Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 7: Mnemosyne's Cursed Clockwork
Title: Mnemosyne's Cursed Clockwork, Chapter 7 of Lament of the Asphodels
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 4,600
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
Artwork by LiamJcnes
The Keeper spent the afternoon restoring the cellar. He extinguished the fire first, so the smoke could vent for the duration of his efforts before he closed the chute. His last chore was sweeping out the ash, which he piled into an empty half-barrel, storing it until he found some manner of us for it.
By the time he rowed back to Stagrock and secured the rowboat in the basement, there were precious few hours before dusk. He wondered if he hadn't done it on purpose as a way of avoiding an unpleasant train of thought. He had spent the day ignoring his instincts that could only lead to a disagreeable conversation with his guest.
The Survivor hadn't technically lied. He assumed that her vehemence about her locale resulted from her desire to return home somewhere in the Northmost Lands. Yet when he tipped his head to her before he took his leave, she responded in kind, mirroring his motion precisely. Anyone who lived in Northedge for longer than the span of a few weeks would know that the appropriate response would be to raise the chin.
In Northmost tradition, the bowing of the head was a simple request along the lines of 'By your leave.' The act of lifting the chin in response meant something akin to 'My leave and blessing to you.'
So common was this exchange that even the Keeper, who had avoided speaking to anyone whenever possible knew of it. It was something of a daily exchange, perhaps as common, if not more so, than greeting one another by raising a single hand, so even a Recluse like himself could not mistake it.
Her ignorance on such a common custom could've been explained away as a moment of absentmindedness, which was how he discharged the nagging doubts as he worked. But now that his hands were still, his mind asserted itself in full force, and he could no longer ignore his concerns.
The request not to involve the Dockmaster was far from unfounded, as such a position was often bent by corruption and greed. But it wasn't only the Dockmaster she was interested in circumventing; she hadn't wanted anyone to know where she was or that she survived the storm.
And then, when he mentioned loved ones, her wounds had surfaced. The loss was recent, that much was clear, but her certainty was what caught his attention. Perhaps some tragedy had taken every loved person from her life, but what of distant relations? Friends of the deceased? Surely there must be one person in all the world that would mourn the Survivor had she died in that shipwreck.
As far as he knew, such absolute rejection was reserved for outcasts and criminals.
Northedge was a hard place, known for its chaotic storms and austere living. Long ago, back when the world was new, laws established the Northmost Lands as a refuge for any seeking asylum. It was meant to protect the persecuted, but over the centuries and millennia, it expanded to include those who abandoned their homes and traveled north to escape justice. Fugitives from the Midlands and beyond need only set the soles of their feet upon the dry land of Northedge, and they could never be forced from it, not even to answer for their crimes.
Of course, the price of freedom was living in a land of giants, asceticism, and abrupt tempests, and any future crimes would be subject to the laws of Northedge, which awarded executions for nearly every ill action recognized by the law.
The Keeper had to consider the very real possibility that the first person he had spoken to in years was a runaway from the Midlands. That was the only reasonable explanation for the Survivor's behavior. She could be a fugitive from the law or someone fleeing unjust retribution. In either case, she had elected to conceal the truth from him, and he doubted that would change by way of polite request.
So he steeled himself as he ascended the spiral staircase. He would use dinner as a pretense and demand answers, lest he send her away.
As he climbed the stairs, his legs became heavy with tiredness and his shoulders hunched forward. He had pushed himself hard for the past few days, and he wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire and rest.
When he reached the midline, he found a dish of steaming rice topped with vegetables and a dish of beef stew. He never bothered with such elaborate meals, settling for a scoop of plain rice and raw vegetables with the occasional addition of dried meat. The scent had wafted down the stairs, and it was the sweet smell of comfort food that coaxed the tension from his body as he ascended.
He turned to speak to her, but she wasn't in the kitchen nor the living room, which had undergone such a bizarre transformation that he barely recognized it. He only ever kept a single blanket for the chairs by the fire, and he never bothered with pillows or anything else that made it difficult to keep tidy. But during the hours he spent on Cellar Island, the Survivor had transferred half the contents of the linen closet. Both chairs had blankets and pillows, and a small army of both covered the sofa.
He wasn't sure how to react to this particular development. On the one hand, he hardly expected her to hide in her room. On the other, he equally hadn't thought she'd feel free to take so many liberties. Not only had she moved many of his best linens to the only room with a large, active fireplace, she hadn't bothered to select matching or complementary colors. Like everything on Stagrock, the furniture and covers were secondhand and subject to considerable fading, making them a mixture of muddied and grayed fabrics. It was hard to look at under the harsh illumination of the fire.
"You're back," the Survivor said as she descended the stairs.
"Aye," he replied stiffly.
"Sorry about the mess," she said, sensing his tension. "I might've gotten a bit carried away. I was just looking for a blanket to sit with."
"It's quite all right, though I might suggest returning the spare dozen," he replied as pleasantly as possible. "If you're concerned that you may find need of them at a moment's notice, we can store them nearer the midline."
She smiled and ducked into the kitchen, her mane of blonde hair flowing behind her. Her beauty struck him in that moment, and he wondered how he could ignore it long enough to form a sentence. He hesitated before following her, but he had resolved himself to speak with her plainly. Beautiful or not, now was the time.
She was setting out plates and serving utensils. He normally ate in the living room, but there was no proper place to do it, no table to sit at while eating. That left them with the kitchen counter.
"I made supper," she said. "Though I'm not much of a cook."
"More so than I," he confessed. "Thank you. You needn't have gone to such lengths. The only thing I require from you is your honesty. The truth."
She straightened up for a moment, picking up on his tone. She replied, "That's why I made dinner."
Then she nodded, quickly served herself, and carried her plate and utensils into the living room. He followed suit, taking generous portions. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she was planning on telling him everything.
Six weeks ago in the Midlands, the Sheriff tossed and turned in bed for a while before she fell into an uneasy sleep, where she dreamed of shadows sneaking up on her, chasing her through the dark, forcing her to run through unknown forest, where she moved between the trees until she crashed headlong into someone. He found his feet before her, and he offered her a hand up. Though she could see very little in the dim light, she saw enough of the man to know that he was lean and handsome. He had dark hair with a beard to match, but she couldn't make out his eyes or any other feature of his face. She wanted to have a better look, so as soon as she returned to her feet, she came close to him, caressing his cheek, ready for a kiss.
She was ripped from her pleasant dream by a number of loud sounds. It took her a few sleepy moments to realize that someone was wailing on her door.
She had hoped the Barkeep would take the time to calm down, but the pounding on the door suggested that he still wasn't thinking clearly.
She rose from bed, wondering if arresting the Barkeep would be considered an abuse of power, even if he was legitimately disturbing the peace at no-o'clock in the morning.
She went to the door, but she didn't want to face him half-asleep.
"What the hell, Walsh?" she yelled sleepily through the door.
"Emma, it's me!" the Bailiff replied. "Let me in."
"Graham?" she muttered.
Had all the men in her life gone insane?
"Please, Emma, open the door. Trust me, I wouldn't be here at this hour if it wasn't important."
She obliged, waving him into her apartment before she shut and locked the door behind him.
"Pack a bag," he said.
"What?"
"Pack a bag," he repeated. "Essentials and anything you can't be parted with."
"If this is your idea of a romantic trip, you're wrong," she said playfully. "Who storms into someone's apartment before dawn and says 'Pack a bag'?"
"This isn't a joke."
"How much do you want me to pack?" she asked in jest. "How long is this trip you've planned?"
"Forever," he replied. "We won't be coming back."
The Bailiff, annoyed by her joking attitude, marched into her room and dragged her knapsack and large travel bag from under her bed. He frantically collected clothing and tossed it inside.
"What has gotten into you?" she demanded.
"A friend of mine is on the nightshift," he answered, as if that explained anything at all. "Sent word to me that some investigator was petitioning to have you suspended from your post and arrested. Both were granted. Officers will be here by dawn, maybe a few hours later if you're lucky. You can't be here when they come."
"Graham, stop, stop!" she said, grabbing hold of his arm.
He stopped packing and turned to her.
"Let them," she said. "I haven't done anything wrong. Whatever the charges are, I'm innocent."
"This isn't some traffic violation they're gonna drag you through the mud for," he replied. "Some private detective says you're responsible for the Locksmith's death when The Yellow Bug went down. They've got witnesses saying that they saw the ship turn away from the harbor as the storm blew in. And those same witnesses all confirmed that you were the one piloting the ship."
It felt like all the air had vanished from the room. The Sheriff sat down, hard, on the bed, her body shaking with fury and disgust. The Barkeep hadn't gone home and cooled off; instead, he had taken his 'evidence' to court to ruin her life.
"I can't believe he did this," she whispered.
"Who?" the Bailiff asked. "Who did what?"
"Walsh," she replied. "We had this big fight about the fact that I was dating you both. A few months ago, he brought up marriage, and I shot him down. Told him I wasn't ready. He went ballistic. Ever since then he's been trying to monopolize my time, and whenever I tell him I can't go out with him or I'm too tired, he acts like I must be with you. For the last week or so, though, he'd been better. I thought it had blown over, but then last night, he started asking me about The Yellow Bug. Why did we decide to travel for our vacation? Who was piloting the ship? Why didn't we make it to the harbor?"
"He hired the private detective," the Bailiff concluded. "And now he's taken it to the courts."
"How could anyone think I had anything to do with it?" she asked. "I nearly died. Those were the most terrifying days of my life, and Neal... I can't control the weather! It wasn't my fault!"
"I know it wasn't," the Bailiff replied, sitting next to her and wrapping an arm around her. "I know you. You'd never let harm come to someone else. Not if you could stop it. If you could've saved the Locksmith, he would've lived, but if they arrest you for murder - "
She interrupted, "They want to arrest me for murder? Why? How?"
"They want an official inquiry," he replied. "They probably only have enough to bring you in for negligent homicide, but the charge will be enough to re-open the case."
"These witnesses," she said. "Who are they?"
"I can't tell you that."
She insisted, "Whoever they are, they're lying about that night. I wasn't piloting the ship."
"I can't tell you because I don't know," he replied. "I wasn't on duty at the time. All I know was one witness was a wealthy ship owner who made it to the harbor in time to escape the storm. The other is a respected sailor. These are the kinds of witnesses that people believe without question. So pack a bag."
"No," she said resolutely. "I need to fight back. If I run, everyone will assume I'm guilty."
"Everyone will assume you're guilty if you fight," he retorted. "The truth won't matter."
"What aren't you telling me?" she asked, getting to her feet. "The word of two good witnesses against the Sheriff? That's not enough."
"If we debate this, by the time we're done, the police will be here, and you won't have any choices left."
The Sheriff considered her options. She knew the Bailiff; he wasn't the kind of man who drew irrational conclusions. If he was worried about something, there was reason for concern. While she had no desire to abandon everyone and everything she knew, he had taken an enormous risk.
"I'll pack, but only if you tell me everything," she said. "I'll decide what to do when I know all the facts. If I stay, you leave without a fight. There's no need for both of us to be arrested."
The Bailiff loathed the idea, but he knew that there was no other way to convince the Sheriff. So he agreed to explain everything, though time would be better served riding under the cover of night.
The Sheriff gathered a number of personal effects that she would never abandon: her personal journal, her parents' necklace, and the letters she and the Locksmith wrote to one another during their brief romance. She returned to her room and started to pack necessities.
"The private investigator has an entire case," the Bailiff explained. "Witnesses, reports about the debris, everything. You were the primary owner of The Yellow Bug, which means if they can prove that you neglected its upkeep - "
"The worst storm in living memory strikes suddenly, yet somehow I'm responsible?" she asked. "How does that make sense?"
"I doesn't," he replied. "But they aren't only arguing that you neglected the ship. They're going to say you purposely went out to sea - and stayed out - in order to kill the Locksmith."
The Sheriff turned around, her face screwed up in anger. "Who the hell are these people?"
"You heard about that Police Captain the county over?"
"Captain David Nolan in Yorktown?" she asked. "I met him once."
"Before he lost his job, I assume."
"What?" she asked. "I mean, I remembered there were some trumped up charges on some cold case that happened before he joined the police. It was thrown out in court."
"Eventually," he replied. "The charges included negligent homicide, so they denied him bail. After four years, the case was dismissed, but he was stripped of his position and title for violating the morality clause."
"For something he was accused of doing before he trained to be an officer?"
"No, of course not," he replied, agitated that he had yet to convince her. "They denied him bail. He had served in the police force for his entire adult life. He put away nearly every man in prison with him."
"In protective custody," she protested.
"He still came into contact with other prisoners," he explained. "During those four years, there were several attempts on his life. The last time, three inmates attacked him and the guards were too busy doing something else at the time. He defended himself, broke a few bones, but since the guards didn't see it, they couldn't confirm that he wasn't the one who started it, which is what the three inmates insisted had happened. Assault and battery. No one pressed charges, but it didn't matter. Neither did the not guilty verdict. Morality clause was iron clad."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"The Private Investigator that kept Captain Nolan in jail for four years awaiting a fair trial - "
"His twin brother," she interrupted. "I remember everyone being up in arms about it all. Identical twins on opposite sides of the law."
"He's the one who put together the case against you," he said. "He's done this to countless people all over the Midlands. He's the man you hire when you know the person hasn't committed a crime, but you want to use the legal system to destroy their life anyway. It doesn't matter that you're innocent. He'll find a way to delay the trial dates to keep you in jail without bail until he finds some way to strip you of your position and whatever else he can get away with. He did this to his own twin brother for a paycheck."
The Sheriff had heard of the Prince of Private Investigators, but only as some boogeyman from the big cities out west. She had no idea he had been responsible for the situation in Yorktown. It seemed impossible that anyone could manage such heinous acts against the justice system and be allowed to continue those abuses with impunity due to some legal technicality.
"We need to fight back," she said. "You said it yourself, he's known for this. Someone has to stop him. He does this to good people who've done nothing wrong."
"Except eventually they all do," the Bailiff protested. "Whether it's a technicality or a serious crime. That man puts you in dangerous situations until you're forced to do what he wants - ruin your career, end your marriage, break a promise, whatever it is he wants."
"We can prove that that is what he does," she replied. "All we need is a solid case - "
He interrupted, "You're not listening. He won't be the one on trial. His activities will be meaningless. If you try to argue that in court, people will defend him by claiming he's good at his job. He outsmarts criminals that get away with things because they're too careful to be caught. That kind of nonsense. If he was coming after me or anybody else, then I'd say, let's fight him, but he's coming after you. And he's focused on things that happened on days you claimed you can't recall."
"Claimed?" she repeated. "What? You don't believe me now?"
"Of course I believe you," he replied. "But you went on the record and said you couldn't remember most of what happened during the storm and aftermath. He has witnesses that remember it all clear as day. You can't refute them."
"I never said I couldn't remember anything," she protested. "I remember the entire day before the storm hit. I know I wasn't piloting. I know I said that. The things I couldn't recall all happened after the storm came down hard on us. The doctors explained it."
"And that works against you as well," he said. "If your injuries contributed to your memory loss during the storm, whose to say you didn't forget other things, too? Maybe you had been piloting the ship."
"I wasn't!"
"I understand that," he said, trying to calm her down. "I am on your side. Always. But you know how these things work. If you stay here, you'll be playing his game, and eventually, you'll lose everything."
"If I leave, I lose everything!" she replied loudly. "So why not stay and fight for what's mine? The least I could do is take the bastard down with me."
"You won't lose everything if you run because I'm coming with you."
"What?"
"You can't escape to the Northmost Lands without help," he replied. "You need someone to look out for you."
"If you come with me, you'll never be able to come back," she said. "You'll lose everything."
"Not everything," he replied.
"Graham, I - no, I won't let you."
"It's not your decision."
Panic and rage converged inside her, orchestrated by the bitter betrayal of the Barkeep. She had cared for him, and he certainly believed he was in love with her. How could he do this to her? To her family?
"At least let me get you out of the county," he pleaded. "Once we get past the towns and cities, we can hide in the country. We can decide what to do next once we're there."
"You think you can just go home after helping me escape?"
"I'll just claim that you came calling after you and the Barkeep had a bad row," he replied. "You begged me to take you away from it all. Only a fool would turn you down."
The thought of escaping her life and responsibilities for an indefinite period of time was appealing, especially if the Bailiff truly meant to come with her. His idea of an impromptu romantic trip could do more than protect his title and position. Unlike the Northmost Lands, they could still receive news within a reasonable timeframe. Private Investigator Nolan might be good at his job, but nobody had a perfect win record. Maybe the case wouldn't stand up.
It was the best of both worlds: she neither had to abandon the fight nor risk incarceration in a prison brimming with inmates she put away.
"Fine," she said. "But I'll only do it if you agree to leave a note for the court."
"You want me to report that I'm leaving?" he asked incredulously.
"If you don't, people will wonder why you ran off without informing the courts that you wouldn't be able to fulfill your shifts," she reasoned. "I'll send word to my deputies and leave a note for my parents."
"We don't have a moment to waste," he pleaded.
"Then write quickly."
The Bailiff did as she requested, scribbling down a formal letter to the courts explaining his abrupt absence from his sworn duties. Though it took precious few minutes to write, it felt as if they were sealing their fate in ink with every character. When he failed to hide his discomfort and impatience, the Sheriff pointed out that, by the time the warrant was fully processed, the early morning shift change would begin, which provided more than enough time for them to exit gracefully. He bit his lip to prevent himself from saying something harsh and short-sighted. Of all the woman in the Midlands, why did he have to fall for the most stubborn and independent?
Finally, the Sheriff left a note on the table for her parents and insisted on arrangements to ensure the timely arrival of their missives. He readied for yet another protest, but she stemmed the tide before he began by promising to travel immediately to the barn he had selected as a rendezvous point. If she concluded her work with haste and was swift of foot - both of which she readily vowed - then she would arrive long before dawn, and they would leave under the cover of nightfall.
"Don't forget to pack your own bag," the Sheriff reminded him. "I don't want to be out in the countryside with a man who has only two pairs of underwear to his name."
He laughed as genuine relief filled him, for he felt that they might yet survive this coming darkness.
"I'll ask Red to carry my letter," he said. "She has the early morning shift, and she won't hound me with questions."
"And I'll pin this to August's door," she added, holding up an evelope.
"August?" he repeated in disbelief. "That dozy neighbor of yours who fashions himself a writer?"
"He does write summaries that are published," she countered.
"On milk bottles," he snapped. "He doesn't even have his words printed properly in the paper yet."
"Then it's a good thing that I'm not asking him to write anything," she said sharply. "He's the only neighbor nearby that'll be up by dawn, before anyone comes looking for me. Besides, he has a crush on me - "
"Aye, so does Red, and Belle, and half the town," he interrupted.
She continued as if he hadn't said anything, "And he will make sure the deputies receive my letter and instructions, no matter what."
"Aye, he will. I'll meet you at the barn in one hour."
"I'll be there in half an hour, waiting on you," she replied with a smile.
The Bailiff hadn't realized she had gotten so close during their conversation, but she was standing right next to him, blocking the direct path to the door. Her hand traveled up his arm to his cheek, and the faint pressure of her touch seared his blood, causing him to flush. The tiniest gasp absconded from his lips when she cupped his chin, and then her body closed in on his as she went on her tiptoes. His arms - acting on their own accord - enclosed her in a crushing hug as she kissed him. It was long and passionate, and had she not given her word to meet him only an hour later he would've thought that it was a goodbye kiss. He leaned his forehead into hers, wondering if he needed to worry that she was only sending him away to protect him.
"Emma," he began, not quite sure what to say next.
Her hands stroked down his shoulders and back before playfully palming his bottom as she squeezed him into another hug. He released an audible sigh, for she'd never say 'goodbye' with such a lewd gesture. She stepped away, revealing the door not far behind her.
"One hour," she said, as if she could read his mind. "Don't be late."
"Until then."
He mused over everything as he traveled home to pack a bag. She was incredible. He burst into her home in the dead of night with - if not the worst news imaginable, then something quite nearly so - and yet, she still discovered a means to make him laugh, to make him hope. He found himself looking forward to their adventure, despite the fact that the impromptu romantic getaway was a cover story rather than a vacation. The anticipation of being a mere hour away from a trip that enabled them to be together and simultaneously apart from the noise and hectic bustle of their day to day lives was exhilarating, even with the pall of treachery hanging over them.
The Bailiff would keep her free by whatever means necessary.
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Chapter 8: The Wrath of Melinoe
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Mnemosyne was a Greek Titan and the personification of memory.
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 4,600
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
Artwork by LiamJcnes
The Keeper spent the afternoon restoring the cellar. He extinguished the fire first, so the smoke could vent for the duration of his efforts before he closed the chute. His last chore was sweeping out the ash, which he piled into an empty half-barrel, storing it until he found some manner of us for it.
By the time he rowed back to Stagrock and secured the rowboat in the basement, there were precious few hours before dusk. He wondered if he hadn't done it on purpose as a way of avoiding an unpleasant train of thought. He had spent the day ignoring his instincts that could only lead to a disagreeable conversation with his guest.
The Survivor hadn't technically lied. He assumed that her vehemence about her locale resulted from her desire to return home somewhere in the Northmost Lands. Yet when he tipped his head to her before he took his leave, she responded in kind, mirroring his motion precisely. Anyone who lived in Northedge for longer than the span of a few weeks would know that the appropriate response would be to raise the chin.
In Northmost tradition, the bowing of the head was a simple request along the lines of 'By your leave.' The act of lifting the chin in response meant something akin to 'My leave and blessing to you.'
So common was this exchange that even the Keeper, who had avoided speaking to anyone whenever possible knew of it. It was something of a daily exchange, perhaps as common, if not more so, than greeting one another by raising a single hand, so even a Recluse like himself could not mistake it.
Her ignorance on such a common custom could've been explained away as a moment of absentmindedness, which was how he discharged the nagging doubts as he worked. But now that his hands were still, his mind asserted itself in full force, and he could no longer ignore his concerns.
The request not to involve the Dockmaster was far from unfounded, as such a position was often bent by corruption and greed. But it wasn't only the Dockmaster she was interested in circumventing; she hadn't wanted anyone to know where she was or that she survived the storm.
And then, when he mentioned loved ones, her wounds had surfaced. The loss was recent, that much was clear, but her certainty was what caught his attention. Perhaps some tragedy had taken every loved person from her life, but what of distant relations? Friends of the deceased? Surely there must be one person in all the world that would mourn the Survivor had she died in that shipwreck.
As far as he knew, such absolute rejection was reserved for outcasts and criminals.
Northedge was a hard place, known for its chaotic storms and austere living. Long ago, back when the world was new, laws established the Northmost Lands as a refuge for any seeking asylum. It was meant to protect the persecuted, but over the centuries and millennia, it expanded to include those who abandoned their homes and traveled north to escape justice. Fugitives from the Midlands and beyond need only set the soles of their feet upon the dry land of Northedge, and they could never be forced from it, not even to answer for their crimes.
Of course, the price of freedom was living in a land of giants, asceticism, and abrupt tempests, and any future crimes would be subject to the laws of Northedge, which awarded executions for nearly every ill action recognized by the law.
The Keeper had to consider the very real possibility that the first person he had spoken to in years was a runaway from the Midlands. That was the only reasonable explanation for the Survivor's behavior. She could be a fugitive from the law or someone fleeing unjust retribution. In either case, she had elected to conceal the truth from him, and he doubted that would change by way of polite request.
So he steeled himself as he ascended the spiral staircase. He would use dinner as a pretense and demand answers, lest he send her away.
As he climbed the stairs, his legs became heavy with tiredness and his shoulders hunched forward. He had pushed himself hard for the past few days, and he wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire and rest.
When he reached the midline, he found a dish of steaming rice topped with vegetables and a dish of beef stew. He never bothered with such elaborate meals, settling for a scoop of plain rice and raw vegetables with the occasional addition of dried meat. The scent had wafted down the stairs, and it was the sweet smell of comfort food that coaxed the tension from his body as he ascended.
He turned to speak to her, but she wasn't in the kitchen nor the living room, which had undergone such a bizarre transformation that he barely recognized it. He only ever kept a single blanket for the chairs by the fire, and he never bothered with pillows or anything else that made it difficult to keep tidy. But during the hours he spent on Cellar Island, the Survivor had transferred half the contents of the linen closet. Both chairs had blankets and pillows, and a small army of both covered the sofa.
He wasn't sure how to react to this particular development. On the one hand, he hardly expected her to hide in her room. On the other, he equally hadn't thought she'd feel free to take so many liberties. Not only had she moved many of his best linens to the only room with a large, active fireplace, she hadn't bothered to select matching or complementary colors. Like everything on Stagrock, the furniture and covers were secondhand and subject to considerable fading, making them a mixture of muddied and grayed fabrics. It was hard to look at under the harsh illumination of the fire.
"You're back," the Survivor said as she descended the stairs.
"Aye," he replied stiffly.
"Sorry about the mess," she said, sensing his tension. "I might've gotten a bit carried away. I was just looking for a blanket to sit with."
"It's quite all right, though I might suggest returning the spare dozen," he replied as pleasantly as possible. "If you're concerned that you may find need of them at a moment's notice, we can store them nearer the midline."
She smiled and ducked into the kitchen, her mane of blonde hair flowing behind her. Her beauty struck him in that moment, and he wondered how he could ignore it long enough to form a sentence. He hesitated before following her, but he had resolved himself to speak with her plainly. Beautiful or not, now was the time.
She was setting out plates and serving utensils. He normally ate in the living room, but there was no proper place to do it, no table to sit at while eating. That left them with the kitchen counter.
"I made supper," she said. "Though I'm not much of a cook."
"More so than I," he confessed. "Thank you. You needn't have gone to such lengths. The only thing I require from you is your honesty. The truth."
She straightened up for a moment, picking up on his tone. She replied, "That's why I made dinner."
Then she nodded, quickly served herself, and carried her plate and utensils into the living room. He followed suit, taking generous portions. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she was planning on telling him everything.
Six weeks ago in the Midlands, the Sheriff tossed and turned in bed for a while before she fell into an uneasy sleep, where she dreamed of shadows sneaking up on her, chasing her through the dark, forcing her to run through unknown forest, where she moved between the trees until she crashed headlong into someone. He found his feet before her, and he offered her a hand up. Though she could see very little in the dim light, she saw enough of the man to know that he was lean and handsome. He had dark hair with a beard to match, but she couldn't make out his eyes or any other feature of his face. She wanted to have a better look, so as soon as she returned to her feet, she came close to him, caressing his cheek, ready for a kiss.
She was ripped from her pleasant dream by a number of loud sounds. It took her a few sleepy moments to realize that someone was wailing on her door.
She had hoped the Barkeep would take the time to calm down, but the pounding on the door suggested that he still wasn't thinking clearly.
She rose from bed, wondering if arresting the Barkeep would be considered an abuse of power, even if he was legitimately disturbing the peace at no-o'clock in the morning.
She went to the door, but she didn't want to face him half-asleep.
"What the hell, Walsh?" she yelled sleepily through the door.
"Emma, it's me!" the Bailiff replied. "Let me in."
"Graham?" she muttered.
Had all the men in her life gone insane?
"Please, Emma, open the door. Trust me, I wouldn't be here at this hour if it wasn't important."
She obliged, waving him into her apartment before she shut and locked the door behind him.
"Pack a bag," he said.
"What?"
"Pack a bag," he repeated. "Essentials and anything you can't be parted with."
"If this is your idea of a romantic trip, you're wrong," she said playfully. "Who storms into someone's apartment before dawn and says 'Pack a bag'?"
"This isn't a joke."
"How much do you want me to pack?" she asked in jest. "How long is this trip you've planned?"
"Forever," he replied. "We won't be coming back."
The Bailiff, annoyed by her joking attitude, marched into her room and dragged her knapsack and large travel bag from under her bed. He frantically collected clothing and tossed it inside.
"What has gotten into you?" she demanded.
"A friend of mine is on the nightshift," he answered, as if that explained anything at all. "Sent word to me that some investigator was petitioning to have you suspended from your post and arrested. Both were granted. Officers will be here by dawn, maybe a few hours later if you're lucky. You can't be here when they come."
"Graham, stop, stop!" she said, grabbing hold of his arm.
He stopped packing and turned to her.
"Let them," she said. "I haven't done anything wrong. Whatever the charges are, I'm innocent."
"This isn't some traffic violation they're gonna drag you through the mud for," he replied. "Some private detective says you're responsible for the Locksmith's death when The Yellow Bug went down. They've got witnesses saying that they saw the ship turn away from the harbor as the storm blew in. And those same witnesses all confirmed that you were the one piloting the ship."
It felt like all the air had vanished from the room. The Sheriff sat down, hard, on the bed, her body shaking with fury and disgust. The Barkeep hadn't gone home and cooled off; instead, he had taken his 'evidence' to court to ruin her life.
"I can't believe he did this," she whispered.
"Who?" the Bailiff asked. "Who did what?"
"Walsh," she replied. "We had this big fight about the fact that I was dating you both. A few months ago, he brought up marriage, and I shot him down. Told him I wasn't ready. He went ballistic. Ever since then he's been trying to monopolize my time, and whenever I tell him I can't go out with him or I'm too tired, he acts like I must be with you. For the last week or so, though, he'd been better. I thought it had blown over, but then last night, he started asking me about The Yellow Bug. Why did we decide to travel for our vacation? Who was piloting the ship? Why didn't we make it to the harbor?"
"He hired the private detective," the Bailiff concluded. "And now he's taken it to the courts."
"How could anyone think I had anything to do with it?" she asked. "I nearly died. Those were the most terrifying days of my life, and Neal... I can't control the weather! It wasn't my fault!"
"I know it wasn't," the Bailiff replied, sitting next to her and wrapping an arm around her. "I know you. You'd never let harm come to someone else. Not if you could stop it. If you could've saved the Locksmith, he would've lived, but if they arrest you for murder - "
She interrupted, "They want to arrest me for murder? Why? How?"
"They want an official inquiry," he replied. "They probably only have enough to bring you in for negligent homicide, but the charge will be enough to re-open the case."
"These witnesses," she said. "Who are they?"
"I can't tell you that."
She insisted, "Whoever they are, they're lying about that night. I wasn't piloting the ship."
"I can't tell you because I don't know," he replied. "I wasn't on duty at the time. All I know was one witness was a wealthy ship owner who made it to the harbor in time to escape the storm. The other is a respected sailor. These are the kinds of witnesses that people believe without question. So pack a bag."
"No," she said resolutely. "I need to fight back. If I run, everyone will assume I'm guilty."
"Everyone will assume you're guilty if you fight," he retorted. "The truth won't matter."
"What aren't you telling me?" she asked, getting to her feet. "The word of two good witnesses against the Sheriff? That's not enough."
"If we debate this, by the time we're done, the police will be here, and you won't have any choices left."
The Sheriff considered her options. She knew the Bailiff; he wasn't the kind of man who drew irrational conclusions. If he was worried about something, there was reason for concern. While she had no desire to abandon everyone and everything she knew, he had taken an enormous risk.
"I'll pack, but only if you tell me everything," she said. "I'll decide what to do when I know all the facts. If I stay, you leave without a fight. There's no need for both of us to be arrested."
The Bailiff loathed the idea, but he knew that there was no other way to convince the Sheriff. So he agreed to explain everything, though time would be better served riding under the cover of night.
The Sheriff gathered a number of personal effects that she would never abandon: her personal journal, her parents' necklace, and the letters she and the Locksmith wrote to one another during their brief romance. She returned to her room and started to pack necessities.
"The private investigator has an entire case," the Bailiff explained. "Witnesses, reports about the debris, everything. You were the primary owner of The Yellow Bug, which means if they can prove that you neglected its upkeep - "
"The worst storm in living memory strikes suddenly, yet somehow I'm responsible?" she asked. "How does that make sense?"
"I doesn't," he replied. "But they aren't only arguing that you neglected the ship. They're going to say you purposely went out to sea - and stayed out - in order to kill the Locksmith."
The Sheriff turned around, her face screwed up in anger. "Who the hell are these people?"
"You heard about that Police Captain the county over?"
"Captain David Nolan in Yorktown?" she asked. "I met him once."
"Before he lost his job, I assume."
"What?" she asked. "I mean, I remembered there were some trumped up charges on some cold case that happened before he joined the police. It was thrown out in court."
"Eventually," he replied. "The charges included negligent homicide, so they denied him bail. After four years, the case was dismissed, but he was stripped of his position and title for violating the morality clause."
"For something he was accused of doing before he trained to be an officer?"
"No, of course not," he replied, agitated that he had yet to convince her. "They denied him bail. He had served in the police force for his entire adult life. He put away nearly every man in prison with him."
"In protective custody," she protested.
"He still came into contact with other prisoners," he explained. "During those four years, there were several attempts on his life. The last time, three inmates attacked him and the guards were too busy doing something else at the time. He defended himself, broke a few bones, but since the guards didn't see it, they couldn't confirm that he wasn't the one who started it, which is what the three inmates insisted had happened. Assault and battery. No one pressed charges, but it didn't matter. Neither did the not guilty verdict. Morality clause was iron clad."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"The Private Investigator that kept Captain Nolan in jail for four years awaiting a fair trial - "
"His twin brother," she interrupted. "I remember everyone being up in arms about it all. Identical twins on opposite sides of the law."
"He's the one who put together the case against you," he said. "He's done this to countless people all over the Midlands. He's the man you hire when you know the person hasn't committed a crime, but you want to use the legal system to destroy their life anyway. It doesn't matter that you're innocent. He'll find a way to delay the trial dates to keep you in jail without bail until he finds some way to strip you of your position and whatever else he can get away with. He did this to his own twin brother for a paycheck."
The Sheriff had heard of the Prince of Private Investigators, but only as some boogeyman from the big cities out west. She had no idea he had been responsible for the situation in Yorktown. It seemed impossible that anyone could manage such heinous acts against the justice system and be allowed to continue those abuses with impunity due to some legal technicality.
"We need to fight back," she said. "You said it yourself, he's known for this. Someone has to stop him. He does this to good people who've done nothing wrong."
"Except eventually they all do," the Bailiff protested. "Whether it's a technicality or a serious crime. That man puts you in dangerous situations until you're forced to do what he wants - ruin your career, end your marriage, break a promise, whatever it is he wants."
"We can prove that that is what he does," she replied. "All we need is a solid case - "
He interrupted, "You're not listening. He won't be the one on trial. His activities will be meaningless. If you try to argue that in court, people will defend him by claiming he's good at his job. He outsmarts criminals that get away with things because they're too careful to be caught. That kind of nonsense. If he was coming after me or anybody else, then I'd say, let's fight him, but he's coming after you. And he's focused on things that happened on days you claimed you can't recall."
"Claimed?" she repeated. "What? You don't believe me now?"
"Of course I believe you," he replied. "But you went on the record and said you couldn't remember most of what happened during the storm and aftermath. He has witnesses that remember it all clear as day. You can't refute them."
"I never said I couldn't remember anything," she protested. "I remember the entire day before the storm hit. I know I wasn't piloting. I know I said that. The things I couldn't recall all happened after the storm came down hard on us. The doctors explained it."
"And that works against you as well," he said. "If your injuries contributed to your memory loss during the storm, whose to say you didn't forget other things, too? Maybe you had been piloting the ship."
"I wasn't!"
"I understand that," he said, trying to calm her down. "I am on your side. Always. But you know how these things work. If you stay here, you'll be playing his game, and eventually, you'll lose everything."
"If I leave, I lose everything!" she replied loudly. "So why not stay and fight for what's mine? The least I could do is take the bastard down with me."
"You won't lose everything if you run because I'm coming with you."
"What?"
"You can't escape to the Northmost Lands without help," he replied. "You need someone to look out for you."
"If you come with me, you'll never be able to come back," she said. "You'll lose everything."
"Not everything," he replied.
"Graham, I - no, I won't let you."
"It's not your decision."
Panic and rage converged inside her, orchestrated by the bitter betrayal of the Barkeep. She had cared for him, and he certainly believed he was in love with her. How could he do this to her? To her family?
"At least let me get you out of the county," he pleaded. "Once we get past the towns and cities, we can hide in the country. We can decide what to do next once we're there."
"You think you can just go home after helping me escape?"
"I'll just claim that you came calling after you and the Barkeep had a bad row," he replied. "You begged me to take you away from it all. Only a fool would turn you down."
The thought of escaping her life and responsibilities for an indefinite period of time was appealing, especially if the Bailiff truly meant to come with her. His idea of an impromptu romantic trip could do more than protect his title and position. Unlike the Northmost Lands, they could still receive news within a reasonable timeframe. Private Investigator Nolan might be good at his job, but nobody had a perfect win record. Maybe the case wouldn't stand up.
It was the best of both worlds: she neither had to abandon the fight nor risk incarceration in a prison brimming with inmates she put away.
"Fine," she said. "But I'll only do it if you agree to leave a note for the court."
"You want me to report that I'm leaving?" he asked incredulously.
"If you don't, people will wonder why you ran off without informing the courts that you wouldn't be able to fulfill your shifts," she reasoned. "I'll send word to my deputies and leave a note for my parents."
"We don't have a moment to waste," he pleaded.
"Then write quickly."
The Bailiff did as she requested, scribbling down a formal letter to the courts explaining his abrupt absence from his sworn duties. Though it took precious few minutes to write, it felt as if they were sealing their fate in ink with every character. When he failed to hide his discomfort and impatience, the Sheriff pointed out that, by the time the warrant was fully processed, the early morning shift change would begin, which provided more than enough time for them to exit gracefully. He bit his lip to prevent himself from saying something harsh and short-sighted. Of all the woman in the Midlands, why did he have to fall for the most stubborn and independent?
Finally, the Sheriff left a note on the table for her parents and insisted on arrangements to ensure the timely arrival of their missives. He readied for yet another protest, but she stemmed the tide before he began by promising to travel immediately to the barn he had selected as a rendezvous point. If she concluded her work with haste and was swift of foot - both of which she readily vowed - then she would arrive long before dawn, and they would leave under the cover of nightfall.
"Don't forget to pack your own bag," the Sheriff reminded him. "I don't want to be out in the countryside with a man who has only two pairs of underwear to his name."
He laughed as genuine relief filled him, for he felt that they might yet survive this coming darkness.
"I'll ask Red to carry my letter," he said. "She has the early morning shift, and she won't hound me with questions."
"And I'll pin this to August's door," she added, holding up an evelope.
"August?" he repeated in disbelief. "That dozy neighbor of yours who fashions himself a writer?"
"He does write summaries that are published," she countered.
"On milk bottles," he snapped. "He doesn't even have his words printed properly in the paper yet."
"Then it's a good thing that I'm not asking him to write anything," she said sharply. "He's the only neighbor nearby that'll be up by dawn, before anyone comes looking for me. Besides, he has a crush on me - "
"Aye, so does Red, and Belle, and half the town," he interrupted.
She continued as if he hadn't said anything, "And he will make sure the deputies receive my letter and instructions, no matter what."
"Aye, he will. I'll meet you at the barn in one hour."
"I'll be there in half an hour, waiting on you," she replied with a smile.
The Bailiff hadn't realized she had gotten so close during their conversation, but she was standing right next to him, blocking the direct path to the door. Her hand traveled up his arm to his cheek, and the faint pressure of her touch seared his blood, causing him to flush. The tiniest gasp absconded from his lips when she cupped his chin, and then her body closed in on his as she went on her tiptoes. His arms - acting on their own accord - enclosed her in a crushing hug as she kissed him. It was long and passionate, and had she not given her word to meet him only an hour later he would've thought that it was a goodbye kiss. He leaned his forehead into hers, wondering if he needed to worry that she was only sending him away to protect him.
"Emma," he began, not quite sure what to say next.
Her hands stroked down his shoulders and back before playfully palming his bottom as she squeezed him into another hug. He released an audible sigh, for she'd never say 'goodbye' with such a lewd gesture. She stepped away, revealing the door not far behind her.
"One hour," she said, as if she could read his mind. "Don't be late."
"Until then."
He mused over everything as he traveled home to pack a bag. She was incredible. He burst into her home in the dead of night with - if not the worst news imaginable, then something quite nearly so - and yet, she still discovered a means to make him laugh, to make him hope. He found himself looking forward to their adventure, despite the fact that the impromptu romantic getaway was a cover story rather than a vacation. The anticipation of being a mere hour away from a trip that enabled them to be together and simultaneously apart from the noise and hectic bustle of their day to day lives was exhilarating, even with the pall of treachery hanging over them.
The Bailiff would keep her free by whatever means necessary.
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Chapter 8: The Wrath of Melinoe
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Mnemosyne was a Greek Titan and the personification of memory.