Chapter 8 Mending Fences

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Author Note: My thanks to MMMidge, stonedrose, Anniexus, SunKrux, and Gast for taking the time to review. I'm glad the re-write pleases those who are re-reading this story, and pleased that it's also liked by new readers. :-)

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Roxton stared at the darkened spiral stairway down which their housemates had descended from view, his thoughts in turmoil. How am I going to do this? She's gone remarkably easy on us as a group, but there's no way I can expect her to get over this without explaining myself – and she could very well despise me when she learns the truth. Yet I owe her no less, not when she's standing right here at last. I can feel her gaze on me; she's waiting, and I have no idea where to begin. A dozen opening lines skittered through his mind, each more disastrously inadequate than the one before it. He glanced over at her, and sure enough, Marguerite was watching him, her expression carefully neutral. She's as nervous as I am about whether or not we can properly mend fences. With a quick prayer for divine assistance, he straightened his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and asked with marked hesitance, "Would you like to spend a few moments on the balcony before we retire for the night?"

She nodded, and followed him to the moonlit corner where so many of their evenings had ended before she'd gone away. She leaned on the railing and gazed appreciatively outward, but didn't offer any conversational tidbits; she simply waited in silence to see what he had to say.

He was distracted by the fact that she'd retrieved her weapons again, as she had when they moved from the chairs to the dining table. She'd donned the quiver and bow as casually as she'd once worn jewelry, so accustomed to their presence that she'd automatically slipped them into place over her shoulder and carried them with her onto their balcony. It was a sad testimony to the fact that she'd spent so many months dependent only on herself for her safety.

It took him a few minutes to reorganize his thoughts enough to begin, although even then he stumbled to get the words out in anything like a coherent thought. "I wanted to explain… I've gone over and over that entire time, trying to understand how I could have … I should have known you wouldn't… why I accepted that you might endanger the Zanga like that!" He drew in a ragged breath, glanced over at her with his head hanging, and whispered unhappily, "I need to explain why I didn't trust you."

He sounded so utterly miserable that Marguerite had to quash her instinct to reach for his hand. She'd enjoyed his kisses earlier – needed them, truth be told, particularly after facing the business end of three gun barrels – but that didn't mean she didn't still need answers, too. "So why didn't you believe me that night when I swore I was telling you the truth?" she prompted, and was pleased with herself for suppressing even a hint of the devastation she'd suffered.

Roxton's jaw clenched so tightly that it made her wince, his gaze focused on something in his memory, something that left his face twisted in self-loathing. She knew instantly that what had happened all those months ago had at least as much to do with his own past as hers, and a little more of the residual inner ache eased its hold on her heart; John didn't think as badly of me as I thought! She tilted her head and waited attentively.

"Everything was all muddled," he said hoarsely. "I don't know how… I don't know if I can explain it even now, the way that the whole situation was mixed up in my mind. I – I – I couldn't separate the memories and the emotions of the charges against you, the battle over nothing more than a handful of missing jewels, the ludicrous loss of life, and all for what?! Shanghai Xan… Kaiser Wilhelm… Rice. Pretensions and ambitions."

Marguerite's brow knit as she tried to follow his train of thought. "Pretensions and ambitions" could certainly apply to me, but what did those three men have to do with whether or not I stole the Marobi temple treasure?

He didn't notice her bewilderment, but he was aware that he wasn't expressing himself well: he forced himself to focus, and smiled bitterly as he seized on the most recent name and spat it out. "Rice. Did you know that my disillusionment with him started before William's death? He was so obnoxiously cocksure that he was a great man, so convinced that he had the right to ride roughshod over anyone else in pursuit of his bloody trophies! He actually had the gall to declare that a village of several dozen African tribesmen owed him the ivory and the gold in their temple, because of his superiority to them! And when they resisted, he mercilessly used the advanced weaponry of his party to enforce his will on them. It was a bloody massacre, and for what? Human life has immeasurable value, incomparable to trinkets offered to primitive gods!"

Now she was beginning to see where this was leading. "The battle between the Marobi and the Zanga reminded you of that, didn't it?" And I was the apparent cause of the strife between the two tribes. He still should have believed me, but I can see how it might've affected his reactions.

He nodded jerkily. "It can sound like such an adventure when talked up as a campfire tale, but the reality of the smoke, the gunpowder, the smell of blood, the screams of the wounded and dying, men with wives and families, boys who would never have a future – and it was my guns ending their lives or maiming them and leaving them unable to provide for themselves and their families – the futility of it, Marguerite, the foolishness of taking life over mere trifles! It's utterly revolting that we allow situations to reach such an impasse! It's the same whether the stakes are money or land or power. During the Great War, being in the trenches was no different. The principles behind it all seem very noble, but when countryside is laid waste and men are dying, the stench and the senselessness of the cost to advance one day only to retreat the next, then doing it all over the next day, week in and week out – "victory" they called it! All because one man tried to achieve his ambitions by forcing his will on others. When one person breaks the laws of God and man and threatens the security of others for his own profit, those who are able have a duty to defend the laws and the security of those who may be helpless. And although I knew better…" He raised a trembling hand to his forehead and closed his eyes, his voice thick with emotion. "The Kaiser's attempt to usurp and overpower those who were weaker, my various run-ins with Shanghai Xan's bravos, Rice's disregard for the primitive culture and the lives he destroyed in pursuit of his own glory,… all of that was all mixed up in my head with the Marobi and the Zanga and that bloody temple treasure… and you... you…"

When he faltered, Marguerite steadfastly completed his line of thought: "My willingness to beg, borrow or steal a fortune, no matter whom or what got in my way." She wasn't surprised at his hesitant nod. Why shouldn't he equate me with such men? It's no more than the truth; there was a time when I would've stolen the Marobi's treasure and allowed the Zanga to suffer for it, if I believed the ends justified the means. She'd become quite good at rationalizing such acts over the years, finding a good reason to do what she chose any time she thought it might benefit her. After all, that's what I expected to do when I joined Challenger's expedition to come to this plateau; I was seeking the Ouroboros for the sake of finding my identity. I would've taken the artifact from wherever I found it, regardless of who might've owned it, and used it with barely a second thought about whether it was right or wrong to leave the others trapped here.

It hurt, but she could see how John might be convinced of her culpability when he'd already been beset with his horrible recollections of the atrocities of the Great War and Rice's ill-fated African expedition, not to mention whatever he might have endured in his private battle against Xan's world-wide network of organized criminals. No wonder he'd been swayed to believe the worst of her. He clearly blames himself for associating me with those at the root of his worst memories, as well he should when he's the main reason I'm no longer likely to do such things. He should have known that. But he's already damned himself for what happened with William. I didn't come home to add to that burden. She took a deep breath and admitted, for John's benefit, "Given my similar history, I suppose it was perfectly plausible that I would raid a primitive temple if I thought I could get away with it."

"No!" he quickly denied, tensing, his attention returning fully to the present as she voiced her blunt self-assessment. Then, at her quirked eyebrow and knowing smirk, he amended ruefully, "Well, okay, yes, it did seem somewhat plausible – at the time." Yet this was an argument he'd had with himself repeatedly during the time she was gone from his side, and as quickly as he'd made that admission, he added firmly, "But you are nothing like Rice, or Xan, or the Kaiser." He turned to face her as he spoke, so he could tenderly cup her cheek as he gazed into her eyes and earnestly assured her, "I know you better than that. Say what you will, you'll never convince me that you ever did anything because you thought yourself better than others, or because you held yourself to be above the law. Before we met, and even during the last four years, you might've broken or bent the law for a justifiable cause, but you, Marguerite Krux, would never proceed as ruthlessly, as mercilessly, or as inexcusably as Xan or Rice or the Kaiser." He paused to search her expression, to be certain she understood that he'd had no intention of comparing her to those men.

"That's a fine line of distinction, John," she murmured, touched by his generous estimation of her and his absolute conviction. He's overstating the matter, of course. Except for the Marobi debacle, he's always thought better of me than I know myself to be. Still, it's nice to know he still believes well of me despite his willingness to fault me about the Marobi temple treasure.

"It may be a fine line, my dear, but that line makes all the difference," he insisted. "As I've told you before, you did what you had to do to survive alone, and during the war you went far beyond what was required by duty. As Parsifal you chose the deadliest role possible, not for fame or fortune but to stand against tyranny and injustice, at great risk to yourself." He waved a dismissive hand to silence her when she would have demurred. He'd heard her denigrate her war work by claiming she'd collected her share of spoils along the way, but he'd long ago realized that the selfish façade she automatically employed was mere camouflage to cover genuine heroism. He frowned sternly down at her. "Don't give me that same old story about the doors that were opened to you as Parsifal and how you used the war to further your own aims. If you truly did gain anything out of being a triple agent, you deserved it. You know as well as I do that the Kaiser, Rice and Xan would never have made the sacrifices you've made for others. In fact, I don't believe there are many men or women in the entire world who could match your sheer courage and heart."

She smiled slowly, misty-eyed at his staunch loyalty and wondering anew what she'd ever done to merit such love from this man. "I think you're a bit biased, John."

He slanted her a lopsided smile. "Perhaps. The one thing I'm one hundred percent sure of is that my emotions being muddled by the similarities to long past situations is a poor excuse for an unforgivable breach of my promises to you, Marguerite, for failing to trust you and your love for me."

The last phrase puzzled his attentive lady. "My love for you?" she repeated blankly.

He shifted uneasily, but he'd determined to make a clean breast of his failings, so he nodded gamely and prayed that his explanation wouldn't anger or alienate her as he feared it might. "You've always placed so much emphasis on wealth, on building an unassailable fortune. As much as I'd like to believe that my love for you can grant you the security you've craved… I don't know… If you had a choice…" His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat and tried again, reddening as he finally blurted it out. "I've always worried whether I would be enough for you, whether what I've offered you is sufficient for you to forego your reliance on riches as a means to ensure your future, and instead trust your future to me. What happened with the Marobi, that other stuff I just told you about is true, but those were only secondary reasons for the way I treated you. I was scared beyond belief that you'd found something you considered to be better than me." There, I've finally told her the truth.

He forced himself to meet her wide-eyed gaze as he continued huskily, "I'm sorry, Marguerite. You didn't deserve my doubts. I understand if you're mad at me, believe me – I know your anger is well-warranted. But if you'll give me another chance, I won't fail you again. I know I don't deserve for you to believe that, but maybe in time…" he concluded miserably.

Marguerite was stunned. She barely comprehended his plea for a second chance, she was so staggered by his confession. It had never occurred to her that he might question whether her love for him was stronger than her need for material security. He's always seemed so confident that we were meant to be together, so patient in waiting for me to admit it, too, that I never suspected my reticence about confessing my emotions might lead him to doubt his ability to retain my love, or to harbor such fear that something else – anything else! – in my life could be as important to me as him! Regardless of whether he'd broken his word to her, she had to lay his doubts to rest right this instant!

Dropping her guard completely for the first time since she'd stepped off the elevator that night, she smiled up at him and vowed, "John, I swear to you that if I had to choose between you and a fortune, I would choose you every time, regardless of the how large or how sparkly the fortune might be, and even if life with you meant doing without some silly luxury – or even if we had to do without so-called basics. I don't need anything but you. There's nothing and no one that could take my heart from you, and nothing and no one could be worth more to me than your love. My heart and soul are wholly yours, John, now and always, forever."

Astounded, he searched her expression and found only sincerity, no sign that she was toying with him, leading him on, or holding anything back. Moreover, her intense adoration of him was writ clear for him to witness, shining in her silver-green eyes, gleaming through her warm full smile, and dripping from her dulcet tones. As a declaration of her feelings for him, it far outweighed her admission of love when they'd been trapped in that cave. The fact that she, who was so leery of commitment, was offering him such an avowal was incredible, and he accepted it as the loving gesture of reassurance she'd intended. With a tremulous sigh, he briefly tugged her close and murmured huskily, "Thank you, Marguerite."

Her grin dimpled up at him as she drew back a step. "You're quite welcome." And before she'd even finished speaking, she hauled back and punched him with all her might, snapping his head back as her fist connected with his jaw.

He staggered back several steps, shook his head and blinked to clear his vision, steadied himself against the rail and stared at her. What the…?!

Marguerite stalked forward, her gray eyes stormy. Jabbing a finger into his chest to emphasize each point, she snarled, "You IDIOT! Don't you ever do that to me again! I'll slit your throat and feed you to the nearest Tyrannosaurus Rex! Is that clear?!"

Something unknotted in his chest with each furious poke of her finger, and relief flooded through him. That's my girl! Fire and steel! Roxton choked back a laugh as he raised his hands in surrender and assured her, "Yeah, perfectly clear."

She sniffed. "Moron." But the insult lacked her former steam, and when her face crumbled, he was ready to embrace her. She stepped into his arms, tucked her face against the joint of his shoulder and neck, wrapped her arms about his waist, and wept, silent sobs shaking her body.

The third emotional swing in as many minutes might have daunted another man, but Lord John Roxton hadn't courted his lady for four long years to be easily thrown into disarray. Although his stomach clenched at being the cause of her tears, his heart leapt because she was in his arms. She'd opened up to him like never before; she'd told him she loved him – more than her treasure! – admitted she was furious with him, and now she was allowing him to comfort her in her grief.

John rubbed her back soothingly as best he could around the quiver and bow, stroked her long dark hair, and murmured soft reassurances to her. I'd hug her forever, if she'd let me. I'd even let her punch me again. I guess I should've seen that coming. Although the way his jaw was aching, he hoped it was a good long while before he gave her cause to be quite this mad again. Wait – what am I thinking?! I have no intention of ever giving her cause to be this angry again.

Marguerite being the resilient woman she was, it wasn't too long before she mastered her tears and somewhat bashfully apologized for dampening his shirt.

He refused to let her go when she would have drawn back. "No, stay," he whispered against her hair. "Please. Just for a little while." And to his delight, she did.

Releasing a tremulous sigh, she leaned against him and contentedly closed her eyes. "It's so good to be with you again," she sighed.

Roxton smiled. "Yeah, it is," he agreed. For the first time in months, barring those heady days when he'd been chasing her, which had involved a whole different level of stress, he could feel the tension seeping from his body. The whole world suddenly feels right again, as if her presence here has knocked it back onto its proper axis after being misaligned for three quarters of the year. Somehow I don't think I'll be troubled by any nightmares tonight, not with Marguerite home safe and sound.

Since his lady seemed as content as he to remain in this position, he indulged himself in the delight of having her in his arms for a quarter hour longer before he declared that it was high time he allowed her to enjoy her beauty sleep. He added that it was undeniably late, and she'd traveled a fair distance today without knowing whether she'd be welcome or not. When Marguerite didn't object, he escorted her back through the moonlit great room and down the stairs with his arm about her slim waist, holding her near for as long as possible.

He stopped and released her as they reached her bedroom doorway. I forfeited my right to walk into her private sanctuary when I refused to listen to her claims of innocence over nine months ago. Despite her unexpected reassurance on the balcony, I still need to earn back her trust. I'll only feel free to come and go here as I did in the past once she invites me in, and that's not going to happen tonight. Yet he was reluctant to part from her without double-checking on where they stood. "You'll be here in the morning, won't you?" he asked quietly, searching her face as he held her hands.

Touched by his discretion in not entering her room, and also by his desire for reassurance about her plans, she smiled. "Yes, John. I promise," she assured him gently. "Now get some sleep." She firmly pushed him in the direction of his room.

He glanced over his shoulder at her as he turned to go. "Good night, Marguerite."

"Good night." She watched until his lanky form was out of sight around the bend, then faced her room and squared her shoulders. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. As much as I missed John and enjoyed him holding me on the balcony, I don't think I'm ready to just step back into our former rapport as if no time has passed. What's more, I think I really need at least a little time to readjust to the reality of being here. One of the things she'd always appreciated about John was his knack for sensing when she needed a little space, and when to push her instead. His attentions earlier tonight had freed her from immediate worry about her relationship with him; both his earlier kisses and his recent prolonged embrace had been reassuringly familiar. But now she could definitely appreciate a bit of time to re-acquaint herself with her home, and some time to just breathe after the sudden surplus of togetherness.

She slipped into her room – "My room!" Whispering the words felt good. She'd been concerned lest it seem strange to her after all these months, but it was like stepping back in time.

It was the home conjured in her dreams, this room, this tree house, these people; they were her home.

Tears sprang to her eyes again as she noticed that Veronica had left all of her things in place, ready for her return at any time. With no assurance that I'd ever come back, and despite the fact that space in the tree house is at a premium – not to mention that this is the nicest bedroom – the others left it just as it was! It was clean, and was scented by the fresh flowers that rested in the vase on the window sill. The bouquet was massive, and represented her hunter's impartial gathering habits.

Marguerite smiled through her tears at the sight of the freshly-picked blossoms. John never bothered with coordinating colors or varieties; he just picked whatever blooms took his fancy. As a result, the conflicting aromas of his floral offerings had often been overwhelming. When she'd teased him about it, he'd shrugged and said she'd have to make do with whichever flowers reminded him of her, since he didn't have a local florist to do the job for him. Summerlee might have given him some hints, but the old gentleman had been parted from them before Roxton had begun presenting her with fistfuls of plateau wildflowers.

Veronica had once offered to allow him to cut stems from her proper garden, but he'd taken so many so often that she'd wryly rescinded her permission. A sly consultation between the two women had resulted in an agreement that the latest gift would be strategically pruned by whichever one of them found it first. Roxton had never noticed the changes; only Ned had realized what was going on, and he'd never exposed their collaboration.

With memories of similar gifts floating through her mind, Marguerite crossed to the window and held her breath as she gently touched the silky petals of the flowers. Apparently, Veronica hadn't seen these flowers yet today. Or perhaps the blonde had given up modifying her fellow hunter's wildly-varied choices. Either way, this new evidence of John's steady love was stuffed into one of their hostess's vases at the window. As in the old days, a whiff of the powerful resulting fragrance forced her to take an abrupt step backwards once she had to take another breath, but this time instead of immediately thinning out the bouquet she left it as it was. She could bear with the incompatible aromas for one night… or a couple of days. John gathered and arranged these flowers for me when he didn't even know I was coming. The fact that he'd prepared for her arrival, just as Veronica had kept her room clean and ready, was yet another proof that they'd wanted her to come. I really am welcome and wanted, then. She smiled out at the stars that shone over the familiar vista beyond her window, then turned back to the chamber she'd claimed as her own upon being stranded here.

Marguerite's eye was caught by another colorful sight, and she moved to the clothing she'd left behind that lifetime ago. She placed a reverent hand on the soft fabrics folded neatly on the shelf. Her eyes closed and she hummed in appreciation at the sensation. Real clothes again. Silk.

Leaning her quiver and bow against the wall, she quickly stepped out of her plateau clothes, and donned a fondly remembered white nightgown and the robe hanging beside the shelves. Mmm. The material feels so good! I'd almost forgotten what silk felt like against my skin. She scooped up her weapons again and was at her mirror in a couple of quick steps – beloved, foggy old thing that it was, it was the best the Plateau had to offer since she'd broken her hand mirror, or at least the best she'd found so far – and she laid her bow and quiver on the dresser as she reached out for the hairbrush still placed exactly where she'd left it.

But her movement was arrested by dismay at the image she saw in the glass. Am I really that brown, or it is only the lantern light? I've been out in the sun far too much, apparently. And heavens, no wonder the others wanted me to eat something! I look almost gaunt, wartime gaunt! Like the people in the last days of the War who couldn't get enough to eat! She examined herself with a frown as she slowly began to brush out her tangled hair. She was far thinner than she'd realized, and she didn't like it. And then out on the balcony I added the delightful bonus of red, swollen eyes from crying! Yet John is still attracted to me; I could see it in his expression, feel it in his touch tonight. Love. It must be true what they say, that love is blind.

"May I?"

Marguerite jumped and spun, dropping the hairbrush and snatching up her bow and an arrow from the dresser. She strung the arrow to her bow while still in motion, so that by the time she'd stopped turning she had the weapon fully drawn and ready to fire. Only belated recognition of the voice stayed its flight.

Veronica blinked in astonishment, caught flatfooted in the doorway. They stared at one another on opposite sides of the room, wide-eyed, one appalled at what she'd almost done, and the other realizing how fortunate she was that her friend had so much self-control.

With a sheepish blush, the silk-clad woman lowered the bow, released the arrow and tucked it back in its quiver on the dresser. She nodded her permission to the blonde to enter. "Sorry," she said with an apologetic grimace, gesturing behind her at the weapons as she turned to face the doorway again.

Veronica moistened her lips and stepped down into Marguerite's room. "Wow, when John told us how fast you were, I thought he was just exaggerating," she commented. If the older woman was as accurate as she was speedy, they might just have to redistribute the chores again.

"John told you I was fast?" Marguerite flushed with pleasure.

"Yes, he did, and you are," Veronica's lips twitched, but she suppressed the smile. "Is there anything you need tonight, Marguerite?"

"No, thank you. Everything is perfect," the brunette replied warmly, watching the curious blonde kneel to gather the supple leather clothing that had been discarded in favor of the silks. "Honestly, you've made my homecoming very nice, Veronica. Thank you."

Veronica looked up from examining the material and grinned. "I would've thrown you a big party if I'd known for sure when you were coming." Her smile faded. "We were beginning to worry that you wouldn't, you know. Ned said you would. But it's been so long since John saw you…"

Marguerite nodded, moving gracefully to the bed. She patted the mattress beside her as she seated herself. "It took me a while to decide I should come home. I'm not sure how to explain it," she began slowly as Veronica joined her. "It was like I was asleep. Not thinking or feeling, just… existing. And then I saw all of you that day, and… everything came rushing back."

Veronica, seeing the shadows in the brunette's green eyes, sat down and draped the leather material over her bare thighs before she slid an arm around her friend's shoulders. "Our betrayal," she whispered. Marguerite nodded silently. "But you did hear us ask you to forgive us, didn't you? In the jungle? You were there that morning when Roxton thought he felt your presence?"

Marguerite nodded again. "Yes. I heard you. And I didn't forget your apologies, although," she admitted with a sardonic smile, "I tried hard enough to ignore them. There wasn't time to think about it while John was tracking me, but afterwards… It was all I could think of for days."

"I meant it, you know. I can't begin to express how much I regret not believing you, Marguerite," Veronica said sincerely, her blue eyes shimmering. "I should have known better than to think you would risk the Zanga for some stupid jewels."

Marguerite slipped her own arm about Veronica's waist and hugged her, wanting to exonerate her friend nearly as much as she'd wanted to ease John's guilt, but knowing it wouldn't be honest. She couldn't tell the younger woman that she'd forgiven and forgotten the way they'd turned on her – especially not while all these confused emotions were still simmering beneath the surface – but she could offer a first step. "Thank you. I appreciate you saying so."

"I mean it," the blonde insisted earnestly. "We talked about it a lot, and there might be excuses, but there isn't a good enough reason in the world for not believing you. You have every right to be furious. I'll do anything you want to make it up to you – anything! You name it."

One dark brow arched. Now that's just too good a chance to pass it up. Marguerite indulged in a slow smirk, and resisted the urge to laugh as her friend – the little sister she'd somehow adopted – clearly thought better of the sweeping vow she'd just made even before Marguerite drawled, "Anything?"

Veronica swallowed, but nodded. "Anything," she confirmed and stalled for time as she sought for a way to place reasonable parameters on her unlimited offer. "I'll do your mending, or go with you to dig diamonds, or… or… take your turn at tending the lift's gears, or…"

She's taking this way too seriously. I can always come back to it later. Marguerite relaxed her smile to one of genuine amusement.

Instantly Veronica realized she'd been had. Her tension eased and she smiled. "Maybe I could teach you to cook?" she teased.

Nodding approvingly, she played along. "I thought you wanted to do something to make it up to me, not to everyone else." Veronica laughed. Then Marguerite added sincerely, "I think perhaps only time will mend things. However, as Arthur was fond of saying, today is a good day for a new beginning."

Although Veronica was fairly certain it wasn't going to be as easy for Marguerite as she was making it sound, she appreciated the sentiment. "You're right, and you coming back definitely made this a good day, and a good new beginning. I mean it, though, when I say that any time you want to talk about it, I'll be ready to talk, too, about absolutely anything you want to talk about."

The brunette hesitated, gnawing at her bottom lip. Talk about it. "It". That day. Is it really okay to bring it up at this point? I've wondered for such a long time just exactly what I did to the man to make him accuse me of such a thing. Will I be opening a can of worms here?

Naturally, Veronica noticed the change in her demeanor. Quirking a brow at her, she prompted, "Yes?"

Cautiously, Marguerite ventured, "That day I saw you three in the jungle, John said you knew the truth, which means someone must have figured out who really took the Marobi sacred treasure. Since I didn't do it, would you mind telling me whether you ever learned why Tahumai lied?"

Her friend's jaw dropped. "My goodness, haven't we told you?" she gasped. Before Marguerite finished shaking her head, the younger woman realized that they'd all been so busy being careful what they said that they'd failed to give her the rest of the story. Veronica groped for the right words. "Well actually, Tahumai was the thief, and blaming you was apparently just a spur of the moment idea."

Veronica succinctly explained about his capture and confession.

"What?" Marguerite was flabbergasted. "Are you telling me he did it for love?!"

"I'm afraid so."

To her friend's puzzlement, Marguerite's lips twitched.

"You think it's funny?" Veronica gaped incredulously. That was not at all the reaction she'd expected.

Indeed she did, as much to her bemusement as Veronica's, although she didn't think it would be right to relate exactly what was running through her mind, not when the situation was still so raw for each of them. Her laughter gurgled up, despite her companion's astonishment. It's so ironic! He betrayed his people's principles, stole from another tribe, and then lied, all for the sake of love, and everyone believed him. I accepted my people's principles, straightened out my life, and told the truth, all for the sake of love, and no one believed me at all! Marguerite shook her head and, still chuckling at the irony, waved a dismissive hand and promised, "I'll explain it someday, but not now. So what happened to Tahumai and the treasure?"

Veronica eyed her dubiously, but answered, "Jacoba handed both over to the Marobi, along with a hefty portion of his personal treasury to redeem the honor and standing of the Zanga. The Marobi executed Tahumai, took their treasure and went home. When Assai got back from telling us they'd found the thief, and told Jacoba you were gone, he sent sixty warriors to help look for you -" She broke off, unable to face talking about the months they'd spent searching in vain. Tears filled her eyes again.

Marguerite patted her shoulder, comforted and somewhat impressed that not only her housemates but also the Zanga had cared enough to search for her. "Never mind, I think we've both cried enough, don't you?"

Veronica blinked back her tears and nodded. Marguerite had always hated public tears. "Yeah, I think so. For today, at least."

The two women looked at each other, and then broke into giggles. That brought back a whole different set of memories, and, inspired, Veronica brightened. "Hey, why don't you let me brush your hair out while we have a cup of tea?" she offered, pointing toward the hairbrush the other woman had dropped when she'd reacted to Veronica's voice behind her. "You can tell me how long it took you to figure out how to tan these hides so well." She smoothed an approving hand over the leather skirt Marguerite had worn home.

Marguerite nodded, her own wide smile breaking loose as it occurred to her that her stomach had settled. I might be able to handle a cup of tea and a snack, she decided, remembering the scrawny woman in her mirror.

They rose to their feet, and Marguerite retrieved the fallen brush and handed it to Veronica as she fell into step beside her. The two women headed back upstairs toward the kitchen. They were chortling again before they even reached the great room as Marguerite began sharing her misadventures in tanning her own animal hides to serve as her plateau clothing.

There probably wasn't anything Veronica might have suggested that would have pleased Marguerite more that doing this. They'd begun these "girl sessions", as Challenger had christened their late night visits together, several months before the Marobi treasure fiasco. The women would shoo the men off to bed and stay up late, drinking tea, doing one another's hair in all sorts of styles, or pawing through Veronica's parents' stored trunks of clothing while planning how to modify or re-use the materials. They'd talked about everything and nothing, and it had quickly deepened their burgeoning bond.

In his room, Ned reacted to the sound of the women's voices by smiling and reaching for the journal he'd brought down with him for this express purpose. He'd waited for everyone to settle down before he returned to today's journal entry. Tonight, at last, he could write the words he'd wanted to write for nearly a year: "Marguerite is home with us at last."

Roxton, who had already shed his clothes and was stretched out on his bed in total comfort for the first time in longer than he cared to recall, grinned as the sound of their soft laughter reached his ears. Gratitude filled his heart. She's home, she's safe, and I have a second chance with her. I won't waste it.

Of course, they would still have issues to work through, trust to rebuild, but when had that not been true after a fracas? He drifted off to sleep to the sound of Marguerite's voice overhead.

And the remaining member of the tree house family settled with a contented sigh into a more relaxed position in his bed, a grin playing about his lips as he eyed the ceiling and shook his head at the feminine voices emanating from the upper level. "Well, Jessie, my love," he murmured to his distant wife, "I think we can stop worrying about our Marguerite. It seems that everything is well on its way to being quite normal again."

And he too closed his eyes and let slumber claim him.

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Although this is how the original 2002 version of the story ended, I wrote a "coda" back in 2005 that has never been posted. That will be posted shortly as the final chapter for this 2013 version of "Not A Game".