Written in 59 minutes.

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Clarity had struck him perhaps twenty minutes after they resumed their travel — he’d handled the situation poorly. Disastrously if he were being truthful with himself, and now the woman trusted him even less that she had at the start of this mess.

He’d agreed to Valentin’s task hoping to pry loose enough secrets that could be used against his foe, but every step that took Jason away from Tonderah and towards Wymoor risked all the progress he’d made in the last five years. It wasn’t enough to simply kill Valentin Cassadine — it would never be enough to exterminate the vermin from the living. Jason intended to do whatever he could to dismantle the power structure that had allowed Valentin to survive, to thrive, to steal the mantle of a noble house through murder and deceit—

And it seemed Valentin’s desire for power had curled out past his own home, striking out at the women of Nevoie. It was too terrible to believe Valentin had nearly destroyed an ancient line of magic, and had imprisoned the only survivor for years and years.

And despite knowing very little about him other than his willingness to take Valentine’s coin, Elizabeth had given him her trust and risked her own life to save his.

He’d returned that kindness with anger and derision. If Mary Mae ever found out how he’d treated Elizabeth, noble lineage or no, she’d skin him alive.

Jason tugged up on the reins slightly so that his stallion fell back until his horse drew abreast of Elizabeth, her mare just a few steps behind. “I offer my apologies,” he said shortly, then glanced at her when she said nothing. “Did you hear me?”

“For which offense are you asking my pardon?” she asked sweetly, but the quick flash of blue eyes left no doubt that her temper was still high. “The list has grown so long I can’t begin to guess.”

He tightened his grip on the leather rein, reminding himself that he was the one in the wrong here. “For ingratitude. I could have handled it myself, but you could not have known that. In the future—” Jason hesitated, listening again to the road.

“Oh, if you tell me the future is already at hand,” Elizabeth complained, drawing her horse to a slow walk, “I will be so irritated. I have not the energy for more villains—”

“Thunder,” Jason said, as the rumbling in the distance grew louder, and the clouds above them drifted to cover the sun, leaving the road lit with weak light. “The storm should have turned towards the east coast, but it’s chasing us.” He hesitated, then looked at her, remembering the night before. “Unless this is your doing—”

“I suppose I should be flattered you think I have such power. We do not direct the weather, nor do we increase it. I can no more pull a storm to me than you can draw down the moon. What I can guarantee, Master Morgan, is if there’s any chill in the air—”

“My apologies for not having a thorough understanding of every power of the House of Nevoie,” Jason muttered. His father had told him many things, but by the time Jason had trained at the Quartermaine estate, the line of Nevoie was thought defunct and much of what Alan had shared had been rooted in story not practical knowledge.

“You hoped for us to travel through the night, but if the storm is close—” Elizabeth hesitated. “Are there any villages near that we might find shelter? Or—” There was a loud crack and roll of thunder. “Any shelter will do.”

Jason glanced above them, taking in the location of the sign before the cloud cover could completely take over, then glanced around the forest and the road, trying to calculate everything he knew about this part of the route.

“We might be able to beat the worst of it, but only if we—” The lightning flashed and the first droplets of rain began to fall. “Hurry,” he finished, then kicked his horse into a canter, pushing it into a gallop when he knew Elizabeth had fallen in with him.

They would never make the next village or even the next farm owned by a friendly face, but if there was any luck to be had, they might reach the only other source of shelter outside a handful of caves or smuggler’s cellars dug into the open ground.

The skies opened up ten minutes later, but it was another thirty of steady travelling, alternating speeds to spare the horses before Jason slowed and went off the road, appearing to travel randomly between trees with no sense of direction of purpose.

Her lips were chattering, her skin soaked and chilled from the layers of wet dress, her tangled hair plastered and soaked against her cheeks, Elizabeth had to physically bite her tongue to prevent complaints from spilling free. What looked like a zig zag maze of steps to her eye must make sense to Jason.

Or she would simply drown from the rain pouring down around them, soaking down through the forest floor. It had threatened snow on the eastern coast of the island, but Wymoor lay more towards the south, and the air had just enough chill for the drops to be freezing rain rather than icy snow.

She wasn’t sure which challenge she’d prefer, but it would likely take longer to drown in snow. If she didn’t freeze to death first.

Just when Elizabeth was giving serious consideration to drowning  Jason herself, the trees opened up into a small clear, where a tiny, snug cottage was nestled, with a small lean-to with enough space for at least three horses. There were no lamps lit behind the windows, no smoke rising from the chimney—

But there were four walls and a roof. Nothing had ever looked more like a castle.

Jason drew his horse to a stop, dismounted with his boots splashing up water where they hit the earth. He slicked his hair out of his eyes, then came towards her. Elizabeth wanted to dismount herself, but her fingers felt frozen to the reigns, her waterlogged skirts pinning her in place.

Jason reached up, wrapped his hands around her waist and tugged her down. Elizabeth tried to assist him but couldn’t get her balance back, nearly falling off the horse and, quite humiliatingly, directly onto Jason, who caught her with a grunt, his hands tightening at her waist, her nose bumping into his chin. She lifted her head and caught his eye for just a moment, finding herself strangely aware of him in a way that she hadn’t been before.

Other than the night before, when he’d trapped her against the tree in an effort to disarm her of the daggers.

“Where are we?” Elizabeth managed. She planted both hands against his chest and pushed back, allowing for some separation. It would have been a half-decent move that could have restored some of her dignity, but her boots failed her and she nearly slipped in the mud. Jason caught her elbow, and she muttered beneath her breath. Why had she not known it would be a talent to be able to function in the pouring, freezing rain? And where did one acquire this knowledge?

“Smuggler’s den. Not in use currently. Front door’s open. Go inside and I’ll see to the horses.”

“Can I—”

“You can start a fire and see what supplies have been left behind.” He released her, then reached behind her for the reigns of her mare. “Go!” he said, raising his tone as more space between them made it difficult to hear one another.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, wishing she could argue but she was also desperate for some warmth and dry. With any luck, there would be dry clothing inside, or hopefully Jason would bring in the saddle bags. Their tough, leather exterior ought to have protected her cloth bag inside.

She’d never traveled in the rain, not outside of a carriage. Not where she was responsible for her own welfare. And already resented that she’d have to lean on Jason to survive for now.

Elizabeth slogged towards the small front entrance of the cottage which was only one story, and was, at best, two rooms inside. She twisted the knob, then had to push at the door with her shoulder until it finally gave way and she was able to get inside.

It was pitch dark inside the room, and Elizabeth stumbled, a bit unsure of herself, droplets sliding from the hem of her dress to the rough-hewn wood beneath her sodden boots.

At home, she’d know precisely what to do. She knew how to keep her woodbox stocked, how to start a fire in the hearth—

But in the dark room she could scarcely determine where to find the hearth, much less the woodbox or instruments to strike flames. For all the independence she’d enjoyed in her years in Shadwell, she really did not know what to do if the necessary materials were not right in front of her.

Perhaps Jason had a point earlier, she thought ruefully. Though she’d been held captive all these years, there had been some protection in knowing where she’d lay her head, and having her own home where everything had its place.

She swallowed hard, her body beginning to shiver. Any moment now, Jason would come in having already tended to both their horses and she’d still be standing here, a soggy mess that he had to take care of.

No.

She felt for the wall of the cottage, determined the location of the front door and remembered which side had the chimney. She felt her way over towards that location, stumbling around a table and some chairs, then felt the cool stone of the hearth.

Elizabeth dropped to her knees, continuing to feel with her fingers until she felt the logs already in place. She wanted to weep with relief. She could light a fire, couldn’t she?

She reached inside her cloak for one of her daggers, pressed her lips to the bottom of the jeweled hilt, then laid it against on the logs. “Incendié!”

The flames burst into life, sending Elizabeth sprawling backwards, nearly singed. She fell back on her hands, then laughed with delight. Her first real test, and she’d more than proved her worth.

The room was lit, though the fire only offered the barest glimpse of the room around her, most of the corners still shrouded in shadow. Elizabeth did not care what anything else looked like. She was frozen to the bone and desperately wanted to be dry.

She clumsily unlaced her boots, and tugged them from her feet, setting them near the heart to dry. Then she rose to her feet, dragged one of the chairs she’d stumbled over towards the fire. Quickly she shed her coat and stockings, draping them over pieces of the chair. Though she felt lighter and a bit less like a drowned rat, her skin still shivered from the two layers of dress.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her dress, and she shimmied out of it, draping it over a second chair. Finally, with only her thin shift between her body and the dry air, there was some relief, and Elizabeth no longer feared drowning in her own clothing. She rested both hands on the mantel above the fire, letting the heat absorb into her skin, the front of her shift drying rapidly.

Behind her, the wind and rain roared when the small door burst open again. “I don’t know how long this storm will last,” Jason began, before stopping to stare at her with a strange expression.

Perhaps he was bewildered or stunned speechless that she, a useless noble girl, could have found a way to light the fire on her own. Elizabeth smiled a bit nervously. “There’s room for you to dry yourself as well.”