Lynda Marker turned away from the novel in her hands, closing the battered cover on the last well thumbed page, and turned to watch the world out of the window. The coach she sat was travelling, in a somewhat sedate manner, through the grassland outside of the grand city of Trinima. The ravages of the war were still more than apparent here as people attempted to make use of the land that sat furrowed and uneven due to hasty earthen fortifications, or old buildings having been set ablaze in the inevitable counter-assault.

Lynda pulled a strand of black hair behind sharp ears as she watched a handful of people toil next to an open mound of earthwork. Dirt covered hands pulled out bricks and masonry stones as if they were removing debris from a fresh wound, passing them to their associates who cleaned and dried them, and then placed them on the large stone foundation with a glob of mortar. As each brick was placed it returned the home from a bare husk to a real, if barren, building once more.

“I wonder if we’ll ever truly recover.” Lynda said, the offhand nature of the remark hiding the thought that was put into it.

The giant cast a glance across to her compatriot, who seemed to have his broad hat pulled down over his eyes. “Clarky? Are you awake?” Lynda asked, a gloved hand reaching out to wake him, but pulling back at the last in case he truly was asleep.

“I can sleep anywhere, me.” The dozing figure of Clarky said in reply, drawling out the words as if it took great effort just to get them to leave his sleepy form.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Lynda said as she sat back and attempted to get comfortable with her knees pulled up to her chest, though out of necessity rather than comfort. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“I noticed.” Clarky muttered in return, pushing up the broad brimmed hat with a thumb. The soft light outside lit up his tan skin, made darker from being an outdoors sort and the inaccurate use of soap, thus staining passable if not pleasant features. “It’s a wonder you don’t get lost in your own head sometimes.” He said, pointing at the pallid woman that sat opposite. Lynda simply looked sheepish and glanced back out of the window.

“It’s not a bad thing, to think.” Lynda said in quiet reply. Her grimy companion rolled his eyes a little, and pushed himself up enough so as to pat her on the back of her large hand in a firm and friendly way.

“Funny thing with recovery.” He started, looking out of the window. “Even if you get over it, and be back to normal, there’s always going to be scars.” He cracked a smile that was a little too wide to be anything but manic. “Sometimes you see them, sometimes you don’t, but they’re there for those that know how to look and they’ll shape us but don’t have to define us…and I’ve got a feeling you’ve got a scar or two sat under the surface of that long face of yours.”

Lynda once again redoubled her efforts to not look at Clarky, letting her hair fall over her face once more.

“When did you get so attentive?” She asked, resting her chin in her hand. “It was just being…thrown out, I know I’m odd but I did everything that they said I should do, and it wasn’t enough.”

“Sometimes it ain’t going to be.” Clarky shrugged and leant back, slipping an arm behind his head to try and act as a pillow.

“Isn’t.” Lynda corrected. “Isn’t going to be.”

“Well which-ever. Some people ask for a fish, and you give ‘em a fish, then they want to know why you didn’t get two.” Clarky waved it away. “We’ll be home soon, and you can start over; yeah maybe it’s not the future that our folks wanted but we can pick up and start again.”

“Yours.” Lynda’s eyes moved to him, her contemplation taking on a slightly defeated air. “Your parents, I’m not a Clark remember?”

“Ours.” Clarky replied, correcting her in turn. “You were as much a child of theirs as I was; it don’t matter what else is true. So you’re not like me; who cares?”

“Everyone that isn’t you, it would seem.” Lynda gave him a wry smile. “And doesn’t.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Well I wasn’t cut out for school anyway.” He said, folding his arms across his grubby waistcoat. “I mean, really, I isn’t a book guy!”

“Now you’re just doing it to annoy me.” Lynda sat up straight with a chuckle and a playful scowl, before bumping her head on the ceiling and crouching back down, rubbing at the crown with a slight hiss of pain. “Bookish or not, you didn’t have to leave.”

Clarky made a noise that was both dismissive and petulant, puffing air through his lips and waving his free hand dismissively.

“Like I’d stay with that bunch of stuck up Lord’s sons and fisherman’s daughters. If they can’t handle my little sister, then they can do without me.” He folded his arms and turned; this time it was his turn to look out the window. “Besides, it’s not like I really enjoyed it there.”

“You were more of the playground than the library, certainly.” Lynda nodded. “But you could have stayed, maybe got to know some of the young eligibles there…” She hinted, her porcelain cheeks flushing a darker shade of grey. “…You would have been set for life if you had courted a wealthy heir.”

“They were all aiming for the Lords.” Clarky said with another dismissive grunt, his feet kicking up to rest on the seat next to Lynda. Somehow, despite the carriage ride, his tall travel boots had contrived to look muddy and even now dry flakes cracked and dropped onto the seat. “That’s really what it was; you thought it was a learning ground but it was more a breeding pool. The rich but title-less wanted the titled but poor, so they could swan about as Lord Holderman or Lady Quantilan or which-ever such stupid name they were after.” He huffed once more and the folding of his arms seemed to intensify. “Even if they were just selling themselves into a gilded cage, and being titleless AND poor meant we weren’t going to get a look in.”

“Still a little bitter about Rebecca I see.” Lynda said, though there was no victory in her words. “She won’t be Lady Sambridge now though, will she? I just hope she’ll be okay.”

“Ain’t the point-” Clarky cut in quickly, snapping his gaze back to Lynda. “That Sammy was a brute; sure he’s got titles but all it really amounts to is a big house in the city and a life time with an idiot who doesn’t care if she’s happy or not, I mean I don’t get how that could make anyone happy!”

“No, nor can I.” Lynda said flatly, indicating with her tone that she could see how a large manse with servants and a great deal of wealth might appeal to those without even one of those advantages.

“Anyway, he just wanted her to have his brats. To him she was little more than a convenient belly with a dad with a decent wallet.”

“Did he actually tell you that?”

“Yeah, he stood in the dorm and declared it.” At this point Clarky put on a voice of a man with a barrelled chest that later in life would have a handlebar moustache and more than a few chips on his shoulder. “’We are to court; finally I can go home. I’m glad that I was able to snag one who didn’t have a horse face, but at the end of the day so long as she can deliver unto me a few sons before she croaks and I can sneak off to the Docks for a tumble now and then, then I can do my duty to my family and just get on with being a Lord, etcetera, etcetera’.”

“I doubt it would have been that much different of a story in the girl’s dorm, in all honesty.” Lynda said. “If she’s swayed by fancy titles then she’s wasn’t going to be any good for you, Clarky. Luckily I got a room to myself given my unsuitable standing.”

They paused, taking a moment to regain their thoughts.

“Weird how we’re talking about her in the past tense, isn’t it? Seeing her wrapped in straps and bandages and loaded like a parcel onto the other coach...” He trailed off as he took the chance to look back up at his adopted sister, though the manic grin had faded considerably. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t your fault I know; you didn’t force her to change.”

“I had nothing to do with her change at all - she did all her...transformation all on her own!”

“Right, sorry, I wasn’t…” Clarky began, before Lynda shook her head.

“I know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s okay, my fault on that one.” Clarky marked a line in the air as if taking down a mental score.

The coach fell silent again as all Lynda could do was turn back to the window and watch the world go by.

(Continued in 1.2)