It was supposed to be spring, but it had been bloody cold outside. One day would bring sun and the next, more of that biting rain that chilled the surface of the world. It was on a sunny day when she awoke, alone in her bed, soaked in her own sweat.

Her gasp was sharp against the silence, and she felt like she had been in Hell again. That feeling: sick acceptance of everything ill that hollowed out the good and the right, leaving only horror. She was as parched as she had ever been, and had the most spectacularly awful taste in her mouth. Maia gulped down a flagon full of water, thirsty and shaking and crazed. Perhaps the madness was contagious.

That would be too easy. The nightmares, the visions, had started to return. No wonder that little Seer had been knocked clean out of her chair.

Once calmed, she knelt before the weathered trunk that she kept out in the front room. It was as old and as scarred as she, perhaps moreso. Pale blues surveyed the rough terrain, and her mouth drew into a tight line as she pondered the trunk and its contents. The double lock was a complicated thing of her own imagination, brought to fruition by the most talented locksmith she had ever met. She could not pick her way into that trunk, which didn't necessarily mean that nobody else possibly could, it just made it highly improbable. Brother keys were slid into place and turned simultaneously, causing the system to unclasp and give her access to the latch. The latch was peeled away and the lid creaked on its hinges as she raised it and leaned it against the wall.

So carefully kept and so securely managed in that trunk were her supplies, the tools of her unwanted second career. She had known better than to discard them, though. With a sigh, she reached carefully down inside, moving aside glass bottles full of brightly hued trouble and carefully sheathed and sharpened knives- different blades of different alloys for different beasts. At the bottom of this hunter's trove, she found the very innocuous looking wooden box. It screamed 'nothing to see here,' but even as she lifted it and set it in the flat of her palm, it felt heavy in her hand. Was this how pandora felt? Maybe

Not time yet. Not time for that. Best keep it close, just in case.

A few of the more useful favorites were pulled from that trunk and she slammed it shut, locking things up quite securely. All was left on her bed as she took a quick shower, to rinse the stench of nightmares from her and replace it only with traces of lavender, hints of citrus, and her own essence, always beneath the soaps or the salt or the stench. Those things and a few key personal items were tucked into a largeish, sturdy canvas bag. It had once been a sail.

A long look then at her wall, the optimistic place she had built for herself in the world. The place where only that which had brought her joy lived. Rough fingers ensnared tarnished gypsy bells, which still made one of the sweetest sounds she could imagine. It tugged at her heartstrings to hear them, the only herald of beloved footsteps from yesterday, but there was no time to reminisce now. She kissed them, like a believer might kiss the cross, and tucked them into a pocket.

Satchel slung over her shoulder and her usual array of coat, hat and cutlass in place on the baldric, there was just one thing left to bring (for the time being). From the closet she drew a belt. It had one big buckle, with six jutting out at an expectant angle. Maia fastened it around her hip. The rapier, magnificent in its simplicity, was drawn from that wall, and she slid it into place, the main gauche to follow. That pair had ended more than a few nightmares before.

Whether Bernie Sorrow liked it or not, his houseguest arrived on that bright afternoon, dressed to kill, determined to hang on to this lifeline with her dying breath, if need be. She would be staying indefinitely and little he could say would change her stubborn mind. Maia was ready to take the leap, to give into her fears and let it rush in, let it come even if it was true that they were coming for him.

And God help the someone came to stalk him at that charming old mansion, that place of horses and quiet repose. In that place, she often fell asleep at night and awoke in arms so lank and dear to her the following morning. Maia heard less of the noise of her past, and more of the hope of tomorrow in his company. Maybe it had saved her heart, her soul from falling away. She needed the coachman, and how sorely he needed her. He was in danger, maybe all the danger in the world, but then again, so was she.

Maia was very nearly in love again.