Names were stated as the townspeople stepped forward, many with shaking hands and averted gazes. A few stepped forward with their heads hung low and their hands clasped in prayer. The Priest would size each person up, and a few he would beckon forward to his horse, laying his hands on their shoulders and staring intently at their faces. The first few people passed, the Priest commanding a soldier to escort them back to their houses. About five people in, a woman and her little daughter stepped forward, the mother keeping her gaze level in front of her. The little girl was crying, trying to hide behind her mother's skirts. The woman called out their last names,

"Procter."

The Priest's brows furrowed heavily together and he beckoned them both forward. They stepped closer, but the little girl kept tripping over her dress. She couldn't have been more than four years old. The mother picked her up and put her on her hip, the child burrowing her face into her mothers shoulder. The Priest regarded them for some time and then reached his hand out, hovering over the child's mother. His hand stayed there for a moment, and then he shook his head, his arm beginning to move toward the child. The mother pulled back, just out of his reach. He sat up and yelled to the men behind him,

"Take the child. She has magic."

The mother began screaming, her hands desperately grasping at her child as they yanked her from her arms. She fought, biting and scratching at the men as they hauled her away, out of the group of people. They could hear her cries as she was escorted away. The Priest turned to the soldier holding the little girl. Abigail could barely make out what he addressed to the soldier,

"...not strong. Just hold her there...check again."

More people shuffled forward, one by one. The girl in front of Abigail went, stating her name as "Bradford," and the Priest dismissed her. It was Abigail's turn. She felt her body move forward, felt the jolt of her heel into the wet dirt, her hands wrapped tightly around each other. She couldn't bring her gaze up from the ground, but stated her name as clearly as she could,

"Dyer." She waited in terror and then heard,

"Speak up!"

She felt her throat close, and she tried to shout louder,

"Dyer." She brought her eyes up from the earth, attempting to project her voice in the Priest's direction. She saw him cock his head and stare at her quizzically.

"Come here."

She obeyed, her heart racing as she stepped up to his horse. She closed her eyes tightly as his hand came down on her shoulder. Her shawl had slipped down her skin and she felt his hand, cold and wet, resting against her. She felt bile rise in her throat and fought to keep it down. He kept his hand there for a while before speaking,

"Peculiar."

A soldier stepped forward, ready to take Abigail over to where the little girl was, the poor thing wailing for her mother. Abigail felt faint, her body swaying under the Priests grip.

"Shall I take her, your Holiness?" The soldier inquired. The Priest shook his head slowly, concentrating on the top of Abigail's head.

"No. She doesn't have an ounce of magic in her, or her ancestors..."

The Priest trailed off, sounding perplexed.

"Hmm. Very peculiar. No, she may go back to her quarters." The Priest took his hand from her shoulder and Abigail felt a shiver run through her, elation at being let go tingling in her fingertips. She turned quickly with the guard, following him out to the street. He fell in line behind her and escorted her back to the tavern. She hurried into the place, shutting the doors tightly behind her. Leaning against the locked door, the wood felt cold against the back of her head. She felt like she had a fever, the heat strong underneath the skin of her face. Her back slid down the cold wood until she was sitting, crumpled, on the floor. The tavern was dark and cold, musty drafts of wind rolling through the building like the walls weren't even there. Abigail breathed deeply twice, and then put her head between her knees and cried.

                                                                                ...

Gideon was standing in the second-story hallway of his inn, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He had been mindlessly making his way to his quarters at the end of the hallway when he stopped at the door just before his own and turned. The door led to Kit's room. He stared at the shut entry for a moment. The party below him was in full swing, girls giggling in high-pitched squeals, men roaring in laughter. Voices from the foyer rose in an influx of sudden cheering up the stairs, and Gideon shifted uncomfortably, contemplating the locked room. His fingers wrapped around a key in his pocket, the metal heavy in his hand. After uneasy deliberation, he produced it from the folds of the cloth and glanced once toward the staircase, checking the doors lining the hallway. Everyone was downstairs, the passage void of any presence but his own. His fingers shook nervously as he placed the key in the lock, turning until he heard the click as the bolt slid from the catch.

He shuffled through the entrance, moving his bulk in sideways through the threshold. He fixedly surveyed the area as the door shut behind him. Everything was just as she had left it, the little space tidy and immaculate. He took two lumbering steps to the bed and picked up Kit's dress; the garment was dwarfed in his large grasp. His breath hitched as he fondled the material, his rough fingers running over the dainty lace pieces, the tips of his thumbs running gently over the cloth below the neckline. He carefully placed the dress back on the bed, tweaking its folds and creases to match how the garment was before he'd lifted it from the cot. His arm reached to the closest bedpost, picking up Kit's bonnet. He brought the cloth to his nose and took a deep breath of the fibers infused with the smell of Kit's hair—lavender and honey. Gideon closed his eyes, intoxicated. Drifting into a state of bliss he remained that way for a while standing in the middle of the room, the flimsy fabric pressed to his ruddy face.

A sudden bang sounded from the hall and startled Gideon, the bonnet tumbling from his hands. A shriek of laughter and a low rumble of what resembled a growl floated into the room from the gap under the door. The unruly sounds were of a newly formed couple, advancing their flirtation upstairs. Gideon remained frozen, listening to the sounds outside coming from the other end of the hall. Hesitating for a moment, he quietly bent to pick up the bonnet, the serenity of his private moment shattered. He calmly placed the cap as it had been, not a string out of place. Taking in the sight once more, he reluctantly made his way to leave, faltering with his fingers wrapped around the knob. The little book on the table had caught his eye. He made his way over to the diary, the dark leather cover blending into the wood. He recognized the pattern of dust that had settled over it and without meaning to, reached out and let his fingers graze the binding, lifting the front edge lightly. The book was tantalizing, teasing his desire to open its pages, to read the rest of Kit's thoughts. His thoughts turned to Kit, the lovely woman that had appeared in the inn two months ago, looking for a place to stay. He considered the book in front of him, and thought back to the night Kit first step foot into the inn. Gideon remembered looking up from pouring beers, a particularly large group filling the place that night. A young woman stood in front of him.

"Hello, I'm sorry to trouble you. Are there any vacant rooms?"

Gideon glanced at the woman the voice belonged to and nearly dropped the steins he had just poured. She was the most stunning creature he'd ever encountered. Her black hair was plaited to her slender waist, her delicate features looking sharply at him, eyes wide in the ruckus behind her. The woman had a graceful look about her, the way her neck dipped into the bones protruding just below it. She looked startled at the enormity of the man in front of her as he stood, having been leaning over to fill the beers from the kegs until she addressed him. Gideon recalled being at a loss for words, his mouth stumbling over his tongue as he attempted to respond,

"Rooms, ah, yes. I suspect there's one left. How long are you staying for?"

"I'm hoping to stay here for a few months. I'll be traveling for the majority of that time, but I need someplace while I'm here."

Gideon sensed a rush of elation as she mentioned staying at his inn for an extended period. He tried to keep his voice even as he answered,

"We have a room for that. Do you want to work"—he nodded his head toward the girls throwing themselves to the men in the foyer — "or pay for boarding?"

He endured sudden regret at the statement as he saw a bright pink blush rush to her cheeks. She bore no resemblance to the usual girls at the inn, and the blush solidified the observation. Gideon experienced a wave of protectiveness flood over him and he set the beers on the bar, placing his hands flat on the gnarled wood. He leaned forward, concern on his face,

"There is a room at the end of the hallway that is moderately quiet. You can work serving drinks here and I'll offer a small stipend for food. Does that sound fair?"

He heard the compassion in his own voice with hopefulness laced at the edges and cleared his throat. He didn't want her to know the sudden hope he sensed at wanting her to stay.

Her fingers worried at a loose thread in her cloak, the fabric tugging together before she'd pull it apart again, repeating the motion as she considered the suggestion. She agreed, indicating that she'd take his offer. He gave her a curt nod and told her to wait for a moment as he brought the group at the table their beers before beckoning her to join him up the stairs. As she moved across the room, he watched as the men, and some women, focused their attention on the young girl moving between the chairs and tables. Her body was mesmerizing - her hips swayed in step and her hair swung at her waist kept the stares of the patrons until she disappeared to the second floor, following Gideon to the available room.

She joined him at the base of the staircase and together they climbed, Gideon sensing the gazes from the room below following them up to the landing. He led her through the hall, reaching the last door before his own. Producing the key from his pocket he tinkered with the lock until the entry stood ajar. The young woman slipped by him, glancing about with her arms wrapped around her waist. She hesitated for a moment before turning toward him, her tone tentative,

"This will be fine, thank you. Do I owe you payment now?"

Gideon shook his head, noting the brilliance of her blue eyes in the moonlight filtering through the window behind her.

"No, whenever you can. We'll work out a price then."

She nodded and glanced around once more. Her full lips straightened into a thin line, thinking hard. Gideon ventured to ask,

"Is... everything all right?"

Her head shot up as a dazzling smile lit up her face, her features softening.

"Yes, absolutely."

She reached a hand out and rested it lightly on his forearm. He felt his breath catch as her icy fingers grazed his arm, cold and refreshing against his warm skin. He caught his jaw go slack and hastily cleared his throat, his voice gruff,

"Okay. Don't hesitate if the accommodations are not sufficient."

It was then that he left her, the beautiful figure alone in the middle of the moonlit floor. Later that night, his room next to hers, he listened quietly as her door creaked open, soft footsteps making their way down the stairs. The inn had long since stopped serving drinks, and the girls and some men drunkenly asleep behind the closed doors. He had waited in silence as he strained to hear her return, letting out a breath at the sound of a saddlebag gently bumping against the doorframe.

She had stayed for two weeks after that initial night, and Gideon's inclination for her grew every evening he saw her serving spirits to the patrons over time. She was young, he realized. Although he was in his early thirties and knew she might have been too young for him, he couldn't help from noticing as she bent at the kegs, the neckline of her dress falling open the slightest bit. Or the way she'd sway in between the tables effortlessly as if in a dance to the people waiting for their drinks.

It was first two weeks that left him nearly in love, his heart breaking as she told him in passing she'd be leaving for three days. He longed to ask her where she was headed, or if there was a man she was going to call upon. But he didn't, keeping his words polite and her privacy her own. It was that first night, that first night without her exquisite body laying in the room next to his, that he couldn't help himself from entering her room. He tried however, oh how he tried. He lay awake as he tossed and turned, wishing with every part of being he could go to sleep. To tamper his curiosity, he started to draw on the respect and virtue which his mother had instilled in him that he still regarded highly. Yet, the longing and desire won him over. He entered her room one night, the bed empty and the snow falling in a heightened crescendo beyond the window. It was then he first read her diary, his large fingers following the words as he spoke them under his breath, skipping the ones he didn't know, retracing his work until he'd been able to understand the markings on the page. Deciphering the words took him until the roosters crowed outside to get through the first ten pages.

After that night it became nearly routine he would enter her room after she had left, working his limited abilities of the written word in desperation of understanding Kit's thoughts and history. As morning came, he would lay the book back in the dust outline and steal back into his room, the day ahead filled with spilled drinks and dark circles under his eyes. But he never stopped. He read until he reached the last ten pages, many words still foreign to his vocabulary. It was those ten pages he still that remained unknown since the night Kit fled the bar when he had last seen her, the man who had groped her dying in her wake.

Now he would finish her story. Lifting the book, the dust floated in small plumes off of the leather bindings over the backs of his hands. He took to the door, slipping through it to his room where he sat on the edge of his bed, his hands weighted heavily by the little diary. Opening to the last pages he bent his head low and traced the words on the page with his finger.. With trepidation, his lips whispered the words inked onto the parchment:

"Today was of a peculiar sort. After running the errands for Mrs. Smith..."