed by flames on the spot.

“Valentin would have told you—”

“Would he?” Jason demanded. “He would never have risked it. He knows who I am.”

“Who are you?” Elizabeth challenged, stepping forward, then her lips parted when he lifted his brows.

“If you want the answer to that question, you can come inside. Or— ” Jason held out the daggers, and her eyes went to them. “Take these and go.”

+21

Written in 6o minutes.

It had to be a trick, a lie to lure her back inside the inn, back to a miserable future—

Elizabeth took one step away from the tree, towards the man who held her daggers in his hand, the only link she had to her heritage, to the world she’d known before that terrible day.

The winter wind swirled around them, rustling through the trees. The air grew more bitter, the chill deepening, but still she stood there, a foot separating her from her captor, from her weapons.

Jason Morgan tipped his head to the sky, then brought his gaze to hers as the first snowflakes fluttered past his cheek, dancing down to the forest floor thick with leaves and foliage. His eyes were shadowed, but she could see the corner of his mouth turning up in a half smirk. “Do you think you can freeze me to death? Is that how you plan to end this?”

She drew in a sharp breath, fought the urge to deny it. This man, this puppet of Valentin Cassadine held too many secrets—but how? Why would Valentin put so much trust in an underling? Or was Jason Morgan hiding secrets of his own from the Cassadine?

Elizabeth flicked her wrist and the wind settled, the flurries fading from the sky until they fell no longer. “I could bury you in a snowdrift,” she bit out, “if I so chose. Give me a reason not to.”

Jason flipped one of the daggers in his hand, a neat little twirl that she’d never seen anyone else complete — save for the man who had taught her. Had Alan Quartermaine trained him as well? But then who was he? And why had Valentin sent him?

Pressure built behind her eyes, an itch in her throat that she forced down. All she had was her dignity, her self-respect, and she would not fall apart in front of this man, in front of any man.

“That is not a reason, and I grow weary of this conversation. Keep the daggers.” She lifted her chin and stalked across the clearing, nearly reaching the other side before his voice traveled to her on the wind.

“A few months back, in another place, a woman came to a pub. She had a pair of those daggers.”

Elizabeth stopped, but did not turn around. Another trick, another lie.

“I was there on other business, and found myself in a meeting with her and an associate who knew something of my background. He thought she was lying, trying to lead him on a wild chase or steal something from him. But then she reached into cloak just the way you did — pulling one of these from some pocket that could not be detected. A dagger from Nevoie. They are not given to all members of the line. Just the women in the line of succession.”

“There are no survivors from Nevoie,” Elizabeth said, but her voice was soft, almost inaudible. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s what I would have thought. What we’ve been told.” Jason took a step towards her, almost hesitant. “A sickness spread in the household and the village. Too fast, too deadly. No survivors. That part is no lie, is it?”

“No. There was a fire—” Her throat tightened, the acrid smell of smoke still lingering in her memories, choking her from beyond. “After. They burned the village to the ground, then the house.”

“To stop the disease from spreading.”

“To hide their crimes.” Her fingers fisted in her skirts. “But I was captured in the woods. We ran. We ran, and we ran, and I lost her somewhere. I heard her screams. There are no survivors from Nevoie,” she repeated.

“You survived,” Jason said, taking another step towards her. “Is it so impossible that you alone could have?”

“I—” Her eyes blurred and something unfurled inside her. An emotion she could scarcely recognize. Hope. No. “She told you this. She told you that Nevoie was a massacre, and you did nothing. She showed you daggers, and you did nothing.” She swallowed hard, and her heart hardened again. “I expect nothing less from a Cassadine pawn—”

“What would you have me do? Tell the king that his aunt and her family were slaughtered like animals? She wanted no justice. Just vengeance. She came to my friend looking for revenge.”

“You still have told me nothing that convinces me that I should go inside or continue this conversation. You weave nothing but lies designed to trick me into trusting you.”

“I tell you the truth as I know it. She gave no name, and she never spoke of her relatives. She didn’t need to. The daggers—” Jason held them out to her again. “They don’t take kindly to being separated from their mistress, do they? That’s how you came to have them after all this time. Why they didn’t burn to the ground with your home or become the property of whoever kidnapped you from the woods that day.”

“How can you—” She bit back the demand, clenching her hands so tightly her nails dug into her palms. “Then you know that if you withhold them from me, they’ll only find their way home.”

“I do. So why go to that trouble when you can take them now?”

Her hands itched to take the offer, to snatch the daggers from him, but what if he were lying? What if he knew the power the weapons held, and he had a charm to bind them to him? What if she held out her hands and he grabbed her—

She was just so very tired.

With trembling hands she reached out, held out her hands, and nearly wept when Jason carefully laid the hilts in her palm, his fingers closing her hand around them so that his larger hands engulfed hers.

Their eyes met, and Elizabeth drew in a shuddering breath. “I don’t understand you.”

“I’ve heard that before. From the woman in the pub who also was unhappy that I knew the origin of these, that I knew their power, and declined to tell her why.”

“And do you think it fair that you seem to know all my secrets, and I still know nothing of yours?” she demanded.

“You know the one I’ve told no other. You just haven’t put the pieces together.” Jason released her hands, then drew his sword. Elizabeth leapt back, set herself to ward off the attack—but he held the hilt towards her, as if handing her the sword.

Elizabeth furrowed her brow, lowered her hands to her side, the tips of the daggers brushing her cloak. On the base of the hilt was the same insignia burned into hers. “The Quartermaines. They do not make weapons for the common people. They’ve made our daggers, and—” Her eyes rounded. “You’re a Quartermaine?”

“By blood,” Jason said, sheathing the sword again. “Not by right or name. I was honest when I told you I was a bastard from Wymoor. I just didn’t specify whose bastard.”

The information didn’t fit in neatly with everything else that she knew. The Quartermaines looked after their own, and clearly he had been part of the family at one time. He’d been trained and outfitted by Alan Quartermaine.

And yet—

“You take coin from the blood enemy of your family?” Elizabeth asked. “You think that to be reassuring?”

“You’re betrothed to the blood enemy of yours,” Jason returned calmly and she flinched. “Does that not make us the same?”

“I don’t know,” she said, lifting her brows. “Were you held prisoner for six years, then bound to a small, remote village for another eight? Did you bargain for the false pretense of freedom by trading your future?”

“Bound,” Jason repeatedly slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“Then let me make this very clear, Master Morgan.” She stepped close to him, their faces so close that the breath she exhaled mingled with his. “I begged Valentin to release me from the   locked room that had been my whole world since the day he slaughtered my family and took me prisoner. He brought me to Shadwell, to that cottage, and once I stepped across the border of the village, he relished in telling me that I was to stay there until he had need of me, and the only way he’d ever let me leave was if I agreed to marry him. Or else I’d rot away in my isolation. And for eight years, I prayed he’d find another way, another route to the power he so desperately craved. As long as the king drew breath, there was hope. And then you came.”

Jason took a step back, confusion swirling in his eyes. “He bound you to the land, but I spoke no words to release you—”

“You did not have to. It’s an oath. When you came and you asked me if I was his betrothed, I fulfilled the contract. I agreed to leave with you. But Valentin does not respect the old ways, the magic. I agreed so that I could leave. But I will never marry him. And if you force me, if you drag me to the capital, I promise you, Valentin will not live long enough to take the throne.”

Jason looked at her for long a moment. “Good. Then we are agreed.”

“We—” She blinked, shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“You wish to see Valentin dead. But I will tell you what I told your kinswoman — if you want Valentin’s blood, we are in accord. I’d prefer to do the deed myself, but if you need to have a hand in spilling it, that can be arranged.”

+25

Written in 65 minutes.

Jason did not turn back before he was inside his room, stoking the fire he’d left burning in his room. But he knew that she followed. Not right away — there had been a slight hesitation. He was halfway up the stairs before he had heard the back door creaking, and at the door to his room before he heard her light footfall.

The door closed behind him, and now, finally, he turned to face her, once again marveling that he ever mistook her for a meek, docile puppet that would follow him to the capital without protest. Her cheeks were flush, her eyes still glinting with the same temper that had her chin lifted slightly as if that movement alone could put them at an equal height. The waves of chestnut hair that had been neatly tied back tumbled around her shoulders, her hands fisted at her side.

“You hide well,” he told her, and her expression flickered, confusion clouding those eyes now.

“I don’t understand.”

Jason went to sit at the square table tucked under a window, the edges rough, suggesting it had been constructed quickly by an less than skilled craftsman. He laid his sword in his lap, reached for the whetstone he kept in his bag, and began to sharpen it in long, slow strokes. “Had you looked at me like that in Shadwell, I would have known you at once as someone of noble blood line. I wouldn’t have spent so long wondering why Valentin had chosen you.”

“This is the conversation you choose to have right now?” she demanded, but the words held little heat, only bewilderment. She came a few steps closer but did not sit across from him.

Or unfurl her fists.

“It matters, doesn’t it? You say Valentin kept you captive all these years just to force you into marriage.” Jason finished the exercise, tucked the stone away, and slid the sword back into the sheath. He focused on her. “Were you planning to kill him all along or only if I managed to get you to Tonderah?”

Elizabeth hesitated at that question, perhaps not expecting it. Her brows drew together, her expression pinched. “Vengeance was a dream, but not nearly as strong as freedom. He promised me that, and so I went with him to Shadwell. He told me it would be safe there, a quiet place where I could build a life.” Her lips twitched, though there no humor in her eyes. “He excels at wrapping a lie in a truth, doesn’t he?”

“He does.” Jason waited a moment, but she added nothing. “You said you were bound. To the village or to the cottage itself?”

“The village. I was able to go maybe a few feet beyond the traditional borders, but any further and my head—” She touched the side of her head, her fingers lingering near her temple. “It would scream in agony. And if I went too much further—”

“You would fall to your feet unconscious,” Jason said.

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “You have some experience with this?”

“Some.” But that was not a story for this night or any other. “He gave me a leather pouch with coins for your expenses on the return trip.” Jason rose to his feet, crossed the room where he’d left his cloak. She stepped away from him, almost scurrying in her haste to keep distance between them. He frowned. “I thought we’d reached an accord. I have no interest in harming you.”

“Not with my daggers, but you have weapons of your own that could do easily enough. I don’t care to learn what form your lies take.”

There was little point in defending his honor. She wouldn’t believe the words, and he couldn’t prove himself any other way at the moment. Instead, he ignored the insult, and returned to his task. From one of the folds of the cloak he drew out the pouch, and she looked at it with some curiosity.

“A charm of bondage can be broken by the person who cast it. Or—”

“Or if the oath that created the bound is fulfilled. I claimed myself as his betrothed and promised to leave with you. I suppose that was enough.”

“It was. He used this, I suppose, to pass the charm to me.” Strong magic, stronger than Valentin was thought to possess. Had he delved into something deeper and darker, or did he have someone else to perform those deeds?

Neither was a pleasing thought.

Jason held out the pouch. “Take it. The coins are meant for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said vengeance was not your goal. Freedom is. You were escaping tonight. If you’d wanted to kill Valentin, you’d have gone with me and remained the meek and mild betrothed. You chose flight. Valentin owes you at least the cost of the trip.”

Elizabeth’s eyes dropped to the pouch again, and she took an unsteady breath. “You would really allow me to leave? Without an argument?”

“You answered my questions. And you know who I am now—”

“I know you are a Quartermaine who works for Valentin Cassadin. How do I know this isn’t a trick? One last lie from Valentin to let me think I’d finally broken free? You’ll let me go, then track me down again—”

“I don’t lie. If you want to go, you can go.” He reached for one of those fists now, gently tugging the fingers loose until he could wrap them around the bag. “I still intend to finish what I started. Vengeance might not be your goal, Miss Barrett. But it is mine.”

—

Elizabeth licked her lips, raising her head from the money he’d put in her palm before lifting her gaze back to his steady, calm eyes.

“You take his coin.”

“He trusts me. He sent me to fetch you. He didn’t think I’d recognize your name or anything else about you. And I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t tried to escape.”

If she hadn’t used the daggers that screamed her heritage from the tops of the trees. Her fingers curled more tightly around the bag, the ridged edges of the coins digging into her skin. “How did Valentin come to hire a Quartermaine bastard?”

His mouth tightened, and his gaze skittered away for just a heartbeat. The word bothered him, she realized, though he’d used to it first. Perhaps he thought if he wielded the slur, it would lose its power.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that—”

Jason’s eyes returned to hers, and she closed her mouth. “You said earlier that you owed me no answers, and that was true. If you intend to take that money and go, then you have no interest or use for me. I can take you to the nearest port, help you find transportation, and we can part ways.”

No questions or answers on either side, she realized, and for a long moment, she wanted to say yes. He was offering her the freedom she’d craved for so long, the freedom she’d nearly believed was already hers.

But he’d spoken of woman with another set of daggers, hadn’t he? Could it be, was it even possible that her sister had survived?

Oh, could Brenda be out there, looking for her?

“And if I stay,” Elizabeth said, “what then?”

Jason considered her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. If you are from Nevoie, if the story you’ve told me and the one I’d already heard, if it’s even a fraction of the truth, then you have already given enough. Vengeance does not have to be your goal—”

“But the woman—the other dagger—do you know how to find her? Can you—can you take me to her?”

Jason looked away, then walked back towards the fire to build it even higher, hiding his expression. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You said you’d promised her vengeance—”

“I told her—” Jason turned, then grimaced. “I told her I intended to carry out the deed on my own, and that I had even before she’d come to find me. And the word would spread throughout the kingdom so there was no need to send further word.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, absorbed the blow to the small sparkle of hope that begun to bloom. Lost to her again, so quickly. Anyone could have found the daggers in the wreckage that had been left behind, she thought. Anyone could have posed as her sister—

“But I could find her. I know who to ask,” Jason said, and Elizabeth looked back, their eyes meeting. “But it leaves us with a problem to resolve. Valentin is expecting you in the capital in three weeks time. I don’t know if he’s having the roads watched, but if he is and thinks I’ve betrayed him, taken you somewhere else—”

“Oh.” Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her free hand around her middle, still looking at the coins in her hand. A wave of weariness swept over her, and suddenly it all seemed impossible. “Three weeks,” she repeated softly. “Is there a way to learn if the roads are being watched?”

“Not reliably.”

“All right. Then I ask you to give me the name of this person you would ask, and you can go ahead to the capital. Tell him that I have refused to marry him, and that he’ll have to deal with me himself.” Elizabeth nodded, firm in her plan. She rose to her feet. “You’ll have fulfilled your end of the bargain, and with any luck, by the time Valentin goes to Shadwell and learns I’ve managed to leave, I’ll have my answers.”

“And what then?” Jason challenged. “He’ll know I lied—”

“Then you tell him the truth. I escaped. I was already in the forest before you caught up with me,” she reminded him. Elizabeth set the coins back on the table. “You’ll return that to him as proof I did not travel with you. Leave out all that’s happened since we left each other at the door earlier tonight, and we’ll both be satisfied.”

“And what of you? You’ll be no better off than I found you—”

“I’ll be free. And perhaps on my way to reuniting with the last of my family. It’s an improvement,” Elizabeth told him. She lifted her chin, met his eyes head on. “You gave me a choice, remember. To stay or go. I have chosen to go. I only ask that you let me leave with the name of the person who can help me on the next step.”

——

He had no argument for her, none that he could articulate properly at the moment, so Jason retreated. He told her that he would give her the direction in the morning, after they’d had some sleep and something to eat.

And he hoped in the morning, he’d find a way to deal with the complication he’d been presented. A simple job that was meant to cement him more firmly in Valentin’s trust now threatened to destroy his carefully laid plans.

He could go around her, Jason supposed. Send word to Valentin where she was going so that he was taken out of it. He could go to the capital and tell Valentin the truth — all that Elizabeth had shared and that short of forcing her to come with him, he’d been left with no choice. Valentin hadn’t properly prepared him for the task.

But that wasn’t a real option, and Jason knew that even as the plan was formulating. If Elizabeth’s story was true, and there was no reason to doubt her, not with everything else he knew on the matter, then she deserved the freedom she’d asked for.

To be reunited with the woman who might be her sister—though—

The lady of Nevoie had perished with her daughter — and there had no mention of another girl.

That realization was his first thought upon waking the next morning, when the weak gray morning light shined through the window.

The lady of Nevoie had been a widow with one daughter, aged sixteen, when the sickness had swept through the land. But there was no mistaking the fact that Elizabeth had a set of daggers, and the training that she’d only have been given if she were a member of the family.

But perhaps she was like Jason — after all, hadn’t Alan Quartermaine educated and trained his bastard son for a time? Given him some of the privileges of the birth he hadn’t earned?

Bastard or not, if Elizabeth carried the blood line of Nevoie with ties to an ancient royal house, the same bloodline that had married into Rhigwyn’s monarchy, making Elizabeth cousin to the recently deceased king—

She’d have been a very interesting piece of leverage in Valentin’s plot to seize the throne of Rhigwyn.

Jason couldn’t let Valentin find her, take her captive again.

She was waiting in the common room the next morning, sitting impatiently at a table, her foot tapping. When he appeared, she rose to her feet expectantly. “You said you’d give me the name today—”

“I’ll do better than that,” Jason said. With a reluctant sigh, he continued, “I’ll escort you there myself.”

Elizabeth blinked. “But you said he was watching the roads—”

“Maybe. And maybe he’s not. Valentin doesn’t have nearly as many friends as he thinks he does. There are those who take his coin and lie anyway. In any case, you’ll find it easier to find your relative if I am there.”

“Why? Will your friend not help me?”

“She’ll help you. But I’ll have to stop her from getting too involved.” Jason paused, thinking of the woman who had raised him. “She has a habit of speaking truth to power, and she hates Valentin Cassadine nearly as much as I do. If you tell her about your past, there’s no telling what she’ll do.”

+21

Written in 60 minutes

If Mary Mae learned that Jason had attempted to facilitate a marriage between the Houses of Nevoie and Cassadine, she would never forgive him. It would hardly matter to her that Jason hadn’t set out to do any such thing, that he’d not known Elizabeth’s identity when he had accepted the job.

She would merely tell him that accepting tasks from Valentin Cassadine, scourge of the kingdom, meant accepting that the risk that Jason would be enabling Valentin’s quest for power. The disappointment she already felt would only deepen, and Jason was dreading the inevitable look in her eyes.

Perhaps that was how he found himself on the road to Wymoor and not Tonderah — the knowledge if that if Mary Mae had to learn about any of this, it would be with the promise that he would attempt to set it right. Though what he would do when Valentin learned of this perfidy—

That was yet another task to be dreaded.

“Who is this person you’re taking me to?” Elizabeth wanted to know. She urged her horse forward until she’d pulled even with his own. “How can you be so sure that she’ll know how to find this woman you’ve told me about?”

“It was her pub where we met,” Jason replied. “And even if it were not, Mary Mae knows everything. Or knows who to ask.” He hesitated, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the reigns. “She does not know who my father is. You should not mention it.”

“I had no plans to betray that confidence. What reason would I have?” she added when he just looked at her. “You’ve not forced me to travel to the capital. I suppose you could still be leading me there and not telling me—” She fell silent, then looked at him again.

He grimaced, faced forward. He had no way to reassure her — from her own words, she knew little of the southern part of the island—Nevoie was to the north of Rhigwyn, and she’d spent most of the last decade in Shadwell. “I suppose you’ll have to trust me.

She pressed her lips together, then also looked to the road ahead of them. “I don’t suppose I have any choice in the matter. If and when we reach your Mary Mae, I’ll say nothing of what you’ve told me.”

—

The road stretched ahead of them, a long dirt track bordered on both sides of thick, heavy trees that obscured any signs of civilization. Or landscapes that could offer some idea where they were in relation to the coast. If she recalled her lessons correctly or the maps she’d studied, Tonderah and Shadwell were near the eastern coast, and Wymoor a port in the west.

If they were traveling away from the coast, then surely that would be an encouraging sign?

But once the idea had been planted that he’d only pretended to gain her trust and cooperation, Elizabeth couldn’t quite let it go. What would she do if he was taking her to Valentin? She’d promised herself if she were ever in the presence of that man again, one of them would not leave the room alive. She would never let herself be taken captive again.

Had she walked herself straight into a trap?

The daylight was short, the sun dipping down beyond the tree line, and there had been no break in those lines of trees, no turns leading into a village or a town.

“Where do we break for the night?” she asked almost hesitant. She cast uncertain eyes towards the sliver of moon visible behind the clouds. In no more than an hour, it would be difficult to see anything with so little moonlight to guide their way.

“We don’t. You want to find the woman claiming to be your sister, and I want to stay as far ahead of Valentin as I can. He’s expecting you in the capital. I don’t know if he’s watching the roads, but if he is, and we don’t appear the next set of crossroads, there’s no telling how much time he’ll allow to lapse before he takes action.”

“We’ll travel all night? I—” She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, biting down. “I don’t know I am able to—”

“It’s too late to go back, Miss Barrett—”

She exhaled in a sigh. “You might have warned me—”

Jason drew back hard on his reins, his head whipping back to look behind them. Elizabeth’s horse traveled a few feet more before she realized he’d stopped. “Are you going to—”

“Quiet,” he ordered, but he did not look at her, his gaze trained on the rapidly difficult to see road that they’d already traveled. “Quickly in the trees—” He was already off his horse before he’d finish speaking and had come to her, reaching up.

Elizabeth started to slide slowly, intending to use his hand only for an assist, and she jolted when instead his hands wrapped around her waist and nearly yanked her out of the saddle, setting her on the ground with a thud. “What—”

“Quiet,” he repeated, urging her off the road. “Get back in the brush, and stay quiet.”

She closed her mouth, obeyed and hurried past the first thicket of trees, until she found a bush to crouch behind, her heart pounding. Was this is a trick to convince her that she could trust him? Had Valentin already caught up with them?

There were sounds finally, in the distance, the rhythmic pounding of horses racing towards them, galloping at top speed—

She clasped her fingers tightly around the branches of the bush, terrified of what would happen next.

And of what the number of riders would do if they were an enemy?

Jason would be outnumbered.

—

Jason might be surprised that their thoughts had traveled identical paths. He heard the riders before he saw them, and calculated it was more than four, but not more than eight. Between five and seven riders, likely men, were racing towards him..

He reached for the reins on Elizabeth’s mare, urging both skittish horses to calm. He gathered both sets of reins in one hair, and rested the other on the hilt of his sword, moving them towards the side of the road.

The riders finally appeared, and it was only five. Not an ideal number, he decided, but it could have been worse. He hoped Elizabeth had managed to get well-hidden, and that she would stay hidden no matter what happened next.

At best, these were men hurrying to the next village on some urgent task. At worst, Valentin had sent men trailing them who hadn’t realized they’d left the inn at first light that morning and were only now catching up them.

And somewhere between those two points was the most likely occurrence — they were highwaymen looking for any hint of coin. Two horses could and should be enough to quell them if it came to that, Jason decided, though he’d be sorry to see the stallion go. But if he fought them and lost, where would that leave Elizabeth?

He’d brought her to this road, far between points of civilization, with no idea of where she was or going. He could not take any risk that she’d be abandoned here—

Or discovered. Perhaps taken.

The lead rider drew up on his reigns hard, the horse’s gait slowing to a walk as they approach. “What do we have here?” the man bit out in a hard accent, the vowels clipped and suggesting to Jason he was not native to this part of the island. “Where’s the other rider?”

“There is no other rider,” Jason said calmly, cursing the other observant man. He’d not had much time to prepare, and it had taken the man no time at all to discern there were two people. Still, he had do his best to avert disaster.  He lifted his chin. “I’m a horse trader en route to the market in Wymoor.”

“Two fully saddled horses?” The leader sniffed, then dismounted. He scowled as he closed the distance between then. “A stallion and a mare?” He nodded towards Elizabeth’s horse. “If look through those saddlebags, what would I find?”

“Nothing but my own belongings. There is no one else.”

“Who is she? Where is she?” The man started to head for the tree lines.

“There’s no need for this. If the price for you to be leave me be is the horses, it’s one I’ll meet—”

“No man gives up two horses in prime condition without something more precious to protect. Bring her out or I’ll find her myself.”

Jason grimaced. He’d hoped to avoid confrontation, but it looked as if it would be impossible. “Just give me a moment.” He released the reins, started towards towards the same tree line as if he were giving in, but just as he passed the man, he reached for his sword.

The man barely had time to realize what Jason had done before the sword was buried in his gut nearly to the hilt. Jason shoved him back, draw back his blade, turning to face the quartet of furious, angry men behind him.

And spared only one more thought for Elizabeth behind him, desperately hoping she knew to stay back.

+23

Written in 81 minutes.

She’d obeyed Jason’s command to run and hide, to duck for cover and let another fight the coming battle. She’d done the same more than a dozen years earlier, listening to her mother’s  panicked commands, sending Elizabeth and her older sister into the woods as their home had been overrun—

Elizabeth’s fingers curled around one of the thin branches of the bush, her heart pounding, trying to hear the conversation from the road but it was impossible — Jason stood by the horses, talking to the angry leader who had stepped forward, the largest of the five men. Who were they? Valentin’s men? Highway men?

The man gestured at the horses, and Jason’s posture stiffened. Then the man pointed towards the trees—

Towards Elizabeth.

And Jason took a step towards the trees, and for a terrifying moment, Elizabeth thought she’d been sold out. That he’d sent word to someone else that he’d need help dragging her to the capital—

Her hand went inside her cloak, feeling for the hilt of a dagger. She’d not go without a fight. Not again.

But then Jason whirled around, his sword in hand, and in the gut of the brigand who was on the ground, curled up in a fetal position before Elizabeth even registered what had happened.

There were loud, angry yells—the four other men leaping forward to attack, two on foot, and the other two on horseback. Elizabeth lost sight of Jason in the fray—what if he were hurt or killed? What if they came looking for her?

And would she hide in the trees the way she had the night her mother had been murdered? When her home had been burned to the ground, her village plundered and destroyed—

No. Never again.

Elizabeth drew both daggers, clutching the jeweled hilts so tightly in her palms the stones dug grooves into her skins.

This time, she would fight back.

—

Jason ducked away from the one of the two men on horseback, rolling to avoid the hoofs, wondering if he could get to his horse and make a run for it—

He might have had a chance if not for the woman hiding in the trees. If he ran, they would stay and look for her—

He was slammed from the back and went sprawling. He rolled quickly to avoid another horse, then grunted when a black boot was planted in his chest, and the tip of a sword was placed just under his chin.

“You think to win against us all?” The man’s northern accent was harsh against Jason’s ears, a long, angry scar carved into the side of his cheek. Greasy, stringy hair hung down to his shoulders. “You are a fool—”

He lifted the sword, likely to bring down for the killing blow—

And then a dagger flew into his chest, a familiar set of emerald and ruby jewels decorating the hilt. The man gasped and fell backwards, Jason rolling out of the danger zone, stopping only long enough to grasp the dagger from his chest. He came to his feet, his sword in one hand, the dagger in the other.

And on the other side of the road, her cloak tossed aside, her hair tumbling down around her neck, Elizabeth stood wielding the second of her daggers, eying one of the three men left who was already advancing towards her.

Jason grimaced, took a few steps forward only to be waylaid by the two others. He parried and feinted, not looking to kill but only get to Elizabeth. Daggers were good only for up close and personal attacks, and she’d never be able to hold her own with just one—

—-

Elizabeth ducked beneath the hammy fist of her attacker, dancing out of his reach. She jabbed out with her weapon, slicing his hand open. He roared and rushed her — she feinted to the left and he went sprawling.

But there wasn’t a moment to celebrate her good fortune—both men had abandoned going after Jason, determining Elizabeth to be the weaker of the two—

One of them grabbed a chunk of her hair, and she screamed in pain, swinging out wildly with her dagger, finding nothing but air as the man swung her around and planted a fist in her stomach, knocking the wind from her. She went to the ground, her vision swirling, stars dotting her landscape.

Then her head was yanked back and her other arm jerked up. She cried out when her attacker tried to pry the dagger from her hand.  But then she was released with a grunt of pain.

Jason had planted his own sword in the man’s middle, then kicked him aside to the ground. He tossed Elizabeth the second of her daggers, and with both her weapons firmly in hand, Elizabeth was back in control, back in her element.

She’d trained for this moment, first with Alan Quartermaine as a child in a dusty stableyard, then as a gawky teenager with nothing but sticks in her hand until her daggers had found her. And then every day, she’d practiced the magic that had sung in the blood of the ladies from Nevoie—

The daggers glinted as she whirled and twirled one of them in her hand, letting it fly into the sword hand of one of the remaining man, who dropped it with a grunt of pain, his pained expression morphing into disbelief when somehow—the dagger had found its way back to Elizabeth’s hand as if she’d never thrown it at all.

Without his weapon and only one good hand, he bellowed, charging for her, but Elizabeth was quicker and lighter. She danced back and out of the way, letting both daggers fly again, finding their home in the chest of her attacker. He went to the ground, falling on his back. The weapons were buried too deeply this time for her to retrieve them with only her command.

By the time Elizabeth had them back in hand, Jason had dispatched the final villain, and was wiping the blood from his sword, dragging it across the cloth tunic of the dead man. Her chest was rising rapidly, her breathing heavy, and her head and torso aching from the blows she’d absorbed—

While Jason looked none worse for the wear, save a new tear in his sleeve, and locks of his dark blonde hair showing some signs of sweat.

Jason strode towards her, his expression tense. “Are you hurt? Bleeding?”

“N-No—”

“Good. We need to get the bodies off the road, and scatter the horses.” Jason hauled the first man towards the side of the road that fell into a deep ditch. “Dark will fall soon enough, and we’re not where I wanted to be.”

Is that all he wanted to say? After such an event? He had nothing to say? No gratitude for her help? Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but Elizabeth lifted her chin. “All right. Tell me how I can help.”

Already dragging the second man, Jason jerked his head towards the men’s horses. “Search the saddlebags. Take anything valuable.”

“We’d be no better than they—” Elizabeth began, but he threw her a dark look. “All right, I’ll do it, but I’ll not keep a single cent.”

She stalked over to the first of the saddle bags and began to her search.

—

Unsurprisingly there wasn’t much to plunder from the purses of the highway men, but Elizabeth had recovered some coins and a few pieces of jewelry that reassured Jason these were nothing more than highway men looking for another victim to rob.

Elizabeth had dumped her finds into the dirt in front of him, her eyes dark and her expression glacial, then flounced off to clean her daggers and return them to her cloak, now fastened around her shoulders again.

He would be amused by her anger, likely rooted in never having to wonder where her next meal would be found, but he was more irritated with her interference. She ought to have stayed in the woods, safe. He’d have handled the situation and not had the dual worry of watching for her safety in battle.

She watched with sad eyes as Jason scattered the horses, watching them disappear down the road. “Will they be all right? Could we not have taken them with us?”

“I carry enough to look after my horse and yours,” Jason said flatly, and she looked at him. “Or do you think to starve yourself and feed animals instead?”

“Do you intend for us to be on the road for longer than this night?” Elizabeth asked. “I could have gone without a meal if that option had been offered.”

“I didn’t know you waited to be asked,” Jason replied. He came to her side, intending to boost her up into the saddle. “Don’t you just take what you want and do what you like? It’s easy to believe you were a pampered noble—”

The sting of her hand against his cheek was more surprising than painful, but Jason made a show of rubbing his jaw and meeting her eyes. “Does the truth hurt?”

“The truth? I save your worthless life, you miserable wretch, and all you can do is fling insults?” She planted both hands against his chest and shoved. Already slightly off balance, Jason fell back a step. “You think me some spoiled lady of the manor?”

“I think you’ve never worried where you’ll lay your head at night,” Jason said, and she glowered. “Tragedy might have befallen you, but—”

“But what? I tell you that I’ve been held captive for the majority of my life, bound to the walls of some dower house on a Cassadine estate, and then confined to that horrible village—”

“With a home and land to look after,” Jason cut in, and she closed her mouth. “Have you ever starved? Ever slept outside in the rain for days? Felt the cold seep inside your bones until you  felt sure you’d never know warmth again?”

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but they did not fall, only clinging to her lashes, and he felt the first trickle of shame dancing up his spin.

“No. I suppose I must be grateful that I’ve always had four walls around me. That Valentin Cassadine found me wandering in those woods that night, crying while I listened to the crackling of flames roaring through my home, and the screams of my people as they were butchered by the man whose coin you took. I am so fortunate that my captor took care of me, kept me clothed and fed while he controlled my every waking movement for fourteen years.”

Jason exhaled slowly. “I simply meant—”

“You simply meant that because my experience had more creature comforts than your own that I cannot know what it is to want, to have to do resort to desperation. What do you think I am doing here on this road with you? I could have remained in Shadwell, bound there for the rest of my life. But I took a risk and I left, and now I stand here in the middle of a road, darkness falling, with a man whom I do not know and scarcely trust, desperately hoping that you are not leading me to my doom. Desperately hoping that you do not lie about this woman who might be the sister I’ve thought lost a lifetime ago. Do not think that because my desperation looks different from yours, Master Morgan, that I do not know its taste.”

—

The audacity of that man, Elizabeth fumed, turning away when he’d had nothing to say in his own defense. She’d only thought to look after a simple horse, and yet somehow, he’d managed to make her feel like a stupid girl putting her trust in a stranger who had done nothing to earn it.

“If you’ll simply tell me the direction of this person you claim will be able to help me find the woman, you and I will go our separate ways. We clearly cannot keep moving forward when you think so ill of me—”

“If I send you to Mary Mae without explaining myself in person, I’ll pay for it the rest of my life,” Jason said finally. He bent down, cupped his hands. “Let’s be on our way.”

She nearly kicked him, but instead put her foot in the cradle of his hands, and when he boosted her, mounted her horse. “Mary Mae?” she echoed.

“Mary Mae Ward runs the Hare and the Hound.” Jason mounted his own horse, then brought the stallion towards her so that the horses were abreast of each other. “On Berry Lane in Wymoor, a few steps from the harbor.”

“Wymoor,” Elizabeth repeated, sifting through the maps she’d studied. “On the sea of Varra. That’s—”

“On the other side of the island, far from Tonderah,” Jason finished. “If I were leading you to Valentin, you’d know it by now.” He hesitated. “You think you saved my life, and maybe there’s some truth in that—”

“He was about to plunge a sword into your chest,” Elizabeth cut in. “Perhaps you were planning a miracle?”

“I had it under control—”

“Maybe you did.” Elizabeth stared at the road ahead. “I hid when my mother was killed, when my sister was lost. It wasn’t you that I came to help today, but the ghosts that I abandoned long ago. If you want an apology, you’ll be disappointed.”

“What about a promise to listen when I tell you to hide?”

“You can be rest assured, Master Morgan, that the next opportunity I have to save your life, I will definitely think twice.”

+24

Written in 59 minutes.

Clarity had struck him perhaps twenty minutes after they resumed their travel — he’d handled the situation poorly. Disastrously if he were being truthful with himself, and now the woman trusted him even less that she had at the start of this mess.

He’d agreed to Valentin’s task hoping to pry loose enough secrets that could be used against his foe, but every step that took Jason away from Tonderah and towards Wymoor risked all the progress he’d made in the last five years. It wasn’t enough to simply kill Valentin Cassadine — it would never be enough to exterminate the vermin from the living. Jason intended to do whatever he could to dismantle the power structure that had allowed Valentin to survive, to thrive, to steal the mantle of a noble house through murder and deceit—

And it seemed Valentin’s desire for power had curled out past his own home, striking out at the women of Nevoie. It was too terrible to believe Valentin had nearly destroyed an ancient line of magic, and had imprisoned the only survivor for years and years.

And despite knowing very little about him other than his willingness to take Valentine’s coin, Elizabeth had given him her trust and risked her own life to save his.

He’d returned that kindness with anger and derision. If Mary Mae ever found out how he’d treated Elizabeth, noble lineage or no, she’d skin him alive.

Jason tugged up on the reins slightly so that his stallion fell back until his horse drew abreast of Elizabeth, her mare just a few steps behind. “I offer my apologies,” he said shortly, then glanced at her when she said nothing. “Did you hear me?”

“For which offense are you asking my pardon?” she asked sweetly, but the quick flash of blue eyes left no doubt that her temper was still high. “The list has grown so long I can’t begin to guess.”

He tightened his grip on the leather rein, reminding himself that he was the one in the wrong here. “For ingratitude. I could have handled it myself, but you could not have known that. In the future—” Jason hesitated, listening again to the road.

“Oh, if you tell me the future is already at hand,” Elizabeth complained, drawing her horse to a slow walk, “I will be so irritated. I have not the energy for more villains—”

“Thunder,” Jason said, as the rumbling in the distance grew louder, and the clouds above them drifted to cover the sun, leaving the road lit with weak light. “The storm should have turned towards the east coast, but it’s chasing us.” He hesitated, then looked at her, remembering the night before. “Unless this is your doing—”

“I suppose I should be flattered you think I have such power. We do not direct the weather, nor do we increase it. I can no more pull a storm to me than you can draw down the moon. What I can guarantee, Master Morgan, is if there’s any chill in the air—”

“My apologies for not having a thorough understanding of every power of the House of Nevoie,” Jason muttered. His father had told him many things, but by the time Jason had trained at the Quartermaine estate, the line of Nevoie was thought defunct and much of what Alan had shared had been rooted in story not practical knowledge.

“You hoped for us to travel through the night, but if the storm is close—” Elizabeth hesitated. “Are there any villages near that we might find shelter? Or—” There was a loud crack and roll of thunder. “Any shelter will do.”

Jason glanced above them, taking in the location of the sign before the cloud cover could completely take over, then glanced around the forest and the road, trying to calculate everything he knew about this part of the route.

“We might be able to beat the worst of it, but only if we—” The lightning flashed and the first droplets of rain began to fall. “Hurry,” he finished, then kicked his horse into a canter, pushing it into a gallop when he knew Elizabeth had fallen in with him.

They would never make the next village or even the next farm owned by a friendly face, but if there was any luck to be had, they might reach the only other source of shelter outside a handful of caves or smuggler’s cellars dug into the open ground.

The skies opened up ten minutes later, but it was another thirty of steady travelling, alternating speeds to spare the horses before Jason slowed and went off the road, appearing to travel randomly between trees with no sense of direction of purpose.

Her lips were chattering, her skin soaked and chilled from the layers of wet dress, her tangled hair plastered and soaked against her cheeks, Elizabeth had to physically bite her tongue to prevent complaints from spilling free. What looked like a zig zag maze of steps to her eye must make sense to Jason.

Or she would simply drown from the rain pouring down around them, soaking down through the forest floor. It had threatened snow on the eastern coast of the island, but Wymoor lay more towards the south, and the air had just enough chill for the drops to be freezing rain rather than icy snow.

She wasn’t sure which challenge she’d prefer, but it would likely take longer to drown in snow. If she didn’t freeze to death first.

Just when Elizabeth was giving serious consideration to drowning  Jason herself, the trees opened up into a small clear, where a tiny, snug cottage was nestled, with a small lean-to with enough space for at least three horses. There were no lamps lit behind the windows, no smoke rising from the chimney—

But there were four walls and a roof. Nothing had ever looked more like a castle.

Jason drew his horse to a stop, dismounted with his boots splashing up water where they hit the earth. He slicked his hair out of his eyes, then came towards her. Elizabeth wanted to dismount herself, but her fingers felt frozen to the reigns, her waterlogged skirts pinning her in place.

Jason reached up, wrapped his hands around her waist and tugged her down. Elizabeth tried to assist him but couldn’t get her balance back, nearly falling off the horse and, quite humiliatingly, directly onto Jason, who caught her with a grunt, his hands tightening at her waist, her nose bumping into his chin. She lifted her head and caught his eye for just a moment, finding herself strangely aware of him in a way that she hadn’t been before.

Other than the night before, when he’d trapped her against the tree in an effort to disarm her of the daggers.

“Where are we?” Elizabeth managed. She planted both hands against his chest and pushed back, allowing for some separation. It would have been a half-decent move that could have restored some of her dignity, but her boots failed her and she nearly slipped in the mud. Jason caught her elbow, and she muttered beneath her breath. Why had she not known it would be a talent to be able to function in the pouring, freezing rain? And where did one acquire this knowledge?

“Smuggler’s den. Not in use currently. Front door’s open. Go inside and I’ll see to the horses.”

“Can I—”

“You can start a fire and see what supplies have been left behind.” He released her, then reached behind her for the reigns of her mare. “Go!” he said, raising his tone as more space between them made it difficult to hear one another.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, wishing she could argue but she was also desperate for some warmth and dry. With any luck, there would be dry clothing inside, or hopefully Jason would bring in the saddle bags. Their tough, leather exterior ought to have protected her cloth bag inside.

She’d never traveled in the rain, not outside of a carriage. Not where she was responsible for her own welfare. And already resented that she’d have to lean on Jason to survive for now.

Elizabeth slogged towards the small front entrance of the cottage which was only one story, and was, at best, two rooms inside. She twisted the knob, then had to push at the door with her shoulder until it finally gave way and she was able to get inside.

It was pitch dark inside the room, and Elizabeth stumbled, a bit unsure of herself, droplets sliding from the hem of her dress to the rough-hewn wood beneath her sodden boots.

At home, she’d know precisely what to do. She knew how to keep her woodbox stocked, how to start a fire in the hearth—

But in the dark room she could scarcely determine where to find the hearth, much less the woodbox or instruments to strike flames. For all the independence she’d enjoyed in her years in Shadwell, she really did not know what to do if the necessary materials were not right in front of her.

Perhaps Jason had a point earlier, she thought ruefully. Though she’d been held captive all these years, there had been some protection in knowing where she’d lay her head, and having her own home where everything had its place.

She swallowed hard, her body beginning to shiver. Any moment now, Jason would come in having already tended to both their horses and she’d still be standing here, a soggy mess that he had to take care of.

No.

She felt for the wall of the cottage, determined the location of the front door and remembered which side had the chimney. She felt her way over towards that location, stumbling around a table and some chairs, then felt the cool stone of the hearth.

Elizabeth dropped to her knees, continuing to feel with her fingers until she felt the logs already in place. She wanted to weep with relief. She could light a fire, couldn’t she?

She reached inside her cloak for one of her daggers, pressed her lips to the bottom of the jeweled hilt, then laid it against on the logs. “Incendié!”

The flames burst into life, sending Elizabeth sprawling backwards, nearly singed. She fell back on her hands, then laughed with delight. Her first real test, and she’d more than proved her worth.

The room was lit, though the fire only offered the barest glimpse of the room around her, most of the corners still shrouded in shadow. Elizabeth did not care what anything else looked like. She was frozen to the bone and desperately wanted to be dry.

She clumsily unlaced her boots, and tugged them from her feet, setting them near the heart to dry. Then she rose to her feet, dragged one of the chairs she’d stumbled over towards the fire. Quickly she shed her coat and stockings, draping them over pieces of the chair. Though she felt lighter and a bit less like a drowned rat, her skin still shivered from the two layers of dress.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her dress, and she shimmied out of it, draping it over a second chair. Finally, with only her thin shift between her body and the dry air, there was some relief, and Elizabeth no longer feared drowning in her own clothing. She rested both hands on the mantel above the fire, letting the heat absorb into her skin, the front of her shift drying rapidly.

Behind her, the wind and rain roared when the small door burst open again. “I don’t know how long this storm will last,” Jason began, before stopping to stare at her with a strange expression.

Perhaps he was bewildered or stunned speechless that she, a useless noble girl, could have found a way to light the fire on her own. Elizabeth smiled a bit nervously. “There’s room for you to dry yourself as well.”

+23

Written in 60 minutes.

Rivulets of water streamed down his arms, his wrists, hitting the floor beneath his boots, and the wind still swirled at his back, flashes and rumbles illuminating the dark sky. For one long ridiculous minute, he stood in the open doorway, staring stupidly at Elizabeth in front of the fire.

Of course she’d want to be dry. Of course she’d shed the soggy, water laden garments until the final layer of thin white cloth was all that was left. It fell down in a straight line just below her knees, leaving her arm and upper chest mostly bare. Her hair was still soaked, laying in wet ropes on her shoulders.

She shifted, a bit uncomfortably, looked down at the fire, then back at him, and the small movement broke the moment. Jason shoved the door closed and tossed the saddle bags to the ground. He dragged his own soaked hair from his forehead, kept his eyes averted so that he wouldn’t accidentally focus on the way the illumination from the fire revealed the long lines of her legs beneath the thin fabric. “The horses are settled. You should—” He cleared his throat. “You should look in the other room. It’s probably the—there might be some—” He gestured, words failing him.

“If it’s a bedchamber, there might be some linens or extra blankets. I’m cold, too,” Elizabeth offered. She raised her arms to gather her hair at her nape, and twist it into one long mass that laid against her left shoulder. “I’ll go look. You should get dry—”

She hurried past him, the shift fluttering as she moved, and he exhaled slowly, reminding himself that she’d spent the majority of her time isolated on the Cassadine estate and in Shadwell. She’d likely never spent any length of time with a man, and wouldn’t think of what she looked like standing in front of a fireplace wearing next to nothing.

He only hoped he’d be able to forget.

Jason dug through his saddle bag for dry clothes, and mercifully when Elizabeth returned a few moments later, she had some blankets in her arms.

“We don’t have a great selection — I think some of these are musty, and —” She made a face, dropping them in front of the fire. “Moth eaten,” she finished, holding one up to the light. “But I think this one might do.”

“Here.” Jason shoved one of his dry shirts at her. “You, uh, look cold,” he muttered, when she blinked at him. “I’ll go change.”

—

Elizabeth watched Jason head for the other room, a bit mystified, but then looked at the fabric in her hands. It was a bit rough, and clearly mended in several places, but it had been well-made once, she thought, running her fingers over the fine stitching around the hem of the collar.

She slid her arms through the sleeves, and wrapped both ends around herself rather than buttoning it. Then she went to investigate the status of her saddlebags. It would probably be better to wear one of her dry gowns, but she was more concerned for the status of her herbs and candles. She slid their container from the bottom of her bag, exhaling with some relief that all had survived the storm intact.

“You travel with your own candles?”

Elizabeth jumped at the sound of his voice, and turned, pressing the candles against her chest. He’d changed into a dry shirt and pants, his wet garments in a pile by the doorway to the bed chamber. “You should hang those up to dry,” she said. She laid the candles down and hurried over to get his things.

When she returned to the table, laying out his wet clothes, she found him studying the candles. “They’re not for light,” she told him.

“I realize that now. The colors,” he added, setting them back down. He shoved the wool stockings she’d packed. “You ought to put these on before you lose a toe to frostbite.”

Elizabeth made a face, but realized he was probably right. Her feet had dried and were now quite chilled. She pulled out one of the remaining chairs, perched on the edge and slid the stockings on, one at a time, tugging until they were snug at mid-calf. She glanced up to find Jason watching her. “What?”

“Nothing.” He rolled the green candle across the table. “What were you planning to do with this one?” he asked. “The only charms I know for green are curses.” He studied her with curiosity. “For Valentin?”

“For anyone who stood in my way.” She lifted her chin. “If you’d proved to be a problem, I’d have used it on you.” She snatched it away from him. “Is that something else your father told you about my family? Did he have nothing else better to do than to gossip and spread half-truths?”

Jason frowned, then cocked his head to the side. “Of course my father told me about the House of Nevoie. If you trained with him, you should have known, too. Why would your mother not tell you?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it, confused. “What does that mean?” There was a large clap of thunder, closer than the last rumble, and she jolted. “The storm is only getting worse,” she murmured. “Do you think it will pass soon?”

Jason went to the window, peered out, at what she couldn’t have guessed. It was nearly pitch dark, and all sense of time had been lost. Was it night or simply the darkness of the season?  “I don’t know.”

“How far are we from Wymoor? You’d wanted to travel through the night. Is it just a day away?”

“We’re at least three days out. If we’d traveled tonight, we could have cut some of that time.” Jason exhaled slowly. “If we’re delayed too long, Valentin will grow suspicious.”

She pressed her lips together, repacked her candles and herbs, offering nothing in comment. If he wanted to worry about disappointing the man who had kidnapped her, she wasn’t about to challenge him.

“He targets family, you said so yourself,” Jason said. Elizabeth looked up, found him studying her. “If he thinks I’ve betrayed him—and I have—he won’t hurt me. Not right away.”

“Your father—”

“He’s not my family,” Jason cut in. “I’m not going to turn you over to him, but it’s foolish to think we can both disappear without consequences.”

“You needn’t have come with me. You could have told him I escaped—”

“It’s what I’ll have to do. I have a job to complete,” Jason said. He returned to the window, peered through the glass panes. “Your would-be sister contracted me to kill Valentin. I don’t intend to change that now.”

“You said that before,” Elizabeth said. She twisted the fabric of her borrowed shirt between her fingers. “You also said that you’d already planned to kill him before my sister asked you to. Is that what you—what you do? Are you an assassin? A m-murderer for hire?”

“No.” Jason came away from the window, then went to the fire. He found the woodstack next to the mantel, tossed a log onto the flames. “And she’s not paying me. She came to me for the same reason I’m helping you.”

Bewildered, Elizabeth rose to her feet, pulling the ends of the shirt more tightly around her torso. “I don’t understand. Why would you help strangers? Why would you agree to kill for strangers?”

Jason watched the fire for a moment, not answering immediately. The flickering lights cast his face partially in shadow, then he looked at her. “You really don’t know anything about your family, do you?”

“I was eleven when I lost them. Do you remember everything from your childhood?” Elizabeth challenged. “Why do you always answer with a question instead of the truth? Why would you help me when it could put you and people you care about in danger? Why do you think I should already know that answer?”

Jason dragged a hand down his face, then sighed. He returned to the table, to the saddlebags and drew out two lumpy rolls. He brought them back to the fire, released a string on both, and she realized they were bedrolls, laid flat on the floor. “It’ll warmer down by the fire, and your hair will dry faster,” he told her. He sat down, folding his legs.

Warily, Elizabeth dropped down to the fabric, tucking her legs beneath her. “Are you going to answer my question?’

“I don’t know. I’m going to try to. You know that most of the families, the oldest ones, they were once self-governing?” Jason asked. “Some of the old alliances were passed down the generations. Nevoie and Quartermaine — they’re borderlands.”

“I know that. I’ve visited the estate. And I know that my family were once more than just nobles. My mother’s title is old, and our religion goes back to the ancient ways. The Lady of Nevoie was a title on its own.” Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “It’s why Valentin targeted her, isn’t it? He wanted to eliminate powerful families.”

“Not just powerful. Rivals to the throne. The Lady of Nevoie was a queen once. Or had the power of one without the official title. The Quartermaines weren’t equal then, or now. They swore fealty to the Lady and that oath has been passed from father to son for generations. It’s why—” Jason looked away, then shook his head. “My father thought he was the last of his kind. The last protector to the Lady of Nevoie. When he taught me about your family, it was a history lesson. If he knew you’d survived, he’d have found you.”

“So you agreed to kill Valentin because of a generational oath?” Elizabeth asked dubiously.

“I would have helped your sister because of that oath, yes. To protect her, to see her safe. I’ll do the same for you. But killing Valentin? No, that’s not why.”

“Then—”

“My sister.” The words were low, and painful. Jason looked up, found her gaze. “Valentin murdered her so I intend to return the favor.”

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