9.3.08 Sorry all for the long delay in the publishing of this chapter, I've lost it and rewritten it several times and here it finally is, I've tried to make it longer and deeper. And this is more the fact of some of my experiences than fiction so I hope this chapter seems more real. Please tell me what you think. And huge, huge thanks to my new beta, Lioness's Heart, you are awesome!

I would be overstating
If I said I
Knew you well
Or that I knew you at all.
-Beulah
A Good Man is Easy To Kill

Chapter Three - Overstating

Tansy calls what has come over me grief. I call it being. Whatever it is, it is an odd feeling.

This floating dream-state is unfamiliar to me. Pain I can deal with. Hate I can deal with. This? I don't understand it. I can't hear this feeling screamed from mot to cove. Can't see it in fierce glares. I can't know it.

I once heard a mot describe the grief of her son as being burned, you see your finger in the fire – know it's hot – and pull it out. Wait a second and the pain comes. She knew her son was dead before she realized her son was dead.

I'm stronger than that, though. I didn't care for Rosto. I didn't love his cream skin, his eyes like a cloudless winter night, his fair hair framing his face in gold. I hated the way he danced with his silver daggers. Hated the way he'd fight with his mind too. Loathed how he was never boring.

No, I do not miss him at all. I do not care what they say. You can't miss a gown you've never worn. I can't miss a love I've never known.

If I don't care, if I don't miss him, why can I not be free of this mundane fog? Why can I not return to my life as it was? Why can't I feel joy instead of a heavy dampness surrounding me and blocking everything out save for wretched thoughts of him?

I go through the motions of a day. I get up and dressed, eat some food, buy more food. Except now, everything I do is watched by Goodwin's or Tansy's sharp eyes and I'm ushered home and locked there before my watch. I have not the heart to escape.

I've said before that Tunstall's gone. He has taken a month's leave chasing down Rosto. He doesn't need to. I do not care for that wretched cove.

I opened by shutters last night and sat on the sill of my window to listen to the breath of the city.

Some minstrel played a tune. I sang brokenly along with the half remembered melody. The words I sang were not written for the song. They weren't even written. Just words dreamt by my mother and sung to me from the cradle.

The words told of a princess fair and pure. One day her knight rode up on his ivory steed and swept her away. Her knight was killed in a war and the princess learned that she was strong and independent and could live without any cove in her life, ordering her around. She took his battle charger and rode off to happiness.

My eyes, after singing the trembling words, were oddly damp. I've no notion why.

This morning as I slept the odd night's moments away, Goodwin burst into my room. Dimly I registered her pattern of footsteps weighted by something. Then sharply, I realized what weighted her down as she dumped the contents of a bucket over my head. I spluttered and wiped the water from my bleary eyes.

She watched me intently, hands on hips.

I muttered some unintelligible noise that could have been perceived as a question.

"This isn't healthy," she said, not unkindly. "This half denial. You need to get over him."

I glanced at my soaked bed and rose, grumbling, to air out the blankets.

"Admit it," Goodwin barked. "Puppy Cooper, do as I say and admit it."

"I was stupid," I allowed. "Dumb and naïve for thinking a dashing cove like him would even consider taking a plain mot like me."

"Oh, darling, no," Tansy came in my doorway, face wrinkled in concern and arms holding hot pastries.

I ignored her, "I know the type that will take me. The same type as gets thrown out to the gutter by the barkeep when they've drunk beyond too much. The type that would take me are all drunkards or looking for an insider in the Guard," I sniveled and wiped my nose on the handkerchief Tansy held toward me.

Goodwin watched me with hard eyes and spoke in a low, clear voice, "No. Cooper, I'll only say this once so listen good. This was not your fault. It was the fault of that crack-nobbed Scanran who needed three doxies on each arm."

"She's right," Tansy held a pastry out to me. "The blame should all lie on his shoulders."

"Then what is the weight I feel resting on mine?" I opened the shutters and let the pigeons fly in.

I was scattering corn for them when I heard the low female voice of Pinky's ghost, "I found him with her…him with her…with her…her. I lost it. That vegetable knife was heavy in my grip. But he stopped me … loved her … not me … stopped me. Turned the blade to my own heart … already broken. That –"

With a shriek I threw up my hands and chased the bird and her offending ghost away with the rest of the silly flock flapping behind. I'd not end up like that mot. If I maybe did care the least bit, I get over it. And I suddenly had a plan.