Feivel felt his head slip on his hand. As his chin jerked towards his chest, he startled awake. That was uncharacteristic. He didn't fall asleep on watch. Well, it couldn't have been for very long. He turned, looking for Janice. The lights were out. There was no smell of smoke from freshly-snuffed wicks.

And janice was nowhere to be found.

The door was slightly ajar.

Feivel skidded on the sand that had blown in over the course of the night. "Shit!" he breathed as he lit a lantern and saw she really was not there. "Shit, shit, shit!" He threw on his heavy cloak and fastened it high on his face, to keep everything but his eyes covered. He strapped on his swords and burst into the storm, wind whipping him sideways almost immediately.

He couldn't see anything.

"Janice!" he shouted, trying to be heard over the wind.

It was to no avail.

He drew on his faith, then, knowing she was quite possibly lost forever. "If he were to find her only to lose her, then so be it. Fate had a plan, the likes of which were beyond his comprehension.

He gave Janice up.

She was Fate's charge now, until she was returned to him.

Quetz had flown the length of bridge across the chasm and now held the ropes taut as Camphor scrambled lightly across it and drove the stakes into the earth. It was a rope and log bridge, wide enough fro a wagon to fit upon comfortably. He watched as Faline pushed his cart across the slightly uneven surface. He'd done the best he could, given the resources. Ideally, he would have spent several months and made the bridge much sturdier.

As it was, Quetz was already acting suspicious of him. He needed to keep a lower profile, if he could. Which meant that he had to act mortal, eating and sleeping at regular intervals, acting as if the way things were had any bearring on his life at all.

His status as a Casketmaker was the highest form of escapism possible.

Still, the bridge was finished.

That meant he could no longer procrastinate his journey to whatever lay to the West.

Considering the insistant throbbing in his right hand, the dull yanking sensation, he could only guess what was coming.

And he didn't like any of those guesses.

At all.

Tem didn't dare delve deeper into Gleb than was absolutely necessary.

The foreigner was a gracious host, but Tem couldn't help but imagine he was considering how much he would get paid for returning Tem to the King of Midgradia for some ransom or bounty or something.

It unnerved him, and after a week, Gleb was still perfectly courteous. That unnerved him more.

The foreigner didn't keep him. But every morning, Tem would sneak out quietly and work the square until he'd made enough money, and there would be Gleb, offering to help him with his shopping.

Tem had even gone so far as to tell his tales outside the city gates. Gleb offered him lunch. Finally, Tem could take it no more.

"I must confess," he said sternly over dinner. "You unnerve me utterly, Gleb."

"How is this you are meaning?" Gleb asked, his thick and dusky voice devoid of its usual peals of laughter.

"No matter where I go, you find me."

Gleb's laughter returned. "None has been tellin' ye, then now?"

"What?"

"You be havin' a blindness, Tem, and bes it my businessin' to tred feet unhearful."

"I thought you were a butcher."

"'Twould be a right and sorrowful butcher if'n the cattle been hearin' my comin'."

Tem stopped eating. "Just... what, exactly, is it that you butcher?"

In the silence that stretched out, Tem could feel the grin on Gleb's face.

"Gleb."

"You be knowin' it right truthful. You jus' be wantin' to know little if'n all."

Tem dropped his fork and felt sick. He put his hand over his mouth and felt the color drain out of him. "Just tell me. Please."

"I been wantin' not t' be havin' any sort reason t' be killin' ye, Tem. Ye best be makin' your own self right-certain I be havin' reason none," Gleb warned.

"What proof would I have?" Tem hissed. "I'm blind! No one credits a blind witness! Just tell me. Please."

The smile was gone from his voice. "It be bein' my business t' work them jobs the likes of which oftwhiles be endin' the averageful somebody in yon house of irons."

Tem said nothing. He waited patiently.

"I be bein' set about by clinetelle to be robbin' an' cuttin' many the throats and purses o' whomever for whyever. I ain't much to be askin' questions. They pay enough, an' it be the works I been well intentioned as doin'. Not everyman be windin' as well-perched as Historian to a King, Misser Tem Raithcliff. Best ye be rememberful of this."

Tem stared down at the food before him, even if he couldn't see it. Damn his need to trust people! Damn his blindness! He'd opened his eyes just long enough to find himself in a serpant's grip.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," he said, his voice as dead as he could manage it. "Don't follow me."

Gershwin stopped his horse. He felt her pull, her tug, but he stared around anyway. They were far away still, whatever they were. One, however, stayed, while the other moved away.

Fate's pull dragged him in both directions at once. Neither felt more urgent than the other.

He stared up at the sky in exasperation.

"I AM NOT TWO PEOPLE ANYMORE!" he shouted.

Just how did she expect him to do this? He was going to have to get creative.

He took the whistle to his teeth, let loose a shrill, ear-splitting scream of noise, and he and his horse thundered away, driving relentlessly towards the one which moved away.

"General, you must be mistaken. There's nothing in a girl's head but fluff, especially Danke's head!" Marley argued, choosing her words, tone, and behavior very carefully. "She can't possibly be a witch. She doesn't have the mind for it."

"The girl is to be subject to a full review of inquiry. She will be tested thoroughly, and if found to be guilty, dealt with accordingly." He adjusted his cufflinks seriously. "Statistically, there are more women known to be witches than men, and even the most empty-headed woman has had precedant to be tried, and ultimately burned, as a witch."

"Of course, General," Marley said defferentially. She hung her head subserviantly, but she was scheming deep within. "Who was it who brought these charges against my girl?"

"Mrs. Henrietta Lewis has set forth that the accused has been bewitching her husband, dulling needles, and curdling milk. Though I'd be careful about that 'my girl' phrase, Miss Levinsworth. Someone could get the wrong idea."

Marley raised her eyebrows as she raised her coffee cup to her lips. She shook her head before taking a sip from the delicate china cup. "I can't imagine why," she said dismissively. "Ours is an honest surgery and birthing center. None of my girls will be found as a witch, and I'll gladly put that up as testimony if necessary."

The general shook his head and smiled sympathetically. "If you need anything in the coming days, Miss Levinsworth..." He laid his hand firmly on hers. "Allow me to offer you my services."

She sighed and nodded.

It was what she wanted to hear from which rank, but the timing could not have been more ill.