We stuck to the woods, keeping our distance, always alert. The only indication that we were anywhere near danger was the distant voices of colonists in their camps and the lights from the fires. They'd be tending their own wounded, regrouping now, and I hoped they wouldn't pay much attention to a pair of ragged men not wearing uniforms. Well, uniforms that they'd recognize anyway.

As I limped alongside Gracen, the world narrowed down to the next step, then the one after that. I'd hoped for a vacation from my tour and got the complete opposite. Here I was, in the wilderness, looking over my shoulder every step of the way. I was tired, the fatigue setting in quick, my ankle relentlessly assuring me that it was still injured. Between the car accident and everything else that had taken place, I barely had a single inch of my body that wasn't aching.

Gracen stopped us several times, although we both knew that the best thing to do in our current situation was to keep moving. I could see the concern on his face, and I knew his constant need for rests were to make sure I could still make the trek to his estate, even though he didn't say it out loud. I appreciated the generous gesture, especially since I needed it.

It wasn't just the physical wearing on me either. My mind kept replaying the events of the day, particularly the deaths of the soldiers I'd killed. I'd never killed anyone before. Well, that I knew of. I'd fired a gun during a couple skirmishes, but I'd never known whether or not I'd inflicted anything mortal. These deaths...they hadn't been far away, impersonal. I'd taken the lives of those men up close. The first two had been bad enough, but it was the last one, the boy, that I knew would haunt me.

I remembered how Wilkins had always told me that when it finally happened, when I'd be in a situation where the choice was to kill or be killed, I would operate on instinct. That my training would kick in, and it had. I'd felt very little at the time, and I wondered whether that was a good or bad thing. Either way, something in my gut told me that it wouldn't be the last time I'd take a life.

A shudder ran through me, and nausea twisted my stomach.

“You did the right thing,” Gracen spoke softly, almost gently. “We both did.”

I shook my head, unable to believe him. A part of me began to wonder if there could have been another way, if maybe by morning the officer would have come to his senses and released us without bloodshed.

“We had no other choice.”

A hand came down on my shoulder, and I looked up. Gracen's expression was grim, and I wondered if he felt the same guilt over the soldier he'd shot. Was it worse for him since he considered himself one of them? I at least had the comfort of thinking of these men as enemy combatants. Enemies that would've most likely died in this war anyway. Or was it easier? Had Gracen's upbringing prepared him to act when his life was at risk so that he was able to justify it more easily than I did?

But he hadn't killed that boy. Hadn't made the decision to kill rather than incapacitate. That decision had been solely mine, and I wondered now if I'd made it on my own so I didn't have to argue with him. Or if I'd been trying to protect him from what needed to be done.

“How much farther?” I asked, knowing I was deflecting rather than acknowledging what he was saying.

“We’re almost there,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. He gave me a ghost of a smile. “I believe you’ll be quite pleased with what you’ll see.”

* * *

Even in the dark, the house was impressive.

I didn't know anything about architecture, but I could appreciate the beauty of the structure. Three stories, it boasted at least half a dozen rooms on the second, judging by the number of windows. No smoke came from either of two large chimneys, but the night was still warm enough that they wouldn't be needed. Candlelight seeped through the windows and drapes, the illumination casting an almost romantic glow over the carefully maintained garden and lawn.

Gracen led us to the back, keeping us to the shadows. I didn't understand why, but I didn't question him. This was his place, his time. I had to trust that he would get us to safety. Still, I half-thought he'd march up to the front door and walk in like he was king of the castle, the young Lightwood having finally returned to his not-so-humble abode, announcing his arrival with resolution. Instead, we stopped in front of a nearly-hidden back door on which he rapped softly and waited.

After a minute, the door opened a crack, a lamp illuminating the dark features of a man who had obviously been asleep. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Gracen, and he quickly opened the door all the way to let us inside.

We stepped into a kitchen, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Despite my exhaustion, I was struck by the simplicity of the large space, a stark difference from the stainless steel workplace my mother had recently set up in our family home to replace the homey kitchen I’d grown up with.

When I was a kid, I remembered tearing into the kitchen, clutching my latest artistic endeavor, eager to see it take a place of pride on the refrigerator. I'd tried to hide my sadness when I'd returned from my previous tour to find everything gone, replaced by a collection of twenty-first-century new-age appliances that had looked like they'd jumped right out of a magazine. I'd understood the practicality of the new layout, but it hadn't made me miss the old things any less.

I barely had time to take it all in when Gracen grabbed me by the arm and pushed me along, whispering something inaudible to the man who'd let us in.

We left the kitchen in an inexplicable hurry, climbing stairs to the second floor, then on to the third. He led me to a small room, slowly opened the door, and then gestured for me to follow him inside.

He lit a candle, allowing me to see the small, simple space. In one corner, right beside a rickety dresser was a bed, the mattress clearly worn but well-kept. He set the candle on the dresser as I sat down on the edge of the bed, my body sighing in relief as I stretched my legs out.

“You can stay here,” he said, taking off his coat and laying it down on a chair I hadn't noticed. “It isn’t much, but it's safe.”

There was a light knock on the door, and Gracen opened it to let the man in. He carried a tray with a bowl and several pieces of cloth on it over to the dresser. He gave Gracen a questioning look.

“That will be all, Titus.” Gracen nodded at him.

Titus eyed me for a moment before he nodded and exited the room. I got the impression that the servant didn't trust me, but as long as Gracen did, I was fine. He closed the door softly behind him, sighing as he rested his head against the door.

“What’s with the secrecy?” I asked, standing up and inspecting the tray. There was a pungent smell coming from the liquid in the bowl that made me cringe.

“Word will eventually get out about what happened at the camp,” he said. “And if my father discovers you here, he'll hand you over without a thought.”

“We were both there,” I pointed out.

Gracen shook his head. “My father will find a way to make it look like I had nothing to do with the deaths, and that my escape was against my will.”

My eyebrows shot up. “He'll say that I kidnapped you?”

“Don’t take it personally, Daviot,” he said with a sigh. “I will not allow my father to turn you over. You are free to stay here as long as you wish, and when things calm down, I will make sure you get home.”

If only he had the ability to make that offer for real, I thought.

He put out his hand. “You saved my life, and for that, I am indebted to you, Mr. Daviot.”

I looked up at him, the candlelight casting alternating shadows and light across his features. My eyes traced down across his jaw to his chin, rising to his lips, then up to his eyes again. He frowned at me, and I quickly took his hand. His handshake was firm, from one gentleman to the other, and it took every ounce of willpower within me to stop myself from telling him the truth about who I was. Or at least my gender.

He released my hand. “Until tomorrow, my friend.”

I nodded briefly and watched him leave, hating myself for the pang that went through me when the door closed behind him.

I waited for a few more minutes, making sure no one was coming back before I undressed. I didn't even want to think about what that Titus man would think if he saw that I was a woman.

I slipped out of my shirt, wincing in pain as I pulled my arms through the sleeves. The cut on my shoulder had stopped bleeding, but I had a feeling if I didn’t disinfect it, it would turn nasty by the morning. I didn't even want to think about what had been on that bayonet.

I got up and made my way to the dresser, taking it easy on my bad leg. As I passed by the small window, I caught a glimpse of my reflection and frowned. My hair was disheveled, my skin streaked with blood and dirt. I unclasped my bra, sighing at the relief of being free of its constraint. I could see the deep red grooves on my skin from where the elastic had dug in.

I dipped one of the cloths on the tray into the bowl, and then tentatively swabbed my wound. Better to get this one taken care of first, then sit down to do my leg. I clenched my eyes closed as pain lanced through my arm. I kept the cloth pressed down though, knowing that whatever was in the liquid was definitely doing more good than harm. After a couple minutes, I dipped the cloth into the bowl again before returning it to my shoulder, the burning less painful this time. I hoped that meant it was working.

I caught sight of my tattoo, the colors of the American flag barely visible in the soft light coming from the candle. I was glad Gracen hadn’t seen it. If he had, I would have had a lot of explaining to do.

In the back of my head, I could almost hear my brother’s laughter. He'd been with me when I had gotten it, laughing to the point of tears as I'd gritted my teeth to keep from squirming. He'd sat in the chair beside me getting his own tattoo, and although it was a point of pride that his little sister was doing the same, my reaction had amused him. He hadn't, however, teased me about the picture.

We didn't joke about patriotism in my family. Something Bruce had discovered when he'd teased me and taken it too far. Ennis had knocked him to the ground with a single blow.

I stared at the tattoo as I unconsciously cleaned my wound. I knew it would be at least a year before the flag would start to look anything like the one I would come to know. For the first time in my life, the Stars and Stripes wasn't being displayed anywhere but on my own skin.

I finished cleaning my shoulder and then took the bowl over to the bed. I set it on the floor, dunked a cloth into the liquid, and sat down to rest my leg before I attempted to remove my pants. I knew I was safe here, but at that moment, I would have done anything to be back home. To have my parents with me. I didn't really miss Bruce, which should've said something about the strength of our relationship – or lack of it – but I would've taken any familiar face at the moment.

I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I wasn’t in Boston anymore, at least not my Boston, and whatever was going on between me and Bruce would have to wait. At the moment, I had more important things to worry about. First, finish tending to my wounds. Then, keep myself from being captured by the British and killed for killing their soldiers. After that, most important of all, I needed to figure out how to get home.

My mind was groggy, though, and fatigue was quickly setting in. I wasn’t going to come up with any useful ideas now. I'd be lucky if I got my leg cleaned before I passed out.

There was a light knock on the door, and Gracen let himself in before I could respond.

“Mr. Daviot, I forgot to tell you–”

I sat frozen on the spot as I watched his eyes grow wide. When I registered where his gaze was directed, I quickly grabbed for my shirt as I rushed to cover myself. Heat flooded my face, embarrassment taking precedence over everything else.

Then my eyes met Gracen's and the anger in his gaze made me remember what was at stake here.