For the second time, Master Hughes heaved Alyn out of the horse trough. He dragged her away and scorned her, and scorned Elliot for leaving the girl still able to stand. Elliot rolled his eyes and took Alyn away from the blacksmith.

They perched on the back of his caravan and he lightly rubbed her aching shoulders and whispered to her, "You'd best not forget to practice those drills, eh? Every day, remember."

Alyn nodded, gasping for breath. Sweat cascaded from her brow. Elliot hadn't gone easy on her, and he praised her for her work. She wasn't fast yet, or accurate, but the Englishman insisted that she would be with practice. Her efforts and improvements were pleasing, and he felt that she could handle herself reasonably well.

Master Hughes threw sand over his forge and removed his gloves. He inspected his tall, simple vase and tucked it under his arm. He slung his coat over his shoulder and looked to the pair. "I'll build the fire tonight. We'll eat early and get on the road."

***

Before the sky's light dulled, the camp was disassembled and packed away. Tim welcomed Alyn into his painted caravan and kindly, without more than a single word, offered her Elliot's bed.

"Sleep," he said.

"Oh," Alyn sighed in relief, "yes, sir."

She clambered onto the mattress and curled under the blankets. She melted into it and closed her heavy eyes. The meerkat and the coyote piled on with her.

Tim climbed out to the steering platform and, moments later, the caravan rattled on its way. Patriot trotted over the dirt just ahead, his reins loosely tied off. He pulled Hughes' caravan without a driver, for his two passengers were involved in discussion inside. Patriot's ears perked at the heavy footsteps within, where Drew Hughes paced by the lantern's light. His silhouette on the canvas provided entertainment for the scientist that drove alongside.

Elliot leaned over a barrel where a map was spread. He held the lantern near, for the light that swung on the ceiling was not enough to define the cartography.

Drew's knuckles sat against his hips as he waited for the Brit to speak, his trench coat pushed back. The boards beneath him creaked as his boots thudded rhythmically on the floor, back and forth along the length of the caravan.

"Stop moving around like that, Drew," Elliot said, looking up. "You're making me nervous."

Drew stilled. He took his flask from a shelf and fiddled with its cap. "You're making me nervous," he argued with a shudder, and downed a mouthful of his drink.

"There is no need to be nervous. Look, your travel plan is very well organized, Drew. Don't worry. As always, you know what you're doing."

"Of course I do," the blacksmith scoffed.

"But..." Elliot leaned over the barrel again.

Drew's brows pinched. He joined the fencer. "What is it?"

Elliot pointed at the map, to a spot in Kentucky. They expected to cross the border from Indiana the next day.

Drew frowned.

"The tree farm ruins," he acknowledged. "What about them?"

Just outside of Ban-Ken—isolated from the roads—the free farm existed as little more than a dump. It had been removed from within the walled city almost a century ago and left to deteriorate in the stale desert gusts. It cowered, mostly forgotten, beneath the overwhelming shadow of the great wall. It was not marked on the map, but Drew knew of the location. His memory of it was foggy, but he knew it was there. He vaguely recalled rumors of a camp.

"You should stop there before you go into the city," Elliot said.

A dull pain throbbed in Drew's temple. He winced and rubbed his brow. "Instinct tells me otherwise."

"What you are calling 'instinct' doesn't always look out for you. I do," Elliot insisted. "Trust me on this, Drew. It will be good for you."

Drew raised his flask, then, after a grimace, lowered it. He took pause to consider the Englishman. "Are you sure?"

"Trust me," Elliot repeated. His nose scrunched and he searched his friend's dark eyes. "You'll kill yourself if you keep up with that potion in the city. The tree farm will help you. I have been there myself, and I know it will overwhelm you, but it is necessary. If you really are going back to Ban-Ken, the potion needs to stop, Drew."

Drew looked away. "I don't know..."

"Please! As both your former doctor and your friend, I know what is best for you. Going to the old tree farm is best. It's important for you. It's important to you." Elliot brought a hand up to Drew's shoulder and gave him a pat. "You just don't remember."

Drew addressed the floor. "Do I want to remember?"

"Believe me, it's for the best."

"And the potion?"

"I think you should keep taking it for now. But when you get to the tree farm, before you enter the walls, you must stop."

"Why only then?"

"Because you have friends there. You've never been any good at being brave on your own, Drew. They'll help you to give it up, and they'll help you to recover safely and carry on on your way without changing your mind and turning back."

Drew stood straighter and looked down at the alchemist. "I will not turn back and I do not need help."

Elliot put his hands on his hips. "Now, don't you get snippy with me. You'll go to the tree farm, stay long enough to quit the potion, and move on to the city before you have a bloody aneurysm. I promise you, your headaches are going to get worse and worse until that prescription is out of your diet once and for all. Am I clear?"

Drew's jaw clenched. He drove his fingers through his hair and drummed his fingers against his flask. After a length of tense silence, he sighed. "All right. I'll take your word for it, Elliot." He prodded the smaller man in the chest. "But, mark my words, if it's a waste of time, or a total disaster, I will find you and growl at you until you beg me to cut your ears off for you."

Elliot chuckled and tousled Drew's rusty hair. "Good man."

Drew scowled and swatted the Englishman away. "Put everything back where you got it from and get some rest. I'm going to the platform."

"Shall I take over for you in a couple of hours?"

"No, Elliot," Drew drawled, condescending. He slid open the partition that led out to Patriot. "Everyone knows you can't stay awake late. You sleep like a baby." He snorted, shook his head, and grabbed his hat. Fixing it on his head, he raised his flask briefly and climbed to the steering platform. "'Night."

The partition closed behind him.

Elliot huffed and kicked the wall. "Bastard."

Hughes whistled from outside, but soon faded to silence.

Elliot chuckled to himself and doused his lantern's flame. He secured the loose barrels against the wall and neatly tucked Drew's map into its satchel. He stretched and reached up to put out the light on the ceiling. Then, he settled down on the floor for the night, beneath six smiling sunflowers in their temporary vase. They truly were a blessing. Perhaps it was only in his head, but the air already seemed fresher.

Elliot imagined that when Hughes found the time to finish the vase, it would be as much a marvel as his beloved sword. The Englishman smiled and dragged Hughes' bedroll out of its corner, fumbling in the dark. He held the roll beneath his head and marveled: for the wealth that his friend had, the accommodation was terribly poor.

***

Abraham leaned against the wall, trying to capture as much light as he could from the lantern mounted above. He shifted Octienne's map from side to side, irritated with the shadows cast upon it. His stolen steed guzzled water from a trough nearby.

The young man squinted and muttered to himself. "Where are we, now?" He looked up at the general store across the street and squinted at its rusting sign, illuminated by a street lamp. "Addinburgh... Addinburgh..." He traced his finger over the worn page.

He had no plan, and very little clue as to where to begin. His goal was to turn in the infamous Drew Hughes, but he couldn't fathom how he would be able to. If he happened to run into the bear of a man, he imagined himself being torn to shreds. He couldn't be seen because he would be recognized, and he couldn't risk a fight. He was too weak.

He chewed his lip and tugged at his tie. Marked on the map in the neat scrawl of Master Octienne was a technology vendor in the town of Quales. "Perhaps I..." He hushed as a figure passed him by, and returned to studying the map in silence. A recording device would help him to capture Hughes without having to approach him, but he hadn't the coin to trade. He sighed and rolled up the map. Stealing from West Haven had been stressful enough.

He clicked his tongue to summon his horse. The animal peered at him blandly and kept drinking.

Abraham shook his head and rubbed his temple. His concave gut growled and he looked miserably to the sky. "Dear God, I could do with a some luck about now."

***

July 29th, 2815

Alyn awoke to Tray's slobbery tongue over her face. She groaned and tried to push the bear off her, but he did not budge. Tim stood over them. He said something to Tray in his own language and the bear clambered off the bed with a passive yawn. Peaches the meerkat curled up with the coyote on the floor.

Alyn dragged her sleeve over her face. "Gross."

Tim held out a hand expectantly.

Alyn considered it, and after a moment, gave him her hand. He pressed a piece of paper into it and let her go again. He gestured to a bowl of ingredients on top of a fold-out desk, then nodded to a large black drum.

Alyn blinked and looked down at the paper. It was the very same recipe that Elliot had shown her previously.

Tim held a strange funnel to his ear, the open end inside of the black drum. His eyes shifted as though thinking, narrowing and widening. He put down the funnel and patted the drum, peering at the girl. "Do?"

"Uh..."

Tim frowned. He took Alyn's wrist and led her out of the bed. He stood her before the bowl of ingredients and pointed to an arrangement of tools. He patted the desk.

She studied the page, then took out Elliot's copy. She looked at the back, where she could pick up the few words that she had been trained to recognize. Words like mash, peel, grind, juice. "Okay. Yeah. I can do this." She paused. "Does it matter if I get the order wrong?"

Tim's brows knitted and he tilted his head.

"I... I'll take that as a no." She looked to the list, then to the ingredients and their amounts, and began to cut, shave, mash and stir. Tim smiled his approval and withdrew to the steering platform.

She went to fetch him after the black drum was filled with unpleasant black sludge. He patted her head in acknowledgement and did not come. She huffed, taking the pat as a demeaning reminder that she was just a little girl and that Tim was the boss and didn't need to come at her asking. This was usually the reason that she received pats to the head.

"Soon," Tim gently added. He ushered her back into the caravan. "Come soon."

In a matter of minutes, the caravan came to a stop. The clopping of hooves outside ceased, and in mere moments, Master Hughes appeared with Alyn's two swords in his hands and crammed himself into the traveling circus caravan. He shooed a few animals out. He looked at the drum, and held out the blades.

"Take one and dip it in."

Tim climbed in from the steering platform and shook his head. "Wait." He peered into his microscope and took a fine needle with a rubber grip from a well-kept kit. He prodded a petri dish beneath the lens and touched the needle to its bottom. Green text flooded his computer's screen. He watched it run.

Alyn reached for her favorite sword—the sword of her own creation—and grinned sheepishly under Master Hughes' grunt of disapproval. He set the second sword aside and glanced out the window.

Tim carefully tucked away his needle and slid the petri dish out from under the microscope lens. He turned it upside down over the vat, and though nothing seemed to have come out of it, colorful sparks erupted over the surface of the slop.

Alyn gasped. "What is that?"

Tim gestured to the drum and nodded to Hughes. He then shuffled to the front of the caravan to light a small stove. "Elliot?" He asked, taking a kettle from a cabinet.

"Sleeping," Hughes answered. He put his hands on the edges of the drum and looked into it. He looked to Alyn. "Hold the blade in for thirty seconds, and give it a rub."

She made a face. "Will it come off my blade?"

"Yes, of course," the blacksmith muttered. "Put it in."

Alyn frowned and pushed up her sleeves. "All right..." She dunked it in.

"And rub it."

"I have to put my hands in?"

"Yes."

She grimaced and obediently slid a hand into the sludge. Green sparks rippled across the surface. She ran her hand along the submerged blade and massaged it from tip to hilt. Dilute shocks of electricity tickled her arm and made her hairs stand on end.

"WAIT!" Elliot cried. "WAIT, DREW!"

Hughes frowned and looked out the window. "What on Earth..."

The Englishman burst in behind the blacksmith seconds later. "Wait!"

"Go back to sleep, you pasty pansy," Hughes grumbled.

"Before you enchant Alyn's swords, you should just let her try yours."

"What? Why?" The blacksmith shook his head. "Never mind that. We've already started."

"Oh," managed Elliot. He put a hand to his heart, winded.

Master Hughes batted Alyn's wrist. "Take it out and do the other end. I said thirty seconds, stupid girl."

Alyn glared and submerged the hilt end.

"So, I rushed out of bed—or rather, off the uncomfortable floor of your uncomfortable caravan—for nothing?" He panted and placed his hands on his knees. He squinted at the floor, then quizzically up at Hughes. "Pasty pansy? Really?"

Master Hughes grinned.

Alyn pulled out her blade and the black sludge rolled cleanly off. The blacksmith eagerly rubbed his hands together.

"Tea?" Tim asked, searching with his eyes for the Englishman behind the bulk of Hughes.

"Ah, Tim!" Elliot gushed and squeezed past. "Godsend! I love you!"

Hughes stumbled and caught his footing. He frowned and pulled off one of his ratty old gloves, then held his bared hand out to his apprentice. Her jaw dropped at the state of his palm, every centimeter covered with healed over scars. Her brows pinched. The marks were too deliberate and clean to have come from his trade, and there were far too many, all overlapping.

"What are you gawking at, girl? Cut me!"

Alyn gaped. "Cut you? I don't want to cut you."

Hughes impatiently snatched the sword from her. "Don't be sentimental, stupid girl. It will not get you anywhere." He slid the blade across his damaged palm and swore as the blood curdled. "Heat again. Disappointing."

Tim slipped past Alyn and took the blade from Hughes, scornfully shaking his head. He pressed it into the girl's hands and gestured for her to do something. Anything.

While Master Hughes wiped blood on his trousers, Alyn followed his example. She cut her hand. Blood appeared for barely a second. The wound healed itself over as soon as she took the blade away. Elliot leaned over her shoulder, puzzled.

Hughes pulled the glove off of his second mottled palm and thrust it towards her. "Cut me!" he demanded. Alyn, confused, obeyed. The inflection closed at once. Hughes' eyes bulged and he breathed a huff of offense, his brows sinking to their lowest. "What damn use is that? A sword that heals? The very purpose of a sword is to harm!"

"Well, that's why I was going to suggest she try yours first," piped Elliot. "But, you wouldn't let her anywhere near your sword, anyways. Eh?"

"But, why would that..." Hughes shook his head in befuddlement. He pulled on his gloves as he puzzled it out, his expression a mixture of confusion and determination. He scratched his head. Then he nodded, and his expression relaxed. "Ah. The technology. The main function of mine is heat—which at least has some use in a fight—and the main function of hers... is to heal. Useless in a fight, but that sword was useless in a fight, regardless. Unbalanced hunk of junk."

"Hey!" Alyn pouted.

Hughes gestured to her second sword. "Grab that one and prepare to leave. After coffee and breakfast we will be back on our way. If we keep a good pace, we can reach Dauks by nightfall."