(I lied...the climax is the next chapter!)

Atlas of the World — Europe

Safe-Houses for Hunters, marked by red 0.

31 May, early morning. — I suppose it's just as well that we've ended up here. I had a feeling we wouldn't get away with the stunt we'd pulled in Wapping for long, and it turned out I was right. Before long Father knew, and somehow Marjorie managed to sneak a note to me, saying Solomon was livid and they didn't have long until something very bad happened. She'd proposed we leave that evening, with one stop: the Hudsons'. Whether they came with us or not was up to them, but we had to get out of London before our fathers locked down the entire city to hunt us down.

Now, looking at Giff, I wonder if he's what they've been after all along. We'd seen what he could do under a blood-binding spell, and had Father and the Sellings been allowed to keep going, they probably would have tried it with two creatures at a time, then more. And God knew how many that was.

"Are you stuck as a bat?" I ask him, while I take off my disguise. The beard first, which had begun to turn hot and itchy, and then the eyebrows. The grey won't come out without water and a scrub, so there's nothing I can do about it for now.

He flaps his wings and croaks softly, blinking his large red eyes.

"Is there any way to turn you back?" I ask, even though I know he can't talk.

That time his ears wriggle, and he climbs up to the top of the cage to hang upside-down.

I sigh, realising it won't do any good to keep trying for an answer. If he even understands me. Instead I kick my shoes off, wrestle out of my morning-coat, and collapse back on the bed. I'm tired enough I could fall asleep right now, except my mind won't settle. I think of the Shikari Wells spotted on the platform, and I know it's Father's doing. He even trained to become one, and he knows exactly what they have to go through. Which means he knows they're able to find us.

And then do what? a voice in the back of my mind says. None of us are any good to him dead. Which means what? Will he drag us back to London in chains? Drug us and keep us tied up underneath the Guild or the Institute? Lock us in a cage like he did with all the other creatures?

Tap tap.

That noise breaks up my train of thought. I sit up, trying to flatten my hair, then push myself off the bed to crack the door open. Outside stands Wells, his hair back to normal and the makeup in a messy smear across his cheeks. I spot a black curl of his tattoo on his sternum above his open shirt collar.

"Evening," I say.

"You're always so formal," says Wells, and I see the want in his eyes.

"I was raised that way," I say with a shrug.

He slips inside, shuts the door, then seizes my face in his hands. "Then, Mr Langdon Wilkes, do I have permission to kiss you?"

"Yesh," I say, the most I can manage with his palms mashing my cheeks.

The rest is a foggy memory: Wells kissing me, pulling at my hair as we stumble to the bed, my fingers quickly unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off his shoulders, his slightly less careful as he tears through every layer. Then his bare skin's touching mine, just like that time in the library, and fire races through my veins. He pushes me back onto the bed and climbs on top, his fingertips tracing down my chest lightly with one hand as he fiddles with the fastening on my trousers.

"I'm not ready for—" I start, but his hand leaves that spot and goes lower, giving me a light squeeze on the way. What comes out after is just a groan.

"We don't have to get any more undressed than this," Wells says, his hot breath on my stomach as he kisses up from my navel. "But I just want you to know that it's not going to change how much I want you."

"Nor I," I manage, digging my fingers in his hair as he buries his face in my neck, nipping at my collarbone and earlobe.

"Then pipe down," he growls, and then he's kissing me again, holding my face between his hands. I feel his want pressing against me, and although I want to let him satisfy it, I'm not quite ready for everything that comes after it. I'm still trying to figure out all of these confusing feelings when he kisses me, and that doesn't even begin to cover when he first presses his mouth to mine.

I run my hands up and down his back, feeling the strong muscles in his shoulders and his torso. The scars are just thin lines, and I could trace every single one. I want to, and I feel him wanting me to. His body arcs slightly away from mine and he catches my hand without breaking the kiss, flatting my hand against his chest.

"Touch them," he breathes against my mouth.

I do, and he groans and shudders against me. As I do I push him over and then roll, so now I trap him against the mattress. He looks up at me, green eyes bright with exertion.

"What did you do to me, Langdon Wilkes?" he pants, hands flattening on my chest.

I don't answer, instead leaning down to kiss him again. As we do his hands fist in my hair, keeping me from pulling away. I keep tracing his scars, in long slow lines from his shoulder to his ribs. He shudders and splinters and groans against me, whispering my name into my mouth. I want him like this, I realise — not the tough, prickly hunter I see most of the time, but soft and pliable and mine.

The next thing I know, we're both down to just our pants, having wrestled each other out of our trousers minutes ago. Wells's kisses become long and languid, sending shivers over my entire body. He rolls us over again, so he hovers over me, and lowers himself so our bodies press together from chest to hips. I groan into his mouth and dig my fingers into his back.

"Bloody hell, Wilkes," he says, breathless. He traps my arms to the bed by the wrists, pinning them down above my head. "For someone who's not ready, you certainly sound ready. And feel ready."

My cheeks flood with heat. I'd realised that at the same time he had. "I'd just rather...wait," I say.

"Fine. If you want." I see a hint of frustration dart across his face, but it's so brief I wonder if I imagined it as he lowers himself to kiss me again. I wish we never had to stop. The weight on my heart is finally gone, and so is the one from my mind.

He kisses me until I'm too exhausted to continue. I think I might have dozed off in the middle of a couple. It's then that he rolls off, pulls the blankets up to cover us, and holds me close so my head fits perfectly in the space between his jaw and his shoulder. I drape my arm across his chest, and I feel him take my hand as he kisses my forehead. Then I drop away into sleep and feel nothing else.

—

Later, morning. — I wake up just in time to see him slipping out of bed. He hunts around as quietly as he can for his own clothes, but I know how tangled they got last night. I see him pull on his trousers, and as he turns towards me, he notices I'm awake.

"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "Did I wake you?"

I prop myself on an elbow, then sit up. "No, I was already. Come here a moment."

He does, and I cup his face to kiss him again. He groans into my mouth and crushes his lips hard against mine, and one of his hands knots in my hair. Then he tugs my head back, to look into my face.

"If I keep kissing you, I won't be able to stop," he says, pupils blown wide.

"You're saying that as if it's a bad thing."

"It is if we're caught, Wilkes." He lets go of me and straightens. I can't stop myself from staring for a moment at his bare torso, corded everywhere with muscle. He winks at me when he notices. "You're staring, you know. Gawping."

"What if I said I like looking at you?" I flatten a hand on his stomach, and I feel him suck in a breath.

"Not as much as I like looking at you." He ruffles my hair, then pulls away slowly, tracing his fingers down my neck and chest, stopping only when he gets to the waistband of my pants. "Maybe one day, right?"

Then he's not touching me anymore. He finds his shirt and pulls it on, buttons it halfway, and then slips out. I collapse backwards in bed and grin up at the ceiling. I never want this feeling to stop.

Eventually I have to get out of bed and get dressed. I put on fresh clothes except for the same collar and cuffs as yesterday, thinking of how Wells bypassed them completely as he was tearing my shirt off. Bloody buttons, he'd been muttering.

Then I clean up my rumpled clothes from the floor, stuff them in a bundle into my bag, and snap it shut. I check on Giff, who seems to have politely turned his back.

"You all right in there, mate?" I ask, bending slightly to his face level.

He unfolds his wings, as much as the cage allows him to, and climbs down the bars upside-down. Then across the floor, and up the other side to face me. He gives a soft squawk in reply.

"Don't look at me that way," I say to his slow blink, saying I saw everything. "Wells and I haven't been able to do anything like that for a long time."

His ears wriggle back and forth, and he sticks his nose through the bars. I give it a poke, and he squeaks and pulls back.

"That's for everything you saw last night."

I cover him with the scarf again, then try to fix up my hair as much as possible. I see some of the grey smeared onto the pillows, and I hope Tegwen doesn't mind. But at least I don't regret a single minute of it. Everything about it felt right.

Downstairs, I find both Marjorie and Cornelius already dressed and makeup-free at the breakfast table. The only sign our disguises even existed are single grey streaks in their hair.

"Mr Wilkes," says Ceridwen as she enters from the direction of the kitchen. "Good morning."

"Good morning," I answer. I hear Wells's voice in my head: You're always so formal.

"I hope you won't mind if we take a look at the bat," she says, setting down the tray she's carrying in the middle of the table. More toast, some sausage, and an entire pile of scrambled eggs. "Please, tuck in. You must be famished."

"Yes, thank you," I say, dropping my bag at the foot of the stairs and handing her Giff's cage.

"Sleep well, Wilkes?" Cornelius asks as I sit down next to Marjorie, and it takes me a minute to realise he's not asking how I slept. Somehow he senses what happened between Wells and me.

"Yes, very well." Everyone here knows about us, but not our hosts. It's why Wells is still nervous about being caught.

Marjorie takes my hand under the table, and when I glance over at her, surprised, she gives me a small smile and my hand a gentle squeeze. I understand, the gestures seem to say. I know she'll never betray me, and as much as I used to despise Cornelius, he's proven himself trustworthy enough to not do the same.

Finally Wells and Naomi join us as Ceridwen brings Giff back and sets his cage in the window. The two men follow close behind, now more presentably dressed than just the shirtsleeves I saw them in last night: both wear waistcoats and Tegwen has put on a cravat.

"Now, since you young 'uns are on the run, we can't say we saw you," says Tegwen as Ceridwen and the other man, Cadoc, clear the table when we finish. "But we did take the liberty of writing our fellow hunters in Galway, Curran and Roisin."

"I wrote them as well," says Marjorie. "They were going to help us get to Brest."

"Ah, yes, and we'd be very rude to not help you to Wexford, the port I've ferried many hunters to." Tegwen nods. "Have they agreed to meet you, by any chance?"

"Curran has," Marjorie answers. "He knows we're coming unarmed. So he'll offer some reinforcement."

"Good man, Curran," says Tegwen, with an approving nod. "And me and Cadoc'll get you to him safely. Since we have ladies among us. I've never seen female hunters before, if you'll forgive me for mentioning it."

"We're the first," says Naomi. She doesn't even mention that Marjorie's not an official hunter. She's done enough to at least earn that title in my opinion.

Once we finish breakfast, and all our bags are gathered, the two men — who I discover from Ceridwen, are her brothers, both hunters who left the Guild in Cardiff over five years ago now — begin to gather all the gear they need for the journey. They hadn't liked the harsh punishment of hunters who didn't manage to find and kill any creatures on their missions, or the way they were treated like pariahs for weeks after. It sounds very similar to the things Father once told me: A useless hunter is no good to anyone. And a bumbling one gets everyone else killed sooner or later.

We start for the harbour by midmorning. There's no need for disguises this time, since we'll be in the company of allied hunters from now on, but we still have to be careful. No hackneys, and we all carry our own bags. It slows us down a little bit, but at least no one gives us a second glance. Maybe it's because Wells shoots glares that could quite possibly kill someone.

"There's our craft," says Cadoc, when the harbour appears at the end of the next street. He points to a long motorboat that looks very much like a metal canoe with a short tower made of brass and steel in the middle moored to the end of the solitary dock.

"No...top? Or sails?" Naomi sounds confused.

"Not a sailboat, see?" Tegwen points too, at the tower. "That there's a motor, powered by steam. We got that beauty last year, when she was made new. It'll get us over to Wexford Harbor in less time."

When we reach the boat, I see it has more space than I thought. We can load our bags in the stern, and sit on the two benches in the bow. I decide to keep Giff's cage with me, clamping it between my knees and my feet. Cadoc boards first, busying himself with the motor, while Tegwen helps us onto the boat one by one and arranges our bags at the stern. I take the bench closest to the bow, and Marjorie claims the spot next to me. Wells and Cornelius flank Naomi on the opposite bench, facing us. I can already feel a stiff wind coming off the water, and I know it's going to be a chilly ride.

"Everyone ready?" Cadoc's head appears over the motor, which is now shuddering and belching white clouds from a spout at the top. "She'll go long as we keep feeding this fire here."

Tegwen hops past us to untie us from the dock, then makes a leap back into the boat as it drifts slowly away. No wonder he's leaner and trimmer than his brother. He gets all the exercise.

"See over there?" Cadoc shouts over the noise of the motor, manning the rudder from the stern. He points, and Marjorie and I have to crane our necks to see. "That tower's the lighthouse at Mumbles Head. Marks the entrance to Swansea Bay, she do. One of our most famous landmarks."

"You see it on your way home," says Tegwen, "and you know you're nearly there."

We hug the coastline at a medium speed all the way to Ramsey Island, and the two brothers take turns shouting over the din to point out cities and landforms. I know they're doing their best to keep us distracted, to keep us from dwelling on the fact that we're runaways. They're runaways themselves, I suppose, which means we all have something in common. Then Tegwen points out something behind us that sounds like Davids Head, and Cadoc nods.

"Hold tight, everyone!" he shouts. "We're going up!"

I don't know what he means until Tegwen feeds the motor's fire. It whirs and suddenly the boat jumps forward, leaping over the swells like it has wings. I feel a light spray, and my carefully-pomaded hair blows into my eyes. I have to wrap one arm around Marjorie while I hold onto the gunwale with my free hand.

And as the coastline of Wales disappears into the fog bank that surrounds it like a shawl, I hope that we've been able to escape just in time.

—

Later. — Surprisingly, it's Naomi who gets sick when we finally reach the Wexford Harbour. She climbs out of the boat first, then immediately spins around and vomits into the water on the other side of the dock. That prompts Wells to leap out and help her, and leaves the rest of us to unload our bags and pay the brothers for their trouble. At first they refuse the money, because they say they're only helping fellow hunters and they don't need it. But it's Cornelius who insists — runaway to runaway, he says.

"There's Curran right there," says Tegwen, pointing at a tall bearded man dressed in black hunting leather. "Looks imposing. But he won't hurt you."

"Comforting," says Cornelius.

We pick up our bags again and walk down the dock towards him. His blue eyes follow our progress, and he doesn't even move from his stance when we stop in front of him.

"Which one of you is Miss Selling?" he asks, no greeting. His accent's pleasant though, much easier to listen to than the Welsh one.

At first none of us respond. He doesn't radiate friendliness like Tegwen — in fact, he's more like Wells when I first met him.

"I am," says Marjorie finally, after an impatient grunt from Curran.

"You're to stay close to me," he says, pointing to her and then all of us. "Make no eye contact. And do not, under any circumstance, wander away. Then I can't help you."

"Understood," Wells says, before any of us can speak.

"Good," says Curran. "We ought to be on our way. Next train leaves in twenty minutes."

The train he indicates is nothing like the first one. It's crowded, poky, drafty, and noisy, not to mention it smells terrible. But he tells us it's the easiest way to escape notice, since this train doesn't call at any stations except the major cities — which, apparently, is only Limerick this time around.

"What d'you call this kind of train anyway?" Cornelius asks, making a face as a man with a chicken in a cage passes us.

"Efficient," says Curran. A man of few words.

After four hours, the train does call at Limerick, letting on more people than it lets off. We have to crowd against the wall, where there's a narrow wooden bench to sit, for all of us to fit comfortably. I hug Giff's cage to my chest protectively, hoping no one asks what's under the scarf.

Another hour, and the train finally chugs into Galway. It's another city on the water like Swansea, and every time we reach the top of another street, puffing after Curran, I see it in a thin blue line above the roofs of the buildings.

Finally we find the house — another attached row — overlooking Merlin Woods Park. It's just as tidy as the first one, if a little more homey. There's even window boxes with flowers on the first-floor windows. It's Curran who leads the way to the front door, with a complicated knock pattern I can't follow.

When it opens, a young woman who I assume is Roisin pokes her head out, looks around, then motions us all inside. She and Curran definitely look related: dark hair, blue eyes, square jaws. I notice it as soon as she closes the door behind us and turns to face all of us, giving each of us an up-and-down glance.

"They's lambs, Curran. Just wee'uns."

"Didn't sound like it in their letter," said Curran, turning and lumbering away.

"You'll have to excuse my brother," says Roisin, clasping her hands together. "He's not very social. Now how about I get you settled in and we can talk about how we're going to get you to Brest tomorrow morning?"

—

Later, afternoon. — Once we've all freshened up from our boat ride this morning, eaten, and had some time to unwind, we all regroup in the dining room, where Roisin's cleared off the lunch things and replaced everything with a large map of Europe. I see red lines connecting points circled on it, and when I lean in closer, Swansea, Brest, and Galway are among them.

"Safe-houses, there," says Roisin's voice from my shoulder. "They're all over Europe, for hunters who hate the Guilds."

I nod. I knew there was a Guild for at least every major city across the continent. And I have a feeling that for as many of them, there's probably twice as many safe-houses.

"In Brest you'll want to look for a woman named Angelique. She runs a safe-house disguised as a bed-and-breakfast. If there's too many non-hunters around, she'll claim no vacancy." Her finger lands on the red circle around Brest. "You'll want to be careful, though. France is not the United Kingdom or Ireland. Rules for hunters are different."

"How different?" I ask.

"We'd best talk about that with everyone," she says, and then straightens. "Will the rest of you come over here for a moment?"

The rest of them do, like chastised schoolchildren. I'd heard Naomi and Wells at their usual bickering, which was in contrast to Marjorie and Cornelius, who'd been standing at the window without speaking. Now none of them made a sound, four pairs of eyes blinking at us.

"I was only telling your friend here about what to expect when you reach Brest," says Roisin. "And about who runs the safe-house once you arrive. He can fill you in on that information. But right now, I wanted to brief you on the rules the French have for hunters."

"They're different?" Wells asks.

"Yes. Firstly, they have a stricter Guild system. Nine out of ten hunters you'll meet in France have an affiliation with a Guild. Second, Miss Selling there told me earlier about the Shikari on your tail. They've got a lot more of those elite hunters in France, possibly because they hold them to a higher standard. So if they sense you're runaways, or worse, fugitives, they'll be on you like that." She snaps her fingers, sharp in the silence of the room. "So don't even act like you're hiding from something."

"How are we supposed to survive there?" Cornelius asks. "The only one who knows any French is my sister."

"And it's textbook French, not colloquial," Marjorie says.

"I had Curran look at your bat while we were having lunch here," says Roisin. "There is a very old vampire, a few hundred years old now, who may be able to transform him back into his human form. But you'll have to get to Geneva, if you can manage it. The way across France is not the easiest path."

"And once he's transformed?" I ask. "What do we do with him then? We can't just leave him."

"You can," she says. "He'll be safe in Geneva. One of the most powerful vampire families lives there. They can protect him."

"And then that's it?" Wells says. "We're just supposed to go back where we came from, or what?"

"Well, since you are clearly wanted, I'd advise against it. I hear Zurich has a very vibrant hunter community—"

"We don't speak the language," Naomi says. "We didn't bring anything from back home that could help us reestablish ourselves somewhere else."

"There's a safe-house in Zurich was what I was going to say, before you interrupted," Roisin says sharply. "You leave the bat in Geneva, go to Zurich and find the safe house. Then figure out what your next steps will be."

"Sorry," Naomi says, cowed.

"He's not just a bat," I say suddenly, making everyone look at me in surprise. "He was my friend. Is my friend. He was human once."

"All vampires were human once, my dear," says Roisin. "And they all meant something to somebody at one time too. Yours is no different."

"He is," Marjorie says then. "He is different, because he's been blood-bound to me."

"Blood-bound?" she repeats. "I thought that was just the stuff of legend. Magic. That sort of thing."

"I've seen it happen," Wells says. "Actually we did. Me, my sister, and Wilkes there. We all saw it."

"Vampires are notoriously hard to blood-bind, I've heard," Roisin says, looking at Marjorie. "Yet yours was successful?"

Marjorie nods. "My father and my uncle did it. They'd been practising."

"On their own daughter." Roisin shakes her head. "That is truly appalling."

Marjorie holds up her palm, where the white lines of her scars bisect it over and over again. "What's appalling is how many times they've done it."

"They turned her into a test subject," I say. "Just as much as my friend. Which is why we're running away, and trying to get him human again."

Now Roisin's the one cowed, nodding slowly. "Yes, I see how that would be difficult. I do apologise. I presume this means you intend to take him along, if he can be turned back to a human?"

"We'd find him someplace safe," says Wells. "Clearly he can't go back to London. But we wouldn't just maroon him somewhere."

"Yes, yes, I see," she says. "And the rest of you? If none of you intend to return either..."

"We'll have to, eventually," I say. "We have to stop the blood-bindings for good. Even if it means bringing down the Institute and the Bromley Guild with them."

"He's right," Naomi says, to an indignant glare from both Sellings. "We can't just run away. It makes us look cowardly at best, guilty at worst. We have to at least try to finish what we've started by unearthing all these secrets."

"That Guild has been in our family for generations," Cornelius protests. "If we destroy it, we'll have nothing to go back to."

I say nothing, although I can see his argument. We take down the two largest institutions in the United Kingdom's hunting society, we might as well be advocating for anarchy while we do it. The Guilds were good for one thing: they made rules. They published books and training manuals. And they eradicated the worst of the creatures with the Shikari, the ones most hunters would never deal with on a daily basis. And the Institute was also good for something, although I don't often admit it — most of the hunters in London come from the Institute's instruction, which means we all come out knowing the same things and how to use them in a practical setting. Hunters like Wells are rare, learning it in the real world without any training.

"It'll soil their reputations, at any rate," Wells points out. "Once the rest of the hunting community finds out their Guild and their Institute have been engaged in something illegal, trust'll never be restored fully."

At that Marjorie gives me a glance. We're the new generation. If, somehow, this works and we manage to oust Father from the Institute and Solomon and Augustus Selling from the Guild, we could reform them into something new. Give them both a shiny new reputation.

"You have a good point there," says Cornelius, reluctantly agreeing.

"But you need to disappear for a while, right?" Roisin flicks her eyes between us. "Figure out how to finish them?"

We all nod without answering.

"Right then," she says. "Then listen very closely. This is how we'll get you on your way."

—

Later, evening. — I can't sleep that night. We'd spent all day running through what we'd be doing, almost down to the hour. Wells and Cornelius had taken it all in with nods, not saying a word. And I know Naomi, who'd looked worried but hadn't said anything, is trying to be just as stoic. It's Marjorie and I who are the cowards. I'm afraid of my father just like she is of hers. And I know Father can — and will find us. He's too drunk with power to stop.

That's how I hear a sniffle and a thud from outside the bedroom door after at least an hour of tossing and turning but no sleep. Our accommodations were less comfortable than the last safe-house, and we ended up having to separate in a different way this time: me, Wells, and Cornelius in one room, Marjorie and Naomi in the other. Cornelius had refused to share the bed with me, and Wells too scared of what he'd do if he tried. So one curled up in the day-bed in the window, and the other took all the spare pillows and slept on the rug.

I slip out of bed, pull on a shirt over my vest, and button it up as I tiptoe to the door. When I inch it open I see the window right outside our bedroom is open, the only one with roof access. I squeeze through the crack and close the door soundlessly behind me, then crawl out the window and onto the roof.

There, on a flatter section of roof under the neighbouring window, sits Marjorie. She's in nothing but a thin white nightgown, her feet bare, her hair loose and tousled by the breeze. Some of it sticks to her cheeks in the two fresh tear tracks silvered by moonlight.

"Marjorie?"

She jumps, hand flying to her heart as she quickly swipes at her face with the other. "Langdon! Good God, you startled me."

"Sorry," I say sheepishly, making my way over to sit next to her. "You couldn't sleep either?"

"How can the others, is my question," she says, leaning into me. I feel her shivering, and I wrap an arm around her. "I'm so afraid, Langdon...they know where we are, I just know they do."

"That's why we have help," I say, although I don't feel confident about it.

"Yes, but..." She sighs heavily and rakes a hand through her hair. "I'm afraid my father will...possibly...turn this into a confrontation."

"So will mine," I say. "If he's with them."

"Neither of them want to let us go," she says. "That's the most terrifying part."

I sigh and look out over the roofs of the other houses. Just barely I can see the water beyond, a thin strip of silver on the horizon.

"I know they...they won't let us go, if they get their hands on us," she says then. "They'll drag us all the way back to London bound and gagged and under Shikari guard."

"We can't let that happen," I say, and I don't know where the words come from. Certainly not from a place where I was thinking about them.

"I know, I just..." Marjorie covers her face with both hands, then fists them in her hair as she buries her head in her arms. "Father's called me a yellow-belly before, and I believe him. I can't face him...not like this."

"I'll never be anything more than Father's successor, if that's any reassurance," I say. "I don't mean anything to him otherwise. He's told me before I'm hopeless as a hunter."

"Oh, Langdon." Marjorie drops her arms and sits up, but only to drop her head to my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

I say nothing in reply, only pull her closer. I somewhat understand what she experiences at home, because it's so similar to what I experience. We've been told we'll never make great hunters. That our power lies in reputation, status, and who we marry. That our future is what we can already see in front of us.

"I wish we didn't have to go back," she says then. "Not for anything. It isn't as if our situation will change once we do."

She's right, although it's hard to admit it. I sigh and shake my head. "I actually agree with you on that one."

"I do still want to court, if you'll have me," she says. "But...if you don't, then...I'll understand."

"I do," I say, and I mean it. "I think we could make the entire hunting community better if we...you know...marry."

She nestles close to me. "You know our family trees have never grown together before? A Wilkes and a Selling have never married."

"Then we'd be making history, wouldn't we?"

"I think we already are," she says, straightening up just enough to look into my face, her hand resting on my cheek gently. "And not just because we ran away."

I can sense what's coming next, and I anticipate it. She doesn't have to lean in very far to kiss me, her lips so soft and full I close my eyes and lose myself in the feeling of them against mine. And unlike Wells, she's content to just kiss and nothing else. Her hand doesn't even leave my face. But I like it, even the bright pink streaks I see behind my eyelids every time her lips move against mine.

"What was that for?" I say when she pulls away, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

"You are the one person I know who has not criticised my choices," she says. "And you haven't forced me to make one. Not to mention I don't feel judged when I'm with you."

"All that in one kiss?"

She smiles. "I'm not too good with words sometimes."

"Well, in that case, I think you should do it again." Her kiss is nice, Refreshing too, like a cold drink on a hot day. "Because I don't think I got all of it."

Her smile grows. "I should fix that, shouldn't I?"

I don't have time for an answer. We kiss again, and that time, I know exactly what she's trying to say.