If you are not a better person tomorrow than you are today, what need have you for a tomorrow?"
(– Rebbe Nachman of Breslov.)

The newspaper in his hands was rough, stained by the rain and the remaining ring left from a cup of coffee. Aged. " The Lady Of The Manor ," he read aloud, testing the name for its strange familiarity. "The Lady of the…."

He stood over the body of some nasty feller, a man with crooked teeth who smelled of whiskey and who'd gone carelessly riding by with a young woman on the back of his horse who he hadn't bothered to shut up in her cries for help. She'd long since fled the scene, wanting no part in any of Arthur's business any more than with her kidnapper. He hoped she was well. Regardless.

It clicked as he skimmed through the remainder of the review below. Written by Leslie Dupont, an up and coming young author. Dupont, dupont- that was the surname which Mary-Beth Gaskill had typically employed when playing a stranger. The first name typically varied. He would have chalked it up to mere coincidence had it not been for the fact that he'd once overheard Charles, Tilly and her holding a long discussion about almost this exact plot. He did recall Tilly calling it a lil' bit trite , don't you think ?

It seemed she didn't think so.

The dead man's horse whinnied as he leant against it, far off enough from the road not to worry of being seen. A fly buzzed past. It was the first sign he'd seen of anyone from the gang, this happenstance newspaper book review he'd found tucked in the dead man's bag right alongside an old rotten apple and a hearty clip of money. Just a scrap of evidence, but clear enough for him to see the truth; Mary-Beth had made it out safely, and had finished her first book. Warmth spread through him, the relief tangible as it was belated; all he could've hoped for in his near-sacrifice was to give someone a chance, most of all the Marstons, but really to anyone who deserved a second go at life. He wondered then- what about Tilly? Karen, Sadie-

Charles?

The swell of emotion that threatened to well up was quickly suppressed, tucked away into the corner of his mind where he stored all other such whims and frustrations. All the things he didn't feel like admitting to himself, even post-mortem. It was always the hardest admitting something to yourself. Tell someone else all you want; deny their reply, but you can't deny yourself, can't deny the voice that narrates your life. So he tucked it all away. Folded it up, the newspaper too, noting the address below which decreed it'd been published in Saint Denis and where to mail fan letters or inquiries to Miss Dupont . He decided he had some mail due to send, and some social calls to make. Throwing the paper down on the man's corpse but for the ripped out page with Mary-Beth's location which he slipped into his new journal, Arthur moved to cut free the man's horse.

He paused, looking her up and down. She'd seen ugly things, that much could be assumed, but she'd come to no harm during her time with this rat of an owner. In fact she looked to be a strong horse- relatively expensive, even, especially considering the condition of her origins but in truth he wouldn't have been surprised to learn she was stolen, or won in some high-stakes match of gambling. A dappled black Thoroughbred, she looked like, strong in temperament as she was in her gait. He glanced back at Jimmy, Charlotte's kindly loaned draft horse and thought- well, shit .

He'd find his way home, if urged. Was dumb and loyal enough for it. Arthur had insight in these things, and could definitely attest to it himself. So he did. Changed the saddles- hoped Charlotte wouldn't be too bothered by the flimsy one sent back to her, a rushed note tucked into one saddlebag with a promise of his safety, and a tease that a dumb man shouldn't ride a dumb horse for the risk of mutual deterioration. Arthur sent Jimmy off with a slap to the hind and a sharp git , boy, go on home and went right on ahead to steal the dead fellow's horse.

There's no stealing from dead men, so they say. Not like he'd be needing it.

"What's your name then, girl?" He asks, coughs, and unfortunately the horse doesn't reply.

"Ought t'be somethin' fancy, for such a fancy creature as yourself. Can't be out here with somethin' so simple as Millie, or Maybelle . Pff." The horse huffed. He took it as a sign of agreement, patting her neck. "Y'aint a cow ."

She flicked her tail in staunch agreement. The road stretched far ahead of them.

Mary-Beth Gaskill ran to him the instant she laid eyes on him.

Disregarding how filthy and exhausted he was by nigh two days on horseback, she fell into his arms in a flurry of overwhelmed excitement, evidently taking all her efforts not to burst into tears. Arthur almost tipped over from the unanticipated weight taking him by surprise, a rough laugh rumbling through him as he hugged her back, holding her close as was proper and kind. "Arthur- oh, Arthur you silly old coot, I-"

"Shh." He glanced around with narrowed eyes, trying to parse who within earshot might've caught any of what she said. "Abraham, while I'm here. Jus' Abraham Morgan."

"That's a terrible name!"

He sputtered, grinning as he pulled back to hold her at elbows distance. "That right, Mrs Dupont ?"

His country hick accent molding around the french name must've been awful funny, judging from the echoing peal of her laughter. The delight that flooded through him was just a hair's width from too much for him, having dredged through knee deep grief and unpleasantry for the last months. Though they mightn't have been the closest of the gang, he'd always seen Miss Mary-Beth and Miss Tilly in a good light, like his dear and beloved little sisters. Wondered, really, if they saw him the same at all and if they did, how the current circumstances may have changed that view. He watched as she stepped back, wiping the tears from her freckled face, hair come a bit loose in some places from her usual tied-back style. Maybe it hadn't changed as much as he'd feared.

Mary-Beth snorted, tears still wet on her face. "You smell like horse. It's rank !"

"I know, I know n'I'm sorry for it but there's little to be done just yet. You know anywhere we might be able to talk a lil', no eaves around which to drop n'all?"

"Of course not, Mr. Abraham, this is Saint Denis after all. The walls have eyes." She stared at him for a beat, then burst into giggles. "I'm just pullin' your leg! C'mon old man, I've got my own quarters n'all by now. No more sleepin' with Karen snorin' in my ear on one side and Sadie complainin' of it on the other all hours, oh no. Would say I've moved up in the world were it not accountin' for the actual height of my lodgins, if you follow."

They walked for some time, leaving the train station that they'd agreed upon in their letters to meet in front of, coming closer to the midpoint of town where the shabbier structures of the regular folk melded in amongst the brick and mortar constructions of the wealthy. Arthur pulled his horse gently along by her reins, her ears perked up in interest and mild wariness as she took in the crowded clamor of city life. Mary-Beth told him about her book and its surprising level of success, considering her status as an amateur and a newcomer. The fact the most readers hadn't seen her face nor knew her real name only helped.

"...and, well, Tilly and I've been gettin' along just as well as we always have, though I've been taken with my book and she's been taken by her own work. Don't know if you knew but she found Karen- I know ! Found her over'n that shabby lil' rat-infested back-holler hole of a saloon up town- not enthusiastic of that establishment, I'm not, seen one too many drunks stumble 'cross my way and Karen among 'em-"

"They're both alright," Arthur spoke, tone half question and half a sigh of relief. The pessimistic side to him had doubted Karen's safety. Her mind and grip on things had seemed to slip a bit from her control, towards the end, something he now regretted not having worked more to help with. Some things couldn't be helped by just anyone, he supposed, just glad she'd fallen into the healthy company of Tilly Jackson.

"They are." She looped one arm through his elbow; gave his wrist a squeeze just as reassuring as her smile. "You did a good thing for us, y'know that? Gave the most of us a good chance to get out, didn't put in any effort to drag us back."

"That's just basic decency, Miss Dupont, ain't nothin' to be praised." He followed as she guided him beneath an archway and out into a back-alley courtyard. He moved to hitch up his horse by the other two near the archway, both drinking idly from a public trough sat there.

Weren't many people around to hear, besides for some rowdy looking young boys playing with sticks off in the corner, distracted by their own business. He swallowed. "You...you ain't heard nothin' from the Marstons, have you?"

Her face pulled taut. "No, I haven't." Her arm slipped from his and she seemed to collect herself, once again drawing up the more cheerful face she was so very good at conjuring. "I've got to ask who this fine lady you've got in your company is, though. Besides myself of course. Is she a Thoroughbred?"

"Kieran teach y'that?"

She swatted at his arm, and he cringed inwardly a bit at having thoughtlessly brought up such a painful memory. She seemed to take only the happier part of it into account, leaving away the condition they'd last seen the man in. "I know plenty I need to know about horses all on my own! Not hard to notice the name of such a pretty one. What's her name, anyways?"

"Shoshanah, I think." He scratched the back of his neck.

"You think ?"

"Yeah, she's Shoshanah. Always liked the name. She's a fancy thing, bit high opinion of herself I reckon."

"Ought to've named her Molly if that's the case," Mary-Beth laughed, expression falling away into something rather sad for one fleeting moment. Her voice evened out. She brushed along the horses shining neck. "She's a pretty thing ...you must miss your Amma."

"Amma was a good horse. Did me good, in the end, got me far n'saved my life far more'n I'd deserved." Amma died too soon; Arthur still missed her so much. He tried for a smile, feeble as it was false. Tried then for a distraction. "No use millin' about here. You gonna show me to your lodgin's or shall I wait for an invitation first, m'lady Dupont ?"

She scoffed, tugging him across the courtyard and into one of the smallest corner-side doorways. The door creaked as it pushed open into the cramped space of her quarters; a table and two mismatching chairs were planted square in the middle of the entryway some few feet away from the entrance. Arthur made to respectfully take off his hat, only remembering at the last moment that he hadn't one. The place was clouded by the thick chemical smell of the city. Coal burned hot somewhere not far off, the stench evident, though blocked to some degree by the shut windows across the way that looked over nothing but a brick wall in a misshapen alley. The sitting room was sparse, with a chest and a small table, some chairs upon which to sit and an enormous pile of books. He thought he wouldn't be wrong to guess that all the literature might easily have been the most expensive thing in the place. One door lead left and another right, both firmly shut.

"It's got no hot water," Mary-Beth lamented as she shoved the door closed behind him with the full force of her weight, "but the furnitures sick-free and there's windows and room and no need for to share it with a roommate."

"No room for one neither," Arthur quipped without thinking, then biting his tongue. Quickly tried to re-acquaint himself to his manners. "It's a nice place you've got, Mary-Beth. I'm glad you've found somewhere nice t'settle."

"It's yours as well long as I'm here in the city," she replied, milling about the counter and canisters of coffee there. "You're welcome to stay the night here in the front room, can pull out some bedding for you. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning t'head down south for some work with my writing. A fella from some bank offered to strike up a deal with me. You still take your coffee black?"

"Yes ma'am, and thank you. Not a lover of the brown gargle myself." She shrugged and poured it on to boil. "Tomorrow y'say? Why so quick?"

"Not runnin' from you if that's what you're implyin', Arthur, and it's scarcely quick seein' as I've been living here some months now! The book business is a fast one and one you can't anticipate much about."

"Well, then, I'll try not t'overstay my welcome. I'll be out 'fore midday." He nodded gratefully as she placed the mug of coffee in front of him, the steam pleasantly wafting in the air, staunching the chemical city-smell. "You mentioned Tilly was in these parts, before."

"Yessir." Mary-Beth plopped unceremoniously down onto the chair across from him. "Up in the nicer parts of town, she's taken up residency alongside Karen, I believe, workin' a live-in job. Domestic help."

"Domestic help," he repeated, the doubt ringing clear in his voice. Could almost hear the echo of every instance Susan had chided the girls for their so-called laziness in regards to laundry, and the average chores of the like. Couldn't imagine Karen working to appease the whims of some stuck-up aristocrats wife. "That's a ...surprise."

"No more surprisin' than myself bein' a writer and yourself bein' alive , I'd think."

"Fair point." Arthur hummed, and drank from his coffee. Bit lighter than he preferred. He didn't mind.

"Why'd you ask?"

"Thought I might like to see the girls, if they're here in the city so close. Make sure they're alright. If there's nothin' I can't do them for, just- I'd just like t'see 'em."

Mary-Beth nodded. Her hands flew from her abandoned cup of coffee and moved instead to roughly rifle through the stack of newspapers and documents that'd accumulated on the other end of her kitchen table, finally coming upon whatever she sought with a little ' yes!' of success. She slid it across the table to him.

Matilda J. Jones.

An address.

"Matilda. Thought she hated bein' called that."

"You think I love the name Leslie ?"

"Uh- why'd y'choose it?"

"It sounded charmin' with the surname!"

They both burst into laughter, Arthur's interrupted here and there by a rough near-cough and the swipe of a hand over his coffee-stained lips, grinning to have reconnected so happily with his old friend. He hadn't expected it to be this easy. Had anticipated anger or fear, maybe, because that was always what he expected from people who came face to face with him, but nothing like this. He smiled, really smiled, and reached to squeeze her hand in gratitude. Hope didn't feel quite so distant now.

The first punch hit harder than he'd anticipated.

Blood gushed, hot and unpleasant, down from his nose; Charles brusquely swiped at it with the back of his arm, continuing to go in wary circles around the other man. He dodged another strike to the face, felt a push against his back from someone in the mass of shouting, gambling drunkards that circled them. He'd already forgotten the other mans name. Fake, invented and inflated with grandeur, much like his own alias. He'd had a little less say in the title chosen for him.

He'd been called a lot of things in his time. A mountain of a man . Strong as an ox, unbeatable, frightening, stoic, strong as twelve men . Nothing more respectful of his nature overall; no title acknowledged his humanity, or his ability to die just as any other. His ability to be hurt. He didn't necessarily want to be seen as anything but strong- that was part of his survival, and what had gotten him so far in such a dangerous world- but sometimes it just felt false. Like a mask he wore for convenience, fused to his face over time.

Someone in the crowd yelled, "Get him! Bring him down!"

He caught the other man in an uppercut. Blood spattered in the air. A tooth, he thought, went flying, a brutal choking sound coming from the assaulted opponent. He reeled and coughed and came back in swinging, a hot rage in his eyes that Charles hadn't quite anticipated. He won most of these fights, excluding of course when he was paid much higher for to fail. He hated this work, every part of it. A hand caught him square in the front of the face and he could feel the blood pounding there, the cartilage of his nose throbbing so painful it almost went numb. His hands tingled and heart pounded in his chest, furious and fast as the crowd roared louder, raucous laughter and the disgusting smell of whiskey on the men's breath gusting over and around them, the back-alley stench strong and unrelenting. He steeled himself, breathed hard, knowing that he'd surely come out of this with a half-broken nose and covered in blood.

He wasn't paid to fail this time.

The man swung to punch again, emboldened by the two successful previous hits; he didn't expect for Charles to grab him by the forearm as he dodged it, the full force of his frustration serving to throw him to the ground. The crowd parted in a roar, rolling back as the man slipped on the slick cobblestone, fumbling for the grip to push himself up again. Charles didn't give him the chance. This wasn't the place for fair fights. The same would be done to him, were the positions reversed. Maybe worse.

Following three hard, firm kicks to the side the man relented, throwing up a trembling hand in feeble surrender.

Spitting the blood from his mouth Charles turned from the raucous crowd that jostled him, pulled at his arms and back in frustration or delight, their debts due and gambles made. He shook them off and tried to hold a firm gait, quickly pulling up his shirt from where he'd left it, attending to the collection of his due winnings. The crowd filtered out, quieted and drifted back off to their wives and their bars and their business, scattering in all directions as they could. The money felt heavy in his pocket.

He looked back at the crowd. There stood the man- a Mr Hugh Langston , he remembered now, bloodied and clutching his hip with both hands, being tugged on demandingly by some man clearly frustrated by his loss, his brother Bill by his side. He'd beaten Bill in a fight too, not more than a week ago. The Langstons had a look in both their eyes that told Charles he ought to be getting out of here, and fast.

He'd had some trouble finding work out in these parts. Saint Denis was a great place to get lost, a good place to lose yourself as it was to lose all your money quick. So he did grunt work. Fights in back alleys when nothing else paid better. Lifting boxes and bins in nondescript factories, working some nights as a bodyguard for the rare rich folk who thought him suitable. He'd recently struck up a deal with the local fence, agreeing to hunt some much needed items, find some exotic feathers for a collector or two, the like. If he was truthful with himself, he didn't know where to start.

Walking in a brusque pace down the side streets, Charles tried to avoid calling any more attention to himself than his bloodied nose and clothing already did. At the moment he was just trying to keep himself and Taima alive and well. His mind tossed and turned over whether he should skip town tonight or not. How mad had his opponent really been? There were more jobs to do here. Most of all he was hungry. Frustrated. Alone. Still, he refused to allow the melancholy and the stress of things overtake him, or drive him to destitution.

He didn't mind people, liked them and their company much more than most people might assume of him. He just didn't like the idea of strangers becoming too cognizant of him. City people alarmed him; Charles didn't like to think that they might recognize him, become familiar with his routines as he did with theirs, with the laundry ladies, paper boys, the factory workers and domestic helpers that went by him in their mornings. Didn't like to think that they might know which way he walked, what clothes he wore, which people he spoke to. For some it was a safety net. For him, it was a breach of privacy. It was for this reason that he rarely allowed himself to drift off in his thoughts as he walked, focusing intensely on each step, peering into the faces of passerby, trying to keep himself as small and nondescript as he could for a man of his stature. It usually didn't work. But he noticed, still, the details of the world around him and all those who passed by the same roads. It surprised him sometimes how people lived so in their own worlds, always on the same paths and same roads, completing the same tasks day after day. Didn't they get tired?

He saw the way the woman with the straw hat stared at him, aghast at the state of his face. He saw how the paperboy urgently waved a newspaper in his direction, already disillusioned to the world and its roughness, not caring at all about who might buy his papers so long as he got a coin in his pocket by the end of it. He saw the man who walked by in his nice clothes, far too nice to be about these parts, and how he leered at the nanny that stood at the curb with her charge, waiting for the wagons to pass. Maybe it was just the paranoia talking.

And then he saw something he hadn't accounted for. A face he hadn't thought he'd see again.

"You're kiddin' me."

He just stared.

"What in the goddamn hell are you doin' here?"

"Karen?"

Karen Jones, in the flesh, stood right in his way. She clutched a bulky package in her arms, seemingly frozen to the spot. "If I didn't have this box I might just do a jig. I didn't know you were still alive and kickin', Mr Smith, though I guess it's most likely you might make it considering the other odds."

Charles didn't know what to do. At a loss for words, but still geared towards getting out of this area- he didn't risk a look over the shoulder, but could sense they ought not to linger- he gestured towards her things. "Suppose so. Can I help you with that?"

"No, you sure can't, thank you! I won't have you gettin' blood on this thing, I just walked a pilgrimage and a half t'pick it up."

Anxiety plucked at his frayed nerves. "I'd like to catch up with you, Miss Jones, but we shouldn't hang around this area too much longer. Either we go back to where I'm staying at the moment and talk, or we split here, for your own good."

"Alright, lead the way. I've got time." She quickly repositioned the box in her arms, staying close to his side as they crossed the street, him guiding her down the right streets. "And it's Mrs Jackson, while we're in Saint Denis. Carrie Jackson."

He smiled, quick and teasing. "Mm. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs Jackson."

"How 'bout you?"

He urged her quickly as he could down an alley, listening for company. "Nothing. Just my name."

He glanced back from where they came and saw no one noteworthy or concerning. Nothing. Just some school-children passing by. A man absorbed in his book. He still felt followed.

Karen was staring at him, waiting. "We gonna go wherever you're takin' me or are you gonna look around nervous as hell all day?"

Shoving aside the cold chill of anxiety that still drove him forwards, he briefly allowed the relief to flow over him. Who knew an old friends face could bring such comfort? He had missed Karen. She could cuss like a sailor, and drink like one too. She even looked a bit like one today- her hair was shorter than before and clung in tight curls over her ears, dressed in a white button-up men's shirt tucked neatly into her dark green skirt. A healthy flush colored her cheeks. He realized he was staring. "Sorry. What have you got in the box?"

She shrugged, plucked idly at the ribbon on top. They continued together on their way. "Well, it's really nothin' fancy but that's pretty much the point. It's a present for Tilly."

"Tilly? She's alright?"

"She's just fine, yeah."

"I'm relieved. I was worried about both of you. Here, up the stairs." He herded Karen up the stairs down the back of the saloon he'd been keeping a room in, hoping they'd taken enough strange turns to get the Langstons off the trail.

She clicked her tongue, glancing about the halls of the saloon. "Should've asked me for a drink first, Mr Smith, could've told you I've already got a woman back home."

"Come on." Charles pushed open the door to his room with his back, gesturing that she enter. Breathing a little easier now that they were out of the public eye, he tried for conversation. "Can I see what you got her?"

She grinned, obviously a bit giddy over the gift.

The box was of a soft, light colored material. Inside was a white button up shirt bespeckled in soft blue spots, and beneath were a pair of folded blue men's trousers. He peered at it from a foot away, trying not to touch so as to heed her warning about his bloodied hands. "I never knew Tilly was fond of wearing pants."

"Well- not everyone can be as confident as Mrs Adler!"

"Mm."

"It's more complicated than that, sure, but don't know how much I ought to tell you without askin' her first." She shut the lid, setting it aside on the dresser. "I know she'll have all these worries 'bout the cost, but really it weren't any trouble. She and I've been working, doing the domestic help for this lady uptown, staying in her helpers quarters 'til we've got the funds to get out of here."

"Why did you buy them?" He hoped his voice was as free of judgement as he meant it to be.

"Because.. 'cause I think she doesn't always believe me when I say we're gonna get out and do what we promised each other we'd do."

"Hmm. What'd you promise?"

"A life. A real life, not runnin' with a gang and robbin', always pickpocketing to get by. A house. Little farm. She wants goats. She says she wants to name one Lillybell. I just want Tilly to know we're only stuck here for a bit, you understand? That soon we'll be out. Wear what we want, take care of our own things and not be cleaning up after nobody."

Charles nodded, moving to the counter where he kept a basin of clean, boiled water. "I understand. If there's any way I can help, now you know where to find me."

"Yeah, this shithole."

He snorted, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt to clean the blood off him. Would have to take a bath later to get truly clean, but didn't mind waiting if it meant he'd have some companionship for a while. When was the last time he'd really just spoken to a friend?

"I know what you want to ask."

"What's that?"

"About me. How the hell I'm still breathing." She sighed. "I'm off the drink."

He said nothing. Nodded. The water was room temperature, not the refreshing cold he'd been hoping for as he washed his face of the crusted, stinking blood that clung to him from the nose down.

"Have you taken it up?" Karen asked, gesturing broadly to him as she took a seat on the bed, sitting inelegantly with her legs crossed in her lap. He squinted at the sight of her shoes up on the bed like that. "Drinking."

"No."

"I'm hardly in a place to judge. Just asking."

"Would I lie?"

She sucked on her teeth. A frown hung on her face when she asked, "Then what's got you in such a rush? All bloody like this? Is it gamblin'? Fightin'? You owe somebody?"

"Something like that."

"What kinda business've you gotten yourself tied up in that'd end in you lookin' like a gutted rabbit?"

"It's not that bad."

"It sure ain't pretty."

"Mmhm."

"Charles."

He stopped scratching at the crusted blood that still clung after washing, turning, expectant, alert.

"You should stop, Charles."

"I'm not drinking, Karen, and I've made no bets."

"I don't mean that, don't be thick. I mean- this . Gettin' yourself all bloodied up for a couple dollars. I thought we all-"

"We all...what?"

"I thought we all gave up on thievin' and fightin' to get by."

"Where did you get the extra money?"

"Huh?"

"For that." Charles pointed at the box. Not accusingly, just clear, inquisitive, asking for honesty. He moved to sit by her. Karen didn't look him in the eyes. Couldn't.

"I- fine. I mean no more hurtin' people, Charles, or lettin' ourselves get hurt for the chance at some small winnin's. Nobody's winnin' when you've got your nose broke."

"...It's not broken."

"Like I said- ain't pretty."

"Never claimed to be."

They sat quietly for a moment, Karen with her hands in her lap and a lamenting look in her eyes. It seemed she'd softened over time, and grown tougher all the same, though he wouldn't have thought it possible. She didn't smell like whiskey any more or slur when she laughed. She walked more surely, unburdened by her worries and her fears. He wondered what her and Tilly's life must be like, and couldn't help the mild sting of jealousy that stuck in him since her mentioning of their dreams for the future. A farm. Some peace. Escape. He had underestimated his memory of solitude, back when he'd chosen to go it alone again. Had underestimated how much more it hurt once you'd had a taste of closeness, had even a passing dream of something better.

"What else do you suggest I do?" He asked honestly, turning to look her in the eye. It took her a second to formulate a good reply.

"I heard from one of my friends there's jobs up in Lakay and Lagras controllin' the gator population. They say there's just too many. Saint Denis high society wants to spread out- can't do that with a bunch of monsters bitin' at their ankles."

He frowned in distaste. Didn't like the cause, but certainly needed the opportunity. "That's a good idea."

"It'd get you out of the city, too," she said, and reached over to scratch at the bridge of his nose where blood still clung. He wrinkled his nose, grinning, pulling back. "seeing as you're not too popular."

"We'll have to see if the Gators like me any better."