Chapter 6

Mayweather

In the bold light of day, the cell has lost whatever charm it had possessed the night before. 

As have I.

A frustrated huff escapes me. I might have scrubbed off the dirt of the grave, but I still feel it. Under my nails. Tangled in my hair. Rough against my skin. Testing my patience—which, it turns out, I left six feet underground.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

The earth wants me to act as her shield. The sheriff wants me to keep out of his business—his crime scene, as he calls it. And now he’s shoved me back in this cell, where the shine of the vaguely familiar has thoroughly worn off. The entire space is grey and bears the marks of previous occupants. The bars are cold, and the sun at the wrong angle to lend its warmth. This time, instead of managing to find comfort in the continuity of jails across time, the cement floor makes me feel detached from the earth. The bars remind me I’m trapped in this time, this place. 

Which is the point of the place, I suppose. It’s a small cement box that was designed to make criminals think twice.

It’s not meant to be soothing. 

Well, fine. 

And at this exact moment, I’m not much inclined toward soothing either. 

Goddess lend me strength. How am I going to convince this stubborn descendent of John’s to listen to me, let alone work with me? After being shackled to a tree, tossed into a truck, and then tossed back into this cell, I am tired of this bloody-minded man who can’t see what’s right in front of his bloody eyes. At this rate, he might as well put that hat of his over his face and grant his invisible blinders a real form.

I remind myself it will not help to tell him as much. 

No matter how tempting. 

Gripping my skirts to stop myself from beating my fists against the bars and cursing men the centuries over, I pace the five steps from wall to wall. Turn. And repeat. It doesn’t help. Or perhaps it does, as the sheriff has appeared on the other side of the bars and I’m not yet shouting at him.

I want to reach through the bars,  yank that hat off his head and slap him with the brim until he sees sense. 

And that desire is not helping anything. 

I stop and regard him steadily. “Sheriff, please. We don’t have time for this.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He unlocks the cell. “This way. It’s time we have a proper talk.”

Even as my brows lower with suspicion, hope flickers in my chest. Has he finally accepted the truth of our situation? Surely he must feel that darkness beginning to chew at his fingertips, to burrow into the base of his neck? Even the most stubborn of men can’t ignore such a feeling—right?

Shoulders braced, I follow him into the hallway and down the short stretch to another door. His walk announces his mood more loudly than words—and that long legged gait with just a hint of temper is painfully familiar. For a moment, the past and present blur, and I’m following my John through the station house. The walls fade from a colorless beige to the white-washed boards of the house, and the sounds of the adjourning mailroom filter through wood and plaster, along with the scents of horse and tobacco. 

“Thank you, John—” Longing pierces my chest and I shake my head, forcing my thoughts back to the present. “—Apologies. I mean, Sheriff Jack.” If I can’t keep the past and the present straight in my mind, I’ll never secure his cooperation. “The situation is worse than I feared and it’s vital we cleanse your deputies before…”

He opens the door to a windowless room with a steel table and two chairs. It appears less comfortable than the barred cell. 

I shoot him a suspicious glance. 

He pulls out a chair. “Sit.”

Unsure of what else I can do, I sit. 

He does as well. Facing me from across the table. “Now.” He clasps his hands and rests them on the table between us. “We’re going to have a conversation. When I’m satisfied you’ve told me the truth, you can leave.”

I suck in a breath. “Sheriff—”

“Mayweather.” He gives me a look. “You are continuing to insist your name is Mayweather McCreedy, I take it?”

“Yes.” I cross my arms tight under my breasts. “That’s my name.”

“Of course it is.” His mouth forms a flat line. 

I push back a wave of frustration. “It is.”

Clearly, he doesn’t believe me. Of course he doesn’t. My story is ridiculous. Impossible. What sheriff in their right mind would believe a witch from hundreds of years ago has risen from the grave? My own John would have laughed anyone spouting my story out of the salon—heck, he’d probably have run them out of town. I suppose I should give his descendent credit for showing more restraint.

Even if I don’t want to. 

This whole situation is…I don’t even know. 

I’m a witch without magic in a time I don’t understand. How am I supposed to handle that? 

All the old gods must be laughing from their distant corners. 

As for me? I want to pull at my hair and scream at the bland squares of the ceiling. Why can’t this Jack simply know that I’m telling the truth? Shouldn’t there be a part of him that remembers? How can this man look so like my John and not have some piece of him that simply knows me. It’s beyond cruel. We have enough trouble on our hands with last night’s death beckoning the darkness…

And he doesn’t know any of that, because he doesn’t even believe magic is real. 

As my kin informed me last night, most people in this time don’t believe in such things. No wonder they all seem so lost, so…detached. Yet I’m here, in this time and place, with this reflection of the man I loved who knows nothing about me. 

I need to adapt—or at least try. 

It would be smarter to lie. 

I should tell this man something he can believe—something that gives him a way to accept my help without breaking what he sees as reality. Surely there’s some story I could spin that would let such a thing be possible, some way I can take the extraordinary and make it sound mundane. 

Only I can’t think of a single one. 

I spin spells—not tall tales. Or, I used to. 

When I rode with the Midnight Marshals, I never had to invent stories to accomplish our goals. I had my craft—my power. And if we needed lies, the team had Jesse Wilks. That sneaky son of a bitch would have handled this situation in a heartbeat. My John used to say that Jesse could sell milk to cows and talk a steel beartrap into letting go. That  member of our group was a consummate liar. 

Unfortunately, I am not. 

“Why don’t you stop trying to think up the next lie and level with me?”

I can’t help it, I laugh. “Thinking up lies is not my problem. I’m afraid my problem is entirely the opposite.” I place my hands on the scuffed table and look him in the eye. His expression is hard, his jaw set. And goddess, so like my John it’s almost a physical blow. The pain of it digs between my ribs, keen as a dagger and twice as sharp. 

A soft gasp escapes my lips, and I have to fight the urge to reach across the short divide and hold his hands for dear life. But this man isn’t my John. He isn’t my John and I still don’t understand why. 

Worse, I’m deeply afraid of what I’ll be left holding when I do. 

Nothing about that is easy. 

But I have to tamp down the fear, the seething pit in my stomach. I have to control myself, bury my feelings… 

My hands shake from the effort. 

I try and will them steady. It only partly works, and I can only be grateful the rest of me isn’t trembling like a leaf in a storm. 

“Well?” he says. 

“I’m sorry.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I’m gathering my thoughts, not lies.”

I mistook this man for John last night, but I didn’t truly attempt to explain myself. In my confusion and pain. In truth, I did not handle myself as well as I might have wished. And while he is both infuriating and a reminder that my John went on to have a family without me, this situation isn’t his fault. 

Or…not entirely. 

And I haven’t exactly helped matters. 

“Sheriff,” I say softly, wishing I knew how to talk to him, while hating that I have to. And none of it is fair—not to either of us. “I understand Mayweather is an uncommon name, but it’s the only one I’ve ever known.”

“Uh huh.” He clearly doesn’t believe me. 

I draw in a deep breath. “Very well. No more prevaricating.”

This will probably take our conversation from bad to worse, but I can’t see any other way through it. I lace my fingers tightly together and lean forward, willing him to see the veracity in my gaze. “The truth is this: Mayweather is my name. I am Mayweather McCreedy. The Mayweather McCreedy. Only not the one you know from stories—those stories are lies—but the one who was alive when this town was founded.”

I pause, braced for him to tear my statement to ribbons. 

He remains silent, watching me with a steady, inscrutable gaze. 

Oh. I’m not sure whether that is positive or negative. But I can hardly stop now. “I realize my situation is…unusual. This entire situation is unusual. Our first meeting did me no favors and it must be nearly impossible to believe what I’m telling you. But I’m begging you. Please try. There is so much at stake.”

“I agree,” he says. “There is far too much at stake for games.”

“So you…believe me?” I ask tentatively.

“Keep going.” His face betrays nothing.

Good grief. This descendent would have been better at poker than my John. 

I clear my throat. “This is hard. I know. But it’s the truth. I rode with John Goodnight and the Midnight Marshals. I wielded the power of the storm. I gave my life to protect this town. John and the others…” I can’t make myself talk about that, not yet. “I died. And I remained in the ground until last night, when the earth called me back. She needs the storm witch to protect her from the darkness that’s returning to Devil’s Reach.”

We stare at each other. 

He leans closer. “I see.” 

Goddess hold me. Did the bald truth work? 

“You’re saying you’re a resurrected weather witch from 1880,” he says. “And you’re here to save the town with your magic.”

Relief fills me. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.” 

“Okay.” He leans closer. 

I match the gesture, and now we’re so close that our noses are nearly touching. The warmth of his body reaches me, and for a moment it’s almost as if my John is speaking to me from beyond the grave. For a moment I’m once again in the life I understand, sitting close to my John and discussing the latest outlaws to plague the region. The stark walls dissolve into the wooden boards of my cabin. 

His lips quirk, and it’s as if I can see my John smiling at me. “I’ll believe you—on one condition.”

 “Anything,” I whisper.

“Great,” he says. “Prove it.”

I blink at him. “W-what?”

“Prove. It.” He leans back in his chair and waves a hand. “Be the mighty Mayweather McCreedy, the legendary storm witch who made the skies weep and the mountains tremble. Make thunder crash. Rattle the windows with gale-force winds. Call some lightning.” He smirks at me. “Smite me.”

“With pleasure.” I uncoil my fingers and lift a hand, reaching instinctively for the storm. “I won’t burn you to a crisp, but I will hardly cry if you end up twitching for a solid two days from the shock—”

Nothing happens. 

No lighting kisses my fingers.

No crack of power jolts the smug curve off his lips. And it won’t, because my powers have abandoned me. I forgot. One moment of familiarity and every painful minute of the last twenty-four hours just…left my mind. It’s ridiculous. Unbelievable. How the hell could that brief moment of closeness with a man I absolutely do not like make me forget that I can’t so much as light a goddamn candle or ruffle the curtains with a slight breeze. If I’d had my powers, I wouldn’t have suffered being handcuffed to that tree…

My jaw drops. 

Gods damn it. I played right into the sheriff’s hands.

He doesn’t believe in witches. He thinks I’m a liar without a hint of actual power in my body. One he’s just been waiting to back into a corner with what he thinks are my lies. Which he did, and more neatly than I imagined possible. 

This Jack is an operator of a level I’ve not encountered before. 

He sat there, letting me pour my heart out, and all the while he knew exactly what he was going to do: Demand a demonstration I can’t possibly fulfil. 

The utter bastard. 

Never in the history of hexes has anyone so deserved to be struck by lightning. 

And now, instead of giving him the shock he deserves, I have to admit my greatest failing. To him. 

“I… can’t call lightning right now.” My lips want to tug into a snarl. 

“There we are. The truth.” He smiles at me as one might a misbehaving child. “That one hurt, didn’t it?”

I am too furious to reply. 

“Now, let’s continue with your real name.”

Teeth tight from pure rage, I shake my head. 

His expression shutters. “And we were doing so well. Fine. Have it your way.” He shoves away from the table, making the chair scream in a way I wish I could. Standing, he plants his palms on the table and leans over me. “If you wanna dance, we’ll dance.”

“You are the last person I’d dance with,” I snap.

“Yet here we are. Dancing.” His smile is cold as a glacial breeze. “Up next: The Medical Two-Step. It’s… let’s call it a modern song, shall we? Unfortunate for you. I’m betting a witch from the 1880s won’t know these moves. Have fun chatting with Doc Keller. Given the state of every other authority in Montana territory, I figure I have the authority to declare you legally insane on his word alone.”

“Wh…” I jerk backward in my seat. “What? What does that mean?”

“Have fun.” He tips his hat. 

And before I can formulate a reply, he’s gone, leaving only the hollow sound of a bolt sliding into place in his wake. He’s locked me inside—after trapping me with my own truth. Of all the sneaky, dirty, no good trickery. I clench my jaw and bite back the curses brewing in my throat. 

Gods damn it. 

He’s worse than a bastard.

If I cursed people, I’d turn him into a toad without toes.

As it is, I can’t curse people. I’m not Mehitable. And I don’t have any power, even if I wanted to change allegiance and side with the devil himself. All I can do is sit in this windowless box, listening to muffled male voices on the other side of the door, and wait for this Doc Keller to arrive. 

The lock slides and I straighten in my chair. 

The elderly man I saw at the death site enters. A sickening sensation slides into the room along with him, a foul shadow that reeks of death and decay. He was far too close to that body, and he has been infected by what it called.

I suck in a breath between my teeth. 

“May I sit?” he asks. “Do you mind?”

“Of—of course,” I reply, forcing myself not to flinch from his aura. 

He sits with a slight groan and offers me a kindly smile. “Old knees acting up.”

Oh, I wish it was his knees. “Of course,” I murmured. “Age can be a trial.”

“So, my dear.” He takes out a pair of small, wireframed glasses and perches them on his nose. “The sheriff has asked me to have a conversation with you. He’s led me to understand you think you’re a reincarnated witch—the infamous Mayweather McCreedy.” He glances at me over the rim of those glasses, and in his brown eyes I find immense kindness. “That must feel overwhelming.”

“I…” Once again I’m stuck admiring Jack’s strategy. 

Because it might be impossible not to talk to this gentle man. 

“It is overwhelming,” I find myself admitting. “You have no idea how much.”

“I can only imagine.” He takes out a pen and a note pad, somehow managing to write while keeping that steady gaze on me. “Will you tell me about it?”

I open my mouth, unsure of what to do, what to say. The doctor might be kind, but I’m under no illusions: this is a test. One that, if I fail, may land me in a situation far beyond a few hours in cell. 

“I can try?” I finally venture.

“That would be most welcome.” He smiles. “I hope you don’t mind me taking notes. Old doctor’s habit.” He adds a few words, then stops and flexes his hands. “Damn arthrytis.” His gaze flickers at his hands, then up to me. Faint color stains his cheeks. “Apologies for my language, my dear. I’m usually far better at this. Please, talk to me.”

“No need to apologize,” I say softly. “It’s been a hard day.”

“That it has,” he agrees. “Is that what brought you to the crime scene?” 

“You could call it that, I suppose.” I study the tips of his fingers, marking the black smudges already marring the skin. He can’t see those smudges—but I know he’s feeling them. The infection entered his bloodstream from those fingers, as he must have touched the body, and it’s spreading. 

I’ve seen this before—or something like it. In the days before I died, when the Devil’s fingers were twitching with desire and anyone brushed by them became twisted. Violence. They forgot everything except hate and pain. 

Unless I stopped it.

Only, I don’t know how. 

Not without my powers. My lip quivers. “I…”

“My dear,” the doctor says, in that voice that makes you think of tales told on cold winter nights around a warm fire. “I can see you are in some measure of distress. Is that why you wanted to harm that poor boy?”

“What?” I jerk my gaze away from his fingers and focus on his face. “Harm that boy? No. Goddess, no.  I didn’t want to harm him—the harm had already been done. I went to try and stop that harm from spreading.”

“You thought we’d be killed?” His tone is gentle, but his eyes seem to sharpen. “By the murderer, or by the corpse itself?”

“Both,” I whisper. 

“Is that because Mayweather killed that boy?”

My head snaps back, as if the words themselves were a blow. “No! Please, please don’t believe I would harm an innocent. If you must believe I’m crazy, then go ahead. But I am not a murderer.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “I’m no psychiatrist, but when you’ve delivered over fifty babies and dug buckshot out of the rears of dozens of fools, I feel it qualifies me to have a wide range of opinions. I can tell you truly believe what you’re telling me. And that you believe that body presents a threat. And that is why you felt compelled to approach the crime scene today?”

“Yes, that’s why,” I say. “Can I…would it be terrible to ask to hold your hands?”

“Of course, dear.” He reaches out. “I believe a good doctor should offer comfort more than drugs.”

I don’t want to touch those fingers—I have no power to protect myself from the sickness brewing there. But I have no choice. If I cannot save this one man, then I cannot save the town, and the earth will simply have to find someone else.

Bracing myself, I take hold of his hands. 

The punch of darkness strikes me in the gut and I wince. 

“My dear, are you quite all right?” How ironic for the doctor to be worried for my wellbeing. He squeezes my hands and the darkness between us pulses with hunger. “I know it’s hard, but I need you to tell me your intentions at the crime scene. How exactly were you planning to save us?”

I draw in a deep breath. 

Mercy was better at healing, but I’d learned to be passable.

“I…I will tell you. Actually, perhaps you’ll allow me to show you?” I don’t need to feign the tremor in my voice. “Please? I think it would help me—and you—if I could do that. If you have that sprig of sage I brought?”

He stares at me for a moment, almost blankly. 

“Ah, yes. The sage. Right.” He shakes his head, and I can feel the struggle as he pulls himself together. “Jack gave me your sprig—asked me to assess it. I’m afraid I’m not able to examine plants, so I…”

“You…” I prompt. “You put it somewhere?”

“Yes.” His voice wavers, but he releases one of my hands and reaches into his coat. “I put it in my pocket. Such a little thing…” He holds it back, just out of reach, and I know the sickness is urging him to cast it aside. Whispering promises and threats in equal measure. As I watch, the edge of his ear turns black. 

Goddess, I have never seen the sickness move so fast. 

“Wonderful.” I lunge forward and snatch the sage from his grasp. “This is sage.”

“Sage…” He sounds uncertain, yet I feel his gaze focus upon me once more. This time there are two presences in his eyes: those of the kindly doctor, and those of the dark hunger making a home beneath his skin. “What…what were you going to do with that sage? A plant can’t stop death.”

Releasing my other hand, I pull off leaves and crush them between my palms. 

“I was going to protect you and all others there. That body was killed with the worst kind of magic, the kind that calls to the dark—the kind that is answered.” I speak while I work. A mortar and pestle is far superior for extracting the oils, but I don’t have the luxury. This rough paste will have to serve us both. “People forget that plants hold power. To heal—and to protect. The craft I follow honors both those paths. My intention was to bar the darkness from spreading with the alder, and to heal those already affected with the sage.”

The smell of sage fills the room now. 

“See.” I draw a deep breath and lift my hands to him, inviting him to do the same. “This smell has power.” 

The scent makes the edges of my lungs burn with warning. But the doctor coughs, a great, guttural rasp. It sounds as if he’s choking on the thickest of smoke—or being choked by a villain. 

Which he is. 

He bends forward, gasping, and I see the darkness has crept nearly to his wrists.

I take his hands again, turn them palms up and place them on the table. Quickly, I draw a cross on the pulse points of his wrists—and then repeat the process on myself. I hiss at the way it bites my skin—gods, that is far too much for such brief contact. This will be a battle—and I’m without my greatest weapon. Raw, unadulterated power. Still, in this war, there are two types of weapons: power and knowledge.

I may not currently have the first, but I have ample of the second.

“I am Mayweather McCreedy,” I say. “I am called by the earth and bound by my oath. I will not allow the darkness to claim these lands. The shadows will not rise, and the Devil will not be welcomed.” 

I bring my palms together, then I lay my hands over his. 

He snarls and tries to snatch his hands away.

“I shield this man from your sickness.” I bear down, holding him in place with all my strength. “I deny your spread. His soul is not yours to claim. His heart remains his own, his mind free.”

“No!” His face twists, splitting into two, one shadow and one man.

I glare at the shadow. “I deny your spread. My soul is not yours to claim. My heart remains my own, my mind free.”

“Stop!” He bends backward, body arching into an unnatural shape. “Witch!”

“As I will.” I release my grip and slam my palms into his chest. “So mote it be.”

The moment my hands strike his chest, the earth bumps beneath my chair and I feel a burst of something. An echo of the power I’d known, maybe. Or a temporary gift? Whatever it is, it reverberates between us. The shadow trying to dig under my fingernails flies out, as does the shadow smothering the good doctor. 

Still sitting, he collapses forward onto the table. 

Breathing hard, I slump back into my chair. 

Thank the goddess. I don’t have the power I’d known, but I can still fight this sickness. Whew. Struggling to catch my breath, I hold my sage-scented palms over my face. This time, there’s no burn. 

“What… what happened?” The doctor’s voice wavers.

I meet his gaze, relieved to find only one being in his eyes. “You asked me to show you how I intended to protect people with sage. I did so. I’m afraid it involved crushing the sprig—and a little incantation. I hope that didn’t distress you too greatly? I understand men of science rarely accept magic.”

“I see.” His voice is quiet. “I…see.”

“I believe your hands were bothering you. I put a little sage on them—I hope they feel better now?”

“My hands?” He looks down, flexes his fingers. “They do feel better.”

I feel the questions building in his chest. “Plants have power, Doctor. I know you have your beliefs and your practice, but I think you’re too kind a soul to worry me. If you’re tending that body again, you’ll put some sage oil on your wrists and at your neck? It would make me feel ever so much better.”

His lips quirk into a half smile. “For you, huh?”

“Please,” I say.

“Far be it for me to worry you, my dear. Mayweather,” he says, regarding me with a serious gaze. “I’ve never before had my belief in science shaken. I’ve never jumped at scary stories or feared monsters in the closet. I’ve lived in this town my whole life and never given much thought to witches.” He lets out a shaky breath. “But I suspect I will from now on.”

“Doctor.” I try to contain my hope. “Does that mean you—”

The door opens. 

“Well, Doc,” Jack says, striding into the room and making it feel three sizes smaller, “what’s the verdict?”

“Ah. Right.” The doctor seems to gather himself. He slowly rises from the table and faces the sheriff. He leaves one hand braced on the table, and I can see the slight tremor in his arm. He’s not yet recovered from the sickness. “The verdicts.”

“Mad as a bag of cats?” Jack asks with a chuckle. 

The doctor’s chest seems to swell. “I do not use those terms, young man. Especially when it comes to my patients.”

I’m his patient?

Pleasure at the defense pales at sheer delight of seeing Jack looking like a chastised boy. I’m probably still being locked up and having the key thrown away, but this moment will keep me warm. 

“Right.” Jack rubs the back of his neck. “Apologies, doc. I know you’re particular about language. What I mean to say is: Can you confirm that this woman, who believes herself to be a witch from the 1880s, is a danger to herself and society.”

I brace myself for the worst. 

“In my opinion,” the doc says, “this woman is no danger.”

“What!” Jack shouts. “Are you kidding me?”

“Really?” I gasp at the same time. “You believe me?”

“I am not kidding, Jack,” the doc says. “And no, Mayweather, I don’t believe you’re from the 1880s. I do, however, believe that your intentions are to heal and protect. I believe certain…events in your life have reinforced this narrative of witchcraft for you. Despite your interruption of the sheriff’s crime scene, I don’t believe you intended to harm the investigation or present a threat.”

“Doc.” Jack is gaping at him. “You can’t be—”

“If you ask me if I’m serious, young man, I’m going to recommend you go for a hearing assessment—or more.” The doc adjusts his glasses and levels an impressively stern glare over their rims.

Jack’s mouth compresses into a thin line. “Fine.”

“You asked for my professional judgement, Jack,” the doc says. “You know perfectly well I don’t do predetermined diagnoses.” He turns to me. “As for you, Mayweather, you are one of my patients now. I hope you will come and speak with me again—on your own terms. We can have tea.” He takes my hands and gives them a grandfatherly squeeze. One that reminds me of Samuel Longshot. “And anyone who believes she’s a witch from the 1880s needs a check up with a proper medical professional.”

“If we’re done,” Jack gripes, “I’ll see Mayweather out.”

The doc sniffs. “Be kind to this one, Jack.”

“Sure.” He takes my arm, pulls me out of the chair. “Let’s go. Your family has paid the fine for you causing a disturbance and attempting to tamper with evidence at my crime scene. And you’re lucky I didn’t run up the full charges on those counts.”

“What?” I stumble toward the door. “I wasn’t tampering. I was trying to—”

“Don’t bother.” He marches me out of the room. “I’m not a kindly old man. I don’t believe in witches. Or kind hearted liars. So think twice before doing anything else that will cost your family. They don’t have any money to spare, and I’ve got no patience for anyone taking advantage of their relations.”

The blow lands as intended. 

I suck in a breath. “I assure you, that’s the last thing I want to do.”

“Great. Do it.” He walks me out of the station, straight toward where Margaret is waiting, standing beside by a weathered conveance—a truck—and my heart sinks. She radiates disappointment—and anger. It’s true, then. My kin are poor and I’m costing them funds they don’t possess.

Jack yanks me to a halt just out of earshot.

“See that.” He jerks his chin in Margaret’s direction. “That’s the face of a woman who’s worried about affording groceries.”

“You charged her,” I hiss. “Not me.”

“You made it necessary,” he snaps. “When you barged into my crime scene and tried to stab the body with a stick!”

“I am warding off evil,” I snap back. “You need me.”

“I don’t.” Jack releases me with more force than required. “Stay out of this.”

“I would love to do that, Sheriff,” I say. “Truly. But I’m rather afraid we’re both in this until the end.”