Geneva Withers may be committing a small crime for trespassing into the Stratford woods, but so was he. Surely it was not acceptable for a man to wait for a woman in the dark and concoct ways to get approval from the said woman, even when he could reason that he was there to catch her committing said crime.

And approval for what—to join her company? Her secrets? Catch her and hand her back to her aunts? Bloody hell, he was not even sure.

As soon as he realized his stupid, disturbing behavior, Damon thought it best to show himself. Thus, he appeared before her, intending to cause no harm nor inconvenience. But alas, he did. She yelped in surprise and jumped back, unfortunately on uneven ground, and with her balance now dangerously off, she started to fall back, her gaslight taking flight first, landing right into a bush.

Damon had the intention to grab her cloak and pull her back, but chose the most sensible thing at the last second. Any wise man would rescue the gaslight first. He heard the painful landing of a body behind him as he dove into the bush. Not too many seconds later, he emerged with the intact gaslight. Geneva Withers sat up with a fiery glare as intense as the gaslight in his hand.

"Pardon," he murmured, stepping forward to extend a hand. "Did I startle you?"

Ignoring his hand, her face morphed into a scowl. "Did you startle me?" she repeated through her teeth.

Damon dropped his hand. "I apparently did. Please, forgive me, Miss Withers."

The gaslight was enough for Damon to see how her jaw tightened before she murmured under her breath, "I'm not hurt, by the way, thank you."

"I did mean to rescue you," he said, watching her stand without signs of injuries. "But I figured the storm had long passed."

With the softest huff he had ever heard—and he meant it to be true because his own sister and cousins never sighed in such gentle manner, even in moments when they tried to be—before she asked, "What?"

His gaze looked away from her dirtied cloak and up to her face; higher to her eyes where it stayed. It was like looking at a caged tiger who was so used to being inside its cell. "It means the ground is dry, so are the leaves." Her face glowed brighter when he lifted the gaslight. "And this little innocent thing could start a serious fire."

A gentle smile curled his lips when he saw her swallow and blink down to brush dirt off her clothes. "I—I'm sorry. I did not realize I was placing the woods in danger—"

"Fret not, Miss Withers," he cut in, stepping closer. "It was my fault for startling you, which was not my intention." He turned to the direction she was originally headed to, speaking again before she could question his presence here. "I was out checking if my cousins sneaked out of their rooms again, but found you instead." He motioned ahead. "I'll walk you to your destination."

There was a slight moment of pause before she found her voice. "What?"

Turning slightly to look back at her, he motioned with his head. "Please, allow me to escort you through this remarkable path bejeweled by traps, Miss Withers." With the gaslight in hand, Damon slowed down his pace to give her time to assimilate the situation he was suggesting, which was his company, of course. He went slower when he did not hear her behind him, and when he finally did, he smiled, picking up pace.

"Are there more traps?" she asked.

"If you follow my steps, you shall be fine."

'You're saying you know where all the traps are."

"No, of course not. If I did, Doctor Peters would have already forgotten my name."

He could not see her face, but he imagined her frowning at the back of his head. "Why do you do it?"

"What? See the doctor?"

"No. Build traps."

"It is fun."

"To hurt each other?"

"To outwit each other. The injuries are just the price we have to pay."

"No one has ever told you to stop?"

"The old man did, but it was he who told the two devils how to make better traps the first time they fell into one."

"The two devils?"

"You've met them, of course. They're the subject of your greatest frustrations." When she did not comment, he looked over his shoulder. "As much as they are ours."

She was looking up the tree they were passing by. "What is that?"

Damon stopped and looked up. "Birdwatching deck. Also fortress on rare occasions." He chuckled when her gaze flew to him. "We play many games here, Miss Withers."

Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, she looked up again. "And you swing in the ropes?"

"Of course. A fortress should be without a brave soldier."

They continued walking, him careful not to step on a trap, she perfectly stepping over where his feet had been.

"I assume you know where you're headed?" he asked.

"Of course."

He nodded, thinking of every place accessible from this part of the woods. "This is also the way to Windsong Manor."

"I have no intentions of going there."

"You should. It hides many interesting things."

"No, thank you."

"A well that hides a very wonderful secret," he continued. "I once fell down and it became my favorite place."

"You fell into the well?"

"Is it a habit of yours? To repeat a statement as a question?"

If she recognized the teasing, she did not sound so eager to participate. "Did you get out?"

"I am here today, am I not?"

"How?"

"My cousins hauled me up, of course. Threw one of those ropes down," he said, pointing a finger upward.

"It must have hurt."

"One thing I know is I returned the very next day."

Her footsteps halted. "You returned? Inside the well?"

"It is a habit of yours," he said. He faced her with a grin and realized she was still unappreciative of the teasing. "Of course. I had to," he said, answering her question.

The frown on her face deepened. "Why?"

He shook his head. "Now, Miss Withers, that is a secret I cannot share unless you see for yourself."

"But I am not—"

"Then you cannot." He turned and continued walking.

They eventually reached the edge of the woods, and there, on a hill not far away, stood the abandoned Windsong Manor. The moon washed it blue and its once white bricks glowed under the touch of moonlight. It stood alone, empty and mysterious, its secrets known only to those who dared venture inside its ruins.

Geneva stood beside Damon and they both stared for quite some time.

"I will be there tomorrow afternoon," he said. "If you wish, you can join me and I'll show you the well."

She was already shaking her head before he even finished. "I cannot."

"It also has a decent view of the village on the other side of the hill." He gave her a sideway glance. "You intend to reach the village, yes?" She did not answer, but it was enough. "Then you will have no choice but to climb up the hill and downward to the village." He pointed to the right. "Unless you wish to go around where you'd have to cross the river. I don't suggest you do so, given your recent injury. You might fall into the river and find yourself washed to the sea." He was grinning at his quip, but she was not.

She was biting her lip, eyes following the trail up the hill. For many odd reasons, this little adventure that all Stratford would consider lesser than petty, was humongous for this woman. What had she been through to get to this point?

Damon's humor washed away, his smile instantly gone. "But, of course, I am only assuming you're going to the village," he said, lifting the gaslight toward her. She took it from him and he stepped back. "As promised, I will not question where you're going or what you intend to do. But please be careful."

She reluctantly nodded, eyes skittering to the woods and back up the hill.

"Have a good night, Miss Withers," he said with a slight bow.

If she wanted to stop him, she would already have, which she did not do, which was disappointing. He went back into the woods without a sound from her, reached the nearest cabin with no sight of her cloaked shadow, and eventually walked back to the manor, retired to sleep wondering if she went further on her adventure tonight.

*****

Geneva waited until Damon Priest disappeared before facing her predicament. The easiest and shortest way would be across the river. But it was also the least safe. It left the hill, but she shuddered at the sight of the abandoned manor.

Fear.

She feared too much, thought too much. Frustrated, she told herself to stop and just take a step. She had gone this far, hadn't she?

Indeed, like the heroine in her favorite book, the one hidden under a loose floorboard in her bedchamber, it took only one brave step before the second one. And she repeated the step until she reached the foot of the hill. The path was clear, spared of grass from probably hundreds of young men like the Stratfords who liked visiting the manor.

The journey up was harder. She stopped a few times to rest her ankle, stealing the manor a glance once in a while. Of course, she was intrigued. What could be in that well that made Damon Priest go back after he fell? What secrets did he uncover? For surely they were worthy of his visits. But considering how the Stratfords could easily be fond of minute things, there might be nothing remarkable in that well. If they found joy in seeing each other get hurt by their traps, it would not be surprising to know they'd feel the same when falling down a well.

She reached the top catching her breath, and her shoulders dropped when she saw nothing but darkness below. Somewhere down there was the Vernon home and their little farm for their livestock.

Geneva stifled a cry. She was so close, yet she could not find them at the only time it was safe.

But you have gone this far, she thought. Tomorrow, you'll go beyond this hill and find them.

Squaring her shoulders, she stared down the path that led to the other side. In her pocket, her letter was silent, eager to be delivered. But as she had been in the months before today, it would have to be patient.

She turned to the direction of the manor, shaking her head, wondering if there were Stratfords hiding inside that eerie place. Content with just being curious for now, she retraced her steps back into the woods, half-expecting Damon Priest to be there waiting. He was not, of course.

Why would he?

Did she truly think he had been waiting for her to show up earlier?

No, of course not.

Then, Geneva smiled. She did it. She had crossed the woods and walked up the hill on her own. Proud of herself, her chest swelled. It would not be long before she would find the Vernons and personally deliver her letter. Or, if the day would go well, she may gather the courage to talk to them herself. Ask the questions in person, see their faces, hear their words.

While she walked across the woods, carefully retracing the exact steps they took earlier as much as she was able, Geneva wondered what it would have been like if she grew up with the Vernons. Would she have had the same childhood as the Stratfords freely running up and down that hill? Discovering every trifling thing in the woods? Would she have loved being a carefree child? Or would it have brought her family's illness to come out earlier?

She would never know because she was the lucky flower plucked out just before autumn. She was placed in a vase where she lived longer than she was fated to. Her illness was suppressed, her demons contained. Her aunts saved her and she should be grateful.

Except that she was not.

No, not at all.

In the weeks she had been alone recuperating, she realized many things. Their absence in every minute of her day was not missed. She loved it. She enjoyed the four corners of her chamber more than that of the church's. The birds outside her windows were far more entertaining than the vicar's monotonous words of wisdom, or her aunts' friends' chirpy voices. Even the subdued sounds of the servants belowstairs were far more comfort than the opening and closing of the doors that signaled the arrival of her aunts from church or tea with friends.

She longed for that kind of freedom again. To be on her own. With just the noise that were not her aunts.

Geneva did not realize she had reached home until she was facing the front doors. She was just about to come down and enter through the side of the house when the heavy doors swung open inward, revealing her Aunt Barbara.

The youngest of the three Withers sisters was staring at her with horror and disbelief in her eyes. In a span of a second, after Geneva's heart stopped cold for a beat, it went on a rampage against her chest. She almost dropped the gaslight if not for her fists stiffly closing as panic rose up her throat.

"Imagine the fear and horror I went through when I walked into your chamber and found it empty," Aunt Barbara said, voice shaking with restrained ire, her wrinkled eyes biting as the words slipped through her clenched teeth. "Where have you been, Geneva?"