Six

He had to take on an even more juddering, uneven gait than usual in order to walk alongside the woman named Penny Columbine. Her legs were shorter than his, and despite her apparent determination to stay slightly ahead of him, she didn't move very quickly.

There were still a few brass flowers scattered through the branches, even this far from the circus. In the dim light, he took the opportunity to study her.

No one would have called Penny Columbine beautiful, even if she hadn't been wearing a deliberately unflattering outfit and grotesque makeup. Her skin was pale and sallow-looking in the places where the whiteface didn't reach, and her face itself was slightly round and clownish, even under the red nose and white greasepaint. But she carried herself well, and the severity of her dress, contrasted with the vivid red of her hair, gave her a striking appearance.

Everything about her seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember why.

Her sharp, icy blue eyes snapped around towards him, and she scowled. "The hell are you staring at?"

"You," he answered flatly.

"What, you've never seen a girl before?" She gave a derisive snort and looked forward again, still trudging through the undergrowth. "Well, don't try anything, mister. I may be small, but-"

"I've seen you before." The sound of his voice still caught him somewhat off-guard. It sounded hollow, like a recording rather than someone speaking. And his mouth - what counted as his mouth - didn't move. "I remember your name. Bits of your appearance. But I don't know where from."

"Yeah, well, I've never seen you before in my life." She shoved a low-hanging branch roughly aside and forced her way past. A few brass flowers dropped to the forest floor, dangling from a small green wire. "And I'd remember meeting a Wizard of Oz character, so I've got no idea where you think you know me from."

He shrugged, and kicked aside a small stone. "That's why I wanted to talk to you," he said. "I don't remember anything. I want to know how I got here. And you seem to be in the center of all this." Another low-hanging branch forced him to duck awkwardly to pass. "Maybe if you tell me what you know, I'll start remembering things."

Penny didn't answer at first. Anyone watching less intently might have missed the slight shudder, like a full-body flinch, but he didn't. Eventually, she said, "I already told you. I woke up here, with the same damn stars over head, and then I got killed by that thing. Over and over."

"The Rake," he said, without thinking.

"Whatever it's called." She stomped ahead with vicious force, crushing twigs and branches underfoot. He sped up slightly.

"But that doesn't explain anything," he said. "You said things were different every time. How?"

Again, there was silence for a few seconds. Penny continued to thrash her way through the undergrowth without looking at him. Then she said, "You saw the circus."

"Yes."

"The first time, it was a museum," she said. "I was a teacher taking her class on a field trip. And Mister Face was the curator. It was one of the exhibits."

She fell into silence again.

Out here, the brass flowers were becoming more and more sparse, and the trees were becoming thicker. There was almost no light to navigate by. The two of them pressed on regardless.

"Mister Face?" he asked.

"Ringmaster," grunted Penny, as she ducked under another branch. "He's always there, or something like him. Somebody who's all grin and flash. Fancy outfits, big words, position of authority. He never died before, either, if that's what you're going to ask."

It was almost perfectly black now. He took a few rapid steps, then dropped a hand onto Penny's shoulder. She didn't jump. She just kept walking.

"So you," he said, "The Rake, and the ringmaster."

"Yeah." Their progress had slowed to a crawl in the darkness. He could feel Penny's body sway as she groped blindly ahead, and hear the shuffling of her careful walk forward.

"And you never tried to talk to them?"

"What, stop and try to reason with the thing that's ripping my throat out?" she snapped. "Or with the crazy guy who sets it on me every-"

She stopped. He pulled to a halt behind her, just an inch away, his hand still gripping her shoulder tightly.

There was no light any more, no light at all.

"Hey," she whispered.

 "I'm here," he answered.

"There's no more grass."

He shifted slightly. There wasn't. There was ground under his foot, but it felt perfectly flat and smooth. And the air was becoming chillier.

He heard Penny's breathing become quicker and more ragged. Her shoulder shook slightly under his hand. He squeezed it, gently.

"Stay calm." Silently, he cursed his voice. It was too high and cold and raspy to be comforting. But he felt her nod anyway.

"I'm calm," she said. Her voice had a slightly strangled quality to it. "I just... don't like this. I feel like we did something wrong. Very wrong." There was another pause, and then, almost too quietly to be heard, she breathed, "I don't think you were supposed to save me."

He took one awkward step forward, around her, and lowered his hand to find hers. He gripped it tightly in his wooden fingers, then began to shuffle forward again. "But I did," he said flatly. Despite the darkness, his voice was firm. "I saved you, and now I'm going to keep you safe. I need you right now. You're my only clue."

"Oh, is that what I am?" Her voice was suddenly sharp and brittle as she began to stumble along behind him. The knife edge of panic bled into every syllable. "A clue? Great, yeah, I feel really safe now, I'm stuck in the dark in a crazy place that keeps murdering me being hunted by the boogeyman and the only person who will help me is just doing it because I'm useful!"

Panic attack. The words flashed across his mind. She has panic attacks. Breathing exercises-

He felt her hand pulling away from his, felt her trying to flee. He gripped tighter and stopped walking, then tugged on her arm and pulled her closer.

"Get off of me!" Her voice was a shriek now. He answered by releasing her hand, but, before she could run, putting both hands on her shoulders.

"Penny," he said. His voice was calm and even. Something about this felt familiar. "Penny, listen to me."

He felt one of her hands strike his torso. She was flailing desperately at him, but his wooden body barely felt it. "Penny," he said, more insistently. "Stop. I'm not going to hurt you. Just breathe. Remember your breathing exercises? Five, two, five. Breathe."

The next punch stopped on his chest and stayed there. He heard her breathing raggedly, but there was the hint of a rhythm there. The snatches of memory flashed across his mind again: she knows the count, she knows the problem, she fights it.

"That's good," he said, after a few seconds. "You're winning. Five-two-five. Concentrate."

"H-how-" She inhaled sharply. "How do you know-"

"Just breathe," he said firmly. "I don't know how I know. But we'll find out. Breathe."

For almost five full minutes, he stood there, stock-still, gripping Penny's shoulders and listening to her fight for control. After a while, he heard her mutter, "I think I'm okay."

Not for hours. Another flash of memory across his mind. But she'll say she is anyway.

He didn't say it. Instead, he said, "Good."

There was silence again, for another few moments. Then he heard her mumble, "Thanks."

"I told you I'd keep you safe," he said. "You okay to keep walking?"

"Yeah." One of her hands came up and gripped his wrist again, and she turned to shuffle forward again.

"We're gonna have to come up with a name for you," she said, after a few minutes' movement.

He shrugged in the blackness and said, "You called me Mister Sticks before."

"It was a joke. That's a stupid name."

"It's the only one I've got, right now."

She gave an exasperated sigh. Something in his mind registered that she was trying to distract herself with unimportant things, deflecting the anxiety by focusing on his name.

"Fine," she said eventually. "Mister Sticks. So tell me, Mister Sticks, can you see where the hell we're going?"

"No."

"That's great."

Almost at the same moment she said it, there was a soft clang: the sound of someone stepping onto metal.