"We're going to have to move a little faster."

He wished he had now, though. The air around them was full of howling. They were out of sight still, but they were there. The light was different, too. A thick layer of cloud hovered over them, and because of it the daylight would be much shorter. He supposed that was only to be expected. It was too much to hope the woman would retain her calm, contented frame of mind. Not when she knew she was dead.

She hadn't said much about it. There had been tears, but quiet ones. As if she hadn't wanted to bother him. Another thing to be grateful for. This soul really had made things as easy as possible for him. He felt bad that he had been so cold, so aloof towards her. But it had been the only way he could keep going. They would not even have made it this far otherwise.

Tristan made a face as he looked back towards the woman, then up at the darkening sky. They had taken a long time to cross the mudflats. Too long. There wasn't much light left and they still had the full length of the valley to travel across. It wasn't her fault; she'd found it hard, wading through the thick mud, weaving a path around the high grasses. She'd needed help, but Tristan hadn't wanted to touch her.

"I'm sorry," she apologised meekly. "I'm sorry, Tristan."

Tristan grimaced. Stupidly, he'd given Marie the same name. He had been too suffocated by grief to come up with a new one and it suited the form he seemed stuck in. He hated it, though. Every time she said it, he heard Dylan's voice.

"Please, Marie," Tristan winced. He hated using her name. "We need to move."

She started to walk forward with more purpose this time, but one glance at the long shadows pooling ominously in front of them told Tristan it wasn't enough.

He sighed, gritted his teeth. "Come on," he said, gripping her elbow as he pushed past, forcing her to go faster until she broke into a choppy jog. He jogged too, and because it was easier, he dropped her elbow to reach down and grab her hand, pulling her along. The howling intensified and the air stirred as the wraiths started to descend, freed by the encroaching dark, the thickening shadows. The woman heard the change and her fingers squeezed Tristan's more tightly. He could feel her fear, her total reliance on him. Each breath was punctuated by a tiny sob that pierced through his shoulder blades into his chest. It was painful. He had to fight the urge to drop her hand and run, although not from the wraiths; from her.

Was his mind playing tricks on him? Or was this some new torture the demons had devised, to distract him, to make him lose focus? Because there was no other way that voice could exist in the wasteland. It was gone. She was gone.

"Tristan!" The word was almost snatched away on the wind before it reached his ears, but he caught the echo of it and snapped his head up. "Tristan!"

She didn't answer, but he heard her footsteps speed up and the strain where his arm tugged at hers slackened as she moved from a jog into a full-out run. Relieved, he pushed himself faster.

"Tristan!"

"It's not far, Marie," he encouraged. "The safe house is just between these hills. We're going to make it."

"It's not her, it's not her," he hissed, tightening his grip on the woman. Dylan was gone, and he had a job to do. He had to get the woman to the safe house. Almost there. Almost there. He lifted his head and fixed his eyes on the cottage. The door was open.

"Tristan!"

There was a figure standing in the entryway, waving at him. Just a silhouette, nothing more than that, but he knew who it was. It couldn't be; it couldn't possibly be. But it was.

Astonished, Tristan let go of the woman's hand.

Dylan clapped her hand over her mouth, realising, a second too late, what she'd done.

She'd seen him from across the valley. An orb, much brighter than all the rest. It had caught her eye, drawn her attention like a moth to a flame. As she'd focused on it, strange things had happened. The riotous red of the barren landscape, the deep burgundies and purples of dusk, had flickered, the colour zapping in and out like a badly tuned television. Blood red turned to the muted greens and browns and dull mauves of her Scottish wasteland.

Dylan had rocketed out of the chair, thrown herself forward to the door, toes nibbling at the threshold. The wraiths had screamed in anticipation, but she'd stopped just short, staring out.

Tristan. She could see him. Him. Not as a pulsing ball of light, but a person, a body, a face. Dylan smiled, gulping in air as if she hadn't breathed since… since he'd left her. He was running, pulling at something as the picture cleared. The landscape stopped flickering, and solidified into the heather-clad wilderness she'd known before. The other souls disappeared, the wraiths dimming to shadows. Only their hissing and crowing stopped her running out to meet him.

As she watched, she realised he was towing another soul. She couldn't see who it was. They were distorted, not quite as transparent as the other souls she'd seen, but still not quite real. Half in, half out. A woman. She was running too. Dylan felt a stab of jealousy when she saw they were holding hands.

That's when she'd shouted out, shouted his name. She'd had to do it one, two, three times to be sure he'd heard her, but at last he'd looked up towards the safe house. She'd waved energetically, delighted and frantic -- because Tristan and the soul were cutting it close, just as she had done -- and he'd seen her. She'd seen it in his face. Shock. Horror. Joy. All at the same time.

And he'd dropped the woman's hand.

It was instantaneous. The twisting, writhing shadows, that had hovered above them like their own personal thundercloud, descended on the woman in a thrashing swarm. She panicked, clawing at empty air. Dylan watched, her hand still wrapped over her mouth, as they took hold. It was more horrific, more solid, more real than watching the soul being taken into the depths of the lake.

And it was all her fault.

Guilt tumbled over, crushing her with its weight. She'd killed the woman. Whoever she was, Dylan had killed her. Did she have a husband? Children? Had she counted on seeing them again? A flash of Eliza, waiting endlessly for someone who was never going to come, screamed in her brain. All because she had shouted out. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself calling for him again. It was too late though, the damage was done. The woman was dead.

They grabbed the woman's hair, her arms, attacked her torso, all in the blink of an eye. Tristan turned almost at once, saw what was happening, and Dylan watched as he tried to save her. He reached up, seemed to be trying to pull at the air, but nothing happened; the demons continued their assault on the woman. Astonishment flickered across Tristan's face, but a heartbeat later a determined scowl had wiped it out. He waded in, hauling wraith after wraith off her, but they simply circled back and came again from another angle. Dylan stood in the doorway, her hand reaching out in sympathy, and gazed as the soul was dragged down beneath the surface.

Another wraith went for him, and another. Then more. They seemed delighted at his apathetic stance. Without realising it, Dylan threw herself from the doorway and was pounding down the path before her brain caught up with her actions. It was very dark now. The fire burning in the cottage behind her glowed much more brightly than the dying light of day. If he didn't move, if she didn't reach him…

Why wasn't he running for the safe house? For her?

What had she done?

Tristan didn't turn to look at her, but stared down at the spot in the long grass where the soul had disappeared. He didn't seem to notice the remaining wraiths, who were circling him like sharks, teeth bared, ready to rip into their prey.

He still didn't react when one swooped down, tearing at his shoulder. Or the next, which smashed into his face. Dylan gaped. Was that blood, running down his cheek? Why wasn't he moving? Why wasn't he doing anything to defend himself?

"Tristan!" she gasped, flying towards him. "Tristan, what are you doing?"

"Tristan!"

At last he seemed to come awake. He turned, still besieged by the smoking black shadows, and his face, blank at first, seemed to come alive, like waking from a trance. He reached for her just as she barrelled into him.

"Dylan," he breathed. Then he took control. "Move!"

Wraiths were whipping round her face, but it had never been easier to ignore their darting movements.

Whatever had paralysed him before was gone now. Wrapping one hand around her lower arm and squeezing so tightly it hurt, he bolted back the way she had come.

The wraiths screeched and snarled, but he was moving so fast they couldn't find any purchase, and their claws were helpless to snag at Dylan, yanked along in his wake. A metre at a time, Tristan pushed and fought against their grabbing talons and biting teeth. Head down, jaws clenched, hand firmly wrapped around Dylan's wrist, he drove them towards the safe house.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He rounded on her the instant they were inside. The clamour from the wraiths faded into the background and the cottage was quiet and tranquil but for the anger that seemed to emanate from Tristan's every pore.

"You shouldn't be here," Tristan continued. He started to pace in an agitated manner, running a hand through his hair and then gripping a handful. "I took you across, right to the line. You weren't supposed to come back."

"I…" Dylan opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came out. This wasn't how she had imagined this conversation. There was a lot less hugging and a lot more coldness.

A strange feeling crept over Dylan. Her cheeks grew hot and her stomach squirmed. Her heart was thumping at erratic intervals in her chest, hurting her. She dropped her eyes before Tristan could see the fat droplets that were trickling towards her chin.

"What?" Dylan looked at him, confused. Wasn't he pleased to see her? The icy fire in his eyes said no. They glowed as they stared at her. Not a trick of the light, it was frightening.

"What are you doing here, Dylan?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the flagstoned floor. "I made a mistake."

She could see that now. The words he had said had been nothing more than lies to get her safely across. He hadn't meant any of it. She thought of the soul he'd just been ferrying, the woman she'd accidentally killed with nothing more than her own stupidity; thought about the way they'd been holding hands as they'd run from danger. Had she swallowed Tristan's lies as easily as Dylan had? Her gaze burning into the ground, she suddenly felt incredibly childish.

The same words, but this time a question, not an accusation. This one was easier to answer, if she closed her eyes, if she didn't have to look at him.

"Dylan." Tristan said her name again, but much more gently. The change in his tone gave her just enough courage to look up. He'd stopped pacing, was scrutinising her with much softer eyes. Embarrassed, she scrubbed at her cheeks, sniffed back the tears that still lingered. She tried to look away as he approached, but he walked right up to her until he was close enough to rest his forehead against hers. "What are you doing here?" he murmured.

"I came back."

Dylan swallowed, confused. Now that his anger was gone, now that he was touching her, his face just in front of her, if she had the nerve to lift her eyes, she was back to being muddled. There was only one way to discover the truth. She took a deep breath.

He sighed. "You weren't supposed to do that." Pause. "Why did you come back, Dylan?"

"For you." She waited for a reaction, but there wasn't one. At least not that she could hear. She still didn't have the courage to open her eyes. "Did you mean it? Any of it?"

"I didn't lie to you, Dylan. Not about that."

Another sigh. But that could be frustration, embarrassment, regret. Dylan trembled, waiting. Something warm pressed to her cheek. A hand?

Her breathing spiked as she processed his words. He'd meant it. He did feel what she felt. Dylan curled her lips up into a timid smile, but she held a tight rein on the warmth building in her chest. She wasn't sure she could trust it, not quite yet.

"I didn't lie to you, Dylan," he whispered into her ear, "but you shouldn't be here."

"Open your eyes."

Suddenly shy, Dylan hesitated for a moment, then dragged her eyelids back. Taking a deep breath, she looked up until she met his gaze. He was closer than she'd thought; close enough for their breath to mingle. Still holding her cheek, he drew her face forward until their lips pressed together, blue eyes still boring into hers. He held her there for a moment, then pulled away and curled her into his chest.

Dylan stiffened, tried to pull away, but he held on tightly, refusing to let her move.

"No." He shook his head, the motion rubbing his lips against her neck. The skin there tingled. "I killed her. I let go of her hand."

"I want to stay with you," Dylan implored.

"No, Dylan," Tristan cut her off, firmer now. "She was my responsibility; I lost her." He took a deep breath and the arms coiled around her tightened, almost uncomfortably. "I lost her. That's what this place is. It's a hell-hole. You can't stay here."

"Come back with me," she begged.

Tristan shook his head at her gently.

Dylan's breath caught in her lungs as she processed his words and an avalanche of guilt smashed down on.

"I told you, I can't. I can't ever go there, I…" Tristan made a frustrated noise, his teeth snapping together.

"Because of me --"

"Not here."

"I killed that woman," she mouthed into his shoulder. There was no volume in the words, but Tristan somehow heard her.

"Nothing's changed. I still can't go on with you, and you can't stay here. You saw what happened to that woman. Sooner or later, that would happen to you. It's too dangerous."

"Then you don't know. The soul I spoke to said --"

"Have you ever tried?"

"I can't do that either," he said.

"Do you know that?" she pressed. Tristan hesitated. He didn't know, she realised. He believed. That wasn't the same thing.

"Who did you speak to?" Tristan's eyes narrowed.

"Isn't it worth a try?" Dylan asked. She chewed on her lip anxiously. If he really, truly had meant what he'd said before, if he honestly loved her, wouldn't he want to try?

Tristan turned his head from side to side, his expression forlorn, sombre. "It's too big a gamble," he told her. "You believe this woman because she's told you what you want to hear, Dylan. The only thing I know is that you're not safe here. If you stay in the wasteland, your soul won't survive. Tomorrow I'm taking you back across the lake."

"Might," Tristan echoed dubiously. "Dylan, there's no going back."

Tristan stared at her, his eyebrows drawn together in aggravation. He shook his head slowly, placing a finger on her lips.

"An old woman, Eliza. She's the one who told me how to get back here. She said we might be able to, if we --"

"No, but --"

"What about the other side, then?" Dylan pulled back again, fighting against his grip when he tried to hold on to her. "My world. Come back across the wasteland with me, back to the train. We could…"

She watched Tristan lick his lips, swallow; saw the hesitation in his face. He was wavering. What could she say to tip him over the edge, to make him give in?

Dylan shuddered at more than just the thought of crossing the water again. She took a step back, folded her arms across her chest. Her face was set in a stubborn mask.

"I don't want to go back there. Not alone. I'm going back to the train. Come with me. Please?" She made the last word a plea. It was. She had no intention of going to the train on her own; it was completely pointless without him. This whole thing, everything she had risked, it had all been about getting back to him. She hadn't known, either, not for sure, but she'd still done it. Wasn't he willing to take a chance, too? A chance for her?

He screwed up his face, torn. "I don't know if I can," he said. "I don't choose… I mean, I don't have free choice, Dylan. My feet, they're not mine. Sometimes they make me go where I have to. Like…" He hung his head. "Like when they made me walk away from you."

"Please, Tristan. Can we just try? If it doesn't work…" If it didn't work the wraiths could have her. She wasn't going back across the line alone. Better not to mention that though. "If it doesn't work, you can bring me back. But can we just try?"

Dylan considered him. "You're still my ferryman. If I ran from you, if you couldn't make me come with you and I ran, would you have to follow?"

Dylan knew she had not entirely convinced Tristan, but he did not try to talk her out of it. Instead they sat close together on the single bed and he listened to her describe everything that had happened to her since he'd left her at the line. He was fascinated by every detail, never having seen any of the things she'd experienced. He smiled when she told him about her visit to see Jonas, although his eyes darkened when she confessed that it had been the Nazi soldier who had taken her to Eliza and helped her open the door back to the wasteland. Caeili interested him greatly, too, and his eyes widened in surprise when Dylan explained about the books in the records room.

"Yes," he said, drawing out the word, not seeing where she was going.

Dylan nodded. "That's how I found Jonas."

Dylan smiled at him. "Then I'll lead."

"You saw a book of my souls?" he asked.

Tristan considered that for a moment. "Were there many empty pages left?"

Tristan nodded, then caught her confused expression. "I just wondered whether… if I filled my book, whether I'd be done," he explained.

Dylan stared at him, baffled by the question. "I'm not sure," she hedged. "It was about two-thirds full maybe."

Dylan didn't know what to say to that, to his words or the painfully sad look that came into his eyes when he said them.

"It's strange," he said, after a long moment of silence. "I can't even decide if I'd like to see it. If I had the chance, I mean. How would I feel, looking at all those names?"

"Proud," Dylan said. "You should feel proud. All those souls, all those people, they're alive because of you. You know what I mean," she said, elbowing Tristan gently in the ribs when he shot her an amused look at her choice of words. If they were still thinking and feeling, then they were alive, surely?

Dylan's breath caught in her throat, thinking of the deleted records.

"I saw names with a line through them," she said quietly.

"I guess that's true. When you weigh it up, I ferried more souls than I lost."

"Today," she croaked. "That was my fault. That woman's soul should go against my name."

He nodded. "They are lost souls. Souls taken by the wraiths. I'm glad they are recorded somewhere, and it is only fair that their names are kept close to the one responsible for losing them."

A small sob worked its way from Dylan's lips, but she strangled it quickly.

Tristan turned his head to look at her, his eyes concerned, curious, and she had to confess her thoughts.

"Why?" Tristan looked puzzled, not understanding what had painted the anguish across her face.

"There should be a book for me, then," she whispered.

He wiped her face clean with his thumbs, gently pulled her around until their faces rested together; forehead to forehead, chin to chin. Guilt still churned in Dylan's stomach, but suddenly it didn't seem so overwhelming. Not when she couldn't breathe, not when her skin was tingling everywhere that he was touching her; her blood boiling and racing around her body.

"No." Tristan shifted round on the bed, took her face in both his hands. "No, I told you. That was my fault."

Fat, hot tears slipped down Dylan's cheeks and coated his fingers as she shook her head in denial. "My fault," she mouthed.

"Sun," he commented, staring up at the glittering sky.

"Shh," Tristan crooned, mistaking her ragged breathing for crying. He half-smiled at her, and then closed the final millimetres between them. Gently, slowly, he prised her mouth open, his lips brushing softly against hers. Against her will, he pulled away for an instant, gazing at her with cobalt fire, before pushing her back against the wall as he sought deeper, hungrier kisses.

Dylan just smiled impishly at him. Her eyes were bright and shining, screaming a green much more vibrant, much more beautiful than the hues of the wasteland. Tristan couldn't help but smile back at her, despite the lead firmly lodged in the pit of his stomach.

This wasn't going to work. But Dylan simply refused to believe that. He was afraid of her crushing disappointment, the disappointment he knew in his very bones was coming, but for now he tried to put it out of his mind. She was here, for the moment she was safe, and he should try to enjoy the extra time he got to spend with her. This was more than he'd ever dared to hope for.

When the dawn broke, the sky was clear and blue. Dylan stood on the threshold of the cottage and looked up at it gratefully. This wasteland was a thousand times better than the desert furnace she'd endured before. Tristan, too, gave a wry smile when he emerged and saw the weather.

She walked maybe a hundred metres when she realised there was no crunch of gravel echoing her own footsteps. He saw her stop, head half-cocked, listening for him. After a second she whirled around. Alarm widened her eyes before she caught him, right where she'd left him.

He just hoped it would not end with a quill delicately erasing her name from a page in his book.

"Come on," she called, smiling encouragingly.

"Try," Dylan coaxed.

"Let's go," Dylan said, striding down the path away from him. The valley looked wide and inviting, bathed in early morning light, but Tristan lingered in the doorway, watching her go.

Tristan sighed, aggravated. He had promised her he would try. Closing his eyes for a moment, he concentrated on his feet. Move, he thought. He expected nothing to happen; expected to remain glued to the ground, an unyielding pressure holding him in place.

Instead he stepped easily onto the path.

He pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I don't know if I can," he shouted back. "It goes against everything, every rule."

"But nothing yet?"

"Good." Feeling daring, Dylan wound her fingers around his. She started walking, and after a gentle tug, Tristan followed.

Instantly Tristan halted. He hardly dared breath, waiting for a bolt of lightning, a slash of pain. Something to punish him for daring to disobey his unspoken orders. Nothing happened. Incredulous and suspicious, he continued down towards Dylan.

"This feels weird," he confessed in a low voice once he'd all but reached her side. "I keep waiting for something to stop me."

"Nothing yet," he agreed.

The valley gave them no difficulties. In fact, it was nice. They could have been any young couple, striding hand in hand through the countryside. There was no sight or sound of the wraiths. It unsettled Dylan to know they were there, hovering at her shoulder, hoping she'd lose focus, look away from her orb. She wanted to ask Tristan what he saw; whether it was the lush grass and heather-covered hills that she could see, or the wasteland as it truly was. But something held her tongue. She was nervous that, if she talked about it, if she drew attention to it, the mirage would disintegrate and they'd be back under the burning red sun. That landscape, she knew, would be much harder to traverse. No -- ignorance was bliss.

Beside her Tristan sighed dramatically. She looked at him, confused at the sound, and saw his eyes were amused. He flashed her an indulgent smirk.

"You're wonderful," she told him.

Beyond the valley lay the wide expanse of marsh. The clement weather had done nothing to soak up the stagnant pools of water or dry out the squelching mud. Dylan eyed it distastefully. It smelled, and she remembered the way it had grasped at her ankles, imprisoning her. After the tranquillity of the valley, it was a stark reminder that she was in the wasteland, that danger still hung around her neck.

"Piggyback?" he suggested.

"Thanks," she murmured into his ear when he had her in position.

He rolled his eyes, but turned so that she could scramble up onto his back.

"Uh-huh," he replied sourly, but she could see his cheeks lift in a smile.

She felt heavy on his back, her arms soon tiring of holding her in position, but Tristan didn't complain, picking his way through the worst of the mud. Even with her extra weight, he didn't seem to sink into the sludgy mire. Soon the marsh was no more than a distant memory and Dylan's gaze was filled with the sheer slant of a giant hill, waiting patiently for her. She wrinkled her nose and huffed, disgruntled; she doubted she was going to able to convince Tristan to carry her up that.

"I was wondering… where did you go? After you left me."

Dylan didn't want to admit to her schemes. Instead she asked something that had been quietly preying on her mind.

"What are you thinking?" Tristan asked.

She'd told every piece of her story last night, but she'd purposely avoided asking this. She hadn't wanted to bring up what he'd done; how he'd tricked her. Betrayed her.

Dylan sniffed quietly, determined not to get upset. She didn't want him to feel guilty, didn't want him to know how much that had hurt. At least he hadn't been there to see her break down, she thought.

Tristan heard the real question.

"It's okay," she whispered, squeezing his shoulders.

"It's not," he disagreed. "I lied to you, and I'm sorry. But I thought… I thought that was the right thing for you." The final few words were stilted and despite herself, Dylan felt her throat tightening. "When I saw you crying, when I heard you screaming for me…" His voice faltered. "It hurt more than anything the wraiths could ever have done to me."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I had to do that."

Dylan's voice was very small. "You could see me?" she asked.

He nodded. "Just for a minute or so." He gave a short, sour laugh. "Usually that's my favourite part. A whole minute where I am responsible for no one but me. And I get to see a quick glimpse of beyond. Just a flash. Wherever it is that the soul called home."

Dylan stiffened on his back. She remembered Jonas saying the same thing. That he'd instantly been transported back home, back to Stuttgart.

"That didn't happen for me," she said slowly. "I didn't leave the wasteland."

She counted three of Tristan's long, confident strides before he answered her. "I don't know," he mumbled, but his words lacked the ring of truth.

Tristan let her down as soon as the ground began to firm up beneath his feet. At first Dylan pouted, missing the warmth of being nestled up close to him -- and the luxury of being carried -- but he took her hand again and smiled down at her. She returned the gesture, but the smile fell from her face as she eyed the steep incline before them.

"I know," he sighed.

"Why not?" she wondered. "Why didn't I go anywhere?"

"No," Tristan agreed softly. "We wouldn't."

"You know, I really hate going uphill," she said flatly.

"And there is nothing for me that way," she finished. "I'm not going back if I can't go with you."

Tristan squeezed her fingers comfortingly, but the look he gave her was wistful. "We could always go back," he said, indicating back across the bog.

"We'd never make it," Dylan replied. The sun, shining brightly in the cloudless sky, had already rolled over the height of its arc.

Tristan made a face, but he didn't attempt to argue. "Come on, then," he said, starting forward and tugging at her hand.

Trudge, trudge, trudge. Up, up, up. Dylan's calves were soon burning, her breathing was laboured. The higher they climbed, the more the wind crept up and as the afternoon waned, thick tufts of grey began to form above their heads. Despite the chill of the changing weather, Dylan was sweating and she had to yank her hand from Tristan's grasp, embarrassed at her moist palms. Even though the morning had been warm and bright, dew still loitered beneath the thick grasses and heathers that blanketed the floor, and she felt the familiar creeping discomfort as cold water seeped up the legs of her jeans.

"No." Tristan's reply was curt, terse, but when Dylan looked round at him, surprised, she saw he was eyeing the sky, not her. His face was screwed up with unease, his lips turned down unhappily. "It'll be evening soon. I don't want you stuck out here."

But even as the words left her mouth, the rustling noise of the wind changed. A second melody was added, this one shriller, keener. Wailing and shrieking. The wraiths.

"Can we slow down?" she panted. "Maybe rest for a bit?"

"Just for a minute," Dylan begged. "We can't even hear them yet."

Tristan heard it too. "Come on, Dylan," he ordered, and, ignoring her when she tried to pull away, he took a firm grasp on her hand and started to stride up the hill.