The transitional natures of both spring and autumn have always intrigued me. Spring transitions into abundance while autumn transitions into need. I read once that the word "fall" refers not only to the fall of leaves from the trees but to the fall of the year. Maybe it's my flair for the dramatic but I have thought it refers to man's fall from grace. Like the story in the Bible, you know? Man falls from the rich, lush garden of Eden represented by summer to the depths of despair represented by winter.

I've always felt that beneath the jovial atmosphere of fall, there's this desperate, very human panic to the season. It calls for preparation for the long months ahead. There is much to be done. Food must be preserved and stored. Repairs to a home must be completed before the wet snow descends. Wood must be gathered to warm the occupants. It is not hard to survive summer when food is every where you look and all the warmth one needs is provided by the sun. Yet, when autumn comes we hold festivals and holidays of thanks to greet it even though we know that what autumn transitions us into is the worst of seasons. Winter is when the weak are weeded out through starvation, exposure, and illness and even the strong must hanker down to survive, to persevere.

Personally, autumn worries me very little for there have been many falls from grace in my short life. I know well the ruthless determination to preserve our own lives that we as humans have at our very core. I know how far I will go to survive.

* * * *

There was no place in RhyDin where that feeling of frantic festiveness and steadfast preparedness was more prevalent than in the market. Vendors called out to the passing crowd, hawking their wares. Some market-goers ignored them, some politely declined, some were drawn in by the offers. Pickpockets roamed the crowd, searching for an easy target. Yet, in this city, an easy target was hard to come by. Everyone knew to keep their money secure.

Serena Stevenson cut a path through the crowds and carts, skidding to a halt to avoid running into a young boy whose mother was hot on his heels and then pressing a kiss to the cheek of one of her grandmother's oldest friends. The chaotic air acted as a bolt of energy straight through her. A white skirt swirled around her ankles and an pale blue sweater sat askew, baring a single darkly tanned shoulder in that oversized BoHo style that, if she were forced to choose a single style or era of dress, would more likely than not be named her favorite.

Dark green winter squash caught her and she slowed to a stop before the vendor, tilting her head at the vegetables as she ran her fingers over the firm skin. Some would layer it with spices and apples and butter and while that was perfectly delicious, it was not needed. Winter squash simply halved, baked, and adorned with a hint of brown sugar was the perfect fall side.

"Serena," the stand's vendor, a plump woman with her graying hair pulled back in a smooth bun, called with a grin. "I hope you are well today."

A smile appeared as Serena's dark eyes lifted from the vegetables to the woman and her sunny preteen daughter who stood at her mother's side behind the cart accepting payment from a customer with a polite bob of her head. "Mrs. Livingston! How's the family?"

"Excellent, excellent, deary!" Mrs. Livingston grinned in reply before turning to a particularly haggard looking customer who had a pair of children playing hide-and-seek around her skirt. "That'll be fifteen nobles, Mrs. Peters. Give my love to your eldest daughter. I hear she's becoming quite the little apprentice dressmaker."

The compliment softened the hard lines of Mrs. Peters' face. The reminder of one child making herself of some use seemed to give the exhausted woman some hope that the other half dozen may as well. After forking over payment and collecting her groceries, she turned on her heels to head for her next stop with her two youngest children bouncing and leaping at her feet.

Mrs. Peters gave a parting nod to Serena while Serena assumed she said a silent prayer that her midwifery services would not be needed again anytime soon. Serena seconded the wish on Mrs. Peters' behalf as she watched one of the children tug sharply on the braided hair of the other.

Mrs. Livingston turned back to Serena as she dropped the coins into her pouch. "How is Arcelia? You should tell her how fine my husband's pumpkins are this season."

The question drew a slight hint of an appreciative smile to Serena's lips as Mrs. Livingston's deeper motives were sensed. She was not digging for information on Arcelia's well-being but as to whether or not Serena had seen her lately. She wanted to know how much time Serena was spending at Rumors Mill and if the unlikely pairing between the local girl and the vineyard owner continued.

"I shall be happy to tell Arcelia that you asked after her the next time I see her," Serena offered warmly.

A man passed the cart and the movement out of the corner of her eye was brief but heart stopping. The reason why it had stopped her heart took her a moment or two longer to determine as her brain tried to keep in step with her gut reaction. At no more than six feet, his height was unremarkable and his sinewy muscles did not make him stand out in this city. She caught sight of a grizzled jaw but just as her eyes moved up his face, he turned the corner.

Without a parting to Mrs. Livingston, Serena turned on her heels and swept after him. Her dark eyes remained fixed on the back of the man. He wore a well-tailored dark suit jacket and his full head of thick dark hair peeked out from beneath the bowler sat fashionably askew. Pushing past a couple of teenage girls loitering in front of a fabric shop while having a very intellectual debate over ribbon, Serena saw the man's black cane hit the cobblestones. He seemed to be leaning on it heavily to keep weight off his right leg. The sight caused a wave of terror to grip her heart.

It couldn't be. It just couldn't be.

A hack passed separating her on one side and the man on the other. Her heart seemed to be beating to the impossibly quick rhythm of the horse's shoes against the cobblestones. As soon as it passed, she moved forward to push through the crowd. Suddenly a bowler hat was spotted in the distance. She snaked her way through the heavy foot traffic. None of the people she passed seemed to have faces. Her eyes were glued on that hat.

The man with the hat turned to step into a bank and Serena reached out to grab the sleeve of his jacket. He turned at the tugging to face her. The confused smile on his face was the first thing that she saw and it caused her to take a step back. The man had sharp features and pale skin that suggested too much time spent in that bank behind a desk. The banker was not who she thought him to be. This was not William Walbourne. Had William truly been in the market? Had her mind tricked her upon seeing the banker pass instead? Had William Walbourne disappeared into the crowd while the carriage had passed?

Serena dipped her head sheepishly with a mumbled apology to the banker about him not being who she had thought he was. He gave a warm laugh and tipped his hat before disappearing into the bank, leaving her to stare suspiciously at the people passing by the heavily traveled corner.

It couldn't be. William Walbourne was dead. Was he not?

Nine Years Prior

William dropped his cards down on the table, face down to muck his hand with a sheepish shrug. "I am out of this hand, gentleman."

His thick hands rested on the table on either side of the cards. He could feel the magic resistant material thrumming through the table like high voltage electricity. Both the table and the cards were full of the powerful substance allowing the gamblers to play their game without worrying if their opponents were using magic to rig the game. In RhyDin, such preventative measures were a necessity.

With William dropping out of the round, two men remained in the hand. A young man with his cowboy hat tilted back pursed his lips in thought as he looked over the cards in his hand. He was hoping the hand would turn into something it was not. It was a bluff. If William had anything at all in his hands, he would have schooled the boy for pushing the pot so high on a low pair.

His blue gray eyes caught on movement. He wanted to turn his eyes up at it immediately but, instead, he did so slowly. Serena had moved against the wall where she could inspect the young cowboy's face from a distance. He could tell by the expression on her face that she too knew the boy to be bluffing. A single eyebrow arched and a hint of an amused smirk crossed her lips. Her thoughts on the matter were clear, at least to him. She was entertained by his tell.

William could tell that the young cowboy's opponent, a slimy local merchant, had not noticed merely by the glisten of sweat that was forming across the merchant's brow. The large stack of chips that seemed to be growing by the minute in front of the merchant suddenly stuck out like a sore thumb to William. If the merchant had not been able to read the young cowboy, how had been pulling down the hands and intelligently folding so often through out this game?

The answer was provided almost before the question could be posed in his mind. From her nook in the room, Serena clasped her hands before her. William glanced up to see the merchant purse his pouty lips at the gesture. His thick hands pulled his cards apart for another guarded check of them. William could tell that he was deciding whether or not to trust the brunette serving girl. He doubted she had let the merchant down yet, though. The merchant seemed to come to the same conclusion and nodded to indicate that he would call the bet. William almost laughed aloud that it had taken him a good solid hour to pick the shark out in the room. The teenage girl was certainly standing back too far from the table to see the players' hands so she must simply be reading the players to let her partner in crime know when they were bluffing and when they had a legitimate hand.

The dealer nodded towards the merchant as the cards were laid down. "Mr. O'Donnell takes the hand with a pair of Jacks," the dealer declared as the merchant swept his arms open to gather the large pot in as the other men at the table shook their heads and chuckled or groaned (depending on how much money they had already lost) at the merchant's either unbelievable skill or luck.

William's amused eyes swept towards the brunette in the corner. Nobody else in the room had noticed. Nobody knew who the real card player in the room was. She felt his gaze upon her and her eyes darted over to meet it. Instantly by the expression on William's face, Serena knew she had been figured out. Her cheeks flushed to a sudden rosy color that tainted her deeply tanned skin and instantly she turned on her heels to return to her duties. A grim grin settled on his lips and William Walbourne gave a slow shake of his head in disbelief.

Alone in the dark. Sometimes it seems to be the story of my life.

Of course, there's always been Sammie but even Sammie, who I shared the most intimate of spaces with for nine months, has been kept out of my world. I have never wanted her to know just how cruel I can be. I don't want to taint our relationship with the knowledge of what I am capable of doing to those closest to me, with the knowledge of what I have done. I am afraid she will never look at me the same way again. I am afraid that she will look at me the way that I look at myself in the mirror. I am a black hole, dragging in the light so that I can portray it to the outside world but within there is nothing but darkness and spite. Jolyon's been a light that I know that I do not deserve.

Maybe Mason is right. Maybe I am projecting my own feelings of not being worthy of Jolyon onto his friends. Of course, Mason didn't put it in quite so intuitive of a way. To have come from him, it would have had to be in a low growl with several curse words thrown in for good measure. I'm not really sure if he's ever had a thought that hasn't immediately been put to words. Not only does he seem to say exactly what is on his mind in the most passionate way imaginable but he seems to demand the same from everyone around him while remaining entirely oblivious as to how intimidating such a demand can be. Yet, none of that devalues his point. Maybe I have blown Rena's disappointment and Lirssa's disapproval over our relationship completely out of proportion.

Maybe I want them to not like me. I am desperate for punishment. I want to be hurt as badly as I have hurt others so that maybe I can have a chance of being free of the past. I need to put the past behind me so that I can have a future but I have no idea how to even begin such a monumental task.

****

Serena awoke with a soft gasp of air in that deep reaching space between one day and the next, opening her eyes but not moving to search the dark. Rumors Mill. Her mind answered the question as to where she was before it was posed to keep her from becoming frightened in a foggy haze of sleep. A warm hand on her chilled bare thigh told her she was not alone. No, that was not the only thing that told her she was not alone. There was something lingering outside. She felt it. It called with a false sweetness to her heart and her heart answered it with its own cruel song. What lingered outside was entirely different from what was here beside her but she was just as compelled to go to it as she was to remain. The hand slid from her thigh as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

Jolyon's entire form seemed tense in anticipation even when sleeping. The stress of Tucker's secret, the desire to fix Mason's problem, and the toll the secret had reaped on their relationship proved to be a yoke that was driving him to a surprising low. He had been entirely convinced that she would leave him. Even now, there seemed to be an unspoken current of doubt that she would remain at Rumors Mill. His drinking had always remained steady, hardly worrisome but certainly to be noted, until recently as well. He had an alcohol tolerance that rattled her. Her fingertips drifted from the nape of his neck down over the sharp rise of his shoulder blade to mid back where he was lost in a tangle of blankets, hoping that perhaps just her gentle touch could drive it all away. Yet, her charms were only good in small moments. A smile here, maybe even a laugh there. The problems he faced were bigger than a repented grifter could fix.

She had ached to tell Lirssa that the night before. A part of her had cried desperately to tell the girl that while she loved the man with every fiber of her being and she needed him to balance her heart against the ocean, she would never be worthy of his affections. Not for a single day. Not for a solitary moment. But why lay down such a large load on a girl with so many concerns already? Why spill her soul to anyone at all?

A shiver ran up her spine as if a chill had infiltrated even the solid walls of Rumors Mill, causing goosebumps to prickle her arms. It was then that she remembered the initial feeling upon waking -- the man beside her wasn't the only man on this property laying claim to her. Her dark eyes found the window and a moment later her bare feet found the floorboards. No longer did the cold bother her. She needed to lay eyes on the man that she felt outside the window. Her mind reassured her that it simply couldn't be. He was dead. She was not being haunted by his ghost.

Drawing the curtain back with a hand, she tentatively searched the grounds below Jolyon's room. At first, the secretive darkness gave away nothing. Then a figure appeared outlined by the moonlight shifting through the vineyard below. He was nothing but a masculine shadow in a long dark coat and a bowler hat but she needed to see little else to know the man even all these years later. Her fingertips lifted, pressing against the cold pane and his name came to her lips unwillingly. "William," she whispered.

"Serena?"

Her neck snapped back to face Jolyon at the sound of her name. Her touch or her movement from bed or maybe even the whispered word had awoken him. He remained in bed propped up on an elbow, watching her waking nightmare. His voice was heavy with unspoken questions. She turned from the look and searched the blackness outside once again but the man or the figment of her imagination had vanished into the night. William Walbourne was not outside her window. It had to have been a trick of the mind caused by lack of sleep. Nothing more.

The ghosts of her past faded and all that remained was the warmth of the guarded man who had opened his life to her. Any other man would pepper her with questions as to why she was lingering at the window whispering a stranger's name in the dead of night. This one would observe silently, be there when she returned to his bed, and hope she would decide to be truthful in her own time without an intensive interrogation. A soft, tired smile found its way to her lips as she pushed away from the window and returned to bed, vowing once more to leave the memory of William buried with the man.