PART III

One of the servants had changed the flowers in Locksley's room while he slept and dreamt dreams of his seasons with Sawyer. Pink and white carnations and a spray or two of hydrangea — Locksley was not much for the meaning of flowers, but he admired them nevertheless, inhaling their delicate scent. 

It seemed that Locksley had slept through the day. Evening was already falling. The nap had done him some good — he felt more hale than he had earlier. Not up to his old lively self, but certainly better. It was another foggy evening. Locksley was suddenly, achingly reminded of Sawyer's death once more. He had died on an evening much like this, on November 1st, 1917. The anniversary loomed, and Locksley realized as he considered this that he could burn all the letters that he wanted, but that it would not cause him to forget Sawyer Mulholland.

He had died because of Locksley's cowardice. When Locksley's father had found them, Locksley had not had the courage to stand with Sawyer and tell Lord Somerville that he was in love with a man. Instead, Sawyer had fled the house to avoid it coming to blows with Lord Somerville — a fight that Sawyer would have won — and he had begged Locksley to come with him. Locksley had been frozen to the spot, and had just shaken his head wordlessly, his father's heavy hand on his shoulder. 

Sawyer knew the estate's grounds. He had come over almost every month in the two years that they had been first friends, then lovers. But the fog...

The fog was confusing. The fog was treacherous. The fog lied. Sawyer had misjudged where the drop-off to the beach began, and he fell off the edge in the thick fog. He had fallen ugly, and the fog had swallowed his cries, too, if there had been any. They had not found his remains until the next morning. Locksley had imagined, time and time again, the fear and the pain that Sawyer must have experienced that night. The betrayal he must have felt. He hated the fog and hated his father. He hated himself and his cowardice most of all.   

Staring out into the fog once again, Locksley cursed its constant presence. Though everything else had fallen away throughout the years, the weather in Saint John's was reliably misty most days. 'What...?'

Once again, though it was getting quite dark, there was a figure out in the mist. This time, the figure carried a lantern, and Lock could better make out the shape of him. He had an eerie sense that he knew the figure, and told himself that he must yet have a fever, or the whack on the temple that he had taken the day before was mixing up his brain. 

If his eyes were to be believed, and the fact of what they asked him to believe meant that they were most certainly not, the figure in the mist was Sawyer Mulholland. 

Terrorized, Locksley found himself hiding under the duvet on his bed without much recollection about how he had gotten to be there. His fascination drew him back out, and he approached the window again. Locksley had heard tell that, amongst those who believed in such bunk, it was said that the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest in the time leading up to All Hallow's Eve and All Saint's Day, with the very last night of October being a time where the spirits were most likely to make themselves known. Locksley had heard that the full moon also was said to lend such spirits power. 

Had Locksley not, on the very night of the full moon, just two days ago, provoked the spirit of Sawyer Mulholland by burning the unsent correspondence that he had written to him, and burying it in one of the dead man's favourite haunts? And now the shade was come to the Somerville Estate. Locksley knew that Sawyer must be here to judge his past inaction, if he was there at all, and not the fevered imagining of a man who was both concussed and ill with influenza. Locksley shivered.

The man with the lantern had drawn nearer to the back entrance. Locksley wished that he could better distinguish the expression on his face. The ghost stood there for some time, seeming to look up at Locksley, before turning around and departing. Locksley counted the paces by the bouncing of the retreating lantern light, and judged that the spirit had paused by Sawyer's monument. It was difficult to tell with all the damnable fog. Locksley resolved to investigate the grounds the next day, with the help of someone in full possession of their mental faculties. 

❦❦❦

When Locksley woke the next morning, the groundskeeper and the gardener were already out by the monument. Locksley rushed out to meet them as quickly as he could, as this would save him having to hunt one of them down later on. He had no appetite for breakfast. 

The two stood with their gazes fixed squarely on the monument, and Locksley understood why. It had been queerly defaced. A string of strange, unreadable symbols, like runes in another language, was written underneath Sawyer's name across three lines. It was indecipherable to Locksley, so he turned his attention toward the men. He was somewhat off-put that neither of his mother's employees turned to acknowledge him — he was practically a lord — but appreciated their diligence and focus on the task at hand. 

"How awfully disrespectful," said the groundskeeper. "So close to the night that it happened, too. The juxtaposition of it!"

Locksley drew closer. "Indeed, the anniversary of his death is nearly upon us. We must catch whomever has done this — they have been walking about the grounds at night. I won't stand for it."

The gardener shook his head sadly, eyes still on the monument and the symbols. "Bugger all, I've no idea who would do such a thing after such a tragedy. This desecration is fucking disrespectful to all involved, the living and the dead, no matter the intent."

Locksley crossed his arms. It was a little rude of the man to swear in front of his employer's son, but Lock supposed that the man lacked the education to know this. He was a tiller of soil, after all, and probably knew much more about growing rosebushes and keeping the slugs off than how to talk to someone who would soon be a member of the peerage. "Macgillivray, I'll forgive your language. Scrub the monument clean along with that mouth of yours."

"Cleaning's the only thing for it," said the groundskeeper thoughtfully. "I think it's just ash."

"And my safety concern, good sirs? The guard?" said Locksley, staring expectantly at them. They took so long to answer that for a moment, Locksley wondered if they had heard him. Were they so focused on their work as to ignore a direct question from the man of the house? He would have to speak with his mother about it.

"I'll see to it that the rest of the staff are informed to be on the lookout for strangers on the grounds," said the gardener. "If anything further happens, perhaps then we can post a watch."

Perhaps he had just been considering the question carefully, Locksley concluded. The group broke apart, and Locksley tried to commit the strange symbols to memory. The groundskeeper was a dedicated chap, and he didn't want to keep him from his work by requesting time to go get the tools necessary to copy them down. The other two seemed to be trying to glean some information from the symbols, but Locksley could not discern a pattern. Satisfied that he knew the symbols as well as he was likely to, he returned inside. 

❦❦❦

Weakened from the exertion of his foray out of doors, Locksley found himself too tired to even copy down the symbols before he was once again abed, but they still preyed on his thoughts as his mind tried to resolve some sort of meaning from them and their arrangement. There was something just at the edge of his consciousness, but he could not make the connection. He found himself wondering if the figure would reappear for a third night. 

Whoever was haunting the fog, they appeared to be capable of affecting the physical world, if the figure was indeed the one who had left the cryptic markings on Sawyer's memorial monument. If so, this entity was no hallucination, for hallucinations did not touch the fabric of reality, could not draw anything. Surely the resemblance to Sawyer was Locksley's still-grieving mind trying to find meaning in what was purely coincidental — that Locksley had disposed of the letters on Monday night, and that there happened to have been a person outside in all that murk that same night. 

If Sawyer was in his mind to stay, Locksley supposed, he may as well think upon those happier times while he convalesced. His body seemed to simply sink into the mattress as he called to mind his departed friend.

❦❦❦

When that weekend visit ended, the Lady Eleanor extended an invitation for Sawyer to call again any time that he wished — a blanket invitation. For a wonder, Locksley thought that his mother was being sincere. Sawyer seemed relieved that he had not made a total fool of himself at the Somerville Estate, and Lock was quick to reassure him that one did not equate to the other. He could both be an enormous fool and still garner the invitation. Sawyer had laughed good-naturedly.

The weeks passed. Locksley's arm healed to the point where he no longer needed Sawyer's assistance, and Lock found himself somewhat sad at the idea of losing the camaraderie and rapport that they had built. Sawyer surprised him with a proposition one day — one that Lock found himself eager to take him up on. 

"I want to swim in the Atlantic Ocean with you next summer, Lock," said Sawyer, wrapped in a large tartan scarf as they crushed noisome leaves beneath their bootheels, walking along Forest Hill. "I never have, and your mother said she would love to have me for an extended stay over the summer. If it's all right with you, I'd like to work with you to calm that hydrophobia of yours."

"You think I'm hydrophobic?" said Lock, his heart already beating faster in his ears, his hands in his pockets to keep warm in the chilled air. He had forgotten his gloves at the cottage. 

"Lock, you're turning paler than usual already, and I remember our conversation at your house," said Sawyer gently. "But I can help you with the fear response. Just like I helped you with the pain in your broken arm."

"Well, it was an awfully big help," said Lock. "Are you sure I'm not taking up too much of your time? How does Lovelace feel about the way you're always taking care of me?"

Sawyer continued grinning blithely. "Do you really want to know what Lovelace says about you, Lock? Anyway, never fear — Lovelace and I are still up to our old tricks."

Lock did want to know what Lovelace said about him. Though they had spent time playing three-man cribbage and studying together in Sawyer's company, they had not spent time alone together since that day in the cottage when Burnaby Lovelace had brought him jam and accusations. What had Lovelace meant by all that business about Lock not "letting himself know" about the things that he got up to with Sawyer? He found that he did not have an elegant way to ask Sawyer about the gossip, especially after Sawyer had so deftly shut down the line of conversation. "When would you like to start?"

❦❦❦

Already deeply relaxed and hypnotized, Lock lay on the bed in the cottage, propped up by pillows so that he was partially sitting upright and wouldn't fall from trance into sleep as easily as he had on past occasions (which had been fine, since the goal had been to quiet his pain). Sawyer had begun to work on his nervous feelings and fear in that quiet, supportive manner of his.

"So long as you respect your limits and evaluate the situation appropriately, you will find that swimming, even in open water, can be very safe. You will always remember to respect your limits, and you will know to be safe, and not go swimming alone. These are things that you already knew, but it is so comforting to remind yourself of these basic rules. They remind you how easy it is to reduce risk. Feeling good, feeling calm and safe...You're safe with me, listening to my words and my voice..."

Yes. Lock did feel safe with Sawyer. Sawyer had been such a good friend to him.

"Whenever you find yourself out of your depth, in swimming, as in life, you'll find it so easy to calmly find your way back closer to shore. There's no need to prove yourself. You can swim for the joy of it — for the feeling of the water lifting you up and gently buoying you. Swimming is not something that you have to be afraid of, so long as you take good care. In fact, you may find that floating in the water is as relaxing as listening to me in this space that we have built together..."

Lock nodded and found his body relaxing further. He arched his lower back a little with the pleasure of the relaxation, inadvertently pushing his erection into the air beneath the covers before settling down again. He subtly reached down and adjusted himself, tucking away from the side of the bed that Sawyer spoke to him from. He let Sawyer's words wash over him like calming waves.

Sawyer continued on, and Lock let himself be carried.

❦❦❦

"How does it feel, to...to kiss a man?"

They were walking in the gardens of the Somerville Estate, where they could safely speak about the topic without being overheard. It was easy to see around them in all directions, and Lock felt assured that they had privacy, so long as the gardener wasn't crawling underneath the hedges. Lock had worked up the courage to talk about his...anthropological interest in the mechanics and rituals of inversion. Sawyer had agreed to answer his questions.

Sawyer was grinning widely. "Anthropologically speaking, you mean?"

Lock flushed and nodded his head. "Yes. What else?"

Sawyer shrugged. "I don't know if you've kissed a woman, Lock, but the basic act is the same. Depending on the man — and depending on the woman — a few more whiskers to account for. I like smooth-shaven kisses best. But...the feel of it. For someone like me, the kissing just feels right. Oh, I can work myself up to enjoying a kiss with a woman. Keeping up appearances can be useful. But there's something about kissing a man that's just joyful."

Lock crossed his arms. "There must be more of a difference than that."

Sawyer tilted his head to one side. "Why? Otherwise it wouldn't make sense why certain people are so against it?"

Lock shook his head. "I don't think it's the kissing that most people are against."

Sawyer laughed, hanging off of the limb of an apple tree with frozen apples still on the branches. When they fell, the gardener would collect them to make cider for the household staff. "Oh, the buggery, you mean."

Lock flushed crimson and closed his fists. "You say it so plainly."

"What other way should I say it? We're men of science, aren't we? Performing an anthropological study? Clarity is important," Sawyer teased.

Lock was pensive, and stayed quiet for a moment. "I've not kissed anyone romantically. Never had the interest or opportunity."

Sawyer's smile turned exceedingly delicate. Typical Sawyer would have been ready with a quick response, but he seemed to be making some sort of internal evaluation of the situation. "You've got time, Lock. Don't feel that you have to rush into that sort of thing before it feels right."

Lock nodded and plucked a dead leaf from the folds of his pea coat. "Right. About the...about the buggery... I thought I saw you hitting Burnaby Lovelace."

Sawyer's cheeks were already reddened from the cold, but Lock thought that he saw them redden further. "Well...there's a case to be made that that's one area where Burnaby and I may actually be a little deviant, unrelated to the sodomy. Burnaby enjoys when I spank him that way, and I enjoy taking charge of those sensations for him."

"Like De Sade?" said Locksley, staring openly. "I've heard of De Sade."

"Now where did an innocent boy like you who's never been kissed hear about something as perverted as that?" said Sawyer softly, and it seemed to him that his eyes were gleaming a little more than before.

Lock set his jaw. "I know something about sex."

"All right, Lock," said Sawyer. "Is that enough anthropology for today?"

The pair of them had many short conversations like that over the Autumn and Winter months. Sawyer seemed determined not to overwhelm Locksley with too much information at once. Locksley was quickly coming to view Sawyer as his closest friend. Though he could not be certain that Sawyer felt the same way, Sawyer seemed content to give Lock his time and attention. Little by little, Locksley found that his nervous feelings were fading — both around the subject of water and around his discussions with Sawyer about sex between men. Sawyer always took care that he did not feel out of his depth.

So it was that during the Winter break, when Sawyer went home to Montreal for the holidays, Locksley found himself alone at the Somerville Estate. He knew that Burnaby Lovelace also lived with family in Saint John. Locksley found himself thinking that perhaps there might still be some bad blood between them from that day in Lock's cottage, even though Burnaby himself never seemed to let on. He sent a message into town, and it was answered within the afternoon. Burnaby Lovelace would be delighted to receive Locksley at his home, if Locksley was amenable to it, for an informal luncheon and a sleigh ride in the nearby countryside to follow.

Locksley found himself sitting across from Burnaby Lovelace in a small, well-appointed sitting room, a pot of cooling tea and fresh scones between them. "Lovelace, I don't believe that I ever addressed that moment that happened between us. I was in some pain, but that's no excuse — I was a real louse to you."

Burnaby placed his scone back on the small plate before him, and wiped his fingers on a linen napkin. "Well, Somerville, I never did think that I would see the day that you apologized. Sawyer is having an influence on you — even down to the way that you talk. I can hear him in your speech. I shouldn't be surprised, seeing as how the two of you are as thick as thieves."

Locksley gripped his napkin a little, annoyed at the man's snarky manner. "Yes, well, it's come to my attention that I had some mistaken ideas...I would like to apologize."

Burnaby nodded slowly and contemplatively. "It's all right. I understand the self-loathing. When all that you've been taught tells you that you're a sinner and a monster if you indulge in what feels natural and right to you, down to your soul."

Locksley's eyes widened. "Lovelace, I'm not..."

"Right. Of course not. I thought with all the time that you were spending with Sawyer... But I guess you haven't come around to thinking about yourself in all this yet," said Lovelace, collecting crumbs on his plate with his finger and pushing them about.

"I understand now that there isn't anything unnatural about the...what you share with Sawyer," Locksley said carefully. "And it's fine for the two of you. But that isn't me."

Burnaby's laugh seemed to echo cruelly in the silence. Finally, he spoke again. "Right. So, you get hard at the sound of Sawyer's voice because you have no feelings whatsoever toward him."

Locksley's thoughts were thrown into confusion. He had not thought — Sawyer had never mentioned noticing — let alone — what had Sawyer been telling Burnaby Lovelace?

Locksley's mind darted from thought to thought. This conversation raised doubts about Sawyer's intentions toward him. Even Sawyer himself admitted that some of his sexual practices were deviant. What if he had opportunistically decided to use the accident that had broken Locksley's arm to worm his way closer, then suggested all of that hypnosis business? Sawyer had been careful to reassure him that what he was doing was a type of legitimate medical practice. Maybe that wasn't true. 

Maybe Sawyer had all along been having a laugh with his inverted friend as he tried to corrupt an innocent man. Locksley found that he could not totally remember every moment of their sessions together. Sawyer had always told him that he often simply fell asleep by the end of it. Was Sawyer's plan to use hypnosis to turn Locksley into an invert like him? Could hypnosis be used to turn a perfectly normal young man into a pervert? Suddenly, Locksley saw Sawyer's kind suggestion that he continue hypnotizing him about his hydrophobia in a different light. 

Locksley rose to his feet. "That's quite enough of that, Lovelace. If you speak with Sawyer Mulholland, tell him that he is no longer welcome at the Somerville Estate. As for yourself, may you choke on whatever part of him you next put down your throat."

Burnaby's surprised laughter followed Locksley out of the house.

❦❦❦

Humiliated, Locksley almost immediately regretted his sharp words. Instead of mending bridges, he had set them further aflame. How dare Burnaby Lovelace insinuate that he, Locksley Somerville, was...was...It didn't bear thinking about. And yet, if he truly believed what he had said about being wrong about such matters, why did it rankle him so? It was the presumptuousness, he supposed. Not to mention that it seemed that Sawyer was going back to Lovelace and telling him about their conversations and activities together — probably while Sawyer fucked him. Locksley felt betrayed — by Sawyer and by his own body.

It was undeniable that every single time Sawyer took him into a hypnotic trance, Locksley's penis hardened. Even the first time — which meant that it was unlikely that Sawyer had somehow trained his mind to respond that way. He had told himself that it was the relaxation aspect of it, and of course, he, like any man his age, had thrown erections for the strangest reasons at random moments throughout his life. And yet, he could not deny that it was a consistent response.

Why had Sawyer told Lovelace anything at all? Was he trying to corrupt Locksley in some strange, perverse way? Locksley's thoughts were in utter turmoil.

❦❦❦

When Sawyer returned from Winter break, he found a chillier reception than the weather could account for. He sent message after message to the Somerville Estate, and to Locksley's cottage. Locksley refused every one, sending the correspondence back unopened, to the point that his mother asked what had happened. He refused to explain, saying only that Sawyer had broken his trust. She urged him to make amends with Sawyer, telling him that such close friendships were rare in life, and to be treasured. She urged him to consider whether whatever had passed between him and the Mulholland boy was so unforgivable, though she did not presume to know.

Locksley, for his part, missed Sawyer, but could not allow himself to come again within the grasp of such a devious person, who had quite possibly tried to reshape him and take advantage of him. But when the winter term began in earnest, he could avoid Sawyer no longer.

"Lock..." Sawyer caught up to him after the afternoon lecture in the second week of classes, down a disused corridor that Locksley had turned down specifically to avoid him. "I've tried to give you some time to think...But you don't seem to be reaching any sort of resolution."

Locksley turned toward his former friend briefly before continuing on. "Since Lovelace seems to know all about our friendship, maybe he can help you sort it out."

Sawyer sped up to catch him. "Locksley. I...I told Lovelace about certain things because I didn't have anyone else to turn to. I was confused and I didn't know how to handle the situation. I needed another perspective."

Locksley stopped in the middle of the hallway and grasped Sawyer by the shirt collars. "You stay away from me, do you hear?"

Sawyer pulled in closer instead. "The last thing that I want is for you to be hurt, Lock. I've been trying to..."

Lock's grip tightened. "Trying to what? Convert me? Corrupt me? Turn me into your sort?"

Exasperated, Sawyer frowned, then, with real sadness in his voice, spoke soft enough that only Lock could hear. "Trying to help you stop hating yourself enough to see that you're worth loving. Trying to let you know that the things that you seem to be feeling are all right to feel."

Locksley's hand fell away from Sawyer's shirt and throat. "...I'm not..."

Sawyer sighed and nodded, looking ready to turn away. Locksley found that he did not want Sawyer to leave. He had missed him, these past weeks. Missed him desperately. Locksley pushed Sawyer abruptly toward the wall, uncertain about what he was doing, just that he had to do it. He had to stop Sawyer from leaving. 

His gaze fell on Sawyer's lips — their dusky pink colour, the shape of them, the texture that Lock imagined would feel even softer than it looked. Sawyer was gazing back at him steadily, and his eyes were once again glittering with that queer light that sometimes filled them. Locksley recognized it now as the light of desire.

"It's okay. You can do it, if you want to," said Sawyer, his voice barely above a whisper.

All the well-reasoned excuses for his own desires that Locksley had perfected over the past few months, through all those discussions, were swept away. In their absence, Locksley pressed his lips to Sawyer's briefly. Sawyer's lips, soft and warm, yielded to his own.

The moment passed, and Locksley jerked his head back, glancing fearfully around the hallway, the blood draining from his face. He buried his face in Sawyer's shirt, weeping. He felt Sawyer's hand at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, resting lightly and tentatively, ready to flit away at a moment's notice. Pressed to his chest, Lock could hear the equally nervous and uncertain beating of Sawyer's heart.

They stayed like that for some time.

❦❦❦

It was clear that Sawyer had not wanted to interrupt the moment, but eventually, he grasped Locksley by the hand and guided him toward one of the university's exits. When it became clear that Lock was too stunned to fend for himself, Sawyer patiently buttoned up his coat, pulled his beaver fur hat down around his ears, and wrapped his scarf around his face. With that, the two of them walked back toward Locksley's cottage with no words exchanged. The Forest Hill path was icy in the winter, and neither of them was an especial fan of snowshoes, though Locksley's cottage had some in case of emergency, so they kept to Fredericton's streets.

When they arrived at the cottage and Lock opened the door, Sawyer stopped at the door. "I—"

Lock pulled him inside.

❦❦❦

Fifteen minutes later, Locksley slid a cup of cocoa across the table to Sawyer, and Sawyer warmed his hands on it. Sawyer seemed to be waiting for Locksley to speak. It was also clear that he had plenty to say, but was holding back, maybe out of respect for Locksley.

Locksley was looking down into his own cup, but, in a move that surprised both himself and Sawyer, he smiled. "It was...like you said. It felt right."

Sawyer tried to remain silent, though it was clear that this went against his nature. In the end, as the silence stretched out, he kept his words brief. "I'm glad to hear that, Lock."

Lock stirred his cocoa just to have something to do with his hands. "Why does Burnaby Lovelace know that I get erections when you hypnotize me? And why didn't you ever say anything about having noticed?"

Sawyer raised a hand to the back of his neck bashfully. "I saw it happen the very first time that I hypnotized you, but you didn't mention it yourself, and I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I didn't want it to get in the way of my helping you. As for Burnsy..."

Lock absorbed this new information about Lovelace's pet name with a blink. He hated it. "Yes...?"

"Lock, you were so scared of the idea that there might be something wrong with you. I wanted you to see that your life doesn't have to end just because you figure out that you might love men. I didn't want to pressure you, and you seemed to need me to take it slow," said Sawyer carefully, building each word on the foundation of the previous. "For all I knew, I could have been completely wrong about you. I asked Burnaby's advice about how to handle what was happening. And I needed someone to confide in, too."

"And the hydrophobia hypnosis after the stuff for my broken arm?" asked Locksley, still absorbing the meaning of what Sawyer had said, but needing confirmation that his mind's wild theories were wrong. It occurred to him that Sawyer could lie, but Locksley somehow trusted himself to know the truth of it.

Now Sawyer's smile was easier. "I want to go swimming with you in the ocean next summer. That and I do feel responsible for you falling in the river. That's all, I swear..."

Locksley flushed as he spoke his next words. "But just like there are perverted things that you can do with spanking, there must be things that you can do with hypnosis?"

Sawyer was delighted, and laughed. "Gee — you've got an appetite for it now, haven't you? Of course, with you, all I have to do is put you under and you love it. But, boy, can I ever think of things to do to you with hypnosis! If you want me to, that is."

The spoon tinkled as it made its way around the very well-stirred cup of cocoa.

"I don't know yet," said Locksley, finally.

"That's just fine. There's no rush," said Sawyer.

"Will you kiss me again?"

"Do you want me to kiss you again?"

"Yes."

"Then, yes."

❦❦❦

Locksley found himself eagerly awaiting the evening. He intended to determine just who was lurking outside his window, and give them hell for desecrating Sawyer's monument with their pagan magic. The irony of his own private ritual just a few days before did not escape him, but that had not been the worship of any sort of god, monster, or fae creature. It had been a ceremony of mourning. Whoever had written on the stone monument clearly had other intentions, what with those strange, unreadable symbols. 

At first, it seemed as though there would be no apparition that night. Locksley watched from his bedroom window for what felt like hours. He was strangely disappointed that nothing appeared. As his attention was fading and he found himself growing drowsy, a light winked on in the distance. It was barely visible through the fog, and Locksley was tempted to put it down as wishful thinking or an optical illusion. Perhaps one of the servants had lit a candle or lantern on the ground floor and this light was reflecting off the water droplets in the fog. 

The light was bobbing as if held aloft by someone walking. Locksley felt a sense of righteous indignation fill him, and he found himself making his way downstairs, ready to catch this person in whatever act they intended to be about. He grabbed a lantern from near the back door, lifting it with some effort, for the flu had not yet left him. He then proceeded outside, running toward the light. He was cautious to stay well back of the cliffside. 

Standing in the fog, lifting his own lantern at chest height to examine the memorial monument, was a man with chestnut-coloured hair, wearing a shirt that was too thin for the weather, and no coat. Though he held the lantern in front of his body, the light seemed to pass through him.

The figure turned smoothly, the light of the lantern simultaneously flickering across his features and also passing through him, illuminating the outline of the back of his shirt and the edges of his body. He was the same as last Locksley had seen him alive. Sawyer opened his mouth to speak, but the wind picked up just then, howling across the grounds and muffling its voice.

"Sawyer, I can't understand you," cried Locksley. "S-Sawyer..."

Locksley found himself reaching out toward the translucent stranger, suddenly feeling very certain indeed of what he had said — what he had seen the night before. 

The shade gave Locksley a smile that he read as almost pitying, and spoke again. "Lock...You are not yet ready to hear what I have come to tell you. But you will be..."

Locksley shook his head vigorously. "Why have you come now? After so long?! I'm trying to say goodbye to you."

Sawyer raised his hand toward Locksley, offering it to him silently. 

"No...How can I be sure of your intentions?"

"You know that I only ever wanted good things for you, Lock," said Sawyer, seeming somehow even less substantial. "But we can take it slow. I'll return every night until All Saints Day."

"Are you here because of the veil? The veil is weak right now, isn't it, ahead of All Hallow's Eve?"

Sawyer turned away, already fading back into the fog. "Something like that..."

Locksley fell to his knees in his nightshirt, sinking into the cold ground. The earth seemed to want to swallow him up, and he quickly rose to his feet again. "Tomorrow, then. I'll come out to you."

Locksley thought that he heard a voice on the wind echo the word "Tomorrow," but he had never been less certain of anything.