Her toes reached the blanket.  “Fine.  That’s over.  Remind me not to hire you as a scout.”  She could hear him moving.  “What are you doing?”

“Can’t sleep in this shirt, it’s making everything else wet,” he said into the darkness.  “Now I’m asking you the same question.”

“Like you.  Some layers anyway.  Too bad all of them are wet.”  She felt her way to the nearest stall and draped her shirt and skirt over it.  That left her with petticoats clinging to her legs, a damp uncomfortable camisole and gratitude for the pitch black night.

Charlotte lay down and wrapped up in her blanket.  The horses shifted, snorting now and then.  Rain pounded on the roof.  The wind had come up again and whistled through the opening in the doors.  She listened more carefully to something scurrying and considered how much she didn’t want it to be a rat.

“Are you asleep?” she said over her shoulder.

“No.  Are you?”

“Smart-mouthed members of the tribes.  Who needs them?”

“You do,” he said.

“That’s true.”  For the first time, she violated their unspoken rules.  She turned toward him, the blanket falling away.  She felt him go quiet.  “I won’t touch you,” she said, which wasn’t true, her feet were on his, “but I’m asking if you’d touch me, just once.”

“You can’t say things like that.”

“Yes I can.  I just did.”

“I don’t even believe in that place where people burn forever in the fire, but one of us is headed there.”

“It’s only touching.”

“There is no such thing.”

“I’m good at preventing disasters.  What’s that sound?  Are you choking?”

“Yes, I’m choking.”

“Is that your answer?”

The silence had a current running through it.  “No,” he said.  She sensed him turn and reach for her.  In the dark, he found her shoulder.  Slowly, he ran his hand down her bare arm, closing at the end over her wrist, staying there.  Her breath caught in her throat.  His hand traveled back up the length of her arm, over the curve of her shoulder, hesitating at the lacy strap of the camisole.  His fingers slid under the lace and stayed there as if he was thinking something.  With a word that might have been a curse, he took his hand away.  She waited, silently willing him to continue.  He found her again, gently touching her brow, the curve of her bruised cheekbone…“Does it hurt?” he said, “No,” she whispered…the healing line of her jaw, “Here?” “No.”…stopping at her mouth.  He traced his fingers back and forth over her lips.  She was in a trance, as still as stone.

Awakening, she moved her hands to the front of the camisole to undo it.  Not hesitating for a second, he brought his hand down to cover hers, stopping her.