The previous day's tour of West Haven's elementary school had been enlightening. Not only had Abraham at last learned what on Earth it meant to be called a 'master', he had learned where he could find weapons. The school had been empty when Octienne had showed him around.

There were dangerous reagents in a cupboard in the laboratory that Master Octienne held the keys to. Abraham had thought it interesting at first, but, in looking at the alchemist's stock-take, he had decided that throwing hydrochloric acid at someone likely wouldn't be practical. Besides, there were knives and swords in the blacksmithing classrooms, and William guaranteed that there would be basic guns at the college, when Abraham asked.

There were two horses in a stable between the schools, which Abraham made note of. They weren't padlocked.

The next day, Jen offered a tour of the college, which he eagerly accepted. Perhaps, he thought, he could get his hands on a weapon, there.

"Take it easy, Abraham." William said.

"Oh, I'm feeling worlds better, really." Abraham insisted, stretching out his arms. The sickly ooze of illness hadn't left a crust on his eyes that morning. His belly felt satisfied, and his skin was not so tightly wound around his bones. Dizzy spells and headaches continued to plague him, but after so long on the brink of death, they were trifling ailments.

Jen led him out of their humble little hovel and walked him down the unmarked street. She gestured to a few other houses and told him who lived in each and what they taught. From its shadow, she showed him the orphanage, and told him that they would welcome his help there when he was recovered. She pointed to a door-less cement chamber that stood at the side of the college, heavily vandalized with charcoal and chalk, and said it was built to keep people out of the collapsed bunker within.

"If you had the cement to build four walls and a roof around it, couldn't you have just filled the hole?" Abraham asked.

"Well, that is the question, isn't it."

She held the door for him and waved him into the cobwebbed college foyer. Must and mildew tickled his nose. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the interior. It was just as run-down as the elementary, built mainly of cement at ground level. When he looked up the rickety stairwell, he noticed that the upper levels were constructed with old wood and plaster. A burgundy carpet ran the length of the foyer.

Jen indicated to the two doors before the stairs. "These are our blacksmithing classrooms, discounting Master Hughes' reclusive little hideaway."

"Ah! What do they make in those classes?"

"All sorts of things, really. Each student decides what he or she wants to make for themselves, and after proper training, if they do it well, they can have their 'Master' title approved."

"Could I see?"

"I'm afraid I don't have keys to those rooms." Jen smiled sympathetically. "You could always come in during the week and ask to sit in."

Abraham smiled in return. "Perhaps I will."

When she turned her back to start up the stairs, he scowled and muttered a curse. He quickly tried a knob before trailing after her. He thought he could break it if he needed to.

She brought him to her mechanics classroom, and let him peek into carpentry and textile rooms on the same level. He feigned interest for these, and for all the remaining classrooms that she had access to, fixated on the the two doors on the first level. He'd broken his glasses just under a month prior, but with the plague's film over his eyes, he hadn't been able to make much use of them, then. He missed them now, aggravated at everything that blurred in the distance. He trudged behind Jen in a perpetual state of agitation.

The mechanic stopped him by the lone window on the third and final floor.

"You look shot, Abraham." She put a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you some water and head back home, shall we?"

"Home," he repeated. The couple always said home as though it were his home, too. The more they said it, the less he thought of his old apartment in the city. "That sounds lovely."

***

Quales' town square was a bustling place, packed with vendors and buyers alike for the Sunday market. Master Hughes said it was the biggest market for miles. Clustered in the square, sellers of all manners of things could be found begging attention in the crowd—dealers of edible treats and delicacies, suppliers of countless wares for the trades, and random trinket traders and novelty salesmen traveling the States waved about their inventories and shouted their unbeatable prices.

"Charm your lady with a fine ruby locket, only three silver!"

"Ease your troubles with a relaxing frankincense balm, fresh from the Wisconsin Nursery! Two gold!"

"Gadgets and gizmos galore! Electronics from automated toothbrushes to holo-tablets! Prices negotiable!"

Many stands and open trailers overflowed into the streets that lead out from the square.

A vibrant diversity of colors decorated the market—yarns and threads, rugs and throws, clothing and dyes. Alyn had never seen so many things in one place. Alyn had never seen so many things in her life. She didn't know what half of the items were.

She breathed in the complex scent of the market. It was a jumble of everything from spices and sweets to smoke and new carpets. She grinned and leaped from the wagon, stable legs eager to spring into the midst of it all. Her scarred knees and shins tingled with disinfectant.

Master Hughes grabbed her collar and yanked her back. She yelped and tumbled.

He sat on the back of the wagon and rubbed his head. Through no fault of her own, she had upset the man. Her failure to produce a flower from a seed had somehow depressed him, and he had filled an early flask.

Emptied, now, he buried it in his pocket and placed a single golden gear in Alyn's hand.

"Go..." He waved a hand at her as he looked for the right words. She held the gear close to her chest. "Go find some gloves. Proper quality gloves. Shouldn't cost more than a bronze, so you be damn sure you get change. Understand currency?"

Alyn slowly shook her head. "Don't know much about money, sir. Never had it."

He sighed and pressed his hat on his head. "Bronze gears are worth ten dollars, silvers are worth fifty, and golds are worth a hundred. Then there are pennies, quarters, nickels and dimes... Oh, blast it all. I can't bother to teach you it, now." He gave her a shove towards the market. "Make sure you get a silver or some bronze in exchange for that gold. I don't have change. Find yourself some gloves and a proper sheath and belt for your sword. You're going to cut someone with that hazard dangling from your belt as it is now." He moaned and shook head. "Don't get scammed. If you've spent even a silver, you've been scammed. Sheath, belt, and gloves should, altogether, come up to around four bronze gears. Got it?"

Alyn nodded vigorously. "Won't let you down, Master Hughes! Sheath, belt, gloves, and bring you back the change."

Hughes, with a grunt of acknowledgement, gave her another push. "Scram."

Alyn turned and rushed off into the market. Though she knew she had done nothing wrong, her stomach twisted at having distressed him. She rubbed at her arms and glanced over her shoulder with a furrowed brow.

The blacksmith had shoved balled up leather into her boots, which made the toes more rigid than they had been with the assorted cloth scraps that Alyn had stuffed them with. He had tossed her braces into the lake crater and told her that if she wanted them, she could go and fetch them.

Without them, he lets looked odd, but if she stood straight, it wasn't too noticeable under her puffy breeches.

She weaved through legs and between tables, hidden ears perked to a shout advertising blacksmithing wares. She followed the call to a well-stocked stall that sold all sorts of simple and stylized weapons and tools of the trade. She peered at the assortment of tools and knives hung on the three corkboard walls behind the vendor, then scanned over the plastic table in front of him. He moved his precious wares out of her reach.

"Gloves," she said, pointing to a thick brown pair. She held up her gear.

The trader's eyes greedily widened and he plucked the gold piece from her fingers. He passed her the gloves and pocketed the gear, looking to the next customer.

Alyn waited for a moment. She tapped her heel on the ground and frowned. "I gave you a gold."

"That's the price."

Her eyes narrowed on his sweat-dripping, pointy nose. "Ah don't reckon it is." She raised her voice, "I gave you a gold."

People stopped to look at him, drawn to a possible drama.

"Ah!" The vendor turned red and drew in his neck in a turtle-like retreat. He quickly fished a silver and four bronze gears from a box. "Apologies, I was only distracted." He also gave her four gray coins with identical faces engraved on one side, and the United States crest on the other. She recognized the crest from a few remnants of patriotism back at the elementary trade school. It was carved into a podium in the auditorium, which was also used as a gym, a cafeteria, and a tornado shelter.

Alyn tucked the money safely into one pocket, and the gloves into another, and moved on. At another stall, she purchased a sword belt and sheath, and equipped both as soon as they were handed to her. She had refused to leave her sword in the caravan, and it had been threatening to saw one of her belts right off. She was happy with it in its sheath.

It bounced comfortably at her side as she skipped through the bustle. She searched up and down for Master Hughes, until the great variety seemed to blend together. Her energy gradually lessened, and the excitement for the market went with it. The spring in her steps broke down. She trudged past a coffee booth and an artisan and loped through an aisle between two competing fabric stalls. Her legs groaned and she rubbed her eyes. She squinted at the clock tower in the middle of the square. Had it been an hour?

She moaned and kicked the dirt and slunk onwards down a new path. Trudging on, she managed to spot his hat over dozens of heads, standing almost seven feet tall at a booth near an offshoot alley. She scurried to his side before she could lose him again and collapsed against his leg.

He was not happy, bargaining with a trader for leather, coal, and a set of bolts and hinges. He pushed her away.

"Don't you try to cheat me," Hughes growled to the trader. "I could go to any other stand and buy all of this for half the price you're trying to scam me with."

"One silver," the trader revised.

"Four bronze."

"Four and a half bronze."

Alyn tugged at Master Hughes' coat. He swatted at her and snarled. "What is it, girl? Can't you see I'm busy?"

She presented the change that she had collected. Hughes held out his hand for her to drop it into and slid the gears and coins into his pocket. The girl's attention caught on some movement down the close-by alley and she looked past the blacksmith. There was a weapon drawn. "Hey, what's over there?"

"How the hell should I know?" He snapped, without so much as a glance. He shooed her away and testily eyed the trader. "Four bronze."

Alyn puffed out her cheeks and considered the scuffle before her. A large man led a smaller blonde into the depths of the alley by the point of a sword.

Either no one else at the busy market saw, or they turned a blind eye to it. Alyn set her jaw and gripped at the hilt of her sword. She slipped, lithe and quick, through the crowd. If no one else was going to do anything, she resolved that she would.

Too bold, she entered the alley.

The smaller man emptied his pockets under the shadow of his attacker.

Alyn drew her blade. "Stop!"

The mugger swiveled. The blonde vigorously shook his head and waved his hands at Alyn. The mugger, with mask covering mouth and nose, sprung at her. Alyn attempted to swing, but with one skillful tap from the masked man, her unbalanced blade clattered to the earth. She squeaked and put up her hands. He backed her against the alley wall with his other victim.

Her fingers curled to fists and she glared indignantly down the man's blade.

"Sit." He barked.

He pressed the sword's tip to her throat and forced her down the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut and grit her teeth as the blade twisted beneath her jaw. She felt his bony fingers gnarl around her shoulder, and his smoky breath slither over her face.

"Ooh, yes," he croaked, in the raspiest of wheezes. "I know exactly what to do with feisty little girls like you..."

Suddenly, there was loud bang, followed by the heavy thud of a fallen body. The gunshot echoed in the narrow alley. The mugger's sword clunked on the dirt, its tip landed in Alyn's lap.

Alyn was pulled up by her collar. She whimpered and pitifully hung from the grip.

"You stupid girl! What were you thinking?" Master Hughes growled. He made her face him. "Get your head out of the clouds, Alyn. Don't be a hero. Your boldness will be the death of you."

Alyn slowly opened her eyes. The mugger sprawled on the ground, a bullet-wound in his forehead trickling blood. The crimson leaked into his hair and seeped to the dirt beneath.

Hughes glared at her sternly. She looked to the carved pistol in his hand and shuddered.

"There are only two people in the world that use that expression...," murmured the blonde, squinting up at the pair of strangers. He spoke with uncertainty, puzzled and wondering all at once. He let out a breathy laugh, disbelieving. "...And only one is a seven-foot-tall lovable lug. Get your head out of the clouds... Drew?"

Hughes abruptly released Alyn. He straightened. His brows knitted. He stared at the wall. "'Lovable'." He scoffed, making a face. "Now, there's only one person in the world that would call me that." He looked to the orange sky. "Do my ears deceive me, or do I hear the unmistakable drawl of my favorite immigrant?"

The blonde grinned. He tilted his head back to look up at the blacksmith, and his curls spread over the grimy wall. "Sorry, mate. Tim's back at the caravan."

Master Hughes positively glowed. He drove his pistol into his holster and threw his hand down to the Englishman. "Elliot Bell. You have no idea how much I have missed that tangled mop."

Alyn scowled and rubbed her throat. She stalked off to reclaim her sword.

"My hair is flawless, ah-thank-you." Elliot returned, clapping his palm to the blacksmith's. Hughes pulled him up. Elliot shook his head in disbelief and raised a hand to Hughes' cheek. "Goodness me, Drew, you really have changed a good lot since I last saw you. If you hadn't said that old saying of yours, I don't think I would have recognized you."

Master Hughes spread his arms. "Older and fatter and hairier, I am. You look quite the same, but it seems as though age has gotten to you, too. I see a few wrinkles."

Elliot laughed and shrugged. "What can I say?"

"So you're still with Tim?" Hughes asked, brows keenly raised. "Has he learned any English?"

"Ah, no," Elliot laughed again. "No, not really. Not the Queen's, and not America's. It's almost impressive how little he's learned. I feel like he just likes not been obligated to respond to me, you know?"

Alyn cleared her throat and sheathed her sword. She rubbed her hands together. "Yes, great time for a reunion. Master Hughes just killed a man." She prodded the body of the mugger with her boot and let out a hysterical chuckle. "Yes. Dead. He's dead."

Master Hughes blinked at her. "I am aware that he is dead. I put a bullet through his brain. Do something useful and take his sword." He untied a threaded sack from his belt and tossed it to her. "Collect anything interesting. Leave Elliot's stuff. Elliot, you had best pick up what is yours."

"Oh yes!" Elliot exclaimed, and hopped to it.

Alyn hesitated, eyes quivering over the masked man. "Are we just going to leave..."

"Shut up, girl, and do as you are told. You put yourself in a bad place with your rash behavior. He was going to slit your throat, so I got him first. That's it. Make use of the situation and move on. Tonight, my friends and I have a lot of catching up to do."

***

Master Hughes ushered his companions into a pub, bright and cheery, and entirely ignorant to his young follower. He held the door for Elliot, and for quiet old Tim, who ducked inside with a pat to the blacksmith's shoulder. He left Alyn to catch the door for herself, and led his friends to a small table by a wall. Once they were seated, Hughes strolled to the bar. Alyn trudged inside and scowled at the size of the table. Four would be a crowd.

She perched on a barrel off to one side and cupped her chin in her hand. Tim smiled at her sympathetically. He had a look of intelligence in his deep brown eyes, though he had acted oblivious to Hughes' and Elliot's conversation on their walk in. The man was the opposite of his fair-skinned companion in every way. Elliot nudged the African.

Tim pointed to Alyn. "Friend?"

Elliot cocked his head. "I think so, Tim. What do you say, miss? What's your name, and where do you come from?"

"I'm Alyn Smythy from West Haven, and I'm Master Hughes'—"

"My apprentice," Hughes finished. He set a whiskey bottle and three glasses on the table and folded into his seat. "I will tell you all about her, but not here. I've been stuck with her company for days, Elliot. I'd much rather focus on you and Tim for now." He twisted in his seat. "Alyn, Tim and Elliot, here, are both immigrants. They met when they were younger at a port in North Carolina. Tim's from Malawi, in Africa, and Elliot's from England."

England and Africa, she thought, must be very different lands, wherever they may be.

"Well, Tim's not his real name," Elliot added. "But, that is what we call him. He's a brilliant scientist. He might not speak much English, but we understand each other just fine. Don't we, Tim?"

Tim frowned at the blonde. "Understand," he repeated.

Elliot waved a hand. "Yeah... Tim, what's your real name again?"

"Tim?"

"Real name. Name."

"Ah." Tim nodded. "Chimwemwe Chiumbo Tendai Ihejirika."

Elliot jerked a thumb in his direction. "That's the one."

"All right, all right," Hughes interjected, "enough introductions. You're my friends, not hers." He turned his back on the child and poured whiskey into the three glasses. "So, tell me, how have your science endeavors been going?"

Elliot looked to Tim. Tim looked back, confused. He looked between his expectant companions with wondering eyes.

Elliot sighed.

"With the animals?" The Englishman asked. "We haven't gotten any talking yet, but Tim sure has worked hard over the years. All of them are able to understand perfect English and Nyanja, written and spoken. What of Patriot? Your horse? How is his tech?"

"As flawless as ever."

"Showing any signs of old age, yet?"

"None."

"What was that about animals?" Alyn asked.

"Are all the same animals still with you?" Master Hughes asked incredulously, ignoring his apprentice.

"Oh, yes! And a few more."

"No old age getting the better of any?"

"No, no."

"What kind of animals?" Alyn tried.

Elliot looked to her. "Well, we have—"

"I saw your caravan. Traveling Circus?" Hughes interrupted. "Are you performing?"

Elliot laughed and fell over the table, pounding his fist lightly. "No, Drew!"

Alyn huffed and crossed her arms. They carried on—very much ignorant of her—to speak of all sorts of things beyond her comprehension, from strange technologies to budgets and travel. They made references to a past that she had never heard about, and passed a number of adult jokes that went straight over her head.

She quickly grew bored and shifted her position to suit her mood. As the night went on, she lay on her back with her legs and head hanging off either side of the barrel and stared up at the rotting ceiling.

Master Hughes gradually lost his sobriety, until chuckles turned to giggles and his cheeks flushed with bright color. The filter left his words.

Elliot put a hand over his whiskey glass before he could refill again. "Drew... Are you sure you want to keep drinking?"

Hughes waved the hand away. "Yeah, yeah."

Elliot pulled back and watched his friend spill the liquor equally in and out of the glass. "All right..." Elliot prodded a cloth napkin over the spill. "I will just point out that you are getting past the tipsy point."

"I'm happy," Hughes insisted. "It—it's so good to see you. It's been such a—a strange day. I—I'm so happy to see you."

Elliot nudged Tim. "Does he look happy to you?"

Tim's brows furrowed.

"Happy?" Elliot drew a smile over his face with his fingers.

Recognition flickered over Tim's face, and the foreigner smiled.

Elliot dragged a palm over his face. "Never mind."

Master Hughes wrapped his fingers around Elliot's wrist. "Elliot, look. Look, Elliot!" With his index finger—just his index finger—pulled from around his whiskey glass, he pointed at Alyn. "That—that girl. That girl... She's a FAUN!" His voice raised enthusiastically and he hiccuped. He blushed and covered his lips.

Alyn jolted and sat up. She shook her head. After exposing her for what she was, Master Hughes had been adamant that no one could know. No one. She peered anxiously over the pub patrons.

"Sh... shh..." Elliot expressed with his hands that Hughes needed to lower his voice. He chuckled and raised his own voice. "Looks like you may have had too much to drink!" He grit his teeth and growled at his hiccuping companion. "Control yourself or I will cut you off."

Master Hughes crouched over the table, low enough that his chin almost touched the wood. He whispered, "She's a faun. A faun."

"Keep it down, Drew."

***

As the sun set outside, Alyn closed her eyes. Master Hughes and Elliot chatted on into the night. The blacksmith's train of thought derailed. Most of what he said became incoherent or nonsensical, and Elliot quietly pretended to understand for a while. The blonde stood when the blacksmith's sentences began to trail off.

"Okay, time to go. Up you get."

"UpIget..."

Tim bent over Alyn. "Up." He said. On the days that he slept late, this was how Elliot roused him.

Alyn yawned and lowered herself from the barrel. She squinted in the candlelight. Most of the people had already left. She saw Master Hughes tumble to the bar with Elliot. Hughes parted with a golden gear in exchange for a bottle of whiskey and staggered to the exit. Elliot stayed to collect the change.

Tim pointed after Hughes. "Go."

Alyn dragged her feet. Elliot caught her with a hand to her back and escorted her into the night. Tim clasped his hands behind his back and ambled idly after them. He watched Alyn's steps with a knowing smile.

Outside of the pub that night, Drew Hughes danced about the street, humming all the while. His boots tripped beneath him and his arms flailed to stay standing. He stopped in front of his horse and gestured for the stallion join him. He stumbled back a distance and beckoned.

Patriot eagerly shook himself, like a wet dog, kneeling slightly. The hooks on his harness shivered from their clasps and after another few moments of shaking, the horse reared and then quickly ducked and dashed, astonishingly, out of the harness, reins, and the wagon's hold entirely. As if that wasn't peculiar enough, the horse trotted to his master with swinging head. Alyn rubbed her eyes.

The horse neighed and swung his head, snout to the sky. Master Hughes, grinning and red, held out his palms and the horse sprang to meet them with his front hooves. The blacksmith pulled the horse's knees over his shoulder and they shimmied a few steps, until Patriot lathered his master's face with a slimy tongue and was thrown off. The horse continued to dance as best as he could manage, and easily outperformed the twirling blacksmith. While Hughes tripped over himself and scuffed his dirty boots and smashed his nose against a wall, Patriot lifted his front legs high, one at a time, and rhythmically swayed his neck with each motion, and stepped back, then to the side, then forward, leading to a jazzed up imitation of a swing-style fox trot.

Elliot put his hands on his hips and observed from the pavement. He shook his head.

"Hi, ho, Silver!" Hughes shouted, oblivious to his spectators.

"For a drinker," Elliot began, "he's never been particularly good at being drunk."