Natural Selection

[Jasmina Apsara]

Jasmina made interested little "hm" and "mhm" noises as Salliniari rambled about the architecture. She didn't really know anything about the subject, so she had nothing to contribute, but he didn't seem to expect her to. Listening to him talk about the city was pleasant enough; all the more fascinating was gazing out the carriage windows at the buildings they passed.

The university, in particular, held her attention. She had never attended formal school, herself. Her father had taught her to read and write, although she was not far beyond the level of basic literacy in either. Her mother and older sisters had taught her to dance. Life had taught her the rest of what she needed to know. Jasmina didn't feel the need for more education, but it intrigued her, probably for the same reason others enjoyed her dancing: it was unknown, the skill was obvious, and compared to one's mundane existence it seemed a bit exotic. Only for Jasmina, living as a traveling bellydancer was the norm, and a life of books and study was beyond what she could imagine.

When Salliniari opened her door and gave her a gentlemanly hand out of the carriage-- she didn't need any help getting down, but she understood the gesture as courtly rather than practical-- she gave him a smile in return.

"Thank you, sir. You are most kind to give me so much of your time. The rosewalk... it is lovely, like all of Keltaris."

In truth, she felt more at home here than she had anywhere else in the city. The trees and flowers reminded her ever so slightly of the forests and hills of her childhood. Whether or not Salliniari noticed it, her posture was subtly more relaxed than he would ever have seen her.

[Dorcas Tansy]

Dorcas kept up jogging alongside Chrishton as far as he went. Although her tendency was usually to clump along in her boots, dragging her feet, she was not unathletic. She could improve her form when need be, and she did not fall behind. It wasn't until he trotted to a halt that she stopped as well and her constitution caught up to her.

They hadn't eaten particularly well the past few days. There were at least a few stops along their pilgrimage to Keltaris where they had eaten decently, but those couldn't entirely make up for the general scarcity of nourishment Dorcas and Chrishton had suffered. She was suddenly very dizzy; her consciousness seemed to be nothing but the air she breathed: cold, thick night sky, as oppressive and nauseating as a lungful of water.

Dorcas's hand scrabbled at Chris's sleeve, nudged the barrel of the gun. A glint of lamplight skewed off the many shining facets of dials and switches, sparkled across the stone road. She found Chris to be in rather the same shape as she was after the brisk run, and found he was right about the disguises: in this state they had no chance at accomplishing anything by relying on the merits of their combined strength or speed. They would have to go slower, rely on surprise.

She was relieved to find herself pulled into a doorway. If she could have a few moments to regain her stability, she'd be okay to move on. Surely a fortifying snack wouldn't hurt, but it was out of the question. Dorcas did not at all realize that the constable riding near them had glanced sidelong at the strange disruption in shadow caused by the glint of the gnome's gun. She hardly even recognized the danger of the constable . . . how could she have imagined that after mere hours in a new city, they'd become outlaws again?

In the alcove where they paused, she placed her hands against the brick. It was good to feel something solid when she herself felt so disconcertingly airy. She didn't mean to be snippy, but she was so disoriented she could hardly keep conscious track of her natural tendency to be so:

"Well fin' some then," she exhaled, "idea man."

[Chrishton Radu]

Guido knew his best friend well. Though the little mute wasn't as clear-headed as the doctor, or able to see how dire Salliniari's situation was, he did know that Salliniari needed calming down. Sending him away with Jasmina was the best way to accomplish this.

The company of a pretty woman with no strings attached took the older man back to his youthful days when impressing women was foremost on his mind. Back before he found love, and had it taken away... It fought with his perpetual bitterness and regret for attention in his mind.

He took Jasmina on a long walk, talking to her about how things used to be with him and his family, about how he used to come here as a child and then later when he was old enough to bring dates. Occasionally he flirted but it was never serious, only jokes meant to lighten to mood and test the water. He knew she didn't look at him that way, but that was fine with him. He had nothing to prove.

It was a perfect day for it. A cool breeze kept the temperature modest, carrying with it the scents of flowers and trees. Despite being in the center of a city like Keltaris, it was quiet and peaceful. That alone helped him forget what was going on around him.

* * *

"Well feck, Dor. I ain't got no ideas. I'm old'n stupid. All I got's m'magic, an' y'wilna let me use it. Best I kin come up with is t'punch out some ol' lady 'n take 'er 'eadscarf."

It was something of a bind for them. No transportation, no friends, little money, an effective ban on magic... Robbing a place in the middle of Keltaris wouldn't work the same way it did in Marn.

The man on the horse rode past without checking into the alcove in which they had hidden themselves. Chrishton didn't recognize the uniform. Up close it was a similar blue and gold color scheme of the constabulary, but the getup was different.

"C'mon then. We'll wing it."

He put a hand on her shoulders behind her neck and urged her along. Her tiredness showed - he didn't blame her - but they had to keep moving. Something would turn up. He was hungry too, but more used to it than Dorcas. It would be a long time before he noticed.

It wasn't long before it did either. Keltaris was a booming city and a mecca for trade. All kinds of random paraphernalia flowed through on its way to the rest of Eyropa, including exotic clothes and magic. The strong xenophobic attitude of the puradynes could never overcome the power of money.

The duo slipped into the first clothing store they came across. As luck would have it, it was a big place not only meant for humans, and immediately upon entrance they were surrounded by articles of clothing meant to show off the pomp fitting of the Keltarian middle classes that wanted to be more but didn't know how. Barely passable fabrics and gaudy display pieces tried to emulate cultural garb from the various corners of the civilized world in ways that would never pass as the genuine article.

The shopkeeper was a little brown man who was quick to abandon his hard-sell approach when Chrishton made it clear what he would do with his teeth after he removed them from his jaw. After several minutes of searching followed by several more spent haggling, the two were able to score enough material to keep their identities concealed at the cost of the rest of their money. Chrishton wore a turban on his head along with a face scarf that would have him looking like a bandit if not for the foreign touch. He let Dorcas pick her own. They both knew he couldn't afford much.

Once back outside he started leading her in the direction the carriage had gone. Abandoning the bulky gnomish gun was tempting, but he was determined to make some use of the contraption he'd managed to swindle.

"Gonna be a long walk, Dor." His voice came a bit muffled from under the scarf. That alone made all the difference, considering how his loud mouth was a defining feature. "Whate'er we do t'this girl ain't gonna be half as bad as what I figure that witch's got in store fer 'er. I think she's lookin' t'do somethin' nasty. She wants 'er hair or 'er blood. That canna be good. She's plannin some kinda ritual with that shit... An' t'be totally honest, I ain't decided what I'm gonna do."

[Dorcas Tansy]

"C'mon then. We'll wing it," he had said.

It was enough to steel Dorcas's constitution just a little bit longer. He hadn't given them much of a plan, but he'd steered away from his indecision of a moment before. Since she'd arrived at the brothel in Marn, she'd been desperately seeking stability in whatever form it came, and she wasn't about to see it slip away. The stability Chrishton offered was a far cry from safety and security, but more than anything the girl just needed someone with a strong enough will.

She followed behind him so closely that her toes nipped her heels a few times. She practically barreled past him into the clothing shop.

Her search was characterized by a combination of giddiness and haste. Little though it showed in the shabby, shapeless woolen items that made up most of her wardrobe, Dorcas did have a fondness for clothing. She tied scarves around her hips and shoulders, fished through springy mounds of hats for proper accessories, and put each item back in turn each time she glanced guiltily in Chrishton's direction.

Eventually, Chris had dressed himself, and Dorcas was faced with the reality of decision time. Sadly, they were attempting to go incognito, and so an ensemble less flamboyant than she'd prefer was in order. In keeping with his Southern style, Dorcas swathed herself in an exceptionally plain long brown robe and a voluminous yellowed headscarf, the train of which she looped around and mounded upon her shoulders.

Outside, she sized him up as he spoke. It was a good disguise. It even distorted his apparent height. As for herself, with her blond hair covered and her pale complexion shadowed, her mother's Greek features showed through and completed the illusion that she was an entirely different breed of human. With any luck, they looked far enough removed from the outlaws of Salliniari's as to deflect most suspicion.

Dorcas walked alongside him. She lifted her sleeve to muffle her mouth when she spoke, because she liked the effect his own scarf was having disguising his voice. "That witch is healin' your--him. What'd the dancer girl ev'r do for us? I can' imagine you're actch'ly hopin' to hop in bed with the dancer. . . so?"

Dorcas could be a selfish girl, but she wasn't inclined towards evil. She was merely prompting him through his indecision, and she wanted to hear an answer.

[Chrishton Radu]

The turban and scarf look was a rare first for Chrishton. In the store he chose it largely because it was one of the only things in there he thought he could pull off without looking completely ridiculous, but the longer he wore it and the more he got used to how it felt on his head, the more he liked it. His skin was a bit too pale for someone from the southeastern provinces, but somehow it was not completely obvious - either due to the facial scarf he wore or the comfortable ease with which he carried himself regularly. The rest of his clothes didn't quite match the head-wear either, yet this too was easily excusable for someone who had been on the road.

The disguise would hold up until he opened his mouth to speak. He made a mental note to keep quiet in front of others.

" 'Sright, Dor. She's a witch." He was glad to see Dorcas finally acknowledging the reality she was living in. "An' she's tryin' t'use us. If I wasna'fraid o'er yellin' out an' attractin' attention while we're busy keepin' a low profile, I'd ne'er do a damn thing the bitch asked. I ain't sure exactly what it means t'the dancer if we give the witch what she wants. It might kill 'er, or worse. Dun' kid yerself. We ain't the good guys 'ere."

He let the comment about trying to get into bed with the dancer slide. Of course he would if he could, but it wasn't a priority. What he wanted was to get Cervantes out of Keltaris - nothing more.

"Anyway, I'm 'opin' it'll be a distraction I kin use t'get Cerv outta there, without givin' 'er what she wants."

The pair continued to wind their way through side streets and alleys, Chrishton never staying long on a main road where they could be marked. Useless, his spirit friend, made brief appearances ahead of them to keep him on the right track. A brief flash of orange every few minutes was all Chrishton needed to see to know he was headed the right way.

They passed the towering marble government buildings and temples, made their way behind the university that Salliniari's coach had passed, until gradually the large buildings of the inner city gave way to trees and grass. There were fewer people in the park, but the ones who were there had more idle time to observe the pair. It was getting harder and harder to go unnoticed.

Nobody wanted trouble. Especially not from a brawny foreign man with an oversized weapon in his hands. Chrishton thoroughly ignored the ones who stared.

Their route took them down a narrow path laid with white stone surrounded with grass and flowers. Trees and tall hedges cut the city off from view, creating an isolated space that was so peaceful it was surreal. The sound of water being pumped out of a fountain could be heard as it splashed down into a large pond around which there was a large clearing.

Chrishton kept quiet for the remainder of the trip, preferring to keep his eyes alert. When the two of them passed beneath a pergola entangled in dry roses, he stopped and held his hand out to block Dorcas from going any further. Two figures were walking alone, barely visible up ahead. Sallinari and the dancer.

"This turban ain't gonna fool th' ol' man. We gotta nab the girl, an' their carriage."

He looked at Dorcas.

"Wait exactly one minute, then go up there an' strike some conversation. 'E's gonna recognize ya, but it dun' matter. Pretend like yer scared... tell 'im y've got guards chasin' ya cause o' 'im and tell 'im yer innocent an' dunno why. Y'come 'ere cause y'need 'i'm t'call 'em off. Got it?"

[Dorcas Tansy]

Dorcas stopped, suddenly and decisively, at the barricade of Chris's hand. The slouch of her shoulders reeled, and her gaze stayed fixed ahead. She was staring intently at the backs of her intended targets. As he gave his instructions, she nodded and tugged at the fabric of her headscarf where it was wound beneath her chin to loosen it a bit.

It was maybe a little bit less than a minute before she put a hand on Chris's arm to silently signal her intent to depart. She pulled her scarf back from the crown of her head, freeing her matted blond hair. Without a word or another glance in his direction, she left Chrishton's side and started forward into the Rosewalk--at first haltingly, then gradually picking up to a brisk walk.

Dorcas neared Salliniari and the dancer. The cold air caught in her throat as she opened her mouth to speak, and she gave a small cough. It was for the better, as she hadn't any idea at first what to say. The cough would attract their attention to begin with.

She saw his face as he glanced back in her direction. Stricken with momentary panic, nervous as she was to pretend her innocence to a crime she didn't understand, she clutched at a hank of hair at her nape. Anxiousness was an entirely appropriate emotion, though, to display to Salliniari as a part of this ruse.

"Oh! Um, it's you!" she stammered. "Please, uh. . ." She didn't dare glance back over her shoulder, for fear that Chris wasn't entirely out of sight. It was a lucky habit of Dorcas's to pick up on local accents pretty quickly, because as she formulated what she wanted to say, she kept in mind some of the quirks of speech she'd heard among Wragham and the other university students. She'd sound at least a little like a local, or at least not as thoroughly foreign as she really was.

"Please sir, the guard? I think I'm being dogged, sir! Can you help me please? It's uncalled for, positively!" She fretted her teeth over her chapped lower lip and blinked several times so as to look like she might cry. She failed to greet the dancer in turn, but if she was convincing enough so far, then this could perhaps be written off as nerves, or even as the casual haughtiness of an ivory tower collegiate.

[Chrishton Radu]

Salliniari was full of interesting things to say. Anyone unaware of the inaccuracies of his historical references or the skewed understanding of the world shared by most of the locals in Keltaris would think he was a trove of valuable insight. When his personal wisdom interacted with stories he'd heard, he even managed to lend a lot of truth to stories that were originally fabricated by the personal and political agendas of others.

He began to subtly work on Jasmina's views, bouncing the occasional puradynic idea off of her and seeing how she might react. Questions like how many non humans she knew, if she thought most of them were good at heart, or if she understood the principle of magic as illusory, distorted, and dangerous. His city, after all, was built on the backs of human labour and by human hands, not sprung up by magical means.

Or so he thought. Nobody liked to talk about how much magic was actually used to make Keltaris, much like they never talked about the deals they made with the most powerful wizards to keep it safe.

Sallinari inhaled as he prepared to posit another question to Jasmina, when he saw the second last person he ever expected to see. It was the very girl from the tavern that was somehow involved in the whole ordeal that threatened to unravel his business and his life. The one he had come to the rosewalk to stop thinking about, because trying to find her in the city himself was hopeless.

He didn't know what to do. Confusion reigned. What was she babbling about? Dogged by the guard? It was so absurd of her to come to him like this that she was either insane, or...

"You-"

There was a sound behind him. Someone was already there stepping on leaves and breaking twigs. He spun around to stare directly at the last person he expected to see.

A familiar fist heading for his still tender temple. The older man was not built to take such punishment. A single blow put him out cold. His face would swell up badly this time.

Punching people came so naturally to Chrishton that he didn't miss a beat. He just started talking to Jasmina, starting off loudly in case she was going to yell. He was breathing heavily and was obviously in a hurry, and yet he was smiling. "Hi! I'm Chrish, this's Dor, an' we need ya t'come with us. I'd rather not hit ya, but m'son's life is on th'line, an' if I dun get ya t'come along, 'e's gonna die. So all I'm really askin' is if I gotta hit ya or not. Choose now, cause we gotta go."

The turban on his head was an unraveling mess. He'd forgotten it was there.

[Jasmina Apsara]

Jasmina did her best to answer with what Salliniari wanted to hear. No, she didn't know many non-humans. She really had no opinion on them. She had met some in her travels, but she wasn't well enough acquainted with them to have a distinct concept of how they compared. In general, she had journeyed between human settlements-- the actual reason for this being that she assumed they would appreciate her art more and tip her better, but she didn't let Salliniari in on the fact that her line of reasoning was purely practical rather than at all ideological.

She answered questions about magic politely, but didn't seem too taken with the concept. Jasmina had seen what they called 'magic' of course-- telling of fortunes, card tricks, parlor games. They were just illusions, though. Just sleight of hand and a good reading of the other person. Jasmina had very little experience with actual magic of the supernatural sort. In truth, it wasn't a subject she considered especially relevant to her own life, so she would seem no more interested in that than in any other discussion. Less so, even, than the architecture.

Then, in the middle of this mundane and careful conversation, things suddenly went mad.

Before Salliniari had even stopped speaking, Jasmina had noticed the newcomers, but she was struck dumb by the suddenness of their appearance. She was wary, watchful, expecting her companion to deal with it... somehow... but still ready to make a move herself if necessary.

The punch still took her by surprise. Salliniari sank like a stone. Jasmina's first impulse was to help him, but what could she do? She was no healer, no medic. The best way she could 'help' would be to find someone who was actually capable of assisting.

Quick as a shot, her well-trained and strong muscles spun her in the opposite direction, and she took of at a run, headed toward the busy streets bustling with people that they had passed through in the carriage.

[Dorcas Tansy]

In the moments that Salliniari gaped at her, Dorcas sucked her lower lip beneath her teeth and tried not to bite so hard as to draw blood. That moment was over quickly enough, when Chris came up to shatter it with a blow placed well enough.

Dorcas's knuckles flexed and felt comfortably taut when she heard that satisfying sound. A brief noise came up in her chapped throat not unlike the keen chattering her cat sometimes produced when staring down birds or invisible spooks. Her desperate eyes flicked to Jasmina--she expected the girl to be gone in a flash.

Still, that girl faltered before making her move. Chris had time to say his part, and only then she chose to run like a rabbit.

Dorcas had, after all, expected her to run. Two hesitations kept her from simply acting on that expectation and grabbing the girl outright: first, her reluctance to accept the inevitability of the task at hand, the fact that Chris really was hell bent on returning to that strange boy who was wrecking things so perfectly; and second, the odd stiffness in her joints that refused to respond to reflex for a second.

The stiffness would abate, anyway, and Dorcas would have to buck up and accept the nagging certainty of the reasons for Chris's attachment to that interloper fox boy. She made a move.

She began to run after the girl. There was no plan. Something resembling a plan really just came to her and flowed into actualization in an unfiltered stream of consciousness.

Dorcas became aware of how very much the girl reminded her of an illustration in an old novel of hers--an artist's fanciful notion of a harem lady, one of those gauzy brown creatures traipsing around the tropical slave-lust dreams of an islandbound Englishman. Entertainer or no, the girl wasn't exactly dressed like a gentlewoman. And Dorcas and Chris--they were dressed like desert-caravan types themselves, or at least that's what the picture books of her homeland would have her believe.

"Stop!" Dorcas shouted, as deeply as she could manage through burning lungs. "Thief--SLAVE!" They were about the same thing anyway, in common discourse. If the crowd believed either, they might just impede the girl's progress.

Dorcas continued to shout various things to gather attention to the notion that this girl was a lower element who should be contained. At least a few of the sparse evening foot traffic turned, shifted their footing, craned their necks, and otherwise created a more interactive series of obstacles to Jasmina's path than a merely uninterested crowd.

Salliniari's downed form was behind them, hidden mostly in the shadows of the garden. If Chris could be bothered to fix his turban, he might even be able to help with nabbing this girl--he was the one who wanted to get her, after all.

[Chrishton Radu]

So she decided to run.

Unlike Doracs, Chrishton wasn't quite expecting it. He had hoped that his wit, charm, and dashing good looks that were straight out of some Arabian Nights book Dorcas might be familiar with would win her over to their side... Had the Arabs been white, unwashed beasts. Perhaps the rugged appeal was lost on her.

Fortunately, also unlike Dorcas, he never suffered the stiffness that came with the early onset of adrenaline or shock. He was quick to follow, plowing through a bush on his way after the dancer. He also quickly realized that his cover was not yet blown with the constabulary or the locals, and started fixing his turban as best he could while running.

Dorcas' yells didn't prompt any good Samaritans to stop the alleged runaway slave/thief at first. What it did do was get people to make more room for Dorcas and Chrishton to run after her. People who weren't keen on getting involved at least didn't want to be an impediment. They were making progress catching up at least, and soon Chrishton joined in with the yelling.

"Someone stop 'er!" Hopefully nobody would notice how poorly his accent fit with his clothes.

Eventually someone did help. A group of 3 white men, clean shaven with short hair and in workers' clothes, decided to block her way. As Jasmina attempted to run by, one of them put his arms out to stop her and the others looked ready to back him up. They didn't like rabble breaking the laws in their city. People should know their place, including slaves, if she actually was one (though they were rare, there was a climate that accepted the notion of slaves in many parts of Eyropa).

[Jasmina Apsara]

As Jasmina realized she was being stopped, she finally got her bearings again.

"These people chasing me are the criminals!" she shouted. "They have attacked Mr. Salliniari and left him bleeding in the park! Please, someone must come to his aid!"

This particular declaration served several purposes. For one thing, she was seeking help, as she had intended to all along. For another, though, in spite of her panic, she somehow remembered with a stab of practicality that Salliniari was influential. Shouting his name was likely to draw more attention than making any claims on her own behalf. Lastly, this truthful accusation would hopefully cast light on who was the real troublemaker.

"I am no slave!" Jasmina added. "I am a free person and Mr. Salliniari is my employer. Do not fall prey to these lies, I implore you!"

The speech was overly formal, a product of shouting it in a language that was not her native one, but it was delivered with certainty and clarity. What remained to be seen was if it would help matters - or make things worse.

[Dorcas Tansy]

Jasmina's diction was not the only aspect of her plea that gave her away as an outsider. In fact, the quality of her speech was the least of what drew the suspicion of bystanders. It was her content that turned people off to the idea of getting involved.

The dancer's experience in the city had been limited enough that it stood to reason she might think Salliniari was as adored everywhere else as he was within his circle of admirers. This notion, unfortunately, was not exactly true. Yes, Salliniari was well-known. And those who knew him numbered at least as many enemies to the man as friends among their ranks. Someone calling for the aid of a conveniently out-of-sight Salliniari could easily be a hoax, or even a trap set by his detractors.

Then there was the old standby of human psychology, the bystander effect. People just tended not to get involved in the suffering of others. Those few men who stopped Jasmina didn't even use their hands; it was easier to be as uninvolved as possible, jostling her a little with their arms and blocking her way. They halfway listened to some of what she said, but it was really just so much noise. They averted their gaze from the very creature they were deliberately impeding.

Dorcas caught up to Jasmina and huffed a noise of thanks to the men. She took a hold of Jasmina's upper arm and lowered her eyes to glower at the dancer's shoes. The men themselves only briefly made eye contact, and gradually scooted of on their own. They kept near, but disassociated themselves into he crowd.

That was where Dorcas, Jasmina, and Chris as soon as he caught up, found themselves--in the middle of a somewhat sparse and thoroughly uninterested crowd.

This was different from Marn. Here, people had their cosmopolitan mentality. Where so many cultures came together, ordinary citizens couldn't afford to upset the delicate live-and-let-live balance. In Marn, people were much warier of the unfamiliar.

"Settle down," Dorcas finally managed to hiss at Jasmina. "Heaven's sake. There's work to be done, come along!" In such uncertain situations, Dorcas sometimes found herself falling back on the stiff efficiency that characterized so much of her British upbringing.

[Chrishton Radu]

Chrishton stomped up behind Dorcas quickly enough, although he was, by this point, completely exhausted. Beads of sweat that had formed on his brow gathered together in the few places that they didn't soak into the turban he was wearing until they formed enough mass to roll down his cheek and nose.

He fought through it with the same relentlessness that he fought through most things, still smiling in a half-grin of denial. One could make a game of guessing how long he could go before collapsing. The journey, the fighting, and the chasing was catching up with his age. Lugging the gnomish gun around (what a brilliant idea that was) did nothing to help things.

Grateful for the reprieve offered to him by Dorcas and the few bystanders who offered their iota of help, he played off of Dorcas' cards without missing a step.

"Slaves," he said to the onlookers in general, "'ll say anythin' when they think they c'n get away with it. That's what I get fer usin' m'belt t' 'old up m'pants instead o' what it's meant fer."

His odd speech and mannerisms fit his attire like a square peg in a round hole. He quickly realized that shutting up was working better than trying to talk, and began hustling Dorcas and Jasmina along.

In a lower voice meant only for them, he said, "if y'make m'run after ya again', I'll make y'wish y'were Salliniari."

[Jasmina Apsara]

Perhaps Jasmina should have been scared. In fact, that was fairly probable. She wasn't, though. She didn't have the emotional energy, because she was too busy being angry. At the moment, the primary target of her ire was the indifferent crowd.

What were they playing at? Were they really so foolish or indifferent that they would actively hinder a stranger in need? They were like sheep milling in a pen, with no more awareness or will.

She wished there was some way of making them pay, or at least realize their mistake. It was impossible, though. Eventually, Salliniari would be found, but these particular onlookers would be long gone. Jasmina hoped the old man survived; there seemed to be little she could do for him. Little she could do for herself, for that matter.

"Brigands!" Jasmina said icily, addressing her captors-by-default. "What is this about? Robbery? You'll find I have very little, but I'll hand it over if you let me go. Or do you have more... unseemly... conduct planned?"

Jasmina wouldn't have expected it of a woman, but who knew, these days. If she could cry for help in front of a dozen people and still end up trapped like an animal, then surely a woman was capable of perverseness, just as a man.

"I assure you, that will be more trouble than it is worth. I don't give in easily. You wouldn't want to fight with a pregnant woman, would you?"

She wasn't exactly eager to fight either, for the same reason, but she didn't exactly have a choice.

[Dorcas Tansy]

Unfortunately for Jasmina, if there was any class of vulnerable creatures that Dorcas had lost all patience for, it was the pregnant. His father's new wife hadn't swayed his affection quite so fully from Dorcas until she became the vessel for his new baby. And most recently Udorl represented everything savvy and manipulative and womanly to pull the rug right out from under Dorcas, all in a daily-expanding package. No, if anything, Jasmina's revelation that she was carrying a baby fueled a hot streak of anger rather than sympathy.

Unseemly conduct was not exactly on the menu, at least in Dorcas's thinking (and even Chrishton seemed to be a fan of girls first showing signs of consent before disappearing into another room with them). But the combination of anger, exhaustion, and a confusion of teenage hormones translated into a strange urge towards the sadistic that was indeed unseemly. Another charming characteristic of adolescents was their poor impulse control.

Dorcas grabbed Jasmina's slender wrist in her own much less delicate paw and squeezed hard. Part of her wanted to see if the crunchy shifting of tendon against bone would satisfy to her urge to see the woman in pain. Mostly, though, she was just trying to get a move on and leave a narrow wake.

The feel of Jasmina's skin in her fist, slipping over the column of muscle and bone, was agitating because it felt so real. Dorcas dug her dull, bitten fingernails into the skin on the underside of Mina's wrist and started back towards the neighborhood from which they'd come--a much more direct route now, and almost exactly in line with the path Salliniari's coach had taken.

Something caught Dorcas's eye, however, off the path of her intent. On the edge of a side street, one block down from the wide road into the center of town, there was her cat, sitting on top of an old barrel and licking his paw. His eyes were nearly closed in slits of peaceful pleasure as he groomed.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and almost apologized to Mina for squeezing her wrist so hard in surprise until she realized she wasn't apologizing to this girl. She veered off, towing Mina, towards the narrow street where her cat was. It was a good thing she did, for it was hardly a good plan to take the same path back that Salliniari's people were apt to if they so decided.