2022-04-27 - The Landlord’s Black-Eyed Daughter

The first sign, for Una, that she's not woken where she fell asleep is the straw-filled pallet beneath her, poking at her delicate skin far worse than a pea hidden beneath the mattress of a princess. Eyes still closed, she gives her feet, and then her hands, an experimental wiggle. There are no ropes binding her; so that's one useful piece of information-- and a relief, besides. Other facts, picked up bit by bit in the dim: it's cold, she's wearing a cotton nightgown of some kind, or perhaps a shift? She's not wearing any underwear (which backs up the notion of the shift). Something is moving in her blanke--

UGH.

"Up!" calls a voice from somewhere overhead. Una's eyes have opened with an abrupt jerk as she bats away her blanket, and now, through the dim, she can see the portly man in an apron standing at the doorway. "Up. The floors won't wash themselves, and there's no time for dilly-dallying. You and you, let's go."

The room's still dim-- windowless, and with no lanterns or candles lit-- but Una's eyes adjust easily enough. It's a kitchen, all stone floors and walls, and though there's a little warmth coming from the stove, next to which the straw-filled mattresses sit, it's not much. It's a kitchen, then, and off to one side an open door that leads into a room that's lighter, and in which there's already other sounds beyond the man who, having decided they are awake enough, is already headed back that way.

Una turns her head to the other pallet. First things first: who's she here with? Wherever 'here' is.

"No."

The blankets move more, but this time because there's a Della, looking for once very much like herself. Prickly mattress or no, she's half on her front, half on her side, bent arm for a pillow.

Her voice is husky, groggy. She just got some sleep.

"Della," breathes Una. This is a first: sharing a Dream since the other woman 'woke' into her power. It seems to give the redhead some pause, because she hesitates, half sitting upon her pallet (and shivering in the cool air, because yes, she's definitely just wearing a white cotton shift, and it has definitely seen better days).

"Come on," follows, then. "We need to get up. I don't know where we are, or why, but... we need to do what we're told. Also, it's freezing. Where're my clothes?"

Ah. There they are. A simple (scratchy) wool dress to go over the shift, with laces up the back that the redhead ignores for the moment, though she's clearly not going to be able to do so for long: no bra, woe. A big apron, too. Wool stockings. Shoes! (That's a relief.) And a kerchief.

"Why." Whyyyyy.

Imagine little Della, hunching up further under the thin blanket -- a spider, pulling in all her legs? -- because it is freezing and her own trapped body heat is all she's got.

Imagine being a parent to four daughters. Maybe you're lucky, and two of the sisters are older, and you can set one to sit on Della with all her why-ning and get her up up up.

Perhaps it's that half-memory, or the tone of Una's voice, that leads a dark eye to creak open. Just a sliver. It threatens to shut.

Una's still only half dressed, because she's not that quick, but Della's comment has her snorting, stopping, turning those brown eyes onto the other woman. "Come on," she says. "Wherever we are, I bet there's still coffee." That may be a vain hope, but...

She's still got one wool stocking rolled halfway up her leg, but she leaves it where it is so that she can throw what is presumably Della's clothes at her. "Come on. I don't think he'd beat us, but I don't really want to find out."

"No," Della says. But this time, it's only to the pillow that is her arm, and she rubs her forehead against it: no no no. And then she slumps upward anyway, first her shoulder, then the rest of her until she's at least sort of sitting; thrown clothing falls every which way.

"This is a Dream?"

"With coffee?"

"It's cold."

"Beat us? He who?" Now she's further upright, staring at Una, with sleepies still at the inner corners of her eyes. She gets rid of them with a pinky nail, but she's still staring. And fumbling for what looks a whole lot like a junior-high drama production costume except, if that's possible, even more... 'worn' would be the kind word. "Why do we have to do any of that?'

Una's smile is crooked and rueful. She gets back to pulling stockings up her legs, though she's pretty careful not to flash anything unmentionable (or, rather: bare) as she does so. "This is a Dream," she confirms. "If we're lucky, there will be coffee. It's freezing. And--"

She glances back over her shoulder, at the doorway through which their (her?) waker disappeared. "I assume he's in charge. I don't know. I don't really know anything more than you do, I guess. Except that, well: if we don't do what the Dream wants of us, we don't wake up."

Which sounds ominous, and which she corrects, a moment later: "I mean, that's how I understand it. There's usually a point to these things, and we have to figure out what it is. He probably won't beat us. I have no idea what we're here to do, though."

"...Oh." Bad news: it still sounds ominous.

Good news: it gets Della moving, without even a teenage 'Fine.' She does check out what she can see of what Una's doing, without checking Una out; that speeds her up some, starting with the stockings since, "Do you have my bra? Maybe it's in the blankets?" precludes getting the overdress on.

"So we follow the script and we're good? Flaming trees aside."

"I don't think we get bras," is Una's mournful reply. "I think we just have to do up the laces?" That's not going to help with the cheering-up-Della bit, is it? "I'll help you and you help me?" It's not that Una won't give it a try, attempting to yank at the laces down her back, but-- her arms only go so far.

"I hope so. I mean, most of my Dreams have been fine. A bit of humiliation, sometimes, but-- mostly they're fine. Sometimes they're even fin-- fun, I mean. Sometimes they're even fun. No flaming trees."

"Lovely." Della grimaces, but, "Of course I'll help. Hold on." So she hurries with the stockings, catches up with the overdress, and crosses -- not like it's far -- to her friend. And her friend's laces, which she starts evening out. "Let me know if it gets too tight, or if I should pause so you can move things around," but otherwise she'll go at it like a pair of shoes.

"Humiliation. What kind of humiliation are we talking about? If, you know, it's not too humiliating. Now."

Like a pair of shoes works. It's probably not going to be the most comfortable clothing Una's even worn, but the lacing helps (even if she needs to wiggle a few times to make sure everything is positioned as it should be).

As Della works: "Um, hm. Like... putting you in a position that isn't comfortable for you. Or for someone else. Weak spots. But it's not always like that, either. It just, it depends, and you generally don't know what it's going to be until partway through."

It's not a full answer, but it's the one she's got. "Tie that off? And I'll do yours."

"If it were weak spots that actually would make you stronger..." but Della presses her lips together, and not because tying a bow that will actually hold is so hard. As she turns around, "So maybe it's like one of those phone games you get ads for on the game you're actually playing -- because you can't just get rid of the ads -- that advertise that maybe you can play this new game and your IQ will go up! exciting! only it (a) almost certainly isn't the same game as the ad and (b) probably wouldn't work even so. But it would be great if it did."

Somehow, talk of phone games, in this dark, presumably historical, kitchen? It feels incongruous-- it makes Una breathe out a laugh. "Something like," she agrees. "The ones with the impossible puzzles, too-- I hate those." She's methodical in how she laces Della up, careful not to go too tight, too fast, too much.

"I think they do make us stronger, though. Helps to identify our weaknesses, so we can try and protect ourselves. Gets things out in the open sometimes, too. Shoes."

She's done. Shoes, then, and a shawl. A cap over her hair. She's probably grateful not to have a mirror to see herself; it's quite enough to see Della.

"And those that say -- " Della stops herself, not because it's too tight, but to substitute in a higher-pitched voice, "But we can handle those too. It'll be fine." Just like Una said.

Shoes, fine; hers even... don't not fit too much. "As long as it's not the sort of damage that festers. Or incapacitates. That's the sort of thing that would make me want to leave and therefore not be fun anymore," is anyone listening? "...Only now I'm worrying about being ableist," Della finishes with a sigh. Apron, check. Kerchief, check. She starts for the door...

...and then, not looking at Una, comes back and fluffs the blanket. Bed made. There.

'Fine'. It's a word that may come back to haunt Una.

"That would make me want to leave too," she agrees. "The pitcher plant's nectar is only so sweet. For now--"

There's the twist of a smile, too, for Della's making of the bed-- but it only lasts a moment.

The next room makes the building's purpose clear: it's a pub, all wooden tables and benches, clustered around a hearth, with a staircase leading up and a door opened wide to the early morning. The landlord-- if that's who he is-- quickly sets them to work, and perhaps that's what this Dream is all about: cleaning and polishing, fetching water from the pump in the cobblestoned courtyard outside.

"This," mutters Una, as she dumps a dirty bucket's worth into the drain, "is the most tedious Dream I've ever encountered."

Well, that's annoying. After some minutes spent in thoroughness, Della focuses on what will show... as well as what can be done by the nice warm hearth, though that doesn't last; the cooler and cleaner air is refreshing soon enough. "What, you don't want to install one in your lovely kitchen? Talk about vintage." As long as she has a broom anyway, when the landlord looks preoccupied, she puts it between her ankles and gives a little hop.

That little hop makes Una grin: a twitching little grin that might so-promptly be followed by something else, except their slave-driver glances their way, and she straightens abruptly.

Thankfully, he's not inclined to focus there for long; he's on his way to the staircase, calling up in that big, booming voice of his: "Bess. Get your arse down here, girl, do you hear me? Bess."

And the reply, a moment later: "Coming, da!"

"Bess. Good Queen Bess. Elizabeth. Best," Della associates, patting her sadly not-flying broom before setting it aside; it's not its fault. She yawns behind her wrist and then, between intermittent pumps to get the bucket refilled with something clean, cranes to look and see who that next contestant, er, character might be. Bess.

Bess, on the stairs, her dress of finer make than the ones Della and Una have.

Bess, with all that black hair, her red skirt the same colour as the red ribbon twined through the raven-dark waves.

Maybe it triggers a memory in Una's mind and maybe not: maybe she's just frowning up at this clearly-a-step-above-them-also-literally girl. She's visible even from the courtyard, where one horse or another has left its mess, not to mention the dirty water they've been pouring out.

Una's fingers already hurt; there's a blister forming, too.

"No dilly-dallying," warns the landlord, shooting them both a look through the wide open doors. "Get this done, then check on the stew. Bess, m'lovely-- you'll do the bread. Warm yourself by the hearth, eh, hen?"

Bess.

Della's transfixed -- maybe it's all that hair? or she's suddenly coveting the ribbon? -- mid-yawn. Yes, another one.

Bess, the landlord's daughter.

She looks to Una, then calls out a not especially excited, "Yessir," before offering her the clean bucket, knotting up her skirts, and taking up the mess-shovel herself. Gingerly. Not that the manure's going to go far: if there's a pile already, it can go there, and if not... off to the side, where it won't be easily seen from the inn proper or easily stepped on from someone dismounting. If someone's going to get a reward for virtue, maybe it'll be Una.

Or the ostler.

"...riding, up to the old inn-door. Una?"

"Hmm?" says Una, whose public school education and the self-education that followed evidently did not extend to specific pieces of Edwardian-era poetry. She has a pretty blank look on her face. It doesn't stop her from accepting the clean bucket, though, and cracking a smile for Della's careful repositioning of the manure. There's a pile. It's fine. It's fine.

"What about the old inn door? This one? It's just a door. Come on."

Not that Una's in a huge rush to get back indoors, not when there's a little pale sun to bask in out here, and, manure aside, it smells less dark and smoky and unwashed (despite their efforts).

Inside, Bess is humming on her way back towards the kitchens, her steps light and contented; truly, the picture of a girl in love, followed on by her father's approving, proud expression. What a girl, his Bess.

"No, it's a door," Della says urgently. "An inn door."

Della, ever-helpful without (much) sleep or (any) caffeine.

"The poem, Una. The poem. If it is the poem. Bess, Bess is going to," her voice drops from a hiss to a whisper, "die. Dramatically, but die. I was just talking to Ravn a couple weeks ago. Noyes. The author. There's a Loreena McKennitt song. Also one by a guy named Phil, who was apparently pretty great as a singer but also had mental issues that got in his way," and which also don't have anything to do with the problem more immediately at hand, namely: "We have to save her."

"Fine. Them."

"But at least her."

Die.

The look Una shoots back at Della shifts from surprised to dismayed, and then she closes her eyes, perhaps to think. "Okay," she says. "It's a poem? I don't know it. But-- okay. How does she die?"

The redhead does, at least, accept this line of thinking without argument. It does make a certain amount of sense. "You'd better tell me what happens. Quickly. Is it possible to save her? Them? It'd make sense. As something the Dream wants from us."

Happily, their host is a little too distracted watching his daughter to remember his employees-- at least for a moment or two. It gives them a little breather, anyway.

Della closes her eyes, and for a long moment at that. But when she does starts talking, it's fast, if still more free-flowing than it ought, much like a certain just-emptied pail.

"Moon a ghostly galleon. So probably full? But this all had better be today, because otherwise my hands are going to fall off and," Una doesn't need to hear about her wrecked manicure. "Illicit love with a highwayman." So much more Una doesn't need to know and it's work to pare it all down without even getting to type. "He says he's going to come back by moonlight, but the stable guy overhears them and turns them in; the redcoats come around... afternoon? sunset and tie her up with a gun and watch for him and when they finally see him she shoots herself as a warning but they get him anyway and it's better than it sounds but still awful and we should warn her ASAP."

And then finally, finally she gets to pump more water and wash her hands.

Dutifully, Una aims her gaze upwards, though the moon's not in evidence: maybe that means it really is full, though, so it's not the worst thing in the world. "Okay," she murmurs, amidst the recitation, though there's no question at all that she's still listening, her brow furrowed with intensity. She clings to her bucket, holding tight as if that, and nothing more, might be enough to solve this issue.

Because: "Okay. How do we warn her? We can't just say 'the redcoats are going to kill your boy, be warned', because why would she believe us, and also, I imagine we're not actually supposed to know about her boyfriend, right?" She casts a doleful, dubious glance towards the inn, and adds, "But maybe she'll just listen. Because she's got to be nervous, right? She's dating a highwayman."

"You're right," Della says, waving her hands away from them to sprinkle the water off, then picking up her prop, er, broom.

"If we're not actually supposed to know about her boyfriend, then she should believe us that we do. And there was the stable-man; we could have overheard him. I just wish we knew that it's last night that they arranged the meetup, and today that they're coming for him."

"Shall we go off for the soup?" Before they're in the soup.

Una's silent little nod acknowledges Della's take on the situation, her lack of familiarity with the source material likely fuelling her own hesitation to really contribute to the plan. "Maybe she'll say or do something that will give us a clue," she supposes, uncertainly. "And then we'll know. It's still early. We've time, right? Plenty of time."

It's wryly, then that she adds: "Why didn't I think to wiggle my fingers and make the mop do all the work, a la Fantasia, now that I think of it? I don't imagine the same thing will work on the soup."

Though soup, of course, is an entirely different matter, and an easier one (for Una, at least). She hesitates once more, then nods, turning to aim her steps inside, and in turn, through to the kitchen.

"I hope so."

And then, "Does it work here? Try it! Just a little, just to make sure?" That, on the way to the kitchen, though it's not like it's far. "Tell me we," 'we,' "did all the dishes already last night."

Conveniently, the master of the house is not in the taproom as they make their way back through, thus making it all the easier for Una to pause, grin, and then focus for just a moment on the broom in Della's hands.

It wiggles its way free-- or close enough to-- and does a few experimental hops, almost as it wishes to dance. Maybe exactly as if: it attempts a wiggling bow, too. M'lady.

They have a mission -- and yet, Della can still be charmed by a hopping, bowing broom. She smiles at it, warm and wonderful, but her, "Thank you," is for Una. So that's one relief.

Now, for Bess.

The broom promptly hits the floor with a thud: Una's control-- and longevity-- is limited. Alas, alack.

Una reaches to pick it up, at least, crooked smile aimed at Della; she's more than happy to carry both bucket and broom the rest of the way into the kitchen, treading carefully on uncomfortable shoes though she is.

The kitchen is warmer, now, with Bess busy making bread at the table near the hearth. The pallets are gone, tidied away by an unseen hand, and instead, the kitchen is now 100% dedicated to preparations for the evening's custom.

Bess is humming as she kneads, and though Una can (and probably does) cast judgement on her technique, at least that's one job that someone else is taking on. "Da says to add the vegetables to the stew pot, and stretch it another day," says the landlord's black-eyed daughter, without looking up.

Not much credit to Della that, while she does reach for the broom herself, Una manages to get it first (and Della doesn't attempt to wrestle it from her, though she does murmur thanks).

"I'll chop them," she also volunteers, and that way Una can judge her technique too. A very natural yawn prompts her to add while she locates the supplies, "Wish I'd gotten more sleep last night. It's hard when the moon's so bright, you know?" Because the moon really shines into this windowless room.

Chopping might be preferable. Una's lifted the lid on the stew pot hanging over the hearth (having put away both bucket and broom), and sniffed at it, and-- oh. Oh.

It's not much of a stew, is it? A few sad remnants of a roast, now likely several days over, and the rest is just vegetables and thickening, simmering away gluggily. Una's nose wrinkles.

"Hmm?" The trouble with Bess is that she's not actually listening (that's probably the problem with the bread, too: she's too busy daydreaming to knead it properly). She does give Della a moment's thought, but not more than that: so many better things to think about (dream about).

And they haven't had breakfast. Much less the promised caffeine. Clearly the goal of this Dream is to get out before lunchtime.

If they get lunch.

"Bess," Della says firmly. "About that visitor last night." She watches her, not the knife; but then, with vegetables, she's competent enough.

That catches Bess' attention.

Those black eyes lift from the bread, focusing sharply on Della in a way that first speaks to suspicion and then, then fades into something softer. Bess is not a stupid girl, per se, but she is a girl in love-- she sighs, her eyes fluttering closed as a smile creeps into place about her mouth, all warm and happy, complete with a little shiver of her shoulders. Her cheeks, pink.

Only-- it shutters again, that expression. "I don't know what you're talking about," says Bess, the landlord's daughter, straightening her spine and glowering at Della. "What visitor? I didn't notice a visitor."

That's all right; that doesn't matter. Della risks her guess, but says it as fact, "He needs to be careful. You need to be careful." Had 'she' ever talked to Bess like that before? "The stable-man heard you."

"Tim?" It's as good as an admission, really, the way Bess names the ostler, shaking her hair over her shoulder with a toss of her head that dismisses Della (and Tim, and probably silent Una, too). "I don't know what you're talking about, and whatever it is, I don't especially like it. You have work to do. Don't let my father catch you slacking, or he'll have you out on your ear."

A dark glower is aimed at Della, now. "That's your last warning, I promise you. I won't have you spreading filth, not in my," my father's, "kitchen."

The kitchen-girl would probably care. Della? Della does not care. "Tim heard him talk about the prize. Tim heard when he's coming back, remember that? By moonlight. Tim is letting the redcoats know. Bess, do you want him to die?" Not Tim.

Right. Una's the expert. She should have checked with Una. But Della can't let her gaze waver now.

"All you're doing, right now," says Bess, red-lipped Bess, "is telling me that you've been snooping around at night, listening to things you shouldn't." She tosses her head again, that red ribbon sliding ever so slightly down the lengths of black curl. She pulls her hands out of the bread dough, too, and off she goes, nose in the air.

"But--" begins Una.

Too late.

"Well fuck."

"...Sorry?"

Della looks at the bread dough like she'd like to smack it.

"Go on," says Una.

Actually, her voice is gentle. Her footsteps make a low thud on the floor as she approaches the table. "Smack it. We'll figure out something else. So she didn't believe us." Della. "That's fine. There's more than one way to skin a cat, right?"

Beat. "Not literally. I hope."

"I hope not too. I hope she has the sense to not go to her father because I want to tattle, I want to tattle so much."

Della glances sidelong at her and shakes her head; "It's yours if you want it. I better get this cut up. And... here." She uses the back of the knife to slide some of the better-looking, or at least less awful-looking, vegetables Una's way before withdrawing it.

"I hate power imbalances."

Una's brown eyes flick up towards the doorway through which Bess disappeared, and she frowns. The dough gets an experimental slam of her fist, but her attention's not on it.

"We don't have to do what we're told," she murmurs, then. "We're not actually two serving girls, right? We know what we're here for, now. And we know... whatever's going to happen, it's going to happen by the end of the day. So what else can we do, between now and then, to stop this whole debacle from going down?"

"Then why aren't we still in bed," Della grouses, but tangentially so. She plops a piece of what might be carrot, not-too-bad carrot in her mouth before whacking the cutting board (and incidentally the vegetables) some more. At least she can sound busy. She narrows her eyes, too. "So, all right. We don't know when Tim tells the redcoats; maybe he has already, maybe he hasn't. 'The redcoats are coming! The redcoats are coming!' That's one. Two would be an alternative way to stop the redcoats. Three would be keeping them from tying her up. Four would be not letting her shoot herself, although right now -- well, no. But if the gun doesn't go off, he isn't warned; but then even with the warning, still he dies. So maybe three-point-five, or two-point-five, would be warning him sooner."

Una doesn't have an answer for the first, or perhaps chooses not to give it. She pounds the bread dough again, instead, and then resumes a more careful and practiced approach to kneading.

Whatever happens to Bess and her lover, this bread is going to be as good as Una can make it, so help her.

"Okay," she says. "That's a lot of options. What's the easiest to start with, do you think? Do we assume Tim hasn't told them yet? Do we try and cut this whole thing off at the head, and stop that? The problem is, if he already has, we need a plan b. If we warn him sooner-- but we'd still need her to know that he's going to be okay if we do that, right?"

This would be so much easier if she knew the source material. So much easier.

"Well, if I remember it right, and if it doesn't vary, she doesn't shoot herself until she sees him on the road. So if she doesn't see him on the road, she shouldn't die. But she'd still have to deal with being tied up for hours and a whole lot of distress, and I don't trust the redcoats not to do something nasty to her anyway. Your TK might take care of being tied up, but they might just tie her up again."

Della hesitates. "We could assume Tim has already told them, but it would save so much if he hadn't, and we could stop him then. It doesn't say anything about how he told them: whether he sneaked out in the night or day, or told someone who stopped by during the day, or what. How to approach him, though, that's not nearly as straightforward as her. What do you think?" Chop chop chop. Or, faster: chop-chop!

Una's nod is a slow one. "And-- okay, I don't know exactly what time this is, I mean, when it is, but I imagine the guns aren't all that safe? So it's probably not a great idea to let a desperate woman alone with one, where she can accidentally shoot herself, even if her lover doesn't show." The bread dough gets another good whack; it's satisfying, like thumping out one's feelings.

"We could just tie him up," she suggests. "And then ask him questions and find out. If he has already told, then at least we know, and can do something about it."

"Good point." Della grimaces, admitting, "I hadn't thought of that."

Pause.

"Us tying him up?" Her eyes go wide with something like delight, or maybe it's adrenaline. Where's the Lasso of Truth now? "All right," provisionally; "If we aren't the people worrying about getting into trouble if we get caught not chopping, are we the people who're worrying about being stopped if we're caught?"

"I think," says Una, "that we need to accept that our very presence is ruining this story. That's probably the point? I mean, the poem... the poem exists. I don't think we're ruining that."

(As much as her player would like to produce a stunning stanza about the kitchenmaids who could right now, that's not going to happen.)

(Although:

They pounded away at the bread loaf; they chopped away at the veg;
They plotted away to save her, from death in her narrow bed;
But what could they do, could they save her?
With the ostler in ropes and chains?
Or would they just cause more havoc-- havoc--
Just more havoc, to the girl and her brave young sir.)

(No.)

"So... we can try. We have to try."

"But just imagine if we went back, and it had changed, and we were the only two that remembered -- "

(Yes. Yes yes yes.)

"All right. Let's do this." Della waves the knife and then -- "Want any of these? If not, it's in the soup for you. Them." Right. "Stirring the soup should slow the complaints, too."

"Have you seen anything to tie him up with? Or any other good tools? The redcoats could have brought the rope. Bound to be something in the stables, how good I don't know. What we could use is," here she finishes collecting the vegetables in a not-too-messy pile, "a sourdough starter familiar for you... but that's a different book."

Una steals a piece of... something, who can tell what it is, but waves the rest away: into the soup, then.

"I think I've heard people say it's possible for some of us to have-- something like a familiar, anyway." Una drops her gaze towards the bread dough speculatively, but there's no starter, here, just plain yeast, and if it's possible for Una to have such a thing, now is not the moment.

"I like to hope there'll be rope in the stables. And if not-- we can improvise, surely. But I need to get the bread in the oven, first."

"Hm! How's that work?"

Della confirms the bread issue with a nod. And rather than talk about what they're going to do, rather than come up with anything remotely specific for this plan, she swans over to the hearth and makes with the application of vegetables to... muck. She stirs it, too. Next comes -- after just setting the spoon to the side, goop and all -- cleaning off the knife and cleaning off her hands and cleaning off her face and... just shutting her eyes for a moment. If there's time.

"I don't know," Una admits, finally satisfying herself with the dough. Of course, when she says 'oven', what she really means is 'close to the oven, so it can prove'-- which is easily enough done, even if there isn't a proving drawer. "I don't know how a lot of it works. If I figure it out, though... I think it has to be a Veil creature, though. So I need to wait to meet a Veil sourdough starter, and then we can see about it. If I'm even powerful enough for it."

So many ifs.

There's time, at least, for Della to take a breather. Time, while Una gets her dough ready, gives it one final, loving pat-down. Time, as she washes her hands.

"Ready?"

"If you take a bit with you, and then mix it in with more bread and water and such, could it become a Veil sourdough starter," is pitched half as a question, half as contemplation.

Della sighs.

She doesn't ask if Una has to pee. She doesn't bring it up at all. As long as it doesn't exist in the Dream, it can be ignored.

"Ready."

She keeps the knife to hand, but as concealed in the folds of her skirt as she can, on the way.

The way Una's brow furrows, maybe she's thinking about it. Maybe she's imagining what a semi-sentient sourdough starter (what a phrase!) would be like.

But that's a thought for later. For now-- now's the time to be more serious, to approach this task with all due reverence. She gives Della a short little nod, leading the way out of the kitchen, through the taproom (no one in evidence; phew) and back out into the courtyard. It's a little warmer, now, as the sun rises higher in the sky, but not by that much. The stables are next to the inn, largely empty by day except for the handful of replacement horses, just waiting for travellers passing by to need a new team.

"Hello?"

There's no answer, just the sound of horses, chewing at their hay.

Well, then.

"Let's explore," Della decides in a perfectly normal whisper. "One of us stalls, one of us hayloft." There's got to be a hayloft. "Or do you want to stick together, in case he's napping?"

Una indicates the hayloft with an encouraging tip of her head, perhaps(?) intending for the other woman to take the ladder upwards and see, while she sticks to the ground.

Not that there's much to be found down here: a few stalls (most of them empty,) a few horses (most of them sleeping, or eating). A rack for tack, a few barrels for grain, and otherwise not much of anything.

There's a ladder to climb up into the hayloft, which extends half the width of the stables, and appears, from the ground, to be a big open space.

Where's a broom when you might need one? Why did they leave it behind? Why did Della leave it behind? She stares up at the loft, hand on hip, and for a few moments it looks like she's going to pass...

...but up she goes. It's more awkward for holding onto the knife in a way intended to not cut herself, not to mention not stepping on her skirt, but there it is.

The hayloft is, true to its name, full of hay. It extends the length of the stable, but only half the width: all the easier, then, to toss hay down at the animals, and the floor, as required. Tim the ostler evidently sleeps in the far corner, in a bed laid out atop the hay: blanks and pillows protecting him from the scratchiness of the feed (but not their own, innate, scratchiness, presumably). Tim's not here, but his belongings are, such as they are.

There's a piece of red ribbon, not unlike the one Bess has been wearing in her hair.

Well, that's interesting. Della's quick, as quick as she can, about poking about his belongings. She recognizes the ribbon's resemblance, and starts to leave it right where it sits, but then...

...it's probably nothing; but, just in case, she touches it with her bare fingertips -- her poor bare beaten-up fingertips! -- anyway.

Tim doesn't seem to own much: a change of clothes, not much more.

The ribbon, though. There merest touch of a fingertip, and it's like it comes alive: first, it's the sense of being worn in dark curly hair, of warmth and delight over a gift given by a loving father.

Then it's lust, a ribbon stolen by rough, work-hardened hands, held tight by a man who feels so much and wants, and wants, and wants, and now hates, too.

How dare he steal her. She's not for him. She's mine! She was supposed to be mine, and I'll not let him have her. I'll save her, and she'll be mine the way she's supposed to because he won't be there.

That warmth, that delight, Della feels that so directly that her lips part and she's suddenly looking so young, marveling, drinking it in as though she could keep it --

Which means that the next layer kicks that much harder.

Della drops the ribbon, half-throws it as though ejecting it from her fingers, but it's too late. She doesn't drop the knife, no; she's clutching its handle, lifting it, ready to wield. Her lips have peeled back. She's all teeth.

And then, gasping, she runs as best she can for the other side of the loft, not the other corner nor yet the ladder but the uprights that aren't transient hay but solid, solid, solid. Instinct brings her to them, to their years (surely) of holding, of protecting, and of, before that, growing in the light. In the night. Trees.

She breathes.

It will be a few minutes, if she's not interrupted first, before she can regain the composure to make her way down that ladder, the fold of her skirt between her hand and the wood, to find Una. She has to be so careful with the knife to not cut herself. (Or anyone else.)

The timing is, in the end, unfortunate. Della's no sooner put a foot on the rung of the ladder than a mental scream-- it is mental? Maybe?-- is thrown at her thoughts: he's coming!!!

Una may have had time to throw herself bodily into the nearest stall, but Tim's headed straight for the ladder, and that means there's not much chance of escape for Della, even with that moment's warning.

Call it luck rather than true composure: Della's not lower down when she freezes. Whether the scream's audible or mental or what doesn't register so much as that Tim's here. And with that... and with that she scampers right back up.

"Oh! Hello, Tim." Does the ladder move even a little, when she nudges it with her free hand?

Tim's pretty scrawny, for an ostler: barely more than a boy, likely in charge of the stables more by default than out of any particular skill, experience or talent. He stands at the bottom of the ladder, now, those slender arms crossed uncomfortably in front of him. Una is out of sight, and it probably wouldn't matter if she weren't: he's only got eyes for Della (the landlord's black-eyed skivvy).

The ladder does move, just ever so slightly. It's not bolted down.

"What are you doing? That's my room." 'Room' is... one way to put it.

The same Della who adjusted her belongings for safety when the streetlights flickered is the Della who reaches, with her free hand, for a big handful of hay. Nice-for-once, dusty hay.

And she also has that knife, and possibly a lingering meanness. But. But.

"Looking for you." Duh. "How many guests're we going to have today? Are we going to have to break out more ale?"

Tim gives Della a look that says, pretty clearly, 'are you absolutely mad?'. He has not, at least, tried to climb the ladder towards her: it's safe enough on the ground, thanks, even if she is in his space.

"How the hell'd I know?" he points out, voice low and gruff and annoyed. His hair really is like mouldy hay, his face white. "Ain't n'body here yet, is there? Gotta wait for 'em to show. Get down here. Outta my room."

"They didn't say anything, them as came by before?" Della retorts, as though it were perfectly logical that they would. Or that she'd think they would. "The soup's already stretched." But, "Fine."

But before she sets foot on that ladder, she straightens enough to holler, "Found him! You can stop looking now!" Which is to say: don't think she's alone.

Knife in one hand -- hidden as best she can, holding up her skirt enough to not trip and also not flash Tim -- and hay instead of fabric to try and protect her ladder-hand, she descends.

Una (somewhat reluctantly, it's true) takes this as her cue to come out of her stall. There's horse manure on her shoes, and, it may be said, down her skirt as well: Tim has not been hard at work this morning. She lifts her chin, sniffing uncomfortably in the ostler's direction, though he's still more interested in Della.

"Who came by before?" he wants to know. "For what?"

"Hang on, hang on," Della letting the irritation show. She waits until she's all the way down and matter-of-factly stepped between Tim and the entry, showily wiping off her skirts, before saying, "The guests. That stay here one direction and then stay again the other direction," unless they're too put off by the soup. Or the manure.

"... No?"

Tim's either very, very slow, or being deliberately obtuse, and it's difficult to tell which it is from here. Getting closer, the unwashed smell emanating from him wafts through the air: not just horse, but also sweat and stale beer, and likely a few worse things as well. He gives Della an appraising glance, as if deciding something.

No. Bess is his one true love.

Who knew Della could flounce? And since Tim's approaching her... instead of scooting further out towards the entry, she steps decisively towards him. Not unkindly (though she could be, she certainly could), "Well, if you hear something, you need to tell us right away. That stew takes time, and so does Bess' bread, and we can't be unready."

"Bess," says Tim, with a dreamy look coming across his face.

Behind him, Una makes a face, eyeing Della dubiously.

As long as Tim's busy swooning, Della lifts her brows at him -- well, no, at Una. Just for a moment.

"So you'll tell us if you hear of more people coming?" she presses Tim then. "We don't want Bess to have to rush."

Tim doesn't answer. Tim side-steps his way around Della, making for the ladder.

Una lifts her brows in return, a silent question.

There's no time. Della reaches for the ostler's arm with her hay-hand; "Tim. Seriously."

Tim jerks his arm away, scowling at Della. "You keep yer hands to yerself, girly."

Never mind she's definitely older than he is.

So he'd heard her.

"Get on with you," Della snaps and, nose in the air (but knife on her far side), watches him before mincing out the door. He can have that ladder; she didn't want it anyway.

If she gets out, if she and Una get out, there will be a lot to say.

Una's brow is a knitted thundercloud as she scampers after Della towards the door. Tim doesn't stop them, but hastens his way up the ladder, likely to check on his red, red ribbon.

Outside: "Well, fuck." That's Una, sighing. "Now what?"

"Now," Della declares in a way that nears cheerfulness, if it weren't so motivated. "We know what we know. Come on, let's find a place to look busy -- never mind, I'll try for the Cliff notes." Her smile is quick, sideways, but then disappears like a flicked-out light. "He is awful. Awful. He had a ribbon, one of hers, and remember the letter that bit me? This one kicked. He wants her, and I'm pretty sure he told the redcoats already." Cliff notes, or post-Revisionist CliffsNotes, need an editor.

With Della doing the talking, Una does the leading-the-way: all the way to the well in the yard, where there are buckets waiting anyway, and why wouldn't the two serving girls be there, fetching water from the well (that's not in the wood)?

"Oh, gross," she breathes-more-than-says, as she reaches for the first bucket, puzzling out how to attach it to the rope to lower it down, down, down. "You got all of that from the ribbon? Fuck, but that's a useful skill you've got. Okay. Okay. So the redcoats know, that's our second plan out the window. I vote we try and stay out of his way for as long as we're stuck here. What's next? We try and warn him? Rescue her, after they arrive? I hate this."

Wryly, "It depends. Do you happen to have a couple pocketsful of 'sleeping aids' to toss in the ale? ...That ideally wouldn't kill them?" If only! Della leans over, looking down the well -- but with her feet still firmly planted, not where she might easily be toppled down: no relaxing here. Muttered to the down-below water, "You say useful, I say... not-not-useful but awful."

She straightens. "Vote's unanimous. We could try to rescue her, but I don't want it to get that far. I'm not sure how we could warn him before she needs rescuing. Maybe we could steal some horses and, with our mad equestrian skills, go clip-clopping down the road and attempt to run into him by chance," and that's there a laugh ought to go. Della keeps speculating. "The poem, that I remember, didn't say anything about their trying the very problematic stew..."

"You could try to persuade her." It's an option!

Una's hands are too busy with the bucket to be able to demonstrate, open palmed, how little she has to offer to this situation, but her frown's a thoughtful one. She winds the handle, sending the bucket down, down, down into the depths and supposes, "Well, maybe not sleeping aids. Herbs, though. Do you know anything about herbs? Could we... I don't know. Some kind of laxative? But that would require us rescuing her, probably, wouldn't it? I'm imagining they drink the ale you mentioned after they capture her."

The bucket hits the water with a splash. Una frowns. "I could try? Persuading her, I mean."

"Not those kinds of herbs," Della says with a near-laugh. "Something to look into back home?" Not that it would help for now. "Ale or stew, and we could offer the stew, it would at least be a lot easier to rescue her sooner if they're having to run off to the pot." As opposed to the stewpot.

Regarding persuasion, "I don't imagine it would hurt." Della's already done that. Although... "What all can you TK? The ropes, them, her? Ale could also get spilled." And then again, "I could spill ale the old-fashioned way, if we don't mind my earning the landlord's wrath."

Ruefully: "I can pretty much assume that the moment I research that kind of herbs, it will never come up again. Pity; that would've been a tidy way, given I still don't know how to ride, or where to find the highwayman, or--" Una's irritation with the situation at hand gets taken out on the bucket - or, rather, the handle, as she cranks the bucket back up again. Heave, heave, heave.

"I can TK anything that isn't alive. No people, so far as I'm aware, but maybe the ropes, yeah. Maybe I could jam the musket? Spill the ale, yes. General mayhem. Given we're very unlikely to still be here tomorrow, we're probably safe with the landlord's wrath, I would've thought."

One day, Una is going to end up in a Dream that does not end within a few hours and absolutely panic. Actions have consequences? SHIT.

"Then maybe that's incentive to research them," Della half-teases. Seeing what Una's up to, she aims to, once the bucket is all the way up, negotiate actually getting the bucket out without spilling all the water back down. "Can you TK things in people? Food that hasn't absorbed yet? Or clothing that tightens and trips? Jamming the musket sounds great. It would mean he isn't warned, but..."

"As for the landlord -- too bad we couldn't ask Tim his name -- I'm more concerned with his beating on me in the here and now. Hm. If I could TK... well. Maybe we should scope out the upstairs rooms and see if there's anything useful. Lock Bess up where she has to listen? If we had three people trying to stop them, that would be much better than two. I suppose you could TK them for mayhem and chaos and I could go out on the road and try to warn him, but... that would split us up," said with a frown.

"Ha, yes," says Una, focusing most of her attention on holding the rope steady enough that Della can free the bucket without losing its contents. "For the research, I mean. Not the TK. I don't think so, for that. Maybe the clothes. You said the warning didn't help, anyway, right?"

She hesitates, then, turning her focus onto Della; her thoughtful frown in place. "We lock her up," she suggests, "and then make sure there's something beneath her window so that she can... escape? And run away? I don't want to split us up. That seems like a bad idea. I've seen horror movies." Or read about them, maybe: Una has never shown any interest in actually watching them.

"Right. He dies anyway." Bucket achieved, Della balances it for a few moments on the edge of the well, looking into the bucket, into the water with its mineral smell. No chlorine; no fluoridation. It's a Dream, but -- she dips her palm in, starts to have a sip... and then must remember what else has been in that bucket, and flicks away the water instead.

Straightening, "We can lock her up but we can't leave her; she'll scream the house down. We'll have to convince her... or give up on convincing her." For all that Della's speaking in definites, or at least probables, her eyes are on Una and her body language is open to her -- open to being, herself, convinced. "I still don't want her traumatized. But if we have to, we could try to save him and he could help, once he knew about the trap."

Una's brown eyed gaze watches Della with the bucket, and the water, and maybe it draws the twitch of a smile, but only for a moment: there's so much more to think about, dwell on, stress over.

"Mm, you have a point. But how do we find him? Wait by the road somewhere and hope we stumble on him as he tries to rob someone else?"

Una's doubtfulness is pretty clear in her expression. "I don't want either of them to die. I also... I mean, we have to remember: they're not actually real, right? They're Veil constructs."

She glances sideways at Una, almost as though the redhead's speaking a foreign language. But then she goes back to the beginning: "He's supposed to be coming down the road midnight-ish. I think. If nothing's changed." Della's eyes have narrowed in speculation, looking beyond the bucket and the well. "So we'd have to pick the correct side of it; at least more of the poem's come to me, the redcoats over the moor. And I don't really want to be all the way up to midnight here..."

"I guess you're right that they're Veil constructs. I mean, I know you're right; or, at least, Bess hasn't said anything about her being trapped in a Dream and that we should rescue her. But... does that mean just leaving them? What about this story we're in, what about making things better?"

And then, "How do we get home?"

Both of Una's hands lifts, palms up: a gesture of defeat, though it's not echoed in her expression, which is still intent. "I don't know," she complains, frustrated. "The Dream wants something from us. It wants to finish the story, and it wants us to do-- something. Something. I don't know, Della."

She looks up, now, and across: meeting Della's dark-eyed gaze with her own, if she can. "We have to keep working through it," is her conclusion, as unhappy as it is. "So... we talk to Bess again? Force her to listen. And we take it from there. We make this work."

She can. And that conclusion meets with Della's answering nod. "The redcoats had an overpowering victory. So we'll just have to save them."

Pause.

"One thing we could do, is warn her as a prediction. She doesn't have to believe us now, though it would really help; but if she can see all of them coming, she might believe us then. The whole inn would have warning."

"Shall we?" Della hoists the heavy bucket just enough to lower it carefully down, the better to head past the pump and in.

Abruptly, Una's eyes light, and she counters: "We don't even need to make her believe it's about her. Just... 'Did you hear the redcoats pass by on the road just now? I heard they're hunting a highwayman'."

Beat. "But I'd better do that, since you already tried."

Either way, she gestures back towards the inn: time to go in. Time is moving fast. Faster than it ought, given how early it was when they woke up.

"Good idea. Probably I shouldn't even be right there, but I can loiter. Nearby. Close to right there. ...Or maybe right there," Della half-teases with a shifty, side-to-side look.

And then at the sky, just to check -- a hiss of breath, and they're off. Not that Della can move too quickly, all lopsided with the bucket, but she tries.

Not being the one holding the bucket, Una's quicker to move, her skirts fluttering about her ankles as she leads the way back to the inn.

The landlord's in the tap room, polishing glasses at the bar in preparation for opening: it won't be long, now, given how quickly time is passing, before there's custom to be made. He doesn't acknowledge either woman as they pass, though, and nor, at least immediately, does Bess, who has extracted Una's dough from the prove, and is poking at it in a distracted kind of way.

"Here," says Una. "Let me get that, Bess. Your hair looks pretty with that ribbon... don't you think so?" A glance over her shoulder, then, to Della.

Della doesn't very well hide her smile -- Una, Savior of the Bread -- as she sets down her bucket-prop, out of the way where it might not be kicked. Taking her cue, she murmurs assent -- not loudly, the sort of thing that Bess can take or leave -- and moseys on towards the stew. Stew which needs to be stirred. That she can do.

It's a light, cheerful bit of conversation. Bess is pleased and flattered by the compliment, and very happy to relinquish the bread to Una's more capable (in this, if nothing else) hands. Nor is she in a rush to hurry off to something else, not now-- even if the glance she aims at Della is briefly uncertain, watchfully wary.

Bess speaks, inconsequentially, about the trials of finding ribbon in exactly the right hue for her hair (very important), and stares wistfully off into the distance on a regular basis.

And then, Una murmurs, "Did you hear the redcoats on the road earlier? It sounded like they were looking for someone."

Stir, Della, stir. Stir the literal pot. She makes an inconspicuous show of being attentive to that, not facing the other two straight on, though the angle allows for some glances through her lashes. Especially at Bess' reaction, to that last.

"The redcoats are always looking for someone," says Bess, dismissing Una's remark with a wave of her hand. Her highwayman is in no danger; he's too smart for that. Too smart (and to tall, and too handsome, and too much hers).

Una's getting desperate. Una's beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

Una has thus far resisted any urge to try out the power Kailey told her she had; that of sharing emotions.

But she does so now: throwing her fear and concern at poor defenceless Bess.

And Bess? She doesn't cower and quake. She doesn't scream. But she looks up, suddenly, and shivers, as if someone just walked over her grave. And without a word? She walks out.

Della's wide-eyed for a split second before she forces her lashes down; she can't know what Una's doing, but -- but then Bess is leaving and now Della's looking at Una, wide-eyed once more, mouthing, 'What?!'

Una has gone pale, paler than her usual pallor, like sickly milk with a greenish undertone. She's stopped kneading and shaping the bread, too, her hands hovering above it, flour-covered and still.

She waits until Bess is out of earshot, walking-- to somewhere. And then: "I think I did that. I think I made her afraid. Made her."

It's a reaction that has Della hurrying over to her, concerned and carefully not touching, not even a hand to her friend's shoulder; "Did you. It's better than bashing her over the head. I just wish I knew what she's going to do."

Una's response is a little, tiny nod, barely visible, really, except if one's actively watching for it. "I have no idea," she admits, then, pressing her lips together tightly after she speaks. She watches Della; she waits, and maybe there's some tiny leaning in, as if unconsciously seeking comfort.

"What do we do now? Do we... wait?"

Responsively, probably just as unconsciously, Della leans minutely inward to match; after that, though, she has to shake her head. "Scoping out the upstairs seems wise. Maybe there'll be something helpful there. Or if there's rope just lying around that they might use, say, we could get rid of that."

Una's fingertips brush past Della's hand, just for a moment-- it's probably as much for her own comfort as Della's. Probably more, realistically: this is uncomfortable.

(This was supposed to be uncomfortable.)

"Yes-- upstairs. That's a good point. Maybe we'll find something else, figure out what's going on. Hang on, though."

The bread. The bread needs to go in the oven. Small things; small comforts.

It brings out an inkling of a smile. "I'll hang."

A pause; then, quickly, "So to speak. Stirring the stew it is, then; let me know when you're ready." And in the meantime, even with time passing the way it is, maybe Una -- maybe Della, too -- can have a little work-time to decompress.

No wince, from Una, though there could well have been: hangings were still legal in... well, the poem was written in the Edwardian era, but even if it is set far earlier; even if it was set in 1906 itself. Hangings. Hangings are no fun.

She presses the dough into shape, patting it down this way and that until she's finally satisfied: until it finally goes into the big, cast-iron stove, ready to be baked. It probably should have gone in hours ago: if nothing else that is a good reminder that this really is a Dream.

Deep breaths. Una's had a lot on her mind, in recent days. Probably there's a lot on there now, too. But. But.

"Okay."

"Okay," Della gives back to her, resolutely, aiming for reassuring. The stew pot is something she can leave behind: no more stewing for the moment.

Of course, then she goes and says, "I wonder how Jules is doing," right before walking out the doorway.

That's not reassuring, that mention of Jules. It breaks Una's expression, just slightly, for all that she's able to bite it back, pressing her expression back into something impassive so that she can follow Della out of the kitchen, out into the taproom where the first patrons of the day are beginning to cluster around the bar.

It means the landlord is busy enough not to pay any attention to his kitchen girls: easy enough for them to creep upstairs. Where's Bess, though? Not here.

Della misses it -- this isn't a 'poke around with the needles, check out the reaction' sort of situation -- in her focus on getting up there, on looking around... and then that's anticlimactic; after canvassing her share of the doorways, she's back to Una, eyes narrow in concentration. "Not on your end either? I'm going to look out the window, the courtyard and, if she's not there, the road so we know which room sees what. But now I'm wondering if she's gone after Tim."

"Nothing," confirms Una, who has checked into each of the rooms on her side in turn. "If anyone lives in here, well. There's no real sign of it."

Two of Della's rooms do show signs of occupation: both small, tucked in at the end of the corridor. One, definitely, with a casement that overlooks the courtyard-- a narrow bed, and a view out of the road.

The road he would ride.

Della looks out for girl, for riders, for whatever there is to be seen -- but stays back and doesn't lean out, lest it go both ways. She swallows. She turns, pausing only to check out the hinges -- inside or outside, how easy to undo? -- hurrying-scurrying back to Una, careful to go as light-footedly but quickly as she can. "There, I think," she shares in a murmur, pointing. "Someone else next to her. Let's try and be quiet but not look sneaky. I don't want him to stop us checking on her... and Tim, if that's what's happening."

It's an easy enough window to open, and the hinges? They look freshly oiled, like someone has been deliberately making sure there won't be a squeak.

Una hovers by one of the open doors, waiting, and Della's explanation? That draws a nod, sharp and clear. "Lead the way," she says. "I'll follow your lead."

And the door hinges? Della thinks to check them too... including whether, or where, there's a bolt. But then. Then. "Let's go."

Down the stairs, not fast, not with these skirts that could reach and trip; and, if she's not interrupted, a quick peek in the kitchen just to make sure before it's out to the courtyard, scanning, all Destination: Stables. If.

And she still has to be careful with the knife.

The door hinges, too, are well oiled, and there's a reasonably new, and sturdy, bolt in place: nothing is too good for the landlord's black-eyed daughter and her safety from the inn's regular riffraff.

There are no interruptions: the landlord's still busy, the kitchen's still quiet, and out in the courtyard--

"Leave me alone," says Bess, with a toss of her hair. "I'm going for a walk. Out."

"Ye should stay here," insists Tim, hovering near, but not in, the stables. "Road's not safe."

Della shifts the knife to her other hand, her far hand. With a look at Una, and a whispered, "Let's see what they do," she walks out: into the courtyard, over to the pump, quite as if she has a job to do. She isn't quiet about it, but neither does she make a show of looking at the other two beyond passing glances. It isn't so much seeing as hearing, then: will it escalate?

"Because you made it unsafe," says Bess, and... slaps Tim. It surprises him: surprises him enough that he's still reeling when Bess tosses her head and storms off out of the courtyard and onto the road, moving with all haste.

Una, falling into step with Della, and the alongside her at the pump, hesitates, caught between focusing on not looking, and on the way that slap of hand against skin reverberates: it's a difficult thing to miss.

Della's eyes fly wide -- and then she averts them: see something? Them see something? No no no. Which doesn't mean she doesn't swivel somewhat as she 'works,' making sure Tim's at the very least in her peripheral vision. Whispered: "Try not to look." And then, "What do you think, should we follow her? Except, she knows now, I think, what she needs to know." And, just maybe, how to fix it.

Una tries. It's so hard, though: that temptation to see and not just _hear, though increasingly, there's just the sound of Bess' departing footsteps. Where's Tim? He's still standing there, at the entrance to the stables, staring after the departing woman.

"So... we let her go, then? It's already afternoon, look at the sky." Well into the afternoon, though surely it's still morning? Surely the day hasn't gone so quickly? "Whatever's going to happen... we've changed it, right?"

As long as he isn't staring after them.

Della does look at the sky, eyes narrowing; "Right," she says slowly. And yet they're still here. But: "We've changed it, because Bess knows his route. And she's going to save him. And herself. Not only will she not be there when the redcoats come," unless she comes back, "not only will she no longer be bait, she will have undertaken a daring escapade. They'll come, and she won't be here, and they'll mill around fruitlessly and laughably, while she'll dramatically intercept her highwayman, climb on his conveniently-not-tired horse, and they'll run off and away." While she says it quietly, she says it with drama in her own right, as though the great narrator in the sky might be coaxed to overhear.

They've changed it. They have changed it.

And yet.

Nothing happens, in the immediate sense. The landlord calls them back indoors; the afternoon 'crowds' wander in, one by one, and the tension rises: the redcoats are due. Are the redcoats going to come? Where's Bess?

It's about an hour later, when, incongruously (surely that much time hasn't passed!) dusk has started to fall, that the first shot rings out.

It's faint, but it's as if everything else has gone quiet, just all at once.

One shot, echoing over the moors.

A second.

A breath untaken; a gasp, in the dim.

And when the redcoat troop comes marching (marching, marching) up to the old in door?

They come to arrest the landlord, hauling him away into the dark, into the courtyard; where an old cart already sits, carrying the landlord's black-eyed daughter.

And the highwayman, a bunch of lace at his throat, dyed as red as the ribbon in his lover's hair.

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

And Una? She wakes, alone in her bed, unshed tears in her eyes.

No. No no no no no. Della wakes and she is weeping, clutching the sheets -- and that knife.