Much to Maha’s consternation, injuries never seemed to occur in a very timely manner. Not that she expected them to, but it would make her life very much easier if people were hurt in a much more reasonable timeframe. There were days when she saw to no one, and then there were mornings like earlier, when three people came to her in less then two hours.

The first was a heavily pregnant woman who complained that her ankles were so swollen she could no longer cook for her husband and other children. Maha had wanted to order her to bed rest, but she doubted the woman would—or could—comply to that. Instead, she gave the woman a poultice and highly suggested that the woman keep off her feet. The second one that came in was a young farmer who had not been watching himself while his friend was using a sickle. The cut was deep enough to require stitches, but just barely. Maha had not even finished stitching the farmer’s wound up when a mother rushed in with a screaming child. The little girl had gotten out of her mother’s sight, and climbed up a tree. Unfortunately, the girl was not quite as good at descending as she was at climbing and the consequent fall from the tree had broken her arm. Maha had set the arm, but the girl would not stop crying. As much as Maha enjoyed children, the girl’s wails had set her on edge.

So Maha, worn and agitated, had set off to the edges of the town to find something, someone, some way to make more money. She had some mild success, but nothing amazing. And before the day was out, it was raining. Heavily.

Rain in Damask was a blessing, a sweet change from the blazing sun the desert called Mother. Here, it was a nuisance. Hot and summery it was in Thiasa, but rain brought nothing more then a chill and even more humidity. Maha had still been on the outskirts of Lawley when the rain had started, so she had no choice but to be drenched.

She had taken cover in an alley once she had gotten far enough in town, but she was still a good distance from the inn. She could have made it to the inn, but she was tired. And stressed, and only a little cranky. The alley wasn’t the safest choice, but it was something that wasn’t completely pouring rain for a few moments.

Many people had romanticized notions of outlaws. There were the tales of merry men living in the woods, the stories of the handsome roguish highwaymen, and the glorified pictures of free men who were their own law.

None of these idealizations ever considered the fact that a wanted man, on the run, has nowhere decent to sleep.

Not knowing many people in Lawley yet and having no money for an inn, Fletcher found himself living on the streets. The majority of the time, it was an arrangement he didn't mind much. But when it rained, as it was doing now, it made life into pure and undiluted misery. He was already in pain from the still-healing injury in his side, and the stitches itched (but he couldn't scratch lest he pull out the stitches prematurely), and he was hungry (as usual), and now, he was cold and wet to boot, leading Fletcher tot he conclusion that God did, in fact, hate him. Desperate for shelter from the downpour, he'd stuffed as much of his body as he could into a doorway, pulling his tattered cloak around himself as he curled into a ball and glared at the sky.

The pattering of the rain masked the sound of footsteps. He didn't notice the dark-robed figure until it had already walked past him, probably mistaking him for another heap of garbage littering the alley. He watched the stranger as a thought bubbled to the surface of his mind. Back alley robbery was thuggish, even for him, but the conditions were ideal. Though it was still day, the heavy clouds blocked out the sun and plunged the world into perpetual twilight. The rain would muffle the sound of his approach, and the alley was isolated. And, if he had some coin in his pocket, he might be able to buy a hot meal and a bed before a fire. It was simply more than he could pass up.

Pulling himself upright, Fletcher began to follow the figure, rain rapidly plastering his hair down to his forehead. He picked up his pace, catching up and fingering the hilt of his knife. When he was a mere pace behind the stranger, he reached out to tap the shoulder before him. The demand for the surrender of all valuables was ready to tumble from his tongue when the figure turned and revealed a familiar face.

Fletcher frowned. "Oh. It's you."

Sure, alleys weren’t safe. But not much for Maha was safe at this point. Getting attacked in an alley was less dangerous and life threatening then, for instance, being burned at the stake. But that didn’t stop Maha’s heat from leaping into her throat when something touched her shoulder. She whirled around, desperately trying to remember what on her was valuable enough to exchange for her life and virtue, and then…

“ Oh. It's you. ” The voice registered as familiar in the back of Maha’s mind, but Maha was caught in a rush of adrenaline. The man wasn’t coming towards her, but Maha wanted distance between them right then. She slowly stepped back, until her back hit the wall. She was about to panic, when she finally recognized the man in the dim light. It was that Fletcher, the so-called wanted criminal.

Maha slumped against the wall. “You!” She hissed, using one hand to brace herself against the wall, and the other to point at Fletcher. “Must you always assault me when we meet?”

Inhaling deeply, Maha tried to collect herself. It was unseemly for her to be so distressed in front of a man she barely knew. She dropped her hand, and pressed herself back upright, exhaling audibly.

“You are not very good at being wanted criminal, if you are out on the street!” She declared, trying not to look as if she had nearly panicked. “For you have not stolen enough monies to earn a room, nor are you wanted enough to have earned a bed in some maiden’s room.” So there! That would teach him… something. At the very least, trying to insult him would distract her just a little from the cold rain that was still falling.

Fletcher considered his options. He could go for angry and sullen (which was exactly how he felt), charming and gentlemanly (which was such a stretch at the moment so as to be out of the question), or the good old standby - the good humored rogue. He elected to grab the latter and run with it.

"Oh, come on now. No bow and arrow in sight this time, see?" he held both hands up, thankful that he'd dropped the knife back in its sheath before she'd seen it. "You caught me off guard last time, I's jes returnin' the favor, yea?" A hopeful smile – quite a challenge to muster when one was soaked to the bone. "And as for the aforementioned maiden's room— turned out she ain't so much of a maiden, an' her husband was given to throwin' things." He pointed to a growing bruise on his forehead to support this claim. "Though... I suppose I could rob you if'n you reckon it would improve your opinion o' me," he added, a touch playfully. He'd worked this persona before and knew it well. It was like slipping on an old set of boots. The vulnerable, feral version of Fletcher Maha had encountered before in the country had vanished and the City Fletcher, with his many hats, had taken its place.

“Civilized people do not attempt to assault each other, with or without arrows, which make me wonder what kind of person you are.” Maha sniffed. Little twit, he had attempted to rob her! Did he think she could forget that so easily?

“She is a very foolish woman then. Not only was she being—or trying to be—unfaithful to her husband, she was obviously not clever enough to realize that even if her husband was taken to drink in the evening, the rain would have brought him home.” Maha tapped her lips thoughtfully. “A foolish woman, or a liar not clever enough to realize that women are cleverer then men. The good ones, at least.” A misconception among men of all races and religions—men may be stronger, and possibly more intelligent then a woman, but a women worthy of her sex was always more clever then any man could be.

Wisdom, however, discriminated amongst the youth equally, bestowing itself only on the aged. Maha, still being quite young, was not particularly wise. Certainly not enough to realize that provoking someone in the middle of an alley had the potential of creating a bad situation.

Fletcher felt his spirits sink. With anyone else, that routine would have earned him at least a smile. But Maha gave him a lecture instead. She hadn't been so bad when she'd been cooking for him out in the woods that day, but the rain seemed to have soured her disposition. And what was she acting so pompous and superior for? It wasn't as if he was the type she needed to prove anything to!

He began to feel exasperated. Rubbing some warmth into his arms, he frowned faintly. "Look, ma'am," he paused and coughed into his hand, "I dun' know what its like over in Arab-land where you're from, but 'ere, we have this thing what's called 'humor.' It involves what's known in laymen's terms as 'taking a joke.' Not everythin' has to be so deadly serious, and it wouldn't–" he paused to cough again, "–it wouldn't kill you to –" More coughing, "–to–"

The coughing racked his body and he found himself doubling over. The spasmic contractions of his abdomen pulled at his injury, making tears of pain spring to his eyes as he fought to get a breath in. It was a nasty, wet, choking sound that suggested his lungs were as drenched as the rest of him.

Maha sniffed. “I do know what a humor is! And it seems that yours are in bad shape!” A pun! Maha felt devilishly clever. Most puns were still out of her understanding, but on the rare occasion, she was able to understand them, and she had finally made one!

But her triumph was short lived. While she had been gloating, his cough had worsened, and he was now bending over. “Fool,” she murmured under her breath. “Have you been doing this long?” She asked more clearly, moving to put a hand on his forehead. He was hot, too hot for a person even when it was not raining. She tried to see if his pupils were dilated, but it was too dark. She’d have to move him to the inn to examine him more thoroughly.

“It seems,” she said softly, “that being a robber in an alley is bad for your humor. Come with me, I may have something to help.”

"I'm fine," he lied panting for breath. His chest ached from the coughing fit, and the stitches twinged. "Just a chest cold or sumthin'."

He'd had intermittent bouts of coughing over the last few days. He'd more or less dismissed it – It was a rather natural thing to get sick when one slept out of doors in the cold and wet, and he was surprisingly hale and hearty most of the time. There had just been a lot of cool wet weather coming through lately. That and his injury had him down a bit from full health, but it wasn't anything to make a fuss over... Was it?

The sudden change in her voice had surprised him, though. It was the same tone she'd had back in the glade, when they were talking about being alone... A puzzle piece slipped into place. Oh Lord. She was pitying him.

At first, this notion was repulsive to him, but then, being ever the opportunist, he saw the opportunity for gain. Chances were, if he went with her, he'd be somewhere dry. He straightened up slightly, and wiped water from his face with an equally wet sleeve. "Though I suppose, if'n you insist..." he smiled weakly.

Maha snorted. “Do you often have colds that sound like that? If so, then I fear for when you are truly ill. Come now, there is no point in staying here longer.” She turned away and began walking briskly. He couldn’t be left out in the rain, his cough sounded terrible, but there were no more rooms left in the inn. They wouldn’t let him stay downstairs in the tavern, so where could she put him? Maha’s stomach rumbled lightly; she hadn’t eaten since she left town.

She slowed down a little. As much as both of them needed to get out of the rain, there was no point in her offering to treat him if she lost him before they even reached the inn. “Have you eaten, or have you been vomiting as well? Here, the inn is here.” She push through the door, waving to the usually occupied tables and benches. “Sit there, dry and wait for a moment. I will return in a moment.”

Fletcher followed Maha, trying his best not to look like a lost wet puppy tagging along on her heels. His efforts were largely unsuccessful, but fortunately there was no one about to see one way or the other, since most sane members of society had taken refuge indoors.

He felt a wave of relief as they reached the inn, and a wave of warmth as they entered it. He could smell ale and cooking meat – his stomach growled like a wild animal. "Nah, t'aint eaten nothin' to throw back up again," he replied to her question, "Not that I'm th sort for regurgitatin' perfectly good food in any case." Coughing a bit into his sleeve, he obeyed Maha's instruction and sat on a stool by the fire, hoping to banish the chill that had crept into his bones. The flames blazed merrily, their cackling accompanied by the sound of water dripping from his cloak. He pulled up so close that steam began to rise from his clothing. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to merely enjoy the warmth...

And coughed again. Damn.

She had changed as quickly as she could, she kept a spare tunic and she always had her mother’s scarf. They were both good quality, almost too good to wear when she was treating peasants, so she tried not to wear them often. But if she treated a patient who was potentially catching in wet clothing, she would definitely catch whatever it was as well. She’d just have to ignore her wet trousers and wet hair. Maha also took some of the peppermint she had hanging on the wall. It wouldn’t cure him, but it would stop him from coughing for a little.

Downstairs, she headed toward the kitchen, where the innkeeper’s wife was cooking. She cautiously peered in, looking at what the woman was cooking. Maha recognized the smell almost immediately—pork. Her nose wrinkled, and she finally announced her self.

“I need… I need just hot water? I may boil again, yes? Ahh, and bowl of stew? I have a patient. I, I would just like some bread.” The woman stared at Maha for a few seconds, then shrugged. She was almost used to the Arab’s queer habits. Maha bowed her head and quickly went to work. The woman was tolerant enough, but Maha never knew when her mood could change.

Maha emerged from the kitchen with two cups. She placed one in front of Fletcher, and sat down with the other across from him. “Do you not have other things? Sitting with wet garments will only make you worse.” Probably not, now that Maha thought about it. She only had her spare clothing because they were parting gifts, she had been able to afford her main set because she had once treated a very wealthy and very grateful man.

“Drink that. Coughing should lessen for a time. The food will be prepared soon.”

He scoffed at her query regarding 'other things.' "Everythin' I own is on me back," he replied, and it was true. He could easily carry all of his worldly possessions, and even some that weren't his as well.

Fletcher took hold of the cup of hot water and drank, the liquid all but scalding his mouth and throat. Still, it ate away at the chill that had crept into his bones – between the hot beverage on his insides and the hot fire on his outsides, he was beginning to warm up pleasantly. He held the cup in his hands, the warmth seeping through the crockery and into his hands. The prospect of food residing in the imminent future had prompted him to reconsider the probability of God hating him. A hot fire. A warm, dry place to sit. Hot food and drink. Life was good.

Which, frankly, was a bit suspicious.

He glanced up at Maha, brow furrowed. "What's this all about anyway? Not that I ain't appreciative, but hell, from what you've acted like, I'd say you dun even like me. An' 'ere I am gettin' the royal treatment. Whassit all for?"

“Then hope to God you dry soon.” Maha thought about when she was little, when she had many sets of clothing. Or it seemed like it—Mother was always saying that she kept on having to sew new things for Maha because she grew so fast. Maha hadn’t paid that much attention; she was much more fascinated by her father’s lessons.

Home was on her mind too much. Her life was becoming much more set, much more predictable. Instead of wondering where her next meal was, her mind was free to wander about as it pleased. She did have to wonder when someone was going to start suspecting her of something witchy, though. She had been in Lawley for over a month, and she had yet to agitate anyone yet.

“There is a custom in Arabia; every man is granted three days of hospitality in a home, provided he is a courteous guest. It is not so here, but that should not stop me from following my traditions, yes? If that is not enough for you, consider that it was you who caught the fish the last time we met. This can be a repayment, if that would suit you more.”

Fletcher was about to bring up that it had been she who cooked the fish, but then decided against it. He liked the idea of not being in her debt. "Right you are then. Guess that makes us even."

He unconsciously massaged his bandaged side while staring contemplatively into the fire, until the door to the kitchen swung open. The innkeeper's wife emerged with a wooden tray, bearing a steaming bowl of stew and a chunk of brown bread. She cast a peculiar look at Maha, then regarded Fletcher as if he were something that she might have accidentally stepped in, then put the tray down wordlessly before returning to the kitchen.

Fletcher stared at the food for a moment, wondering briefly if he had in fact died of cold in the alley, and that through some cosmic fluke he had arrived in heaven instead of the other place. He looked at Maha, ready to profess his undying love for her right then and there. But his mouth was already busy, being full of stew. He fell upon the food like a starving savage.

Bread was not exciting. Bread was a staple of the Thiasan diet, but it was terribly boring. Maha glanced at the bread balefully. She had not been able to follow many Islamic traditions, but she had managed to stay away from pork. The one or two times she had eaten it, she had felt sick afterwards. Besides, pigs were dirty animals. She really didn’t feel inclined to eat one. That didn’t change the fact that when it was only bread for a meal and someone else was having a time with their piggy delight, her bread seemed quite desolate. She almost looked woefully at Fletcher’s food, but thought better of it. She remembered his table manners from before.

Picking at her bread, Maha tried to think of a place for him to stay. Unless the rain let up, she wouldn’t feel comfortable forcing him back out into the rain. He very likely wasn’t sick with anything more serious then bronchitis and she assumed he was typically a durable young man, but it was all too easy to develop pneumonia. There was nothing Maha could do to treat that beyond settling a few symptoms. Maybe if she smiled very prettily, the innkeeper would let him sleep on one of the tables. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was dry. Admittedly, if he stole any of the alcohol, she’d have to pay for it, but Maha had her subtle ways of revenge.

Within moments, the stew was gone, and Fletcher was scraping at the bowl with his spoon to scour the final drops from the bottom of the vessel. He curled forward, arms around his knees, and basked in the glow of the fire with a smile stretching sleepily across his face. He was still damp, but the fire and the warm food and drink had served to chase the chill away – and now he had a full stomach for the first time since yesterday morning.

All in all, Fletcher was one happy bloke.

He turned to look at Maha, and felt an overwhelming wave of affection. Alright, yea, she could be an insufferable high-and-mighty know-it-all, and sure, she had a lousy sense of humor... but she'd pulled him out of the cold ad wet and given him food. Fletcher had fallen in love over a lot less.

"Thank you," he said.

“It is nothing,” Maha murmured, not quite separated from her train of thought, which had wandered to the storm itself. It showed no signs of stopping, and it seemed to Maha that it was only worsening. The thunder that had seemed so distant earlier was now a not-so-gentle roar. She had seen storms before, many worse then this, and she had been caught out in one or two of them before. “At Taima it left not one trunk of a date-tree standing,” she found herself saying unconsciously in Arabic. She stopped when she heard herself, and blushed furiously. What was she doing, getting so lost in herself that she was beginning to recite poetry? And in front of Fletcher, too!
“My pardons! I was away.” She stood hastily, dusting imaginary dirt off herself. “I will see to your accommodations now.” Maha turned away, hoping that Fletcher hadn’t caught her blush. How embarrassing!
Maybe it was because Maha had proven herself to be a good customer, maybe it was because the prospect of more coin was always welcome in the innkeeper’s eyes, and maybe it was because did have a pretty smile, the innkeeper agreed to allow Fletcher stay downstairs for a small fee. Maha breathed a sigh of relief. She had not wanted to bother Thomas about keeping Fletcher in his room—he had already done so much for her by simply offering her a chance to work with him.
“You will stay downstairs, the innkeeper has allowed it for the night.” She said when she returned to Fletcher. “Your cough, it is not returned?”

Will raised an eyebrow as he blushed. He hadn't the faintest idea what she'd said – it was all gobbledygook to him – but he elected to fancy it had to do with him, prompting him to smile insufferably. He watched her hurry off embarrassedly, then put his bowl down and unhooked the carved clasp of his cloak, ringing out the still dripping hem upon the flagstones, then hanging it up on one of the iron hooks above the fireplace. He was already settled comfortably on the floor (or as comfortable as one could be lying on a stone hearth) when Maha returned and informed him of his accommodations.

“Your cough, it is not returned?”

He shrugged noncommittally. "Seems to 'ace abated fer the time bein.'" He tensed slightly, then added, "but I reckon I ought to stay 'ere, jes in case." If he appeared too well, she might decide to give him the boot.

Maha nodded. “Even if you are not grievously sick, the rain will only agitate your humors.” He couldn’t be that sick if he was smiling like an idiot. She almost asked what he was thinking about, but stopped. She was quite certain that Fletcher’s mind was a giant, black abyss with little hope of return once ventured into. That was the case, Maha had found, with most Thiasans.

Maha knelt by Fletcher, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead. He was still warm, but not enough to concern Maha. “The inn has no other amenities, I apologize. But it is out of the rain, and that will help immensely. If you begin to cough again, come to me and I will see what can be done.”

"Will do, Mistress Maha." Fletcher grinned up at her, folding his arms behind his head. "S'more amenities than what's provided in th'gutter, so I reckon I can't complain." He stretched out leisurely on the floor, as if his bed were made of silk and feathers rather than silt and flagstones. "I suppose I'll see you in the mornin'..." he murmured, voice trailing off into a yawn. His eyelids drooped sleepily. "G'night, then..." he muttered, rolling slightly on to his side and letting his eyes drift shut.

Within seconds, his breathing had slowed and evened out, his chest adopting the steady rise and fall of a deep sleeper. His face relaxed, and his knees curled up slightly as he lay with his back to the dying fire.

For the first time in a while, Fletcher could actually pass for innocent.

“Yes, good night,” Maha said, smiling softly. His was pleased with so little--it almost amazed Maha. But to an extent, she could understand. She was not always fortunate enough to have a bed or food, some of the most basic necessities in life. The floor may not be much, but it wasn’t a street out in the rain.

The small mercies of God were always the most pleasing.

Maha rose slowly, collecting Fletcher’s dishes as she passed. There was no need to leave a bigger mess then necessary. She left the bowl in the kitchen to be dealt with later—it was late and she was tired.

She had not quite begun to ascend the stairs to her room when she spared Fletcher a glance. For a moment, Maha forgot his habit of attempting to assault her when they met; his face was too calm, too peaceful. It was—Maha shook her head and laughed. What her mother would say, bringing in a common thug from the rain, and then admiring his face in his sleep! Maha covered her mouth with her hand, trying to smother her laugh. She didn’t want to disturb him, not when he looked so relaxed.

It occurred to Maha, though she would not quite admit it, that she would not mind seeing him in the morning.