Patriot sauntered to a stop outside of a pub in the red brick town of Dauks. Hughes tied off the reins and yawned. He rolled his shoulders and climbed into the caravan with a grunt. He unlocked his chest and scooped a handful of golden gears into his pocket, then picked up a mug and dunked it into the water barrel.

Alyn twiddled her thumbs and watched. "What happened to your hands?" she asked. Her head cocked to one side. "They're all covered in scars."

Hughes raised the mug to his lavender plot and drizzled water over the calming flowers. He felt the dirt, grimacing. "Blacksmithing," he answered vaguely.

"Nah, that can't be true," she argued. "Yous wear gloves when you do blacksmithing. You know I ain't got no one to tell. You can trust me with a real answer every once in a while."

Hughes set aside his mug and kicked his chest shut. He flinched and bristled. "Nothing happened. Blacksmithing," he repeated.

Alyn narrowed her eyes. "Yeah? And my horns came from alchemy."

"Shut up, stupid girl." He rubbed his temples, jaw tensed. "And cover up those ears, for pity's sake."

Alyn grabbed her hat and tucked her furry appendages under its cover. She squinted out the back of the caravan. Dust skipped past in a dry breeze. There were no people to be seen in the early evening hour. The street lamps hadn't yet been lit. "Where are Tim and Elliot?"

Hughes pulled a potion vial from a box and stepped down to the dirt road. He followed her gaze. He rubbed the back of his head and lowered his eyes. "They left," he bleakly replied.

The apprentice jumped after him, aghast. "What? Why?" Her brows sorrowfully pinched and she glanced down. She kneaded her scarf. "They didn't say goodbye."

"Oh, don't pout about it," the blacksmith sneered. "Elliot left so that I would stay focused. He believes that he distracts me. He drove off down another road after we crossed the border. But, I know him well. I'm sure he'll appear somewhere soon. He knows where we are headed." He scratched his whiskers and peered across the street. He lifted a finger to the pub. "I will get a room there, tonight. Alone."

Alyn's face fell. "And me?"

"Stay here. Eat whatever we have, I don't care. I just need a night to myself."

The girl shuffled her feet and dug her hands into her pockets. She reluctantly shrugged. He'd been happier with the others. She sensed that their absence weighed on him. His shoulders sagged too low. "I'll be here."

"Good." He nodded and started off.

"Well, goodnight!" Alyn called. "Sleep well!"

The blacksmith glanced back and acknowledged her with a meager wave. He swung open the saloon-style doors and minded the raised step with caution, alerted by a faded sign that hung crookedly under the canvas awning. At the bar, he exchanged coin for a room key, a bottle of whiskey, and a mug and settled in a comfortably isolated corner booth. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and soured booze. The walls were plain and bare of decoration, and the furniture was covered in visible film. Weak firelight flickered in dying lanterns, poorly maintained.

Hughes untucked his shirt and used the bottom of it to clean his grimy mug. His eyes wandered the pub as his square fingers fished around the tinware. The ceiling was crumbling, he noticed. A man in a green vest sat smoking by a window, sporting the uniform of Ban-Ken's employed. He smoked one of their green-ended cigarettes. Hughes looked past him, past a group of locals and past a trio of tradeswomen, uninterested. His eyes settled on a woman in yellow, who quietly leaned over a notebook. His heart fluttered, his breath caught.

He stared down at his table, convinced for a moment that he was having a heart attack, but soon came to realize that the sensation caused no harm. He set down his mug and looked again, clenching his chest in a fist. The woman perched alone at a booth in the opposite corner, with a plate on her table, and no drink. Three scars mottled her left cheek.

The blacksmith felt a rush of mixed emotions. Stirrings of feelings, but nothing prominent enough to quite describe his sudden shift of mood. He felt curious, but fearful. Excited, but strange. Indescribably strange. He couldn't place it, and puzzled it over in befuddlement. The scars lingered in his mind after he pried his eyes away and he gulped from his mug—his empty mug. Get your head out of the clouds, Drew, he silently scorned, smacking his hand to his brow. He massaged his hairline and quietly whined at the beginnings of a migraine. The whiskey, he thought as he poured himself a drink, was an excellent choice. He emptied a vial of his evening potion into the mug and idly swirled. The nagging feelings—the indescribable nagging feelings—gradually lifted.

***

July 30th, 2815

The blacksmith awoke with a splitting headache, unable to keep the woman's scars from his mind. He staggered from his bed and tripped into his boots, dazed and distracted. Feet dragging over the artificial flooring, he took his bottle from the bedside table and stumbled from the room, head in his hands. His path down the narrow hall zigzagged drunkenly, and he descended the stairs as slowly and gingerly as he could. He couldn't fathom why the migraine was so miserable. He hadn't drunk enough to obtain a hangover.

Baffled by it, he slid his key over the bar and carefully made his way to the exit, stepping as though glass were beneath him. He kept his head down and shouldered the saloon doors open, and his feet, expecting a level exit, did not find ground where anticipated. He shouted out and tumbled onto the road, landing sorely on his hands and knees. His bottle shattered over the dirt and the whiskey inside splashed over his sleeves and face. He swore and rubbed at his brow in frustration. The sign at the door taunted him.

MIND YOUR STEP

He wiped the alcohol from his cheeks and whiskers and moaned. Miserable, he sat back on his shins and slouched and swept weary gaze over the mess of his exploded bottle. Where to begin? he wondered, loathing his foolishness.

"Hey!" A woman's voice called from just above. "Are you all right?"

Hughes didn't look up. "I'm fine," he mumbled.

"Look, I come here every week, and it happens every week," she told him. "Don't worry about it. They keep a broom and dustpan just inside. I'll help you."

The blacksmith buried his face in his hands, humiliated. "I'm fine," he insisted.

He glimpsed the broom through his fingers, and listened to the glass clink and gather.

"I can do it," he pleaded. "Really, ma'am, I..."

The bright yellow of her dress filled his shielded vision, and his tongue froze. His hands lowered to his lap. She offered him a hand, and he looked away from it.

"Sir, I've seen less flattering falls than this," she assured with a chuckle. She extended her frail hand further. "Don't be shy, now."

He kept his eyes down and hesitantly reached. The woman helped him up, smiling, and assured him that he had nothing to be embarrassed about. The blacksmith came to his feet, unable to find the strength to straighten out and stand up tall. He awkwardly hunched, gaze anxiously flitting to his caravan across the street.

The woman searched for his eyes, keeping a gentle hold of his clammy fingers. The moment he looked at her, she gasped, and he startled. She swiftly yanked the glove off of his hand and held his scarred palm open, then pushed up his sleeve to reveal the birthmark on his wrist.

"It's you!" she breathed. He jerked his hand away, heart suddenly racing. Her scars gnawed at the back of his mind.

He pulled his glove away from her and fixed his eyes on the road. "I-I have to go," he managed, and hid his eyes shyly behind a hand. He abruptly turned to made haste across the street, with eyes stiffly forward and shoulders shrugged to his ears. He hid in an alley, back flat against the wall.

He felt his heartbeat and smacked his head against the bricks. Tangled, rusty hair spilled over the wall. He checked to see if the woman had followed, and was relieved to see her returned to sweeping. He spat and cursed and pulled his glove back on.

Alyn, swords in hands, cocked her head. "What's got your panties in a twist?"

He hollered and fell over. He cringed at landed on his rear, and gasped for breath. He kneaded the dirt with fists. "FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, CHILD! You scared me!"

She stood over him, bewildered. "I was just practicing my drills, sir, and you rushed in here as though chased by the devil or somethin'. Golly! You're bright red, sir. Bright red!" She sniffed. "And you stink."

His jaw clenched. He took deep breaths through flaring nostrils. He rubbed at his sore behind. "Go back to your drills." He rose with a wheeze and peeked again out of the alley. The woman was gone. His breath steadied with relief.

"What'chu lookin' at?"

"Go back to your drills!" he snapped, sharper. He beat the dust from his coat. "I'll fetch you when I leave for the market."

"Yeh, awlright," Alyn muttered. Go drink your coffee, you grumpy old git, she thought crossly.

***

An hour later, Master Hughes reappeared at the alley opening and impatiently summoned his apprentice. She sheathed her swords, the mugger's blade in a makeshift leather cover that Hughes had had her make for herself, and sidled up to him. He pulled aside his coat to show her his pistol. "Don't make me waste my bullets again. Stay out of trouble, mind your own business, and if you see anything strange, leave it. I don't want to shoot another wastrel on the street."

Alyn scowled and glanced away.

The blacksmith placed his hat on his head and started off.

Alyn sprang ahead, but soon realized that the master had no intention of rushing that day. He moved at an agonizing pace, far contrasting his typical long strides. The girl stilled and frowned. "Can't you go any faster?"

"No."

"But..."

"No."

Alyn filled her cheeks with air, held the breath, and audibly released.

"Sighing does nothing," the blacksmith chastened. "You will stay by my side, walk my pace, and be silent."

She groaned and waited for him to catch up. He paid her little heed.

"Master Hughes, what's the matter with you? You're too jumpy, and too slow, and too... too..."

"That's enough," he barked. He spread his hands. "Silent."

Alyn huffed and grumbled to herself. She kicked the road and waited for him once again.

"I've a headache," he said, after a while.

Alyn stilled. She watched him pass her by. "Is it bad?"

He grimaced. "I will look for medicine at the market."

"I'm sorry..."

Master Hughes pressed his hand to his forehead. "Just..." He trailed off, head shaking. Alyn awkwardly kept quiet. The pair continued to Dauks' market without another word, their footsteps the only stirrings audible in the ghostly town for almost a mile.

Voices and music grew louder as they neared the small market at the town's central hub. As it came into their sight, Alyn thought that it looked more like a social gathering than a place to buy, sell and trade. She absently drifted on, entranced by the friendly and colorful atmosphere and the mouth-watering scent of roasting pretzels and warm cinnamon. Traders chatted amiably with customers and competitors.

Hughes pulled her back before she could wander in. "Don't leave my side," he growled.

She swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Look out for an alchemist. And plant fertilizer, on the off-chance that it appears."

"Alchemist and fertilizer, got it." The girl nodded and pointed to her eyes. "You can count on these trusty eyes, yes, sir. After you."

He dipped his head and swept between two carpet stalls, into the market. It was far less crowded than the Sunday market in Quales, and, though less exciting, more welcoming. While Master Hughes kept his head down, his apprentice skipped beside him, happily stable in her new braces, and waved cheerfully to the stall-keepers as they passed.

Many of the people dressed in colored clothing and gave more time to banter with strangers and traders than to advertising and selling their wares.

"Could we buy pretzels?" Alyn asked.

"No."

"Cinnamon rolls?"

"Fertilizer. Aspirin."

"Aspa... what?"

"For my migraines."

"Oh." She blew curls out of her face and glanced off. Her eyes caught on an explosion of colors, and she stopped walking. She stood tall and craned her neck to see past a vendor of horse-related wares. "Hey!" She pointed. Master Hughes frowned and eyed her expectantly. "They're sellin' flowers over there!"

The blacksmith's expression slackened and he followed her direction with hopeful eyes. Daisies and lavender, dandelions and chrysanthemums and more. Pleasant surprise washed over him, and for a moment, he forgot the throbbing in his temples. His apprentice lightly punched his arm.

"How's that to cheer you up, huh?" She grinned.

He distractedly batted her away and, eyes fixed on the flower stand, started toward it with renewed purpose. How and where a person managed to obtain so many of the pretty plants he could not fathom. Gardening was about as common a hobby as leisurely driving—it simply wasn't seen anymore. Alyn scampered behind him, relieved to see his pace pick up.

They approached the stall eagerly, tripping over their feet, until its keeper came into view behind a tall vase of roses, in conversation with a passerby. Hughes' heart skipped a beat and he bolted behind the nearest cover.

Alyn's brows pinched as the sound of his footfall abruptly disappeared. She looked back the way that they had come, then to the flower stand only yards away, and scratched her head. "Master Hughes?" she asked, too quietly for him to hear in his hiding. Her nose burned and the light crowd seemed suddenly intimidating. "M-Master Hughes?"

He peered around the side of a sun-tent. "Alyn!" he hissed. She startled, and he beckoned. "Child, come here."

Her muscles relaxed all at once and she swept a hand across her brow. "Phew! Master Hughes, I—"

He hushed her sharply and yanked her out of the open. The girl yelped and he smacked a hand over her mouth. She squirmed and glared at him crossly. He waited until her struggling stopped before he relinquished his hold.

The blacksmith drew a silver gear from his pocket and forced it into her grip. "Go and find an alchemist."

She searched his eyes with concern. "What are you hiding from?"

"Go and find an alchemist," he repeated, harsher.

"Master Hughes," she quietly endeared, "I'm worryin' sir, I am. Your jumpiness is making me sca—nervous. You're making me awfully nervous. Please tell me—"

"Everything is fine," he snapped. He shoved her back towards the market path. "I will meet you back at the caravan."

"But, sir—!" she protested.

"Go! And if you have enough left over, you can buy whatever you want for yourself. Yes? All right?"

"But, I don't want—"

"SCRAM!" He threw her out of the sun-tent's shadow, far too forceful. She didn't understand.

Shut down and rattled, the girl picked herself up and, shaking, reluctantly continued on the path. Her heart pounded. A tear rolled down her cheek. She stumbled and looked over her shoulder to the man, breaths short and trembling. Her hands, scraped in her fall, fumbled anxiously over each other. She dried her face, inhaled deeply, and carried on. Everything was fine, she thought. That's what he'd said.

The blacksmith was too cruel to realize that his secrecy left the girl distressed. After all, to her, he was fearless. Her imagination was left to conjure up terrible, terrible things to explain his cowering, while he timidly peeked at the harmless cause. The woman in the yellow dress arranged flowers for a customer. Her scars seemed so familiar.

He pulled back into the shadows and closed his eyes, taming his racing heart. He lifted his hat and snaked his fingers through his hair. The only fear was the fear that she may have seen him and remembered his unflattering fall. He feared that she knew him, but he not her. Her scars pried at his mind, familiar, but foggy. His tongue tied.

"I have some friends," he overheard her smiling voice, "who garden. I merely share their work, and arrange it. I don't grow the flowers. My shop is in Northwood, if you would like to see more. I have quite a variety, there, as well as an array of natural dyes."

"Northwood," he whispered. He felt a flutter in his chest.

***

As soon as Alyn stepped foot in the caravan, she was wrenched upwards by her scarf. She squealed and choked. Master Hughes shook her. She dropped her jacket, in which her purchases were bundled.

"You're late," he barked.

"What?" She pulled her scarf back and irritably rearranged it. "I got back as fast as I could, sir, but you didn't ever give me a time. That ain't fair."

He licked his lips and glanced away. "We're leaving." He studied her. "Why is your face red?"

She rubbed one puffy eye and cast her gaze downwards, face scrunched. "It ain't. Sunburn."

He opened his mouth, then, after a thought, frowned and stalked off to the steering bench without a word. Alyn sniffed and secured the canvas over the back of the wagon. She picked up her jacket, emptying the bundle, and stepped after the blacksmith.

"Master H—" She stumbled at the sudden start of the caravan. Her boot heels clicked against the wood and she regained her footing. Her braces caught her knees. "Master Hughes," she slid aside the partition leading out to the steering platform and peered out, "are you all right, sir?"

He squinted. "...Yes."

"You hesitated."

"Get back inside, stupid girl. I said I was fine."

She climbed out with him, bringing her small market haul with her. She folded into place, holding the items on her lap, and quietly pondered over them for a moment, swishing air from cheek to cheek. She offered a corked blue glass bottle. "This is for migraines."

He tied off the reins and took it.

"Directions are inside," she said.

He prized the cork from its mouth and looked.

She then raised a small daisy, eyes averted. "And I got this, too. I thought it looked nice. I thought it might cheer you up."

His eyes quivered, taking in the little flower. He corked the bottle and set it aside, and reached to pinch the daisy's stem. It was only the length of his hand. He laid it out over his ratty old glove and gingerly fingered the fragile white petals.

"Thank you," he said.

"The lady also gave me a little bag of fertilizer..." She kneaded the bag absently, and dropped it back inside. "I'll put it by your lavender pot."

Master Hughes nodded. "That's good." He paused, and awkwardly looked at her from the corner of his eye. "And for yourself?"

Alyn pulled the change out of her pocket and held it out. She gave a small shrug. "Nuthin'. Just the flower."

He returned his gaze to the delicate gift. He stared for a while and eventually tucked the precious daisy into an inner pocket of his trenchcoat. He closed Alyn's fingers around the change—a sum of nearly thirty dollars in gears and coins—and nodded.

"That's for you."

Alyn smiled, close-lipped. She regarded the silhouette of Northwood, shrouded on the horizon in distant dust. It wasn't far. "Thank you," she returned.