#You are a master of disguise

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter 32: Old Habits Die Hard Next Chapter: Thirty-three Summary: You open your eyes to find yourself in an unfamiliar land. Is it heaven? Is it hell? Or is it a different place entirely? Warnings: Mature themes, language, violence, oppression/implied slavery Word Count: ~7,800

Something cool laps against your face, a contrast to the heat pressed against your cheek. Your body aches all over, muscles taut and limp all at the same time. 

You hear water. Birds. Wind. The color a bright red beneath your eyelids. 

You smack your lips, the taste of salt on your tongue. 

You have the sudden urge to cough, so you do, and water expels from your lungs. It burns your throat and your nasal passages, causing you to gasp for air. 

Air. You’re breathing. 

You’re not dead!

You open your eyes, and quickly squint to adjust to the brightness. The sky is a beautiful blue. You see a white bird fly overhead. Seagull. Lifting your head, you feel something stick to your face. Touching your cheek you feel something fine and grainy. You wipe it off and bring it in your line of sight. 

Sand. Beautiful, white sand. You turn your neck slowly, feeling its ache, your skin hot and tight. You look to see the ocean rolling into the shore. Large rocks like mountains line the cape. 

Where are you?

And as you ask yourself this question, a sharp pain pierces through your skull, the remnant of your memories flooding in. 

You remember. 

You remember it all.

The day Antek was born. The day your parents died. Every song you used to sing. Every performance. Every animal you’ve ridden. Mac. Davey. Jenny. Bessie. Annabelle. From every bottle of tincture to every incendiary bullet you crafted. 

Every exchanged glance that you shared with Arthur across the campfire, every subtle brush of the hand as you both served yourselves some stew. 

When you taught him a dance from your home country. He’s been holding out on you. 

Dutch was right, your memory is like a steel trap. 

Oh no. Dutch. 

Blackwater. 

The Schofield revolvers. 

Everything is in linear order now. The patches and pieces are all embroidered together with golden thread, never to be severed again. You remember the end from the beginning, and what was now confusion is replaced with certainty. 

And now you realize the true danger. The enemy that was always closer by. The man who you thought was family, but only saw you as less than. Only wanted you for himself. 

And then you think of who you may never see again. 

“My God,” you gasp and you struggle to rise to your feet. “Arthur…” You feel a sting in your eyes, an ache deeper than any pain you’ve felt welling in your chest. “My husband…” Your voice is hoarse, you barely recognize yourself as you speak in a lower octave. You must have been screaming for hours during your spell, or the saltwater has dried your throat greatly to the point of damage. 

You look out to the ocean. Wherever you are, you are nowhere near the spot where the boat sank. There are no lifeboats on the coast. No sign of human life anywhere. 

Is he dead? You pray not. You aren’t sure how you can carry on. 

But you made a promise. You told Arthur you would. 

You need to live for him. To get off this island and find your way to John and Abigail. Hosea and Jack. And any others who might have decided to go out in courage and leave the world of thieves behind. 

Easier said than done. 

Now it’s your turn. You don’t want to be a widow. You don’t want to be alone. 

Your legs feel weak, but you manage to stand, pausing to catch your breath. You need water. 

You know that freshwater is inland. You remember. California was the same way, despite the ocean flanking its spine. 

You’re out of strength, but you must press on. 

Taking hesitant steps forward, you focus on the task at hand. The island isn't familiar, yet your instincts from days roaming wild terrains with the gang guide you. The sun beats down harshly, reminding you of the many afternoons spent under the open sky, planning escapes, or setting up camp.

As you make your way through the beach, each step sinks deeper into the soft sand, forcing you to exert more effort with every movement. The grains of sand cling to your toes, tugging at your feet and slowing your progress. It's like walking through deep snow, each step a struggle against the sinking grains beneath you. But you press on, determined to reach your destination despite the challenging terrain.

Every few steps you have to pause to catch your breath. You try to keep track of your surroundings. Of course, you don’t know where you’re going, but you know where you’ve been. If you had a way to scribble a map, that could help you keep track of specific landmarks or spots where there’s food or water, but you will just have to rely on your memory to keep track of it all. 

Now that you can really use it to its full capacity. 

You run your hand through your hair, wishing that you had a way to tie it up, like Javier’s hair. When you bring your hand down, you notice how red your skin is. Like boiled crawfish in Pearson’s stew. 

How long were you lying in that sand? Days?

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Somehow, you continue to cheat Death. 

You remember what Sister Calderon had said of you. Maybe there’s something to her words and you let yourself smile. Just a little. 

You support yourself on a nearby boulder as you nearly lose your footing. You exhale sharply, frustrated that you’re too weak to really function like a normal human being, just as you’ve now come back to who you are. 

You find an opening in the trees as there are fewer vines hanging low, forming an almost curtain-like barrier that you push aside. The foliage is dense, a stark contrast to the open, sunlit beach you've just traversed. The change in environment is immediately cooling, a small relief from the relentless sun.

The shade of the trees envelops you as you tread cautiously into the dense undergrowth. The air grows cooler and damper, the sounds of the island life more pronounced in this secluded area. Birds chirp overhead, unseen but ever-present, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of running water teases your parched senses.

You follow the sound, your mind fixated on the fresh water that grows louder and louder with each step. You’re grateful you don’t have to travel too far for water. Maybe if you can replenish yourself, you can find a sharp stick and fish on the cape. Or maybe there’s fruit. 

If you’re in Cuba or Tahiti, you just might find some mangoes. 

It wasn’t too long ago that you’d laugh at that, but now you’re hoping that Dutch was right. 

You keep walking, pushing away large plants, and carefully watching your step. You aren’t sure if there are snakes or other creatures that could just as easily kill you as look at you, and you aren’t looking to be a predator’s next meal. It wears you down, being vigilant while trying to keep track of where you are and to make sure you keep moving. 

What a mess you’ve found yourself in. 

Pushing through a large bush, you come to a clearing and a small pool with a waterfall. At your hurried movements, a large creature, a monkey, spots you and quickly makes itself scarce, hollering as it hurries away in the opposite direction. 

They don’t look exactly like the drawings you’ve seen in the encyclopedias you’ve read. 

You wonder if you might see zebras and tigers, too. 

But that would be too far east to travel. You couldn’t possibly have traveled that far across the ocean…

Could you?

You shake the worry out of your mind for now, making your way to the water. If the monkey had been drinking it, then there’s a higher probability that it could be safe. 

Well, it’s either you die of thirst, or you die from some illness. 

Pick your poison. 

You quicken your steps, nearly stumbling as relief washes over you. You go to your knees at the edge of the pool, scooping your cupped hands into the cool water and bringing it to your lips. There is a taste to it, but it isn’t awful, nor will cause your instincts to alert you. You swallow it slowly, letting it soothe your dry throat and cool your insides. 

After drinking your fill, you scoop your hands and splash the water against your face. 

That’s when you hear a subtle snap behind you. 

“¡No te muevas, muchacho!”

You understand him. He ordered you to stay still. Given the aggression in the voice, the unwavering tone, you know he’s serious. You don’t move, but sit up straight and raise your hands when you hear him cock back his gun. 

“Por favor,” you say, speaking low and raspy still. “Estoy desarmado.”

There is a pause and you desire to turn around to see who is willing to shoot you, but you remain still. 

“¡Señor!” the man calls. “¡Encontré algo!”

There is a larger rustling behind you and the soft whinny of an equine. With the extra noise and distraction, you turn at the waist, keeping your hands raised and see the source of the new noises. 

There are several men on foot, all wearing distinct uniforms. Their hats, assorted styles, are straw or canvas, but they all carry some sort of weapon. 

Their skin is tanned and all have dark hair, some mustached, some clean-shaven. They don’t look tired or hungry, so it is clear to you that they must occupy this beach. 

The equine that you heard, a mule, carries a white man, his outfit different than the men that flank his sides. He is the Señor . 

You need to play your cards right. You can’t mess this up. 

The white man eyes you for a moment, lifting his chin. “Speak English?”

You swallow before answering, keeping your low voice. “Yes.”

He eyes your clothes, your body. You feel exposed, never liking anyone forming an opinion based on looks alone, but you wouldn’t expect anything more from the life you’ve lived. “You don’t look like one of my men,” he says pensively. “Where did you come from?”

“A boat,” you answer. “A storm sunk it.”

His eyes narrow. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He gestures to your clothes. “You were part of the crew?”

“This is a police uniform,” you explain. You know that a yarn is better believed when you share part of the truth. “Saint Denis Police.”

“Saint Denis? That far?” The man’s brows lift in interest and he nearly smiles. “Didn’t think they hired young boys.”

You tilt your head. “I’m old enough. But I…I am not police yet.”

“And how’s that?”

“I wanted to make a good impression. Snuck onto the boat to chase some men.”

“Who?”

“You haven’t heard?” You slowly rise to your feet, eyeing the guns pointed at you. “I suppose word hasn’t reached this place.” You look around. “Where are we?”

The man grins. “Guarma. My boss owns the sugar plantations. I run them and this militia.”

Guarma. You remember Bronte speaking of it, and you remember the people he wanted you to spy on. 

“You mean Colonel Fussar?” you ask. 

“You know of him?” The foreman nods to his men, who slowly lower their weapons. 

You feel more relaxed, but you still keep your hands up. “Yes…the police work with him and Mr. Bronte.”

The foreman nods. “I know the name. Fussar has taken a great interest in him and Saint Denis as of late.”

You try not to grin. “Has he?” Boy, is he about to be disappointed.

“Yes…” He goes quiet for a minute, studying you. “What’s your name?”

And the name comes naturally to you, your wit quick and ready now that you’ve been restored. “Romauldo Cortez, Mister…?”

“Levi Simon.” Then he goes quiet again. “You know…you have an odd accent for a Mexican.”

“I never said I was Mexican.”

He raises his brow. “My mistake,” he replies with a hint of sarcasm. “Where you from, then?”

“I’m from Europe. My familia came to America when I was a boy.”

“You speak other languages?”

“Some.”

He seems to like your answer, nodding softly. “We’ve been running into some pirates lately. Been smuggling goods and workers off the island. Haitians. Speak French.” He nods toward you. “We get some of these mongrels, you can tell me what they’re sayin’.”

For a fact, you don’t know French, but you aren’t about to tell him that. “No offense, but I intend to get back home.”

“So soon?” His tone says that’s not a genuine question. It’s more of a threat. A challenge for you to even have such a thought. 

“Mi padre died. I’m the man of the house now. Someone needs to put food on the table.”

“When was the last time you had a meal?” At his question, you’re reminded of the emptiness in your belly and put a hand over your stomach without thinking. “I thought as much.” He turns to his men. “El chico viene con nosotros. Dispara sólo si intenta correr.” He looks back at you. “At least stay for some food…but I think the colonel can convince you of your opportunities should you decide to stay with us.”

The audacity to lie so boldly. It is clear as to who holds the power on this island and it appears that you’ve traded one tyrant for another. You watch as some of the men raise their guns, not directly pointed at you, but ready to shoot should the need arise. 

Levi Simon gently kicks the mule’s barrel. “¡Vamos!” The mule begins to walk steadily and with a sharp nudge of a rifle, you walk alongside the mule, keeping your eyes on your surroundings. You will bide your time, and let your performance continue until you have your own opportunity for escape. 

“Welcome to Guarma, Mr. Cortez,” Levi says smugly. “I think you’ll like it here.”

***

You wish that this island was uninhabited. You feel like you might have a better chance of survival if it weren’t for the armed men escorting you into their settlement. There are some ruins of a civilization long gone, but there are newer buildings that they’ve erected. Made with plaster and wood, it is clear as to which ones are for the workers and for the enforcers.

With a simple command, the militia breaks off, leaving only one fully armed man to walk with you and Levi Simon into the nicer-looking vista, which has potted flowers at the window sills and vines growing elegantly on the building.

No doubt, Fussar lives here.

You brace yourself. He has seen you before. Not up close, thankfully, but you can’t risk giving yourself away. You have to be quick-witted and unassuming, he can’t connect Romualdo to Dáma motýl.

The door opens and Mr. Simon takes you by the arm, escorting you inside. The armed guard follows close behind.

“Don’t touch anything,” Simon orders quietly.

As you enter the room, the scent of tobacco and something floral lingers heavily in the air, mixed with the jungle air that you just left from outside, as it has managed to creep its way inside through the open windows. The interior is spacious, adorned sparsely but with an eye for intimidation—paintings of a stern-looking man—a likeness to Fussar himself.

Even though the decor is simple, it is not cheap.

The floors are polished wood, gleaming under the sparse but strategically placed lamps, and the furniture though minimal, is heavy and ornate, suggesting the importance of appearances here. You keep your eyes scanning every detail, mentally noting exits and potential weapons. Old habits die hard.

You are led down a hallway and are made to stop in front of two large wooden doors.

Simon turns to the guard, letting you go for a moment. “Míralo. Voy a hablar con el Coronel Fussar.”

The guard nods, holding up his rifle. “Si, señor,” the guard eyes you, and without another word, Simon turns and lets himself into the next room.

You know it’d be stupid to try to create small talk with the guard. The less amount you have to talk, the better. You also figure it would be good to look away, to avoid giving him the chance to study your face. You don’t have a fake mustache or makeup that you can use to alter your face, just the red in your cheeks from the sunburns and cracked, chapped lips. You fold your arms, reminded of the bandaging that you had done and you try not to smile. For all intents and purposes, you look like a teenage boy.

You lean against the cool wood of the corridor, your gaze fixed on the intricate patterns carved into the doorframe opposite you. You can barely hear the muffled voices beyond the wooden barrier—Simon’s low murmur and a deeper voice that must belong to Colonel Fussar. Your heart beats a nervous rhythm against your ribcage, your curiosity as to the content of their conversation worrying you.

But you keep a calm expression on your face. This is all part of your act. One of the greatest cons you will ever pull.

After a few minutes longer, the large wooden doors swing open, revealing Mr. Simon.

“El Coronel Fussar quiere hablar con usted, ” he tells you.

You nod. It is showtime.

Being led in by the guard, you both follow behind Mr. Simon as he steps further into the room. When you hear the two large doors close behind you, you nearly jump but you manage to keep your composure. Inside, the room is even more lavishly appointed than the hallway. A large desk dominates the space, piled high with maps and papers, illuminated by a brass lamp that casts a golden glow over everything. Colonel Fussar sits behind it, his face stern and lined with experience, dressed in more casual clothing more fitting for the tropical heat, but still carries an air of authority and power.

Bronte had his own type of power over Saint Denis. He acted as though he were invincible, using people as pawns to get what he wanted, using intimidation and temptation to bribe willingness out of people.

Your task now is to figure out what Fussar’s tactics are.

And once you know them, you can exploit them and secure a way back home.

Fussar eyes you as you stand in between Simon and the guard and he rises to a standing position. He leans over his desk, bracing himself by placing his hands on its surface. Your eyes drift downward for just a millisecond, trying to catch a glimpse of a map that rests beneath his palms.

“Mr. Simon says that you’ve come from Saint Denis?” Fussar begins calmly.

You lift your eyes and nod. “Yes, señor,” you answer.

“He also says you know Angelo Bronte?”

“I know of him,” you explain. “He and the police have an understanding.”

Fussar's eyes narrow slightly, the light from the brass lamp reflecting off his probing gaze. "An understanding, you say? What kind of understanding might that be?"

You feel a bead of sweat trail down your spine, but you maintain your composure. Your voice remains steady as you spin your tale. "One like the understanding you have with Mr. Cornwall.”

Fussar’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, before he grins with a low chortle. “You seem to know a lot, Cortez.”

“I have eyes and ears, do I not?”

He pushes himself away from his desk. Placing his hands behind his back he comes around his desk and walks up to you. “But Simon tells me that you do not yet work with the police…” You feel like prey being stalked by a jaguar, his eyes intently watching you for any slight reaction to his words. “How would you have come to know of my relationship with Mr. Cornwall?”

You need to think. You can’t spin a yarn too long. It needs to be believable. Something so commonplace that it can’t be denied. “Do you want the long or short version, Colonel Fussar?”

Fussar pauses, his calculating eyes still fixed on you, as if trying to unravel your thoughts. "The short version will suffice," he finally says, his voice a mix of curiosity and caution.

You carefully measure your words, aware that one slip could spell disaster. "I made a deal with Bronte. He got me a job with the police if I helped bring in more…goods. I was merely an errand boy, not where I wanted to be. I heard about Cornwall through Bronte and the police.”

Fussar nods, the story satisfactory for now. He turns away to pace about the room. “Bronte likes to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. He also likes to keep people waiting.”

“He’s wronged you, Colonel Fussar?” you venture to ask.

This seems to get his attention and he looks at you over his shoulder. “Among many things. He’s refused to answer my letters or telegrams regarding a…certain treasure.”

You swallow. “Colonel Fussar, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news…” you begin, putting on an expression of sympathy. “but Bronte is dead.”

Fussar stops pacing and turns to face you fully, the stark surprise briefly unsettling his usually composed demeanor. "Dead?" he echoes, his voice a blend of disbelief and a hint of satisfaction. "How did this come to pass?"

You hesitate for just a moment, choosing your next words with care. "It was a house fire. It lit up the whole city. Scared mi madre something terrible.”

He turns to face you fully, his back against the window. You can see the sun begin its descent in the sky, the day more than half gone. “Nobody knows how?”

“We, I mean the police, were investigating still when I snuck on the boat.” But of course, you know how it happened. That is the beauty of secrets. They can be a great power if you wield them properly.

Fussar nods. “Yes, Simon told me you were after some men.”

You swallow. “Yes. I suppose you don’t hear much of what goes on back there, given that you didn’t hear about Bronte.”

“Who are these men you’re after?”

You aren’t sure how to answer. Well, yes you do. You know what the answer is. But you don’t want to incriminate your husband, to start a manhunt, in the event that he’s still alive or that it will somehow tie you to the mess. 

But if Dutch and Micah are alive…

“Two men. Dutch Van Der Linde and Micah Bell. They robbed the bank.”

“Two men? The Lemoyne National Bank?” Fussar cackles incredulously. “I think you were a fool to believe that—”

“You clearly don’t know who those two men are, Colonel,” you interject. “Van Der Linde has been wanted for years. I’ve seen his posters.”

“And Bell?”

“Wanted since he was just a boy. They might have been foolish to try the large bank in Saint Denis, but I’m not foolish for going after them.”

Fussar looks over at Simon and they share a look. Perhaps they’ve already heard of them? You wouldn’t put it past you that this will all connect at some point. It seems that everyone knows everyone except you.

“Describe them to me,” Fussar demands.

You swallow. “Dutch Van Der Linde. A little over six feet tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Moustache. Broad shoulders and very charismatic.”

He nods thoughtfully, gesturing for you to continue with a flick of his hand.

“Micah Bell. Under six feet. long, blonde hair. Moustache. Protruding belly. Violent and smells terrible.”

He laughs at this. “And you got all of this by a few moments at a bank robbery?”

“And their posters,” you quickly answer. “You have to be descriptive if you’re going to get them.”

The Colonel, still chuckling, leans back against the wooden wall of the ship's cabin. "You've got spirit, I'll grant you that. But what makes you think you can catch men who've eluded authorities for years?"

You feel a spark of your old self flickering inside you, the part that refused to be cowed or defeated, even by life’s cruelest turns. “Because,” you say, your voice steady despite the danger in front of you, “I know that courage and strength can be found in the unexpected of persons. No one would suspect a young man to track down two outlaws. They would see me and underestimate me…And hearing them talk on the boat, as I kept hidden…I was close enough to know their weaknesses.”

“And what, pray tell, are these weaknesses?” Fussar leans forward, interest piqued, his skepticism mixing with a hint of amusement.

“They trust no one,” you say softly, your voice almost lost in the memories finally restored to you. “Not even each other. Dutch is paranoid, always looking over his shoulder. Micah was the devil on his shoulder. Without him, Dutch has to think on his own.”

“That's a clever observation,” Fussar muses, tapping a finger against his chin, scrutinizing you as if seeing you in a new light. “And how do you plan to use this to your advantage?”

You don’t want to share it with him. You’d rather keep some mystique about you, otherwise you have nothing to bargain with. You want to go home. You don’t want to be used then killed out here.

Your gaze flickers to the window as the light creeps in. You wish you could just run and leap out of it, hurrying into the jungle before a bullet reaches your skull. “I have to find them first.” You turn to look back at Fussar. “They may have gone down with the ship.”

Fussar nods thoughtfully. “If I find them, then you won’t be making the impression on the police that you wanted.”

You shrug your shoulders. “My loss.”

The tyrant chuckles. “A good sport, too? If only my men were as good-natured as you.”

“I’ve learned to take loss pretty well.”

Fussar grins. “I see.” He then looks to Simon. “Give this young man some food and a place to sleep. We will talk in the morning.”

As Simon ushers you out, you can't help but feel the weight of Fussar's gaze on your back, like the cold touch of a shadow that refuses to detach itself.

“Just a minute—” Simon halts and makes you turn back around and you see Fissar take a step forward. “Did Bronte ever mention a…a woman?”

You blink. “Woman?”

Fussar almost looks bashful even speaking about this to you. “You said you heard Bronte talking. You seem like a stealthy type, yes?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I’ve had to be.”

“Don’t be modest, boy.” He grins. “Did he speak about a diamond of Lemoyne?”

You know who he speaks of. You know he is thinking about you. A prize that Bronte tried to barter with. A tool he could use to gain information. You need to appeal to Fussar’s imagination, maybe it could be of use to you. “He said that he had a diamond…hidden away. That it wasn’t going anywhere.”

A smile appears on Fussar’s face, and it almost seems uncharacteristic of him. “Let me make an arrangement with you, of sorts.” He leans against the front of his desk, stroking his mustache. “You go out with Simon and my men. Search the Island. You bring back these outlaws or even some pirates, get information; I will take you back to Saint Denis myself.” He clears his throat. “I intend on going back anyway.”

This is it. This is your way in. If he is going to head back, there is a boat. You find this boat, and you can get on it before Fussar and leave this place. “When do you expect an answer?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

You nod. “Alright.”

Fussar nods at Simon, who turns to escort you out of the room.

***

Your sleeping quarters are meager. A cot with no blanket, and a simple chair. When Simon left you, you heard the click of a lock and you have been left in the silence and a tin plate of food—an offering that provides sustenance but hardly looks appetizing.

Sure aren’t any mangoes.

You don’t have a fork, so you are forced to eat with your hands. The meat is stringy, in some kind of sauce and as you eat it, you hope that it isn’t monkey or snake. But after a few bites, it tastes more like some kind of bird. Gamey, but a bird. The sauce is spicy and you wish that you had some water but beggars can’t be choosers.

There aren’t any windows, but there are fine cracks in between the boards of the shack. After finishing the spicy meal, you stand up and try to peak through the cracks, hoping to get a view of anything that is going on.

You see a group of armed men leaving the compound, and you wonder where they are going. It will be dark soon, perhaps they are heading to their own quarters?

You think about the nightfall. Fussar will be expecting an answer tomorrow.

Do you agree to go along with his conditions? Maybe. You aren’t sure you really have a choice. Your option is to buy some time. Unlike Bronte’s deals, you find it difficult to assess Fussar’s motivation. He doesn’t know who you are, and that is your saving grace right now.

Now that he knows that Bronte is dead, he is eager to claim the lost diamond and who knows what his intentions are with it. With you. 

You back away from the wall and turn to the cot. It creaks as you sit down on it, and finally able to sit and rest, you are able to process everything.

You are alone. With only your restored memories and your wits. You wish you had them sooner, maybe you would have seen the true danger. Called out Dutch in front of the entire gang, making the division more visible.

You miss Arthur. You miss your husband. You want to hold onto that small thread of hope that he’s still alive. Hopefully away from Dutch and that mess. There’s no doubt that Dutch and Micah both would do their absolute best to convince him of your demise, as they had tried so hard to before.

Micah Bell tried to kill you on the ship. And you survived it.

It has to be for a reason.

It has to be.

You look at your hands. Your long nails. While like claws, they look odd on the hands of a teenage boy. 

You bring your thumbnail to your lips, and using your teeth, you bite it off, gnawing on the edge at first to weaken it, before ripping it off. 

It is like Hosea said, you need to become a different person.

***

A splash of cold water on your face startles you awake. You rise to a sitting position, and after wiping your eyes you look to see a guard with a pitcher in his hand.

“¡Levantarse! El coronel Fussar quiere hablar con usted,” he barks. You nod your head and once you rise to your feet, he grips you rudely by the arm and shoves you out the door.

You don’t know what time it is, but you aren’t about to ask. All you know is that Fussar is waiting for his answer. Stepping out of the shack, the sun beats down on your face. You want water to drink, your lips still cracked and your throat burning to no end.

As you're pushed along the sandy path, your mind races, trying to piece together a plan. Fussar's compound sprawls out in front of you, a mishmash of old buildings that speak to his makeshift authority in these parts. The guard's tight grip on your arm feels like a tangible representation of the situation in front of you.

Once you see the landscaped entrance to Fussar’s dwelling, you know you don’t have much time to deliberate on what your answer will be.

You haven’t seen Levi Simon anywhere. Perhaps he is inside?

You are shoved inside the house and hurriedly taken down the familiar hallway to the wooden double doors. Only, two other guards watch the door this time.

With a subtle nod, they open the doors and the guard leads you in.

Fussar is, once again, at his desk, with a plate of assorted foods before him. He eats quite leisurely, taking a piece of a fleshy, golden fruit with the tip of a knife and bringing it to his lips. He eats the flesh in one bite, letting the juice run down his chin. With no rush at all, he takes a cloth napkin and dabs his chin, then finally lifts his eyes to look at you.

“Mr. Cortez,” he begins. “I trust that you rested well?”

“It beats the wooden floor of the ship,” you answer candidly.

He chuckles at this, his amusement fleeting as the wrinkles around his eyes tighten with a more serious intent. "Indeed, I would imagine so," Fussar replies, wiping his hands carefully with the napkin before leaning back in his chair. His gaze is calculating, sharp like the cut of the knife he just used. "Now, to business. You’ve considered my request?”

You nod but say nothing.

He waits for a moment or two, before raising his brow. “Well…?”

“You say you will go back to Saint Denis?” you ask.

He nods. “Yes…”

“What boat?” you ask, trying to bait him into divulging details so that you may steal the boat later for yourself.

Fussar pauses, scrutinizing you with keen interest. The corners of his mouth twitch as if he's weighing the sincerity of your question. Finally, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the massive oak desk. "An honest question," he muses, steepling his fingers. "The SS Lamantin. She is how I always travel between here and anywhere else I choose. You would be traveling in style for once, Mr. Cortez. As an honored guest, not a sneaky stowaway.”

“Is it far from here?”

Fussar shakes his head. “It is on the cape. I have a port there.”

You tilt your head, considering your options. “And…it is prepared to leave at any time? Say, if we catch the outlaws tomorrow…?”

Fussar grins. “It would be ready.”

Good. All you need do now is find your opening and take the boat. “I will agree to join you.”

Fussar leans back, a thin smile spreading across his face, satisfied yet still somewhat guarded. "Excellent," he intones, his voice silky with a hint of triumph. "I knew you were a man of vision, Mr. Cortez."

You nod, maintaining a façade of composure while your mind races with plans of your own. “Where is Mr. Simon, the foreman?”

Fussar flits his fingers toward the window. “He went on an earlier patrol. Sometimes the workers make wishful attempts to leave the safety of the plantations in the early hours of the morning, so we go about the island to bring them back.” He eyes his plate and reaches for another piece of fruit. “He will be back soon, and you can join them.” He looks back up at you, eyeing you up and down. “You aren’t very strong looking…can you shoot a gun?”

You nod. “Some. I never really had much practice, being just an errand boy.”

Fussar tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if trying to peer into your very soul. "Well, Mr. Cortez, perhaps it’s time you learn proper. A man should know how to defend himself… and his interests." His tone suggests a thinly veiled threat woven with a mentor's advice. "Provided that I can trust you first, of course.”

“Of course.” You knew it was too good to be true. If you could have a weapon in your hands, that would make your escape that much easier. “And how must I prove that?”

He nods towards the door. “Go with these men. We have a few…dissenters over at the sugar processing factory. See if you can get some information out of them.”

You raise your brow. “You think they’ll talk to someone like me?”

“Make them talk,” he answers, his tone dark and menacing. “You seem to have a way with words. Use them. If you’re successful, you might just earn yourself a gun.” He turns to one of the guards. “Dale al niño ropa nueva. Si está con nosotros, se parecerá a nosotros...”

And with that, you are quickly led away, again, to be used until you are useless.

***

You readjust the hat on your head as you follow the men through the jungle. You can see the appeal for escape, for if one could reach the thick foliage and trees, they could hide for some time. Fussar and his men seem to think they have control over this island, but you are beginning to see that it is like gilded iron, a false sheen that will soon reveal the rust beneath.

Once the jungle opens up, you see old ruins of a kingdom long gone, but a new building or two has been erected down below. You see smoke coming from the larger building. This must be the place that processes all of the sugar that the slaves have procured.

One of the guards nudges your shoulder, pointing to cages. “Allá arriba.”

Your eyes focus on the cages and you instantly recognize one of the figures.

It’s Javier!

You resist the urge to run and free him, as you are faced with multiple challenges. The guards, for one, are armed and you are not. They expect you to interrogate these men, for whatever reason. You can’t risk Javier blowing your cover. You are disguised well enough, but one good look at you and he will surely recognize you.

You see some mud and without thinking, you reach down and start smearing it on your jawline. You’re giving yourself a five o’clock shadow.

The guards watch you with arched brows, clearly thinking you are loco, but you give them intimidating glances. “Un hombre sucio puede parecer loco e impredecible,” you growl, keeping your voice low and gruff, hoping it disguises any familiar tone that might carry to Javier.

The guards chuckle amongst themselves, shaking their heads as if amused by a madman’s antics. But they lead you onwards, through the thick humidity and buzzing insects.

This is so much worse than Lemoyne.

The guards hang back once you reach the large stone steps that lead up to the cages. You’re glad of that, the less they hear from you, the better.

You walk up to them slowly, making yourself look as imposing as possible. The other man in the cage, weak and emaciated, notices you right away and leans into the back of his cage.

Javier is still turned away from you. He almost looks…forlorn.

What has happened to him these last few days? Has he been alone this whole time?

You need to know what has happened.

As you approach the cage, your heart hammers against your ribs, each step echoing the turmoil within. You keep your head low, the brim of your hat casting a deep shadow over your face, amplifying the gruff persona you've adopted. This close, you can smell the tang of sweat and despair that clings to the bars of the cage, a pungent reminder of the dire circumstances you both occupy. Javier shifts slightly, and his movement is sluggish, weighed down perhaps by malnutrition or despair—or both. You stop a few paces away from the cage, your gaze intense and unyielding, your voice a rough thunder as you get his attention.

“Speak English?” you ask.

Javier slowly turns his head, clearly undaunted by a voice speaking to him. His face looks battered, but the cuts and bruises aren’t exactly fresh. His swollen eye looks worse as both eyes narrow with a suspicious glare, but you can still see the sadness behind them. “Yes,” he answers.

You gesture to the guards behind you. “These men don’t. So whatever you say to me will be between us.”

He looks at you with a furrowed brow. “You’re here to interrogate me.”

“Yes,” you answer. “No harm will fall upon you if you tell me the truth.”

He seems to study you, trying to search your eyes, but you keep them obscured under the brim of your hat. “Who are you?”

You need to intimidate him. You smack your hands against the bars of the cage, shouting in Spanish. “¡Quién soy no te concierne, tonto!”

Javier recoils and you hear the guards chuckle behind you.

You straighten, towering over the cage, your shadow engulfing Javier in an ominous gloom. Your voice, when you continue, is icier, each syllable heavy with unspoken threat. "What's important is what you've seen here, and what you've done."

Javier swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. His eyes dart from side to side, seeking an escape that doesn't exist within the iron confines of the cage. With a resigned sigh, he leans back against the cold metal, his voice barely above a whisper as he confides in you.

"I've been left here to rot, or maybe to be forgotten. I saw too much, and said too little until it was too late." His fingers grip the straw beneath him, knuckles whitening under the strain. "They think I'm a traitor to both sides. But all I ever wanted was to keep my head down, survive."

You nod slowly, understanding the precarious edge he walks, the fine line between allegiance and survival in a land where loyalties are bought and sold like cattle at an auction. “Survival is a luxury at times,” you say, your voice echoing in the hollow space between the bars.

Javier’s gaze lifts to meet yours again, this time a flicker of mutual understanding. “It is.”

“Who is ‘they?’” you press, your hands going knuckle white as you grip the bars. “Who are the two sides?”

He nearly snarls with his cut lip at you, leaning further away from the cage. “You think I’ll just tell you?”

You have to convince him to tell you about what happened to the rest of them. Something that will get him to tell you even the smallest bit of information. “They are looking for someone…” you say, trying to keep your voice as low and as quiet as you can. “Someone that goes by the name of Dutch Van Der Linde.” You see a change in his expression as he looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Ever heard of him?”

Javier grits his teeth, the grinding nearly audible. For a moment, the only sounds are the distant calls of birds and the gravel as the guards shift their feet. Then, he exhales sharply, his head lowering for a moment before he meets your gaze fully. A spark of anger flashes in his brown irises. “I knew him. Once.”

Once. “So he’s dead?”

He shakes his head. “Someone is alive, but it’s not him. Not anymore.”

You draw closer to the cage, your excitement nearly betraying you. “Word has it that he ran with another man. A Micah Bell. He with him?”

Javier goes quiet for a moment, and you begin to feel impatient. But as long as you can tread the thin wire between friend and foe, he may be willing to answer. “He’s dead.”

Well. That’s that. You’re glad to hear of it, but you feel miffed that you didn’t get the pleasure of seeing yourself. “And you are all that’s left?”

He nods, turning his head away. “It’s the price I pay for seeing things too late.”

He’s all that remains. Arthur, gone. Bill, gone. You swallow thickly and try not to sob. You have to keep it hidden, your anger sated. You will have nothing else after this. 

And what of Javier? You don’t want him to die like this. Even if your paths may never cross again, you want him to find a way off this island. But he can’t leave while being in the cage.

You back away from the cage and turn to look at the four guards who escorted you here. “¡Tenemos que llevarlo ante el coronel Fussar! Tiene información importante para él.”

They look at each other for a moment, either unsure or clueless.

You raise your voice, anger flushing through it. “¿Quieres que Fussar venga aquí y lo deje salir él mismo? ¡Déjalo salir ahora!”

Easily persuaded by intimidation, one of them brings out a set of keys and runs up the steps to meet you. You step aside to let him begin working on unlocking the cage and you eye the man’s gun in his holster.

You know what you promised. But you suppose that you aren’t that person anymore.

For now, you are Romualdo Cortez.

And you want to get home. To whatever is left of it. Left of your life. 

Just as the guard pulls back the cage door, you reach down, draw the guard’s weapon, and aim the gun at his head, wrapping your arm around his neck.

There is a brief pause before anyone realizes what is happening. You turn to Javier and yell at him. “If you value your life,” you toss him the keys so that he may free the other prisoner. “run! Survive!”

He’s almost taken aback, but doesn’t hesitate to leave. He fumbles, but you don’t watch him go, for you have three other guards to negotiate with.

Your voice carries with a roaring rage. “Si alguno de ustedes se muda, su amigo aquí morirá, ¿entendido?”

You listen for the clicking of the next cage as you keep your eyes on the guards and you step to the side and away from the cages. If they can keep their eyes on you, Javier can free the other man and they can disappear.

But the seconds stretch into a taut silence, broken only by the distant calls of tropical birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Your heart pounds in your chest, a relentless drum reminding you of the danger of your current gambit. The guards' eyes flick between you and their captured comrade, uncertainty plain on their faces. Each moment they hesitate increases the odds in your favor. You tighten your grip around the guard's neck, ensuring they understand the stakes are life and death here.

You turn to watch as Javier frees the prisoner and with one quick glance at you, he turns and they flee. Your eyes follow them until they reach the jungle, disappearing into the dark shades of green.

But your eyes have been distracted for too long, as one of the three guards down below has snuck off, reaching the steps.

And reaching you.

And just as you turn your head, you see the butt of a rifle coming at your face.

Thank you for going on this journey with me!

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

[lokittystuckinatree]

Number one rule was not make the Rani into the Master and yet…

[saaraofthesand]

honestly I understand Arnold on a deep level because if you put this girl in front of me I would also propose on the spot

[thtupidity]

Ariana being homophobic but it's okay because I'd be too if these were the gay people I had to deal with.

my handwriting so ugly yall just have to deal im sorry

[taran-wood-beast]

I think a lot of people critiquing the portrayal of the Rani in the recent episodes are in denial about the level of well-defined and distinct she actually was in her original appearances.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Omg I loved your herald viktor epic line idea I’ve been thinking about it nonstop. If u have time and energy id love to read it sooo much ❤️❤️

Since the Ithica Saga dropped last night my brain has not known a single moment of peace. "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again" is just so insanely perfect for a Machine Herald Viktor x Reader AU it makes me physically ill. Like, seriously:

I am not the man you fell in love with

I am not the man you once adored

//

Would you fall in love with me again

If you knew all I've done?

The things I cannot change

Would you love me all the same?

//

Would you fall in love with me again

If you knew all I've done?

The things I can't undo

I'm not the man you knew

Viktor is so Odysseus coded it is PAINFUL. The pain of sacrificing so much of himself to survive. The regret of everyone he's had to leave behind, to betray. The ghosts of his legacy haunting his mind. All for his goal, the one thing he knows he's meant to do with every fiber of his being. Nothing, neither magic nor gods, will stop him from fulfilling that dream. He will not be the same once all has passed, and he will never regain all that he's lost. Can the person who loved him the most as he was before still love this version of him?

And the reader's answer...

I will fall in love with you

Over and over again

I don't care how, where, or when

No matter how long it's been

You're mine

Because what you loved about him is deeper than any of the ways he's changed. It's something at his core, in his soul, in the light of his eyes, no matter how tired they may seem now. It's your first kiss, it's the sound of his voice in your ear, it's the curve of his lips when he smirks, it's the way he looks at you like he falls in love all over again every day you're with him. Time may pass, and the world may change, but not this. Never this.

He is yours just as you are his, and that is the one thing that will never change.

[livingmanifestationoffluorine]

Losing my shit over the characterization of the rani

[scaredstupid]

(agent katswell voice) i'm so happy for you and your ugly fucking boyfriend im serious

[multifan-dump]

thinking about how IWTV loves to play with the theme of master and servant. thinking especially about that “yes, maître” and how armand’s first appearance onscreen, for almost the entire duration of s1, is in the role of louis’s “rashid.” thinking about how, when I first watched s1, it jarred me a little to see the authoritative, almost imperious way louis spoke to “rashid,” even after having endured to lestat’s tyranny himself, not to mention the tyranny of white people. it jarred me even more to realize that that had actually been armand—the ostensible love of his life—taking louis’s orders, bowing his head, saying things like, “I serve a god.” was that a strange and uncomfortable performance for the ancient leader of the paris coven? or was it perfectly natural for someone whose past means he defaults to the role of the subordinate, the submissive, the servant? is the relationship between the master louis and the servant rashid in fact the truest, rawest representation of the core dynamic between louis and armand?

[mothpiggie]

Crime bossing isn’t paying the bills, my man needs a cut of those cookie sales

In honor of it being cookie season ❤️

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Cia's Wonderful Day Out, part 3

Part 1, Part 2 (Also, if you liked this, you can check out Convenience Store Vampire, featuring some familiar faces!)

****

It was hard to decipher the emotions of an insectoid Fae, but there was a glimmer of fascination in their multifaceted eyes. “A bank robbery, you say? What happened?”

Ciaran shook his head. “Damned if I know. Cops pulled me over, showed me a video of my evil twin pulling a flame-wand on some poor bank teller, and claimed it was me. Twelve hours I spent telling them that I wasn't a fucking bank robber, Anise. Twelve. Accursed. Hours.”

“An evil twin? That sounds like the work of a shifter,” Dave said, pulling up a chair. He was the quintessential vampire, something Ciaran always envied. Black hair slicked back, his Smiley-Mart uniform covered up by a long trench coat, red eyes rimmed with slight eye bags. Balancing right between tradition and modernity. “Hey, Cia.”

Ciaran did not bother correcting him this time. “Hey Dave,” he muttered. “You think it was Hash who decided to pull that crap?” 

“Not Hash, but perhaps someone she knows? The shifter community is tiny, or so I've heard. Haven't even met another one of her kind,” he replied. “Besides, Hash isn't that mean.”

Ciaran narrowed his eyes. “Yes, she is. You go ask her if she knows anyone who went on a thieving spree recently, shall you? I'm not in a mood to talk to that crazy man right now.”

“What am I, your pageboy?” Nonetheless, Dave got up and walked away. Benefits of being an elder vampire, Ciaran supposed. All the littles listened to him.

He looked glumly into his glass, listening with one ear to the conversation that ensued. 

“Say, have any of your kindred run around robbing banks recently? Asking for a friend.” That was Dave, ever the eloquent spy.

“Mah what-now?” Hash, her words more slurred than usual.

“Your kind. You know, shifters?”

“Yeah. What about them?” Her accent dropped suddenly. Ciaran had always suspected that she was faking it.

“Did any of them rob a bank? Maybe wearing Ciaran's face?”

Hash choked on her drink and spun around. “Are you accusing me of impersonating you, Ciaran Kerall?” It was the first show of anger he'd ever seen in her, and through the shock of the accusation, Ciaran found it in himself to take some joy in being the source of her upset.

Perhaps this day wasn't wasted, after all.

She stormed over, slowly growing taller as she did so. By the time she was at his side, the tiny little elf had been replaced by a lean, menacing man. “Care to say it to my face, instead of sending little Davie to do your job?”

“I’ve got many things to accuse you of, Hash, most of them true. Impersonation isn't one of them. I sent Dave to ask you a question. Or are you too stupid to understand that?” He punctuated his words with a sharp tap on her skull.

She slapped his hands away. “Go fuck yourself, Ciaran. Are you trying to pick a fight? Because if a fight's what you want, I assure you that you're going to regret it.”

“A fight's not what anyone wants.” Unknown to either of them, Anise had crossed the bar and was suddenly inserting themself between the would-be fighters. “I don't serve children in this house, so act like adults, will you? Let's try this from the top. Ciaran, what did you want to ask?”

Ciaran gave them a dirty look. “I got pulled in by the exorcists this morning. They claimed someone identical to me robbed a bank, and their proof was that I was on the cameras doing… Well, whatever it is bank robbers do.”

“But that evidence is obviously invalid, ‘cos vamps like you don't show up on cams or mirrors,” Hash interjected like the irritating little interloper she was.

“Yes, if you'd just let me get to that part,” he snapped back. “As I was saying, this led me-”

“That was me, actually,” Dave said, interjecting again. He was picking up all these bad habits from that horrible little shifter, Ciaran thought. “I said that it might be a shape shifter, and we ought to ask you. I swear, nobody meant any harm.”

Hash looked to him, and immediately softened. “I'm sorry,” she said. “That was uncharitable of me, ah guess. My bad.”

“Please don't slip into that accent again,” Ciaran responded.

Once again, she ignored him. “No’ that we've resolved this little squabble, ah guess I oughta break the news to ya. Couldn't ‘ave been a shifter, cos there ain't any in this city. Apart from me, that is.”

“What?”

Tagging: @coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr,

@possiblyeldritch @tragedycoded, @finickyfelix, @urnumber1star, @ratedn,

@ramwritblr @vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west,

@differentnighttale @evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms,

@abiteofhoney @drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable, @paeliae-occasionally, @an-indecisive-nerd, @thecomfywriter

@seastarblue, @wyked-ao3, @bookwormclover, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @aalinaaaaaa

@the-letterbox-archives, @gioiaalbanoart (Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

plot twist: Ruby is the Master under chameleon arch

[say-hwaet]

That's The Way it Is

Chapter 20: Know When to Fold 'Em Next Chapter: Twenty-One Summary: Kit and Arthur meet with Trelawny, as he has a job for them. While Kit is unsure as to what these plans are, she holds onto the hope that the money they'll make will help them find a new life somewhere else. Warnings: Mature Themes, Language, Innuendo, Cross-Dressing, nudity Word Count: ~8,200

“I’ve already gotten my hair cut, Josiah…” Arthur groans as he reluctantly sits in the barber’s chair. “That party was much fancier than what this is gonna be.”

Trelawny clicks his tongue. “I wouldn’t be so sure, dear boy! You’ve practically grown a beard since then! They don’t call you mountain man just because you lived in a cave, you know.”

Arthur doesn’t have a beard, and while you can tell that Trelawny is enjoying this, you have a little pity for your husband. He looks like a wild animal forced to domestication: miserable.

You decide to divert Josiah’s attention by starting up a conversation with him. 

“I don’t suppose you want me to get all fixed up, too?”

Trelawny takes his eyes away from Arthur long enough to smile mischievously at you. “Not this time, my dear.”

Your smile falls. “I won’t? Well…what then…?”

“In due time you will know, for now…I have some important information to share with you…” He takes you by the arm and begins to lead you out of the barber shop, not before calling back to Arthur. “Now, you get yourself spiffy, Mr. Callahan! Or your wife will have my skin!” The door closes behind you and he pulls you aside. “Now, remember the favor you asked…?”

Yes, you do. When he was helping you and Arthur get ready for the mayor’s party, you had asked him to look into the Blackwater Massacre. He must have found something. “Yes, I remember.”

“Good, because I think you'll be interested to know that the day of the ferry job gone bad, one of my sources managed to look at medical records that were logged that day.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you hang onto every word. “Oh, don’t keep me in suspense, Trelawny…!”

“Well, the records show that an unknown woman, in her late twenties, was shot by a revolver.”

Your excitement quickly dims, what a build-up for such a letdown! “But that is like saying that I ate a piece of fruit for breakfast.” You grip Trelawny’s arm with a deep intensity. “What kind of gun?”

There is a twinkle in Trelawny’s eye and he pats your hand, unphased by the strength of your grip. “Ah, I knew you’d want more details! So I dug a little deeper and come to find out that it was a Schofield revolver.” He pauses then adds. “The very same gun Agent Milton uses, and other lead Pinkerton Agents.”

Your breath catches in your throat, a chill spreading through your veins. If Trelawny’s findings are accurate, this could link the Pinkertons directly to your own injuries. The implications of this information unfurl in your mind like the dark clouds before a storm. They know who you are and that your escape was futile. They must have caught you somehow, perhaps you were on your way to Arthur, or maybe doing something else? Would you have abandoned the plans?

You should talk to Arthur. When this plan of Trelawny’s is over.

You look up at Trelawny and nod your thanks. “Thank you, Josiah. If you do find out anything more, please let me know.”

He raises his top hat in a flamboyant gesture and bows. “Anything for a fellow magician.”

You chuckle. “I’m hardly anything of that nature.”

“On the contrary, my dear, you can pull a yarn out of hat, weaving it into anything believable.”

By the look in his eye, you can’t help but suspect there is a reason for this compliment. “That wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with what you have planned for me, is it?”

That’s when he grins broadly and taps his hat. “See? Quick as a whip.” After a moment, he gestures to the barbershop. “Why don’t we go in and see how the oil magnate is doing?”

You nod and follow Trelawny back inside. Once your foot steps into the building you see Arthur rise from his chair. You can already tell by the clean cut of the back of his head, he is going to make your heart nearly stop. 

Then he turns around. 

A soft “oh” escapes your lips and it almost sounds too suggestive, for the barber quickly whips around to stare at you, eyes wide. You cover your mouth and cough, apologizing with little save for your dignity. 

Paired with the opulent blue patterned vest with ivory buttons, accented by a blue neckerchief, Arthur’s eyes are strikingly more marine than they’ve ever been. His gray coat with a black turned-out collar and black pants could make you drool ravenously if you were behind closed doors.

And his hair, slicked back and trimmed, shines with pomade and your eyes stare at the cleanest shaven face you’ve ever seen. You want to touch those cheeks of his, and perhaps kiss him all over, but you must retrain yourself and snuff out the flame in your body that burns like the heat of a thousand Julys.

“You truly are a magician, Josiah Trelawny,” you say softly, and the barber quickly looks away to busy himself, his ears turning pink. 

Arthur is also turning bashful, avoiding your eyes and immediately heading for the door. 

Josiah laughs and follows you out as you remain under your husband’s unintentional spell. And once back into the open air Trelawny raises his cane as though leading a march. “Follow me, lady and gentleman, we are going to ride in style.”

You hardly feel stylish, wearing a simple black gown that makes you look like a maid. Maybe calm and unassuming is what Trelawny is going for, but you follow them nonetheless. 

But not before passing a remark to your husband. “I do have to say, Mr. Callahan, your wife is a lucky woman.”

Arthur only snorts, still ruffled by his earlier bashfulness. So you leave it at that. 

As soon as you step out, you behold a fancy open coach, with a well-dressed driver in attendance. “Right on time!” he calls out and the driver tips his hat. 

Turning to you both, Josiah opens the carriage door. “Well, hop in! Those cards aren’t going to play themselves!”

You and Arthur glance at each other, still in the dark about what is going on. But you shrug your shoulders and are the first to get in. You turn to watch Josiah and Arthur come in and before Josiah gets the chance to sit, Arthur slips in right beside you. Josiah chortles at this but doesn’t say anything. 

Settling in, Josiah turns to look at the driver. “George, to the Grand Korrigan, please!” And the coach lurches forward. As you three ride down the streets of Saint Denis, you watch the bustle go by. “Well!” Josiah exclaims looking at Arthur. “Look at you. From frog…to prince.”

Arthur waves him off, leaning into you as though for moral support. “This is a bit much, ain’t it? The coach?”

You grin and pat Arthur’s leg, making him jump. “Of course, not! What says wealth like riding in style, Mr. Callahan?” you ask, a playful grin on your lips.

“Exactly!” Josiah agrees. “You’re a brash oil man with money to burn! Which reminds me…” and he waggles a finger in Arthur’s direction. “No shuffling or mumbling. Kit won’t be there to coach you on decorum, you just put on your best behavior.”

You lift your brow and blink. And speak at the same time as Arthur. “I’m not?”

“She ain’t?”

Josiah shakes his head. “Nope. So puff out your chest—”

You try to cut him off to voice a concern. “Josiah—”

But you’re unsuccessful. “—Get outside yourself!”

Arthur grumbles. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. This ain’t no Hamlet. So, who’s the mark?”

Josiah goes on to describe the hosiery king Desmond Blythe, after reassuring you both that you all can speak freely in front of George. Apparently, there’s a lot of money on this boat, with gambling tournaments that last throughout the night on the Lennehechee River. 

And the one thing that you are picking up on, is that it is exclusive to only men.

How does that work for you?

“—your chips will be waiting for you—”

“Josiah,” you state and finally he looks at you. 

“Yes, Miss Petrova?”

You try not to sound sharp with your tone, but since the coach just stopped at the docks, you’d like to know what your task is. “What am I doing?”

He pauses a moment, then clicks his tongue. “Oh! Of course!” Then he studies you for a second or two. “Can…all of your dark tresses tuck under…say…a guard’s cap?”

You think about it for a minute. “Maybe, if I had some hairpins and braided it really tight.”

Hold on. 

You look at Josiah and blink several times and as you see the grin on his face, you begin to piece it together. “Wait, what?”

***

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

You complain as you wait just outside, your body hugging the exterior of the main deck to the Grand Korrigan. You’re waiting for Javier, who is supposed to provide you with your new costume. You finish coiling your long braid atop your head, pinning it in place so it won’t fall. Of all of the performances you have done, you’ve never pulled a stunt like this. 

You exhale slowly. The last thing you need is to get worked up over this. This is for money. And money is what you need to get you, Arthur, and the Marstons out. 

“I think I heard something over here…”

That’s him. That’s Javier. 

And he’s coming. 

You remain in the shadows and hold your breath as you hear several pairs of footsteps draw closer. 

“Are you sure someone fell overboard?” a man asks. 

“I can’t swim, Jeremy,” a younger man says. 

“We ain’t gonna jump into the river even if there was. There’s a procedure for that.”

“All I know,” Javier says calmly. “Was that I heard a scream. Now, please…”

Javier draws them closer and it isn’t long before you see them come around the corner, their darkened silhouettes from the evening sky easily marked by their guard caps and guns. 

Javier stops and the men follow suit, scanning around. “I don’t see anything,” the young one says, almost relieved. 

But the older one, Jeremy, holds out an arm. “Wait…” and he sniffs the air. “Do you smell that? Smells like…flowers…”

It’s the oils you use in your hair. You look to see Javier glance in your direction, nodding towards the smaller man. He wants you to take that one. 

You nod and begin to move carefully. 

The young man sniffs the air and sighs. “It reminds me of my mother, God rest her—”

Before he can finish his sentence, you’ve already pounced on him just as Javier wrings the rifle out of Jeremy’s hands and knocks him out with the brunt of it. 

“You got it?” Javier asks you, just as you dispatch the young guard with a hard swing of your arm into his Adam’s apple, he tumbles beneath you and you catch your footing before going to the ground. 

“Yes,” you pant. “I hope that wasn’t too loud.”

Javier nods. “I think we’re good.” Then he points to the young guard. “Think he’s about your size?”

You look down at the unconscious guard. You’re impressed with Javier’s sense of measurement. Well, you really aren’t surprised. Javier is well-versed in the anatomy that is woman. He could probably list off your measurements just by looking at a photograph of you. 

You nod. “Yes. It should do fine.”

He combs back his hair with his fingers then pulls down his suit jacket. He walks over to a wooden door that reads, “employees only” and picks it open with a throwing knife he had tucked away. After quietly opening the door he makes a gesture towards the darkness of the supply closet. “Ladies first. I’ll keep watch.”

You nod. Grabbing a hold of the guard, you carefully drag him into the closet and Javier closes the door.

You make quick of the exchange. While the young man will be out cold for several hours, you aren’t about to have him wake up unexpectedly while you are changing into his clothes. Using some bandages to wrap your bust, you are able to disguise the shape of your figure, though, given that your breasts aren’t as large as, say, that of Karen or Mary Beth, it isn’t too difficult of a task.

Once adorned in the guard’s uniform, the fit is surprisingly good—not too tight, not too loose. You take a moment to adjust the belt and ensure the cap sits properly on your head, tucking your hair underneath. Satisfied with the disguise, you roll the young man onto his side in a recovery position, leaving him as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, and out of the way so that Javier can change into his disguise.

And so, with all that you can do, you open the door. Javier turns around to look at you and freezes. “Dios mio, Kitka!” he grins. “You look like a friend of mine I used to play with as un niño.”

You let out a soft chuckle, bending down to pick up the rifle the guard had dropped. “What was his name?”

“Romualdo.”

You nod. “Then Romualdo I shall be.” Then standing tall, ready for guard duty, you nod dutifully to Javier. “Your turn.”

Javier nods enthusiastically and after picking up the older guard, disappears into the closet you just vacated. The minutes trickle by, each second stretching longer than the last, as you guard the door. Staying alert, you keep an eye out for any passersby who might question why a guard is standing sentry outside a supply closet. Luckily, the action of the gambling tournament is distracting enough to keep all passengers indoors, and Javier soon comes out in his own disguise. He picks up the rifle he had propped beside the door and takes an aborted step before turning back around to face you.

“Oh, I forgot,” he says as he reaches into his pocket. “Trelawny wanted you to use this.” And he hands you a small box.

Your brow pinches and after swinging the rifle over your shoulder, you take the box and open it.

And you only have six words.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

***

You can’t help but touch it. And you can hear Javier try to get your attention to get you to stop. This has to be the way you’re paying back the debt you owe Trelawny for finding that information on your mysterious attack during the massacre. Wearing a man’s uniform? Fine. Not being around Arthur, but you can at least see him? Okay.

But this…wearing a fake mustache?

You feel ridiculous.

You know that if you keep messing with it, the glue will wear off and that will be it. But while you are irritated, it’s sort of interesting. To have some sort of inner perspective on what it is like to have a handlebar mustache. You could be Trelawny’s twin brother. A smaller, younger twin, but a twin, nonetheless.

A sudden movement from the corner of your eye gathers your attention and you let your mustache go for just a moment to watch three men rise from a gambling table, clearly disgruntled and they storm off.

All that remains at the table are Arthur and Desmond Blythe, the man you are all collectively trying to rob.

He’s definitely the type that fits the bill, with slicked-back hair and a haughty expression that makes your skin crawl every time you glance in his direction. Perhaps it is best that you are disguised as a man.

You have a feeling that despite his arrogance, it seems tempered by the intense focus he places on the cards in his hand and the towering pile of chips in front of him.

Arthur sits opposite of him, on your side of the room, and just across the way sits Strauss, giving Arthur subtle nods or shakes of his head every now and again. Given your own personal feelings, you were quickly apprehensive to have him come along, but given his knowledge of numbers and calculating, he’s proven to be a good asset. Especially now that it is just down to the oil magnate and hosiery king.

You can see the cool expression in Arthur’s profile, his piercing blue eyes looking at the cocky Mr. Blythe as they have a conversation that you can’t quite make out. You are simply here to guard the door until you’re needed, nothing more.

Yet, your thoughts keep drifting to Arthur. Despite the distance and the guise of nonchalance, every minor gesture, the way his brow furrows in concentration or how he occasionally runs a hand through his fawn-colored hair, pulls at something deep within you. It's almost torturous, being this close yet so far from him, his body like a tether pulling at the very marrow of your bones.

Each moment ticks by painfully slow, encased in the thick, smoke-filled air of the room. The clink of glasses and the jangle of coins serve as a constant reminder of the world bustling around you, yet all you can focus on is him.

The game continues. You don’t know much about poker, but you can read faces. You can see the effort on Desmond’s part to keep a straight face, but you can see the twitch in his brow, the tighter grip on his cards. He must think that he has a good hand.

And Arthur, well, he’s as cold as stone. Unreadable.

Maybe that’s one of the things you liked most about him in the beginning. Arthur never lets his guard down, for anything or anyone, and yet, somehow, you’ve had the pleasure to see his vulnerabilities, the ragged edges that he rarely shows to anyone else. The duality that is Arthur Morgan is what makes him able to be a brute one minute and a gentleman the next.

Their voices get louder for a brief moment, and you are able to catch a snippet of their conversation as cards are dealt. “I would stick to oil, Mr. Callahan, I don’t think you have a future on the stage.”

Arthur chortles. “You sound just like my wife…!”

And you bite your lower lip. Looking up, you see a waitress with a tray of drinks and she’s staring at you. You don’t know why, but you nod politely to her. 

And she winks at you. Uh oh. 

You feel the color flush out of your face and you avoid her gaze, looking over at your husband while he tries to charm his way through the poker game. 

Desmond suddenly shouts, cursing loudly. He lost the hand.

Arthur leans forward, grinning, saying something that you can’t hear. He starts to get up and that’s when Desmond holds out his hand, demanding that Arthur sit back down.

They start to speak in hushed tones, almost conspiringly and you see Arthur nod his head.

The dealer begins shuffling the cards again. Another round is beginning.

The cards get passed out one more time, and you and Javier watch from where you stand as the two men review their cards.

"Care to wager a guess who will win this hand, Romualdo?" Javier whispers to you, his eyes twinkling with mischief. You can't help but smile a little as you watch Arthur study his cards, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.

"I'd bet on Arthur," you murmur back, being careful to speak in a lower and raspy tone, you don’t want anyone to suspect you aren’t a male guard.

Javier nods. “I think those are good odds…”

You turn to look back at the table and that’s when you see Desmond lean forward, putting in all of his chips as you hear him say, “All in.”

Arthur leans back in his chair, eyeing his hand of cards closely. Is he going to fold, as they say? You don’t know if he has a good hand or not.

Then, in a calm gesture, Arthur pushes all of his chips forward.

All in. 

The moment of truth. The men flip their cards over, and Desmond still seems confident.

Until the dealer reveals the remaining community cards.

That’s when Desmond’s smile turns upside down and he curses Arthur for winning.

But you can’t help but smile.

Desmond slams the table, turning in his chair. Arthur, on the other hand, simply collects his winnings with that same half-smile, his eyes flickering briefly towards you in silent triumph.

Arthur says something to Mr. Blythe. An attendant appears behind him and starts a conversation with Arthur.

“It’s just upstairs,” he says. “Shall we go and have a look?”

“Why not?”

And with the attendant leading the way, he and Arthur head in your direction. Arthur lingers, to hand his chips to an employee.

But the attendant approaches you and Javier, eyeing you suspiciously.

“When did you start workin’ here?” he asks you.

You haven’t really mastered the art of masculine voices, as you’ve never really had need of it, and so you struggle to find it again.

That’s when Javier cuts in. “He can’t speak English,” he explains. “I’m his mentor.”

The attendant turns to Javier. “You?” You can tell by his tone that it isn’t out of genuine curiosity. It is no different than how people have spoken to you. With bigotry and prejudice.

The attendant's gaze lingers a moment longer, suspicion wrinkling his brow. Javier holds his stare, unflinching, until the man shrugs and turns away, dismissing the perceived threat you pose. “I don’t have time to look for someone else. Both of you, come with me.”

By now, Arthur has joined you both and when he glances at you, he needs to do a double-take. He leans in close, almost in disbelief that it really is you behind that mustache. “My god…” he breathes, almost grinning.

“I know,” the attendant says smugly. “They’ll give anyone a gun these days.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow at the attendant's remark, but he doesn’t say anything. And follows behind the attendant as Javier escorts them at the front and you linger in the back, rifles in your hands. “Follow me, gentlemen,” Javier says politely.

As you all walk immediately up a flight of stairs, the attendant continues on with his racist speech about not trusting certain people with guns, meaning Mexicans and “whatever that young fellow is supposed to be,” though his word choice is more abysmal. You try to tune it out, focusing your attention on Arthur and looking out for any subtle signals that Javier might give.

He also makes the point to flash a handgun that he bequeaths his “lawgiver” before tucking it back away in his coat. Idiot.

You all continue down an opulent hallway, passing by women sitting in some sort of lounge. They glance up at you, offering soft smiles, but given the exchange with the waitress, you aren’t too quick to be cordial. You focus ahead and watch Javier and the attendant go through another door that leads to the outside of the ship and yet another set of stairs. You all walk up to the Upper-class Deck and to a cabin with many windows. This makes you nervous. Anyone coming up here could see you all trying to rob this man. 

But then again, there’s three of you versus himself and the measly little “lawgiver.”

Walking around to the side of the cabin, the attendant stops in front of the door.

“In here,” he says and he turns to Javier. “Wait out here, would you? It always does good to have extra security.”

You catch a look from Javier before he nods to the attendant. “Of course.”

Arthur and you enter the room, the attendant leading with a set of keys jangling loudly in his hand as he unlocks what appears to be a private office. The room smells of bourbon and leather, an aroma that immediately makes you wary - it's too familiar, too reminiscent of the places where plans were made and secrets kept within.

And there is another guard in here.

Arthur seems to have a similar concern, for the look in his eye adds a question of, “How do you think we should get rid of him?”

The attendant turns to Arthur. “Give me just a second, sir.”

Arthur smiles. “‘Course, take your time.”

The man goes to the large safe in the center of the wall and begins to go turn the dial. You watch him carefully. Though he is trying to block Arthur from viewing the safe, he hasn’t taken into account your perceptive eyes. You try to memorize the combination, in the event that you might need it.

But in the corner of your eye, you see the other guard watching you suspiciously. You feel it odd that he’s staring at you like that and nervously you go to touch your face.

That’s when you feel the asymmetrical mustache.

You shouldn’t have touched it! The sudden realization marks shock on your face and you lock eyes with the other guard.

His brow furrows and he readies his rifle. “Hey…!”

You and Arthur have but a split second to react. He sucker punches the guard in the face, knocking him unconscious instantly, and you point your rifle at the attendant.

Things just got a little intense.

“Don’t you reach for that gun!” Arthur warns the attendant with a menacing growl.

The attendant raises his hands in surrender and looks at you, quickly noticing your wardrobe malfunction. “What? You’re…you’re…”

Ripping off your fake mustache, you resume your normal tone of voice when you talk to Arthur. “Check his pockets, darling.” And you relish in the man’s utter shock that you are a woman. “Take his lawgiver.”

Arthur swiftly obliges, pulling back the startled attendant’s coat. His fingers find the weight of a revolver tucked into the man’s belt, which he promptly secures in his own grip and tucks away. “I guess they will hire anyone these days,” he says with sarcasm, and you chuckle softly at that. Finished, Arthur shoves the man away from the safe. “Not so tough are we, now?”

But you see something in the attendant’s eyes and as his hand lowers you almost see it in slow motion.

He’s got another gun.

“Arthur…!” you shout, fear and panic coursing through your veins as you only have seconds to act. Instinct takes over as you react with lightning speed, using your leg to deliver a powerful kick that sends the gun flying out of his hand before he can even pull it from his jacket. The rush of adrenaline fuels your movements as you lunge forward, determined to take down this threat with all your strength and agility. You drop your rifle in the process, but your impact makes the attendant fall to the floor with a hard whomp, knocking the wind out of him. He struggles to move, and deciding to dispatch him, you deliver a blow to his Adam's apple, rendering him unconscious.

You catch your breath and climb off of the man.

You turn to meet Arthur’s eyes, and he is just about as shocked as you are, his face a mix of admiration and concern. He rushes over to you, his hands hovering as if unsure whether to embrace you or check for injuries.

"Kit, you alright?" His voice is tense, the edge of worry not quite hidden.

You nod, still catching your breath. "Yes. I just hope nobody heard that.”

He nods. “We should get the others and get off this boat.”

“Maybe before it docks?”

“Yeah.” He backs away, turning to the safe. In a quick rush, he takes all that he can and shoves cash, a watch, and other valuables in his pockets. “Let’s go.”

You both hurry out of the cabin and find Javier still waiting for you. “I saw through the window.”

“Then you know we need to get the hell outta here…” Arthur growls.

“I don’t think we should all go back in, it might draw attention,” you say, your expertise in these matters coming out. “Plus, I don’t think my disguise is as effective anymore.” You reach up to touch your cupid’s bow, peeling some of the glue off your skin.

Javier nods. “There are some lifeboats just down those steps. You two should get one and I will bring Trelawny and Strauss back. Act like it’s official business.”

“Not a bad idea,” Arthur says, and claps Javier on the back. “Best get goin’.”

And with that, you split up. Arthur takes your hand, leading you toward the narrow steps that descend to the deck below. His grip is firm, and reassuring, as if he could squeeze away the danger with his calloused fingers. The ship's wooden planks creak under your hurried steps, a somber reminder of the precarious situation.

As you both reach the lower level, you hear voices. Arthur quickly pulls you back, pressing your body against the shadowed wall. Your heart races as you peek around the corner, spotting two shipmates idly chatting by the lifeboats.

"We've got to get past ‘em," Arthur whispers, his breath warm against your ear. His gaze is fixed on the men, calculating the next move.

You nod, your mind racing through options. If you were wearing a skirt or other clothing, it might be easier to lure them away. But maybe you just need enough time to catch them off guard.

“Give me a few seconds,” you start to say, removing your gloves. “While I have them distracted, sneak behind them and take them out.”

Arthur looks hesitant, his eyes narrowing as he assesses the risk. “Just…be careful.”

You hand him your gloves and peck his cheek. “When am I not?” And leaving him with a cheeky grin, you walk toward the shipmates.

You make it about halfway toward them, when you take off your cap and emit a loud sigh. “Oh, my…!” They quickly whip around, their conversation cut short and their eyes go wide as they see you. You start to uncoil your long braid and let your hair down, almost tantalizingly. “Isn’t the Lennehechee River so beautiful at night?” Their eyes are still on you and you slowly begin to unbutton the shirt of your uniform. “I think…” you say slowly, looking at them with half-lidded eyes, “I might go for a swim…”

The two men glance at each other, the temptation obviously tugging at their curiosity. One of them, a burly fellow with a thick beard, steps closer, his gaze lingering on your loosening buttons. "Now, miss, that ain't safe at all," he begins, his voice a mix of concern and intrigue.

“Oh?” And leaving your shirt partly unbuttoned, you go to remove your boots. “But wouldn’t one of you nice, strong men come and save me?” You see Arthur quietly make his way over, crouching low and coming up behind them as their eyes follow your every move. “Or perhaps accompany me?” You cast another glance over at Arthur, giving him a subtle signal. He nods slightly, readying himself.

The other shipmate, younger and sprightlier with a mess of freckles across his nose, looks both excited and nervous. “Well, I reckon we could…”

Then Arthur standing right behind them, delivers a single line. “Not with my wife, you ain’t.”

Then just as they turn, he takes their heads and smashes them against each other, effectively knocking them out cold. They crumple to the wooden deck with a thud that echoes into the night.

Arthur quickly drags their unconscious bodies behind a stack of crates, ensuring they remain unseen. You hastily button up your shirt while rushing over to him, feeling a mix of adrenaline and relief.

“I really didn’t want to test my ability to swim just yet,” you say softly.

“I would’ve gone after you, Kit,” Arthur grins.

You smile at him with half-lidded eyes. “My hero.” He walks over to you, looking at you for a moment and you tilt your head. “What?”

He looks down at your chest and gestures to it by pointing at his own. “Your…” He lets his voice trail off and he shakes his head. “Never mind.” And without waiting for a reply, he makes his way over to the lifeboats. “Let’s see if we can set it up. Javier and the rest of them should be over here soon.”

“I hope so.”

Arthur's footsteps recede towards the lifeboats, his figure blending into the dark like a specter of the night. The air is thick with tension and the distant calls of seagulls that seem to mock the seriousness of your escape. You follow him, the old wooden planks creaking under your feet as you move.

After helping him rig the boat for departure, you hear more footsteps coming. Arthur immediately puts you behind him, shielding you from who might be coming.

“Excellent work, dear boy!”

You relax and you see Arthur visibly relax as well. It’s Trelawny.

“And you have an escape for us! Good work, Mr. Morgan,” Strauss praises.

“We ain’t out of the woods yet,” Arthur grumbles and he steps over the edge of the riverboat and into the lifeboat. “We gotta get this in the water.” He looks at you and offers his hand. “C’mon, darlin’.”

You hesitate, your hand hovering over Arthur's, the weight of your old life anchoring you momentarily to the deck. But then, with a resolve born from all those nights spent dreaming of freedom beneath starlit skies, you place your hand in his. The warmth of his grasp is reassuring, a silent promise that he will keep you safe.

But you never doubted.

You lift your leg up and over the edge and step into the lifeboat, and his hands go to your waist to stabilize you.

“Alright,” Arthur sighs. “Next?”

***

Arthur, ever the strong one, rowed the boat to shore. You all are farther down the river than you had anticipated and end up just shy of Copperhead Landing.

You and Javier help Arthur pull the boat onto the sandy beach and once there is enough dry land, Josiah and Strauss step out. The moon hangs high in the sky and there is a foggy haze coupled with sounds of crickets and other nightly critters that remind you of the marshlands that you can’t seem to avoid.

“Well!” Josiah exclaims. “We made out with some goodies, nobody was shot, and we all remain unscathed…” He looks at the rest of you with a satisfied nod. “I’d say that was a success!”

Strauss approaches Arthur, pushing up his spectacles. “What did you make out with, Mr. Morgan?”

Knowing that is his cue to divide up the spoils, he pulls out the cash, splits it amongst them, and hands Javier the camp’s share. “Get this back to Hosea, will you?”

Javier studies Arthur with an arched brow. “You not comin’ back with us?”

Taking a quick glance at you, he looks back at Javier and shakes his head. “No. I wanna see if I can bring in some more cash. Kit and I are gonna explore a little bit.” And seeing the look on Javier’s face, Arthur raises a palm. “Hosea knows about it. Don’t worry, we will be back before Dutch really has need of us.”

Javier nods, though the skepticism in his eyes doesn't quite fade. He trusts Arthur, sure, but your presence has always been a wildcard.

“Come with me, gentlemen,” Josiah says. “I will arrange some transportation for you so you may get home in one piece!” Turning, Strauss and Javier follow Trelawny as they traipse through the sandy marsh and make their way toward the city, leaving you and Arthur standing there in the moonlight, the ghostly tendrils of fog curling around your legs.

Arthur turns to you, running his fingers through your now loose, long hair. “Never thought I’d see you lookin’ like that,” he comments.

You snort. “Neither did I. Next time Trelawny has a job, don’t let me agree to it.”

Arthur lets out a laugh, safe to be loud in the vast openness of the marsh, without a boat or carriage in sight. “You did good though, proved that you could pass for almost anybody.”

You arch your brow. “And that I don’t look good in a mustache.”

Arthur chuckles, his eyes twinkling under the silver disk of the moon hanging in the sky. “Maybe, but I prefer it when you wear nothin’ at all,” he teases with a roguish grin, his voice dropping to a more intimate timbre.

You shake your head, trying to suppress a smile that threatens to break through your composed exterior. "You're impossible," you retort, though the warmth in your tone belies your mock annoyance.

Arthur's smile softens, and he reaches out to cup your cheek gently. "Maybe so," he agrees, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin. "But I'm only impossible 'bout things that truly matter. Like keepin’ you safe—and makin’ sure you know how much you mean to me.”

The touch of his skin against yours sends a familiar shiver down your spine, bringing back flashes of those stolen moments that only the two of you shared, hidden from the prying eyes of the gang.

You let your eyes cast southward, toward the city. “I don’t suppose we can return to the hotel, we already checked out and packed our things.”

Arthur nods. “Ain’t a bad thing. Was gettin’ kinda tired of the city, anyway.” He looks toward the city and lets his hand caress the back of your neck.

You pat his chest. “How do you feel about getting the horses?”

Arthur looks down at you. “You don’t mind waitin’?”

You shake your head, offering a tired smile. “No. I can find a dry spot and we can make camp.”

He shakes his head. “Let’s find camp first, then I will go for the horses.”

You don’t mind. It is dark, and you would feel safer if he were there to make sure that the area you both plan to sleep in is safe. You consent with a soft nod. “Alright.”

Together, you both walk hand in hand, heading west into Lemoyne, Arthur attentive and careful as you walk into the woods. Eventually, after walking a ways into Bluewater Marsh, you eventually come across an abandoned houseboat on the river. After checking it out, You build a fire in the boat’s metal fire pit and wait for Arthur to return with the horses.

Without the sound of the phonograph, it is deathly quiet. You have heard some of the people in Saint Denis talk about a band of people called the night folk, who raid the marshes and bayous at night, in silence, taking victims without warning. You’re grateful for the fire to illuminate the space about the houseboat, but that doesn’t strengthen the illusion of safety.

Giving you the revolver that Arthur had taken from the attendant, you clutch it tightly, watching, listening, waiting.

The fire crackles, casting eerie shadows along the deteriorating wooden walls of the houseboat. You sit closer to the warmth, the revolver heavy in your hand, its chill metal a small comfort against the uncertainty of the marshes. Occasionally, a frog croaks nearby, or an owl hoots from a distance, and while those sounds normally act as a lullaby, you are having little to no trouble fighting sleep. You’re exhausted, the achiness in your joints becoming more prominent, but you can’t sleep now.

You don’t know how long time has passed. An hour, maybe more, but it has been silent up until you hear a twig snap nearby.

You sit straight up, your heart hammering in your chest as you strain your ears into the darkness. The revolver feels slippery in your sweaty palm, and you tighten your grip, ready to defend yourself if need be. Your eyes try to pierce the inky blackness that surrounds the flickering circle of firelight.

Another snap, closer this time. You hold out the revolver, pointing it in the direction of the sound.

Then you hear a heavy snort and a swishing sound.

Not man. Beast.

Taking a risk, you whistle a special tune.

Then you hear a soft whinny.

It’s Odliv!

And into the light comes Arthur leading your two horses as he rides Montana.

You exhale and lower your gun. “Why didn’t you call out?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, the tension still evident.

Arthur dismounts with a grace that belies his size, tethering the horses before he steps into the firelight. His blue eyes catch the flicker of the flames, reflecting a flicker of relief when he sees you safe. "Didn't want to alert anyone that we’re here. Not knowin’ what could be out there…”

You nod, understanding his caution, but your body still trembles from the adrenaline. The marshlands are no place for the faint-hearted at night. “Could have shot you, you know…”

Arthur notices your shaken posture once he turns from removing the bridles from all the horses. He takes your pack and his and walks across the wooden plank that leads up the boat and you go down the steps that lead to the roof to meet him.

Setting everything down, he takes you by the waist, his hands reassuring and his presence like a mountain to protect you against the wind.

“I’m sorry, Kitten.”

You shrug. “It’s alright.”

He nods towards the cabin. “You ready for bed?” You yawn and lean into him and he wraps his arms around you. “I guess I didn’t need to ask.” Letting you go, he goes to pick up your things again and he follows you into the sleeping quarters.

It is tight but cozy, and it will make do for now. Lighting the lantern that hangs, you are able to navigate your way around and sit yourself on the bed. Arthur closes the small curtain to the entrance and after setting your pack on the bed beside you, he begins to remove his clothes, his back turned to you.

You waste no time in taking off your shirt, glad to be rid of the ridiculous uniform. You tuck your chin as you undo each button, not realizing that Arthur has turned around and is watching you.

“What’s that?” he asks.

You look up to see him staring at you. He has managed to remove his jacket, vest, neckerchief, and shirt, exposing his chest hair and rippling pectorals.

You shrug. “What’s what?”

He then points a forefinger at you, towards the bandage around your chest. “That.”

You look down then back up. “It was…to make sure no one knew I was a woman.”

“I knew somethin’ was different when you were in all that get-up.” He stares at it for a moment, then shakes his head. “I’m just glad it weren’t because you got hurt.”

You smile. “No. Just all part of the disguise. I think it worked.” You look down and chuckle. “Not that it was too hard to do given what little I have to work with.”

He walks toward you, his shoes soft on the wooden floorboards. "Don’t be sayin’ things like that." He stops in front of you, his hands gently touching the edge of the bandage. "You need help takin' this off?"

You shrug your shoulders, feeling the tightness around your chest release as Arthur carefully unwinds the bandage. Your breath catches slightly from the relief of pressure, and the cool air of the houseboat’s cabin brushes against your skin, soothing the lines left by the tight fabric. "Thank you," you murmur, allowing yourself a moment to revel in the tender yet firm touch of his fingers.

He doesn’t speak, his gaze focused on the task at hand until your breasts are free from the confines of the bandaging. You watch him as he gathers the bandage and sets it aside. His eyes meet yours, an unreadable expression on his face. It’s a look that mixes wonder with a hint of sadness, the kind you’ve seen before when he’s lost in thought about the past. “It ain't true you know,” he says softly. 

“What isn’t?”

“You—your—” he stammers, then shakes his head, not finishing his thought. “Better?” he asks, his voice deep and smooth like the rolling hills of the Heartlands. 

You just sit there, chest bare and eyes intensely watching him as his eyes roam your body. He eyes your breasts, then quickly shifts his gaze back to your eyes, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

“You’re adorable,” you say. “Blushing like that…” He looks down, avoiding your gaze and you reach over and take him by the wrist. “Don’t you know you get me blushing, too?”

His eyes flick up, meeting yours, a tentative smile forming on his lips. "Suppose we're a pair then," he says, voice low with a teasing lilt.

You let his wrist go and taking your nightgown, you begin to put it over your head.

“No—” you hear Arthur say, but he stops himself.

You lower the nightgown and meet his eyes. “What?”

He scratches the back of his head. “Nevermind…it’s…”

“What is it, Arthur?”

“It’s somethin’ we’ve…” You can see he’s struggling to say what’s on his mind, either for fear of upsetting you or something else.

“Tell me.”

He turns his gaze back to you, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and longing. Your heart sinks at the sight, knowing that what he is about to say will be a sadder part of your past. "The last day, before everything went wrong in Blackwater, we snuck away for one last moment alone," he begins, his voice laced with nostalgia and regret.

Your mind reels through memories, trying to remember that day and anticipate what comes next. His cheeks flush pink with embarrassment as he struggles to find the words. You steady yourself, bracing for whatever revelation may come.

"We didn't...you know...do what we usually did. You wanted to try somethin’ different," he admits, his gaze shifting away from yours.

Your heart skips a beat, unsure of what this could mean. But you remain still and patient, waiting for him to continue.

"We were both…wearin’ nothin’ and just...held each other," he finally confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.

A wave of relief washes over you as you realize it was nothing more than innocent affection shared between two lovers. Yet, the bittersweet revelation lingers in your mind, knowing that it was your final intimate moment before everything changed.

You smile, tilting your head. “That sounds…nice.”

You see the look on his face and the relief in his eyes. “I just…sometimes when I look at you, it’s like I’d just stolen one of Michaelangelo’s sculptures.” His voice grows softer, as he becomes more comfortable saying these things to you. “I love how you make me feel…the way you feel…but sometimes…sometimes I just wanna look at you for as long as I can before you…” Then he stops.

You feel your heart catch in your chest. You know what he means. What he still fears. You so badly want to reassure him you aren’t going anywhere. That you both really will make it out this time. Together.

You rise to your feet and silently remove your pants. Shaking them off and setting down your pack on the floor, you climb back on the bed. Laying on your back you look at your husband, who still has his eyes cast to the floor.

“Mr. Morgan…” you say softly and you wait for him to meet your eyes. When he finally lifts his head to look at you, you hold out your hand. “Come lie with me.”

He smiles softly at your tenderness and as he makes his way over to you, removing his dress shoes and pants on the way. He douses the lantern’s light and after climbing onto the bed with you, he fits himself in the contours of your shape and rests his head in between your breasts. You feel his steady breath on them as he nuzzles up close.

You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the coarseness mixed with the softness, just like the man himself. The room is filled with a peaceful quiet, a rare luxury in the precarious lives you lead. His arm wraps firmly around your waist as if to ensure you can't just vanish into thin air, even though you both won’t ever have the desire to let that happen.

“You used to complain then, too…” he speaks, his lips tickling your flesh.

“Complain?”

“About your figure. Too wide hips and too small of a chest.”

You can see that. You remember those Italian women and the looks they gave you. “Sounds like me.”

“Well, I thought I oughta tell you what I told you then, so you won’t forget this time.”

And you chuckle softly. “What would that be?”

“That it ain’t true. That you’re as perfect as the sunrise on a clear mornin’.” He pauses, lifting his head just enough to kiss the skin just above your heart. “And every bit as necessary.”

A small laugh escapes you, and you feel the warmth from his kiss and his words fill your very soul.

He rests his head back in his favorite place and nuzzles into you once more. “Don’t forget that,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky with raw honesty. “Okay?”

“Alright, Arthur,” you answer and you feel his breath slow into restfulness. “I won’t.”

Thank you so much for reading!

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