Another punch landed, and this time it was Sean's stomach that received the impact. He doubled over, trying to force his lungs to begin breathing once more.

His respiratory efforts were interrupted as a rough hand forced him upright. From beneath swelling eyelids, Sean dimly discerned an object approaching, and braced himself for the blow. This object, however, stopped short. The blueish-gray tinge of stubble swimming in front of Sean's eyes indicated this was a face, probably Neil's.

"Listen, you stupid arsehole. What is it with you, huh? Just be a good little working-class bastard and scurry off to your dingy hole on the estate. Why do you insist on poking your snivelling nose round here where it's not welcome? Huh? Answer me, you uneducated half-wit!"

Sean just stared at Neil's unshaven chin. St. Thomas' school was a flame, and he a moth. Without the deeper reason that must exist inside him somewhere, there wasn't an answer he could give anyone. Not his parents, who were weary of his stumbling home as if from the frontlines of some ancient battle. Not his teachers, who also had been summoned to collect their wayward pupil considerably more than one too many times. Certainly not Neil and his acolytes. For all their education and high-class status, they were still thugs. As cultured and refined as vultures at a corpse.

Neil wasn't impressed by Sean's obstinate silence, and indicated his displeasure in a forceful and steel toe-capped manner. Sean scrunched up on the floor, trying to squeeze himself into as small a target as possible for the sibling kicks that he knew should follow. Several seconds of sickening anticipation passed before Sean realised none were. It was even longer before Sean calmed himself sufficiently to concentrate on events around him.

"I said leave him!" A girl's voice, obviously highly wrathful.

"Why? What the hell has it to do with you, Gemma?"

"Nothing you'd comprehend, Neil. Go. Now."

"She'll get herself killed," Sean thought to himself, and for once found himself agreeing with Neil. What did it have to do with her? Sean recognised neither voice nor name of the enigmatic girl, so why was she interfering?

Sean's reverie had caused his attention to wander from the debate. Turning his concentration outward once more, he heard nothing. Straining, he could faintly hear Neil's voice, as if from a distance. "They've left?" he wondered, "or has she just earned herself more personal treatment?"

Grimacing against the pain, as he had become used to doing, Sean attempted to stand. As soon as he put weight on his left knee, however, it felt as if somebody had replaced his lower leg with a molten needle. Gasping, Sean gave in to gravity, and collapsed back to the ground.

A footstep sounded next to his head. Sean dragged his view around, expecting to see the lower extremities of one of Neil's followers, left behind to finish what Neil had started. Instead, he found himself closely examining the graceful curves of a female foot. It was eclipsed by the graceful curves of a female face, which itself was largely obscured by abundant lengths of chestnut hair.

"Sean, you absolute idiot. What are you doing here again, huh?"

Sean decided this question had been asked too many times in the last few minutes, and just shook his head. Gemma sighed, and looped an arm round him. For the second time, Sean was brought and held upright, this time with more care. Hooking his arm over her shoulder, Gemma turned, and started to lead him out of the alley where he had been cornered.

"I live...on the...estate," Sean forced out between gritted teeth. Even with Gemma's help, his knee was still overbearingly painful.

"I know where you live Sean," Gemma replied, "but that's too far right now, with the state you're in. My house is much nearer."

"You...your house?", Sean stammered, "but...and how the hell do you know where I live?" Sean's brain finally found enough time in between bursts of pain to process Gemma's words properly.

"All in good time, Sean. For now, save your strength for walking. And don't you go passing out on me, either. I need you to stay conscious, OK?" Sean nodded, as Gemma repeated, as if to herself, "stay awake, you need your rest."

***********************************

Johannes was pulled back to consciousness by the familiar, though still unwanted, bellowing of Mr. Simmons, the stable master.

"Get your skinny, good-for-nothing arse out off that straw, and do some work. It's not like we feed you out of the kindness of our hearts y'know."

Johannes ruefully decided that he was unlikely to think like that anytime soon. Though in more honest moments he admitted his position was more enviable than that of the beggar children that scurried in the market place, being sworn out of bed at daybreak was a privilege he would rapidly forgo if he could.

Johannes slowly sat up. By the Saint, he was stiff today. Simmons's work ethic stopped short of slavedriving, though the difference was likely to be missed unless you looked closely. Some days though, it felt like he'd been working as hard during sleep as he had while awake. This morning his knee was particularly stiff. Johannes shook his head, and straightened his legs through pure willpower. No matter how he hurt now, it was better than how he'd feel if Simmons took exception to Johannes' supposed sluggardness.

After dressing, and quickly rinsing the sleep from his eyes with ice cold, early morning water, Johannes stepped through the door of the hut he shared with other youths who had found employ within the busy hallways and outbuildings of the manor. As usual for dawn's beginning, the area between the various servants quarters still seemed asleep, with the few active bodies drifting through thick syrup rather than walking in the freedom of fresh air.

Before turning uphill towards the stables next to the main manor building, Johannes headed left towards the outbuilding where animal and servant's foodstuffs were kept. Ostensibly, he needed to collect feed for the horses' breakfast, but there was a good chance he'd be able to acquire some bread, or maybe an apple, to quiet his own complaining stomach.

A quick scour of the interior revealed the current contents of the store to be lacking produce edible by horse or man. Sighing, Johannes collected what grain still contained traces of its original yellow tint, and resigned himself to another hungry morning.

Stepping back out, he collided with something more solid than the empty space usually residing in an open doorway. Johannes rebounded a few paces, shaken out of the day-dream that had been engaging him, before regaining his composure. Edith the cook regarded him with mock anger upon her narrow face.

"Day-dreaming again?" She shook her head. "Let me guess. You were defending Jewel from those horrible metal creatures. Honestly, you and your fairy stories. A boy your age should be spending his time learning a trade, not dallying with nonsense like that."

Johannes felt himself start to redden. His attraction to the lord's daughter was a frequent source of jest among the servants, as was his fascination with the "fairy stories" brought to the manor by the harper, Red. A mere stablehand like Johannes wouldn't normally get a chance to hear the wonderful stories Red learnt on his travels; epic adventures in mythical lands where the creatures both on land, sea and air wore metallic skins and gnashed their metallic teeth. The harper often treated Johannes to personal disquisitions however, in repayment for extra care of Red's mare while it was stabled at the manor.

Largely due to this, Sifton Manor was one of Red's favourite stops. Johannes therefore spent much of his waking and slumbering hours in these other lands, rescuing maidens with more than a slight resemblance to Jewel from gigantic iron monsters and evil wizards with wands spitting metal and magical rays of light. Johannes was either laughed at or rebuked for his passions, though most considered it a passing childhood fancy.

Johannes hurried up the slope towards the stables, having apologised to Edith several times. He felt the crimson creeping upon his cheeks again. He remembered the grin he could see struggling to escape from behind the mask of displeasure the cook had worn. Johannes could tell what she'd been thinking, what they all thought, and the warmth in his cheeks increased further as his mind involuntarily recalled the teasing he was forever subjected to.

"Johannes! You lazy, inconsiderate scoundrel. Where have you been?" Simmon's tirade seemed even angrier than normal, a feat not lightly ignored. "We've been waiting for you for ages."

Johannes looked around, but could see no one else outside the stables. Simmons read his questing glance.

"Her ladyship is looking after her horse, seeing as you weren't here to do it."

"Anyone can stand and look at a horse, stablemaster. I'm quite sure not many would think to fetch grain up the length of this hill before they themselves have eaten. You most certainly did not."

Johannes felt sure this moment too would dissolve and be revealed as another of his visions. His being complemented at the expense of Simmons was uncommon as a blue sun, but when spoken by the figure who stepped out from under the lintel of the stable, it was truly unreal.

"Apologies, your Ladyship. I was merely concerned with your horse's well-being, ma'am."

"At the expense of a boy's? Since when is a horse more important than a person? The gossip among the servants often comments how Simmons prefers his mares to his women. Mayhaps such comments were not as undeserved as I first thought."

Simmons blanched, and could only jerk his jaw up and down wordlessly before bowing and quickly hurrying inside the stable, out of range of such a vicious torture device.

Johannes remained staring, his brain stumbling over the information from his ears and eyes. Jewel turned and smiled at him.

"Come Johannes. I have..." A glance toward the stable door. "My father has need of you. Follow me."

Johannes gave a polite nod, out of reflex more than conscious decision, and fell in behind Jewel as she turned toward the house. He found himself still unable to say a word, and equally powerless to force his gaze elsewhere than the tumbling streamers of chestnut hair, rhythmically swaying to the dance of Jewel's stride.