a dinner invite.

Miss Crawford

In the days that follow, life proceeds as normal: signs of spring flourish while the grip of winter weakens. Children who were babes at the breast this time last year are toddling around, clutching their mothers' skirts. Animals are randy, rains are frequent, and there is less snow and more green on the ground every day. It's muddy. When news comes, it is mostly of the war.

But there are other things, less regular: the Crawfords are building a house, you see. A large one, framed in wood and heavily bricked to withstand fire, with a solid foundation against floods. There is a great deal of activity over at the soon-to-be Crawford Estate, and within a matter of days it's provided a boost to the burgeoning (and often stagnant) Denver economy: they are hiring extra hands left and right to help with the sawing and hammering and bricklaying an clearing. They hire people to run back and forth between the construction site and the public house with messages or lunches. They hire people as though they've never wanted for money in their precious lives.

And if the ever-increasing gossip is to be believed, they never have. Mr. Crawford, one hears, is an entrepreneur and venture capitalist: words that are still new and have to be defined and re-defined every time the story is retold. He has been involved in textiles, gold, oil, international trade, even banking. Rumor has it that his family did lose some business in recent years due to cutting ties with slave-owning manufacturers in the South, because Mr. Crawford -- unlike his father -- is a staunch abolitionist. Other (less friendly) rumors concern young Master Crawford, who is not quite old enough to enlist but older than some of the boys who are enlisting and fighting anyway, and why he is not fighting to preserve the Union. Mary, Vickery's plump wife, doesn't like this talk and interjects that any one of them can gripe about who fights when they up and go off to lose their limbs themselves.

Mary likes the Crawfords, and dotes especially on the boy and his sister. But even she doesn't know what to think about the absence of a Mrs. Crawford in their party. She's afraid to ask. The rumor most believe is that Mrs. Crawford is in heaven, but no one knows how she may have punched her ticket on that golden train.

The Crawfords themselves, while they await their new home, stay at the public house. Mr. Crawford spends most of his days either at the construction site or the telegraph office, keeping in touch with his businesses back east. If he has new business he plans on starting here, no one knows what it is yet. Master Crawford, who keeps telling people to call him Olly, which is short for Oliver, tries and often fails to get into trouble because no one wants to offend his father by letting the boy play poker. He is already making friends with other young men, which is enough to make some of the mothers wary and now they're talking about starting a proper school.

And Miss Crawford, genteel and lovely, spends most of her days on long walks around the town and its outskirts. She is usually accompanied by the family's housekeeper, who has no house to keep yet and so is serving as chaperone to the unmarried lass in a wild town. The housekeeper is formidable, a very tall and firmly built woman with straw-colored hair turning white at the wings and wrinkles that have come from more frowning than laughing. The rumors about her are that she carries a six-shooter beneath her shawl and looks itchy to use it every time someone stares overlong at her charge.

Strangest new occurrence of all occurs when Deputy Clay receives a hand-delivered note brought by Young Oliver Crawford himself, the envelope smooth to the touch and addressed in rich black ink, sealed at the back with deep blue wax. It is an invitation to join the Crawfords at a private dinner to be held in the public house, with a number of other distinguished guests. The honor of his reply is requested. Sincerely, James S.A. Crawford, Esquire.

Oliver stands on his porch as twilight unfolds around them, hands neatly held behind his back, awaiting Clay's response.

Deputy Clay

So far as the rough frontier folk of Denver City as concerned, people like the Crawfords may as well be angels out of heaven. They simply don't exist out here, or didn't. Now that they do, the town itself seems altered by their presence. They have things like estates now. They have things like private dinners. The womenfolk are thrilled. At last, civilization comes to their parts of the West. The menfolk -- especially those here since the days of yore, when this town was little more than eight buildings and a flock of tents -- are perhaps a little less so. Some few are outright suspicious.

Clay isn't one of those. Still, the invitation is received with perplexion. Few more years and this won't even be the edge of town anymore, but for now Clay's house is still on the outskirts. Night's falling and those razor-cut mountains are fading into twilight. Somewhere an owl's hooting. Clay's black-and-white dog is underfoot, sniffing surreptitiously at Young Master Crawford's trousers whilst pretending to no such thing.

"Didn't have to run this down yourself," Clay says cautiously, scrubbing the envelope open with a thumb under the flap. "The Bowers boy is happy to do your runnin'-round for a penny."

He unfolds the note. Paper this fine didn't exist in Denver City either, but it does now. He rubs it between his fingertips, stops short of sniffing at it. Squints at the fine handwriting, which he deciphers not without difficulty. Had a few years in a schoolhouse, Clay, but not a whole lot. Most his education's involved lead, steel, and horseflesh.

Gets to the bottom of the note and folds it up, slipping it into his pocket.

"All the deputies invited?"

Miss Crawford

Oliver is just as surreptitious about how he offers his fingers for the dog to lick, though he is even less of an effective dissembler than the collie.

"My father requested it, Deputy Clay," says the young man -- boy, really -- when he's told he didn't have to deliver it himself. "I'm delivering all of the invitations," he adds, with something almost like pride, as though he is being trusted with something meaningful.

He doesn't look young enough to be dumb about what is and isn't meaningful, though. He has the same eyes as his sister, serious with intellect and bright with curiosity about the world. There's no trace of dishonesty to them, but also no indication of idiocy.

Oliver thinks a moment, then shakes his head. He pauses, then decides to be clear about things: "All the kinfolk in town are invited, sir. And only kinfolk."

There's a beat. Then, one final addition:

"Sheriff Lark has already accepted the invitation to join us. I don't think he'd mind me telling you that."

Deputy Clay

Ah. So that's what it's about. Clay thinks he understands, and understanding is in his eyes. That, and the sense of a wall coming up.

Maybe a very small hint of disappointment, also.

"I'll go to your pappy's dinner," he says, "but Lark, Charlie and I've been lookin' out for ourselves and our ilk just fine. In case someone in the family's concerned for our wellbein'."

Miss Crawford

Maybe Oliver, for all his brightness, isn't a good read of people: he doesn't seem to notice the wall. He just looks pleased. He smiles at the first few words, another 'yes' for the dinner. And he doesn't seem bothered by the assurance that the kin in Denver have been fine so far on their own. "I don't think it's that," he says breezily, giving a little shrug. "But I'll make sure to pass it along! Thank you kindly, Deputy! You have a good evenin'. Evening." He corrects himself.

Then he tips his hat. Then he turns and jogs off, heedless of his fine clothes, to head back the way he came.

--

Night of the dinner rolls around, but in a town this size nothing happens in true privacy; most people know, and most people know they haven't been invited, and they're not so sure what's so special about the folk who have been. Not just Lark and two deputies but close to a dozen others: children invited as well. That's odd, too. There is certainly curiosity, and a bit of resentment, as night falls and people start gathering at the public house. The proprietors have even been asked to cede their home for the night, a feat that no one can fathom: how on earth were they convinced?

Yet they were. And so many eyes are looking out of windows as some of their neighbors head into the inn, faced scrubbed and wearing their Sunday best. Dagmar is greeting people, along with a manservant of Mr. Crawford's, taking coats and hats and shepherding children into an upstairs room to play games and have their dinner separate from the adults. Inside there's enough candles lit to keep things bright and cheerful, and the smell of cooking meat wafts from the kitchen. Oliver is showing people to their seats and a boy a year or two older than him is pouring wine. Mr. Crawford is shaking hands and greeting people as they're seated, but Miss Crawford is missing, and the chair at the head of the table is empty.

Deputy Clay

Sunday best, for Trevor Clay, isn't much of an improvement over the typical. The shirt's still cotton, though actually bleached in this case and a few shades closer to white. The vest looks new...ish. The trousers are heavy cotton instead of wool, not so scratchy and stiff. The coat is the same duster he wore that morning on the street. He hands it along with his hat to the manservant with a hint of uncertainty, unaccustomed to this sort of behavior.

Then he's shown to the dining room. Hasn't been to Vickery's establishment often, except once to throw out a drunken guest who was harassing the barmaids. Can't really afford it, hasn't got reason to try either. It's only a couple years old, and far more sturdily built than the previous claptrap inns, half of which burnt down in last year's fire. Vickery's escaped with only a few scorches to its brick facade and perhaps a few yards of charred wainscoting, none of which Clay can see anymore. Must have been renovated since the Crawfords took up residence.

Dinner smells hearty, rich. More meat than most folk get out here, and better cooking too. Clay had boiled potatoes for dinner last night, so his bar's set low. Extent of his interaction with Mr. Crawford is a firm handshake, and then he finds his seat. He's nowhere near Lark, and Charlie Ballard is over on the other end of the table. Mrs. Ballard is to Clay's left. He gives her a nod as he takes his seat and at once finds himself the outlet for her excitement and delight and oh, aren't the Crawfords the most wonderful people.

"Don't know much about them," is his response, when he manages a sideways word. "Seem all right."

Eleanor Crawford

With wives here and the sound of children playing upstairs, the room has a lively, pleasant atmosphere. There are, of course, questions. Wariness. Sheriff Lark seems to share Clay's wariness, and even looks openly stony as he sits -- near the head of the table, close to Mr. Crawford himself. Pride of place, of course, for the Sheriff, but he doesn't seem swayed by it. He meets Trevor's eye a moment; they share a brief version of the nonverbal understanding they've developed over the years.

Mrs. Ballard, the young mother, is almost quivering with excitement to be out of the house, free of her children, dressed nicely for something other than church, and treated to a fancy dinner with fancier people. Even Clay's reticence can't dull her; she shares Charlie's easygoing nature.

Momentarily, once it's clear that all the guests have arrived, the front door is closed. The curtains stay drawn, as they were before. Dagmar the sturdy housekeeper remains upstairs with the children, and the manservant slips into the kitchen with the footman who filled everyone's glasses with wine. The chatter is starting to quiet down, but hasn't reached full silence, when Miss Crawford enters. She is wearing a fine dress, cream-colored with a pink floral pattern an pink ribbons at the hems. Her hair is softened into curls and braids, with a pearled comb tucked into the golden locks. She has a shining look about her, though not really apologetic for her lateness.

As she enters, the gentlemen -- beginning with her father -- rise to their feet, as they have for each lady to join the table. Miss Crawford smiles graciously as the footman appears to draw her chair for her. She steps in front of it,

now standing at the head of the table. "Please, sit," she says, though she remains standing for the time being. When the table settles again, she reaches forward and lifts the glass of wine beside her plate.

"Welcome, everyone," she says, warmly, her eyes drifting from person to person, eye to eye. "In a very short time here, my family and I have heard stories from your neighbors telling how each of you has contributed to the prosperity and growth of this territory. So know that when I say we are truly honored that you have joined us this evening, it is not simple flattery or empty sentiment. Know that your presence here tonight means the world to us, and gives me great hope and optimism for the coming years.

"I'm sure you are all eager to taste some of what we can all smell cooking in the kitchen," she goes on, a twinkle in her eye, "but indulge me a moment more, and forgive me for speaking plainly: we are a family of Silver Fangs. And I know that our tribe and some of yours have had their conflicts in the past. But my family is not here to claim dominion, or leadership, except that which we earn. We welcome you here tonight as we hope you will welcome us to your town. We are here to see this town flourish, and to flourish with it. To that end, we yoke our fortunes with yours, and pledge our will to the good of this town and those within it. We are the Crawfords. We are, humbly, your servants."

Her glass lifts. She waits for the toast to be joined, and then she drinks.

Deputy Clay

Take a quick glance and one might even mistake this for some dinner party the Crawfords might throw back home. Some gathering of eastern seaboard aristocrats -- or at least the not-too-nouveau riche.

Take a closer look, though, and the details aren't quite there. This is the fanciest hotel in town, and by far the nicest room-and-board. The chandelier is brand-new, though, even as the paneling on the walls already show nicks and smudges here and there. Most of the women seated around the table have no idea which fork to use first. A few have crossed their legs at the knees. A good number more aren't even crossing their legs; sit with their feet as wide-apart as any man might. And as for the men: well. Some of them have shaved their filthy beards off so freshly that their cheeks are still raw and pink. At least one has nearly burst the collar of his shirt. It must have fit once, perhaps on his wedding day, but that was several years and several pounds ago.

They stare as Miss Crawford makes her entrance. There are no women like her in Denver City. There may be no women like her anywhere. All at once the gentlemen -- for her presence makes them aspire to be such -- remember their manners, taking their cues from Miss Crawford's male relatives and from those amongst them who are a little more civilized than the rest. More or less as one, they rise to their feet, remaining so as they lift glasses to mirror hers.

When she finishes, a few eyes swing toward the Sheriff. There is an unmistakable sense that he, for these past years, has served as an unofficial leader for these kin. A focal point around which a straggling community has not-quite-coalesced. He watches Miss Crawford now, carefully, his flinty eyes keen beneath eyebrows no longer so uniformly black as they were some five or so years ago.

Not that Miss Crawford remembers. Not that she was here, no matter how much she resembles the one who was.

"We're glad to have you, Miss Crawford," Lark says carefully, after a measured sip, "though you oughta know this town owes allegiance to a Sept. Mostly they leave us to our own devices, but territory is territory. Seems to me you oughta make your introductions to them, too. If they welcome you here, why, then I can't think of a reason why we wouldn't."

"Yes," Mrs. Ballard is more than happy to leap to conclusions, beaming, "welcome. Oh, it'll be such a breath of fresh air, havin' you lovely people around."

Eleanor Crawford

The people of Denver City aren't... quite the same. Denver City itself isn't quite the same. This isn't New York or Boston or Philadelphia. There aren't women here like Eleanor Crawford; there aren't men like her father and brother. But at the same time: neither Miss Crawford nor her family give odd looks to the strained collars or raw cheeks or uncrossed legs. They are among kin; kin who have survived much, if the stories are true. Kin who they will, one day soon or one day far, need on their side. There is only one certainty in this part of the country: anything might happen. No one should be on their own. Lone wolves don't live long in the wild, or in wild cities such as this.

A few eyes swing to Sheriff Lark; Miss Crawford notices. She looks at him, too. The table toasts; drinks. And Miss Crawford seats herself, and the footman tucks her seat in. The room relaxes a touch; men sit as well as the Sheriff speaks of the sept, and allegiances, and territory. A look crosses her face, not quite angry, but a trifle dark for a moment, and where her disturbance is directed is hard to tell, for the glance passes quickly.

She ends up smiling, and warmly, at Mrs. Ballard. "You are very kind," she says to the woman first, if only to acknowledge that what she said is, indeed, a kind thing to say. The newcomer's eyes, blue as summer sky, turn back to Lark. "I hope you will always speak to me with such clarity, Sheriff," she begins, "in part because it is a skill in which I need further instruction. I did not mention, for I incorrectly assumed it would not be of great concern, that my mother is even now at the Sept of Forgotten Questions, and has been for some time. It takes... some doing... for tribes such as ours to earn the trust, or even tolerance, of tribes who are native to this sept and have protected its caern for untold generations. It is going well, though, and she bid me gather you all properly like this."

Miss Crawford smiles again, ever the lady. She sips her wine, thoughtful. "I must say, I am a trifle surprised to hear you speak of allegiance." Her father glances at her, his eyes momentarily sharp, as though he wants to chide her, but he holds his tongue. Besides: she appears to be ignoring him. "Stories have it than some years ago, this town begged aid of the sept, yet they sent no one to help you against dangerous invaders."

The first course is arriving: cream of barley soups in deep cobalt bowls, each decorated with a sprig of fresh parsley.

Deputy Clay

Lark's brow darkened, equal parts discomfort and sting. He draws himself straighter in his chair, clearing his throat gruffly.

"I have to believe the Sept had its reasons for doing as it did," he says, "even if they aren't readily apparent to me. But maybe your mother would be so kind as to find out what they are, because we sure would like to know."

It is a sort of olive branch.

Eleanor Crawford

Five years ago, they asked for help.

Five years ago, a lawman and a medicine man arrived, but they were not from the Sept of Forgotten Questions.

Just shy of five years ago, Lark began to forget that anyone ever came at all. His mind has filled in other ways that the town survived.

Clay knows, though. He remembers the lawman. The medicine man. Golden-haired, one, and with hair the color of wildflowers, the other. But even they admitted, they were not sent from the Sept.

Miss Crawford doesn't know this. The Sept doesn't know this; they heard the wyrmcomers plead for help to save their weaver's foothold in the wilderness, and the elders did not heed them. Let the weaver-lovers defend the weaver, if that was their way. The only one who knows what happened is Trevor Clay: help did come. But not from the sept.

--

The woman at the head of the table watches Sheriff Lark as he speaks his peace. She sips her wine about halfway through. Her head tips after another quarter.

She nods, at the end.

"I will speak of it to her. I will try," she says, and there's sincerity to it. She means it. She doesn't understand giving allegiance to someone who would leave you and yours to die. She doesn't understand being unwilling to send aid to kinfolk, even if they are not of your tribe. She doesn't understand this place at all.

An older, wiser version of herself might understand that Lark is extending an olive branch. All this version of her understands is something far simpler: they're on the same side. Neither of them really know. He has chosen his loyalties despite it. She has not yet decided where her loyalties lie.

Her eyes shift briefly to Deputy Clay, whose gaze she has safely avoided thus far. She looks away when she realizes she has looked at him at all. "Please," she says. "Enjoy the meal. I will endeavor to cause less trouble over the courses." A smile. She is making the promise to Lark. But really: she is making the promise to all of them.

Including her father.

Deputy Clay

No more trouble over dinner. They have a civilized meal together, even if some of them are less civilized than others. There are several courses -- the luxury of that alone delights Anabelle Ballard -- and the guests chatter and mingle. Often, Miss Crawford has half the table or more attending to some thought she relays, or some charming anecdote or other she tells. For the most part, her guests are charmed. Later on, walking home in small groups, her guests will decide that Eleanor Crawford's all right. Don't know a thing about how Denver City works, maybe, but she's all right.

After dinner, when a proper East Coast party would split with the gentleman taking cigars and brandy in the library and ladies gossiping politely in the drawing room, these heathens decide they'd rather play poker. There's some talk of setting up two tables, one for the serious players and one for the penny-stakers. While the details are getting worked out, Trevor Clay catches sight of Miss Crawford momentarily alone by the front windows.

He drifts over to her. No spurs on his boots tonight, but his step is still solid enough to be felt. He has the last of his dinner wine in hand, and he looks out onto the street for a moment. Quiet outside tonight, frost shimmering in the light of the public house's fancy new gaslamps.

"You ever heard of a woman by the name of Merriweather?" he asks quietly.

Eleanor Crawford

These heathens offer to play poker, and Eleanor blinks in clear startlement: she was going to suggest brandy and cigars, in fact, but...

She looks over at her father. He quite charmingly pretends she is not looking at him but says that sounds wonderful, he hasn't played a real game in too long. He is quite involved in working out the details, and even when he has to take a visible breath at the suggestion that women are going to join them, he rolls with it politely. People start scrounging for decks of cards and splitting tables and so on.

Meanwhile, Miss Crawford excuses herself briefly, and Trevor Clay sees her crossing to the door of the front porch, perhaps to slip out for a moment and take some air. She takes no shawl with her, reaches for no coat, despite the chill in the air and the evident frost. But then: she's like a flame, herself, lit by something more potent than oil.

The door shuts behind her. Her shadow moves through the glass, visible through the thin curtains. Perhaps he checks to see if anyone is watching him before he goes outside, alone, to speak to Eleanor Crawford. Perhaps he doesn't care.

She looks at him when the door opens, but isn't jumpy. She looks curious, where a mortal woman would be wary, or perhaps overly genial. It occurs to her a moment too late to cover her curiosity with a smile, but she gets ther. She smiles at him. He asks her the oddest question, which makes her reflect on the odd way he looked at her the day she arrived in town, and the odd way he stomped on her hat to keep it from blowing away. He's an odd man, but then: she's met more than a few Fianna kinfolk back east, and they're all a little on the strange side, in her mind.

"Isn't Merriweather a man's name?" she inquires, which is enough to suggest that no, she hasn't.

Deputy Clay

Clay utters a faint huff of a laugh. "Thought the same when I first heard it," he says.

It's cold outside. He hasn't a coat, or he might offer it to her. Or wrap it more tightly around himself. She doesn't seem to need it though, and he settles for finishing his wine and setting the glass down. Wrapping his arms across his chest.

"She was a law-woman, of the wolven sort. Came here with a friend, a medicine woman. Helped out during those troubled times you spoke of earlier, when Sherman Cane and his gang rode through. At first we thought the Sept sent 'em, but that weren't it. They came through some other power, and they fought off the Cane brothers. When it was over they vanished without a trace. Most everyone forgot about them. Hell, most everyone even forgot what it was we really faced that night. You ask around now, you get nothin' but tall tales about a ragtag band of brave men fightin' off Sherman Cane the robber baron and his gang of miscreants.

"I was there. I know what I saw. I remember. Sherman Cane was one of the twisted ones, wolves gone foul. His brothers too. Rest of his gang, humans ridden by the Wyrm. The Sept didn't send help, but someone or something did, and Merriweather and Lightfoot -- that's what the other one went by -- they were the ones who were sent."

A small pause.

"Thing is, Miss Crawford, when you stepped out that coach yesterday -- I thought you were Merriweather come back again."

Eleanor Crawford

[it wasn't yesterday, it was a few weeks ago! i forgot too. lol]

Eleanor Crawford

This confuses her: two wolves did come? But in a moment or two, he explains: the sept didn't send them. Some other power, he says, and Eleanor takes a small breath to hear it. When he speaks of their vanishing, of the townsfolk forgetting, her hand goes to her breastbone and rests there. She can feel her heart quicken.

Her lips press together, and emotion fills her eyes as Clay tells her just how bad it really was, and how Gaia herself -- for this is what she has decided, instantly, to believe -- sent them aid. It is a story she is moved by, and honored to be told, especially because it is not hard to understand that Deputy Clay has not shared this story with many. Perhaps not anyone.

Miss Crawford lets her hand drift from her chest as she turns to look out at the town in the darkness, the edges of its buildings just barely visible under moonlight. She exhales, and her breath clouds in the air. She tries to process what she just heard, but she doesn't look shocked: she is a wolf herself. And she knows that magic is real, and works more strangely than any human god.

But then Clay goes on. He says her name and she turns to look at him. What he says next makes her dark brows furrow. "Do I... resemble her?"

Deputy Clay

"Miss," he is blunt, "you are her spittin' image."

Eleanor Crawford

"Oh."

It's a soft sound, and a soft little purse of her lips around it. She blinks and glances away again, back into the darkness of the town's main thoroughfare. Her eyes fixate briefly on a point in the darkness and her spine straightens a tad; a moment later he sees the glint of some passing animal's eye, maybe a fox or a coyote, before it trots off again. Its existence passes from her thoughts. She returns to what Deputy Clay has said.

"That's... terribly strange. Was she... of my tribe, as well?"

Deputy Clay

His eye follows hers into the dark. A moment after her, he sees the target of her attention, caught and then lost: some small canid, some night-predator venturing close to the town's burgeoning borders.

Her eyes return to his, and his to hers.

"She was," he affirms. "And her companion. But they were ... strange. Out of place. Not the way you're out of place here -- beggin' pardon for speakin' plain -- but like as though she come from a different land or world."

Eleanor Crawford

Not the way you're out of place --

A smile. One she fights. But he can see it there at the corner of her mouth, trying to take over. It's amusement, but something deeper, too. She eyes him as he begs her pardon, and perhaps coyly, she doesn't immediately grant it. Or perhaps she's just distracted at the moment: he is telling her, after all, a very odd story. But one she believes. She doesn't think he has reason to want to trick her, or play a joke on her.

"Not one I know, I'm afraid," she says, regarding different lands, different worlds. "I've never met a Merriweather or a Lightfoot in my tribe, or heard of them. I know of no branches of the family who may have produced such a creature. I am... only myself, I'm afraid."

Deputy Clay

Corner of his mouth quirks up too. "Only yourself," he echoes. "Well, Miss Crawford, I don't reckon you have any reason to apologize for being that."

Clay straightens up, one hand drifting to his hip. When he doesn't find a gun to rest his palm on, he tucks his thumb into his pocket instead. Seems he might head inside then, but then a little more conversation bubbles out of him.

"So what brings you and your mother out this way? Hardly a place for Silver Fangs."

Eleanor Crawford

"I wasn't, Deputy Clay," she retorts, regarding her reasons for apologizing... or not. She grins at him. It's brazen, and she must know it, because it's also brief. She resettles herself, but she doesn't look out at the town again. She is looking at him. Her eyes flick to his hip, and his hand resting there, and then quickly brings her eyes back up to his face. He's quite a bit taller than she is, though she's rather tall compared to most women. She can feel the cold, though it doesn't sink into her the way it would someone else, and she is thinking of saying something to him about it.

She does, in fact, at the same time that he starts speaking again.

So what brings you and your mother --

"Would you like to go back insi-- I'm so sorry," she says, realizing she's stumbling over his words. "Go on, please."

And perhaps he does. Or repeats what he was going to say. She thinks on it a moment.

"It was my father's idea, actually," she says, after deciding quietly to speak truthfully rather than demur. "Even in the North, his politics aren't very popular. He's worried about what will become of this nation, and thinks it's safer to seek new ventures in the west. My mother was hardly opposed; she does not want Oliver to be enlisted to fight a war."

Her tone is a touch dry, there. Not quite bitter, but not far from it.

"So naturally, she sought out one of the oldest, most powerful caerns she could find, and here we are."

Deputy Clay

Again a hint of humor; this time more cynical.

"We've our own wars out here, Miss Crawford. Just different kinds."

He straightens, then, holding his hand out toward the door. "Shall we? Before tongues start waggin'."

Eleanor Crawford

It's on the tip of her tongue: harsh words. Angry words. Words that would hint at the hurt in her own heart. But she's only just met this man. She doesn't say them. She just murmurs a hmm with a noncommital nod.

Eleanor Crawford glances over her shoulder as he gestures. She sees the curtains flick shut again, quickly. She glances at Deputy Clay. "Oh, they already are. Have been, since you stomped on my hat."

Deputy Clay

Ah, the hat. "I did think you looked rather perturbed," he notes. "Sincere apologies if I ruined it. Just seemed the best way to stop it in its tracks."

Eleanor Crawford

"It was destroyed," she says, and laughs. She clearly isn't perturbed anymore. She thinks it's hilarious.

Deputy Clay

To his credit, Clay looks chagrined.

Yet a moment later, a brand of dry, sly humor: "So, sure as hell stopped in its tracks."

Eleanor Crawford

To their side, the curtain's edge has moved again. Someone inside, spying on them, sees her laughing. And laughing again, anew, her hand on her breast. He can see her teeth. He can see her eyes glint. It's real.

"It is also forgiven," she says, when she settles herself after the burst of amusement. "You did try, after all, to be a chivalrous gentleman. And the reward is in the effort, as my mother always says." She pauses a moment, then nods at the door. "Shall we, before the tongue-wagging gets any more fervent?"

Deputy Clay

Might be on his mind to ask what rewards she has in mind. But then, as she said, he's trying to be a chivalrous gentleman. And there are tongues wagging.

"After you," he agrees.