It seemed to Dylan that Tristan's anger was slow to fade. He sat in one of the hard-backed chairs in the cottage, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze firmly directed at the fireplace. The one or two tentative stabs she'd made at conversation had been closed down before they could begin and she'd retreated to the narrow, uncomfortable bed. She lay on her side, her arm the only pillow, and stared at his silhouette.

But Tristan wasn't angry. Staring into the pit of the hearth he couldn't feel the heat of fury, just the cold lead of doubt and uncertainty. He was worried. They were halfway back to the train, had already overcome the most dangerous obstacles, and none of them had been enough to convince Dylan to stop, to give up this reckless endeavour and return to the safety of her new life beyond the wasteland line, where she'd be safe. He wondered why he wasn't arguing with her; why he was letting her drag him further and further away from where she was supposed to be. The answer was obvious, and it aggravated him even more.

She wasn't sorry. Some of the guilt she'd been carrying around since the poor woman had been set upon through Dylan's carelessness had lifted. She could never bring that soul back, she knew, but at least her presence here had done something good. And she hadn't been hurt, hadn't been taken. So really, Tristan had nothing to be angry about, she thought.

He wanted her to be right.

Weakness, that's what it was. He was weak, giving in to her, letting himself hope that at the end of this journey they just might get to be together. Weakness. And tonight it had almost got her killed. But looking over his shoulder, taking in the way she stared at him, her eyes wide and defiant, her whole body crying out for comfort, he knew he didn't have it in him to tell her no. To take control and force her to follow him. He could, he knew. He'd done it before in those early days.

Tristan sighed and stood, shoving the chair aside with his foot. "Is there room on that thing for two?" he asked, wandering over to her and pointing to the rickety bed.

He could; but he wouldn't.

Dylan smiled at him, her expression saturated with relief, before she scooted back to the wall, making just enough space for him to spread out. When he lay down beside her their bodies touched from head to toe and he had to grip her waist or risk toppling off. She didn't seem to mind, though. Her smile widened and a blush tinged her cheeks.

"Good," he grunted. Then he pressed his lips gently against her forehead. "Rest," he murmured. "We've got a long way to go tomorrow."

Tristan smirked wryly. That wasn't the same thing at all. It was probably the only apology he was going to get, though.

"I really am sorry about before," she whispered. Then she grimaced slightly and rephrased. "I'm sorry for making you worry."

He shifted on the bed, turning to lie on his back, and pulled Dylan onto his chest. She nestled her head into his shoulder, smiling to herself. What would Katie say if she saw her now? She wouldn't believe her. If she and Tristan did make it back, that was going to be one hell of an MSN conversation. Then after that, at school. She tried to imagine Tristan sitting beside her in class, writing an essay, watching the paper aeroplanes fly overhead. What would he think about the idiots at Kaithshall? Dylan could picture his horrified face. She laughed quietly, but refused to explain to Tristan when he lifted his head to eye her curiously.

"And I won't do it again," she added. "I promise."

"Are you sure?" Dylan asked, but she was already reaching for it. Gratefully, she yanked the heavy fabric over her head, pulling the arms down until they covered her hands entirely. "Ooh, that's better," she said, shivering a little as she felt the warmth from his body heat against her skin.

"Here," he said, sliding his arms out of the sleeves. "Wear this."

In the morning, a thin veil of mist hovered over the wasteland, hiding the highest of the peaks from view. Tristan didn't comment on it, but pulled the long sleeves of his jumper down to cover his arms. Then he looked at Dylan. Her T-shirt was thin and ripped in places. It wouldn't offer much protection against the bite of the cold morning air.

Tristan grinned at her, his eyes raking up and down her body. She smiled back impishly, knowing she probably looked like a child in a grown-up's clothes. The jumper was ridiculously big for her, but it was cosy and, as she dipped her chin down to warm her nose against the collar, she realised it smelled of him.

She was surprised when her eyes picked out something familiar, something she did remember.

Dylan eyed the nearest hill, its top was still hidden by the low-slung cloud, and nodded her head morosely.

"Ready?" he asked.

They walked steadily, climbing throughout the morning. Though the swirling fog lifted, retreating further up into the sky, it didn't completely dissipate and so the day stayed cold. Despite Dylan telling Tristan she would take the lead, he forged a path for them. He had to; Dylan had no idea which way to go. She tried to think back to making this journey the first time, marching in the opposite direction. Had she known yet that she was dead?

"Oh!" she exclaimed, stopping suddenly.

Tristan walked on two more paces then halted, looking back at her curiously.

"What?"

"I know this place," she said. "I remember."

A meadow. Filled with lush green grass and dotted with wildflowers in purples, yellows and reds. A thin dirt track wound elegantly through the heart of it.

"We're nearly at the safe house," she said. And sure enough, as soon as the words were out of her mouth she lifted her head and there, just beyond the pasture, was the cabin. The little wooden cabin where she'd learned why she had been the only one to crawl her way out of the train carriage.

"You know, I have a theory," she said quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace of the moment.

That thought nudged something at the back of Dylan's memory. Another dream, walking hand in hand with a handsome stranger. The last dream she'd had before all of this insanity had started. The setting was wrong: the heavy dampness of the forest replaced by the tranquil exquisiteness of the meadow, but the feeling, the sense of happiness, of completeness, was the same. And though the man in the dream had never really had a face, Dylan knew instinctively that it had been Tristan. Had her mind had some inkling that all of this was going to unfold? That it was meant to be? Destiny? That seemed impossible, but still…

Though the sun was hidden, the light was still strong and for once they didn't have to rush. Instead Tristan seemed content to amble along, his fingers wrapped tightly around Dylan's. The path was really too narrow for two people to walk abreast, but as their legs gently brushed against the wildflowers, delicate scents bloomed up to perfume the air. It was picture perfect, like a dream.

"About what happened when I crossed the line."

"Go on," Tristan encouraged, just a hint of wariness in his tone.

"Well, I think…" She clasped Tristan's hand a little tighter. "I think I stayed in the wasteland because that's where I was meant to be."

"Uh-huh," he prompted.

"You're not meant to be here," he replied very quickly.

"No, I know that." She smiled at him, refusing to be put off by the frown on his face. "But I think I was meant to be with you."

Silence followed this revelation. Dylan didn't look at Tristan again to gauge his reaction, but stared around her, drinking in the beauty of the scene. She was right, she knew it. And with that certainty came an inner peace, a contentedness. She suddenly felt at home here, a place where she had no right to be.

"You know, it'll be funny," she mused, speaking to cover Tristan's continued silence, not wanting to hear his denial, if that's what he was thinking.

"What will?" he murmured. He dropped her hand, but lifted an arm to wrap it round her shoulders, fingers playing with a rogue lock of her hair.

"We're trying to do something no one's ever managed," she corrected.

"Being normal again," she said. "You know, eating and drinking and sleeping. Talking to people. Going back to my old life, pretending this never happened." Then a thought occurred to her. "I… I will remember won't I?"

Dylan found it hard to concentrate over the chills that ran across her skin and raised the hairs on her neck, but Tristan twisted his face to hers, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know," he admitted. "You're trying to do something no one's ever managed before. I don't know what will happen, Dylan."

Tristan took a moment to answer, then she felt him shrug.

Dylan sighed. Maybe it would be better if she didn't remember. It would be much easier to go back to being a pupil at Kaithshall, a girl who fought with her mother, who had to rub shoulders with the idiots in her neighbourhood. She couldn't imagine herself doing any of those things now.

He didn't say anything, but she saw his lips twitch, a hint of a frown about his brow.

Maybe it would be better.

Then she realised that there was one thing she needed to remember. She turned her head and caught Tristan watching her. His expression made her wonder if he could read the thoughts flashing through her brain.

She wasn't sure if she was reassuring him, or herself.

He trailed his fingers down her face as he dropped his hand, and Dylan blushed furiously, her cheeks scarlet. Tristan laughed at her and grabbed her hand again. With gentle pressure, he urged her a little faster towards the cabin. Just in case.

"I will remember you," she whispered.

Tristan gave her a sad smile. "Hope so," he replied. Then he kissed her, lowering his head and brushing his lips against hers. As he pulled away, she realised he had something in his hand, cupped gently between his thumb and forefinger. A flower, its delicate stem almost bowed with the weight of the vibrant purple petals. "Here." He slipped it into the thick folds of her hair. "It brings out the colour of your eyes."

That night passed far too quickly as far as Dylan was concerned, and yet, at the same time, not quickly enough. She wanted to savour every second with Tristan, but she worried that every time they stopped like this, he would try and find other ways, other arguments, to convince her to turn around. He was in a good mood, however, laughing and joking and, though Dylan wasn't entirely sure it was genuine, she couldn't help but be swept along. He even convinced her to dance with him, singing a tune -- just slightly out of key -- as there was no music bar the whistling and wailing of the wraiths, shut out from the cabin in the cold and dark.

"All right, all right!" Tristan replied, but he was smiling at her indulgently, shaking his head at her eagerness. "Used to be I couldn't get you moving in the morning. I had to just about drag you out of the door."

He laughed. "Misery is maybe too strong a word. Nightmare, perhaps…" He trailed off, and winked at her.

She was surprised when the light began to change outside, but as soon as it was obvious that dawn was on the way, she started to harass Tristan, eager to get going. He took his time, though, stamping out the last glowing embers in the grate, brushing up rogue piles of ash with his shoe. Then, even though there was no more reason to delay, he refused outright to let Dylan sweep open the door before the sun peaked over the first of the hills, far out to the east.

Dylan grinned at him, remembering how she'd pouted, whined, complained. "I must have made your life a bit of a misery at first," she admitted.

"Can we go now?" Dylan moaned when at last rays of light poured through the cabin's windows.

Dylan made a face at the broad width of his shoulders, sticking her tongue out. She wasn't really looking forward to the final safe house, either, because she remembered it as a total wreck: no roof, and only one wall still standing tall. It was also the last real obstacle between them and the tunnel and Dylan knew, she just knew, that Tristan was going to use this as a last chance to talk her out of it.

"Nightmare!" Dylan left her sentry post by the door to shove jokingly at his arm. "I'm not a nightmare!" Then she turned and looked outside, at the unending hills of the wasteland that waited for her. "It feels easier going this way, though. Like going downhill." She shrugged, went back to mock glower at Tristan. "So get moving!"

"Remember how long it took us to get to the cabin last time?" he barked when her moaning at last broke through the final layer of his patience. "The wraiths caught us and I almost lost you. We have a long way to go, and this was your idea," he reminded her.

Dylan's enthusiasm lasted until about halfway up the first hill. Then the burn set into her calves and a stitch erupted deep in her left side, stabbing with each gasping breath. Now, though, Tristan seemed to want to push on and he pretended to be deaf to her complaints and constant pleas for a break.

"Do you feel sick? Are you ill?"

She wasn't wrong. As soon as they were safely ensconced in the safe 'house', the wraiths no more than whispers chasing on their heels, thanks to the ruthless pace Tristan had set, and the fire was crackling merrily away, he sat down opposite her and fixed her with a very serious look.

"There's something wrong… with me."

"I don't mean that," he said.

Dylan sighed inwardly, but kept the emotion off her face.

Dylan went to pick up where she'd stopped, but then she frowned, blinked. "What then?"

"Dylan…" Tristan hesitated, chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Dylan, there's something wrong."

She pursed her lips, repressed a growl. "Look, we've already gone through this. You promised you'd give it a go. Tristan, we've come all this way. We can't go back now, not without --" She broke off. He'd held up a hand to halt her in her tracks.

"I don't know." He breathed out a slightly shaky breath.

"What do you mean?" She stared at him, eyes wide and suddenly nervous. "What's wrong with you?"

But he was hesitant, unsure. Ice solidified in Dylan's stomach. "Tristan, I don't understand."

"No…"

"Look at this," he said softly.

He lifted his T-shirt, revealing his abdomen. At first Dylan was distracted by a thin trail of soft golden hair running downwards from his belly button, but she quickly saw what he was talking about.

"The other day, when the wraiths were attacking you."

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "That's my fault."

He had a raw red gash running in a jagged line down his right-hand side. The skin around the wound was puffy and inflamed and surrounded by shallower gashes.

"When did you get that?" she whispered.

Dylan gaped at him silently. She hadn't thought her actions might hurt Tristan, but seeing him wince as he shifted on the seat, he was clearly in pain. How had he managed to hide this from her for a whole two days? Was she so self-absorbed that she hadn't noticed? She felt sick at herself.

He lowered his shirt, hiding the injury from her. "No." He shook his head. "That's not what I'm talking about, Dylan. It's the wound." She stared at him, not comprehending. "It's not healing," he explained. "It should have disappeared by now. Even when I was attacked before it healed within a few days. But now… it's like I'm… I'm…" He grimaced.

"What?" Dylan mouthed, but no sound came out.

Dylan just continued to look at him, astonished. Had he been about to say human?

"I stayed like this, this shape exactly." He paused. "That's never happened before."

For several long moments there was quiet as Dylan considered this. "What do you think it means?" she finally asked.

"And that's not all," he went on. "When I l-left you," he said, tripping over the phrase, "When I went to the next soul, to Marie, I didn't change."

"Why not?" Dylan's brow wrinkled with confusion.

He shrugged, like it was obvious. "When I lost Marie, I should have been pulled away, taken to the next soul."

"But… but I was there."

"I know." He nodded. "And at first I thought that maybe that was why I didn't go, that I had to stay until you were safely delivered again. But maybe that's not right. Maybe I'm…" He hesitated, searching for the word. "Maybe I'm broken or something." He grinned at her briefly. "I mean, I really shouldn't be able to go backwards like this. It's not right, Dylan."

"I don't know," he murmured, keeping a lid firmly on the hope he felt, hope he didn't like admitting to, even to himself. He laughed. "I shouldn't even be here."

"That's an awful lot of maybes." He smiled gently at her. "I don't know. I don't know what it means."

Dylan didn't seem to share his uncertainty, his caution. She sat up straighter, her mouth widening into a grin, eyes bright. "Well… well apart from that…" She nodded towards Tristan's side which, she now realised, he was protecting with his right arm. "… everything seems to be working in our favour. Maybe we should just go with it."

"Maybe you're not broken," she said slowly. "Maybe you're fixed. Maybe, like you said, maybe when you'd done enough, ferried enough souls, you'd be finished."

"Maybe," he said, but his eyes were doubtful. He didn't want to say anything to Dylan, but there was a niggling thought worrying at the back of his head. The further they went back across the wasteland, the worse his injuries seemed to get. Dylan thought she was fighting her way back to life. Tristan couldn't help but wonder if it was something different that was in store for him.