Disclaimer: Firefly and all related elements, characters and indicia © Mutant Enemy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television, 2003. All Rights Reserved. All characters and situations—save those created by the authors for use solely on this website—are copyright Mutant Enemy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.

Please do not archive or distribute without author's permission.

Author's Note: This story contains mature themes, including sexual violence. Proceed with caution.

Acknowledgements: Huge huge thank yous to all my betas, especially amilynh, Amy the browncoat, Dangermom, LiquidEyes, BK, annieM, maystone, Harri Vane, Yahtzee, and the entire Lj crowd who provided encouragement during the almost four month gestation period. Extra special thanks to amilynh for excellent help with research, scrunchy for letting me 'watch' her read the various drafts over IM. Could not have done it without you all.

Lex Talionis
by Tara O'Shea

And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.

—Exodus 21:23-25

Part I

There was darkness, and pain, and voices.

Simon!

No. No, no, no, no...

Wôde tìan, Kaylee!

Jayne!

It's going to be okay, mèimei. Kaylee? Can she hear me?

There's so much blood.

Kaylee, can you hear me? C'mon, open your eyes. Stay with me, xin gan. Kaylee? Can you—

"—hear me? Kaylee!" Margaret Frye's voice cut through the summer birdsong as she stood out on the front porch, hands cupped around her mouth so her voice would carry. "Dammit, where is that girl..."

She smoothed her cotton dress down over her hips for the eighth time and resisted the urge to check her chrono yet again. By now, three generations of Fryes, Carters, Neelans and Mitchells would be gathering at the church just north of Riverside. Waiting on the three of them and probably gossiping up a storm. With a sigh, she stepped down off the porch, out into the yard. "Kaylee! I ain't gonna call you again, girl!"

"I'm here!" Kaylee called down from the tree house her daddy had built her brothers before she was even born.

Margaret stood at the base of the old oak tree, fists resting on her hips as her youngest daughter started backwards down the ladder, something clutched against her chest. "Kaywinnet Lee Frye, I have been calling you for the last ten minutes!"

"Sorry, Mamma."

Meg sighed, exasperated, as she took in Kaylee's grubby overalls and grease-stained fingers. "Why ain't you ready? We're s'posed to leave—"

"I didn't want to muss up my dress," she shrugged. "I'll go get ready—"

"What have you got there?"

"Just Uncle Cal's compressor, for the mule."

"What in God's name are you doing with that? Your daddy told Cal the damn thing was done for—"

"No, it ain't. I can fix it." Child was puffed up with pride, and it was eerie at times, seeing such a tiny mite of a thing so purposeful.

"You're never gonna get the grease from under your nails—Sherry's gonna never let me hear the end of it," she said with a sigh, taking it from her, frowning as she placed it—still wrapped in the soft grey cloth—on the table next to the porch swing. There was still a glass half full of lemonade, the ice melted into it, sitting there. Water beaded on the side of it, making a ring on the hard plastic tabletop. "You scrub 'em as hard as you can, you hear me? Your daddy's on his way to pick us up."

"But the 'pressor!"

"You leave that here with me. Your father would tan your hide, he knew you'd been rooting around in his workshop again."

She bussed her mother's cheek with a kiss. "Just tell him not to throw it 'way!"

"We are gonna be late to the church, and you know how Grams is about folks skulking in late to a Christening."

"I know, I just thought I'd get it done 'fore it was time to go."

"No excuses, now! You just go clean up and put on the dress I laid out for you on your bed. You can wear the bracelet Tallie gave you for your birthday. You bring it down, and I'll do up the clasp. Now git!"

Meg smacked Kaylee on the bottom as she scampered inside to get cleaned up, long braids bobbing behind her. She'd been towheaded as a baby, and summers spent in the sun had made it blaze almost white. The last year or so it had come in darker, and it looked now like she'd have brown hair like her daddy. He'd been blond as a baby too—Meg had seen the vids. Only the boys had inherited Meg's frizzy orange curls.

She sighed as she looked down at the mess of parts that together would keep her brother's mule going for another month.

When Tallie, her eldest daughter, was eleven years old, it had been dolls, ribbons and bows, and boys. Middle girl, Sasha—she'd had her head in a book and you couldn't drag her out of one unless the house was on fire. And even then, it was a struggle. Then there'd been the three boys, and Meg had longed for the simple problems of two girls under the same roof, fighting over the bathroom, hair bobs, or screentime on the cortex.

Kaywinnet had been a surprise. In every way. There was ten years between Kyle and Kaylee, and Meg hadn't thought she could even have another child by the time Kaylee had come along.

Ever since she could crawl, it was all Margaret and Ephram could do to keep the girl's hands out of her daddy's toolbox. Sam and Kyle, who had worked with their daddy since they were old enough to finish primary school and were the best mechanics in the shop next to their father, didn't have half the natural talent that Kaylee had been born with. Ephram said that day in and day out, as they crawled into their bed at night, waiting for the rest of the house to quiet down, all the young'uns tucked in—and windows bolted from the outside to keep 'em in, in some cases.

Kaylee had a rare gift. She could as much as look at a thing that was broke, see what was wrong with it, and half the time patch it right up—spares or no spares. And her not even twelve yet. If she spent half her time at school actually learning her maths and letters, rather than sketching engine diagrams in the margins of her textbooks, she could go to any Academy on Zephyr. The girl was whip-smart. But all she seemed to care about were machines, and how to best set them to rights.

She still remembered when the school had called her in on her lunch one day—she'd hightailed it from the factory to the clutch of white buildings that the primary school had overflowed into years ago—temporary buildings that had somehow gotten to be permanent, and were falling to bits all around them. She'd been sick with worry that something had happened to her baby, her youngest, and the apple of her eye.

There had been nine-year-old Kaylee, her flowered dress tore in three places, braids all askew, standing in front of the vice principal's desk. While Meg could do nothing but gape, her baby carefully explained, as if to a child, how the air conditioning unit in the teacher's lounge was malfunctioning—leaking into the maintenance closet on the first floor, and that the fire that hadn't started would have made a right mess of stuff if she hadn't caught it.

A janitor had found her in the closet when she was supposed to be in class, up to her elbows in a mess of wiring. They'd called Meg in to reprimand her—only now, they were sitting there thanking her.

Always a surprise, her Kaylee-bird.

She wrapped the compressor more tightly in the cloth, shaking her head as she headed inside the house. She blamed Ephram, of course. He'd taken Kaylee to work with him almost every day when she'd still been working at the factory and couldn't get none of the other kids to mind the baby until Kaylee was old enough to go off to primary with the other tech-rat brats.

Until Grams and Grampap had moved in and took over minding her, Kaylee had grown up a stone's throw from the spaceport, being minded by a rag-tag group of social misfits who kept those flying tin cans in the air. It was all she could do to keep her eyes in her head, when something passed above her, and she'd smile like she was fit to bust.

Meg was gonna lose her baby girl to one of those hulking monstrosities someday. She felt it in her bones.

Simon wasn't going to lose her. Not like this.

That was the mantra he had repeated to himself from the moment they had found her, crumpled in a heap outside the cargo bay doors. Thrown away like trash—like she wasn't a person. Like she didn't matter.

The wounds were fresh—he didn't know how long she'd been unconscious, and that worried him. For all he knew, she could have been lying there, propped against the hull like a broken toy for hours—or minutes. If River hadn't come and found him, dragged him to the cargo bay...

She'd come to on the way to the infirmary. As Jayne had laid her on the table, she'd begun to struggle weakly, hazel eyes filling with tears.

Simon had smoothed her hair back from her face, wiped away her tears gently with his thumb. "It's okay, Kaylee. You're safe. You're on Serenity. No one is going to hurt you. You're safe," he said, trying to soothe her the way he would River during a fit.

He'd gestured for Mal to hand him the smoother, and he had. Without asking why, or even if what he was doing was the right thing to do. The hypo had hissed against her neck, and then her eyes had mercifully closed, tears leaving tracks through the blood and dirt before they were swallowed by her hair.

He'd asked them all to leave. They'd gone. They hadn't been happy about it, but they'd gone.

He'd cut away the ripped and bloody coverall, placing it and what remained of Kaylee's shirt in a paper sack that now sat on the counter. There were bloody handprints on it, but his hands were clean now. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his hands were scrubbed pink and encased in gloves as he carefully cleaned each wound with antiseptic, bandaging and sewing as he went. He'd only gotten a little blood on one cuff. The one red smear was fading to brown now. Just one more bloodstain that might come out in the wash, or might not. He was running out of white shirts that didn't have blood on them—his or someone else's.

It hadn't been Kaylee's in a long time. Such a simple thing to take comfort in. So simple he'd taken it for granted. Sometimes the simplest things could leave the ugliest scars.

He catalogued them all. Every cut. Every bruise. His stomach rolled, threatening to empty itself all over the infirmary floor at the bite marks. The bruises that were already livid purple on her wrists and shoulders, back and thighs. The blood that he carefully washed away from where she'd bitten her lip, the inside of her cheek, her tongue. The blood that had run down her legs and continued to—albeit sluggishly—while he tended to each individual hurt.

He'd taken samples and stored them. That was what you did, cases like this. He'd seen a few of them in the ER. He knew what to do.

He always knew what to do.

Through it all, her eyes had remained closed, her chest rising and falling steadily, the only sign that she was still with him. That she hadn't gone yet.

Inara had brought him some of her clothes—a clean white tee-shirt, and soft flannel trousers with tiny blue flowers, thin in places from being washed so many times. He recognised them—had a sudden flashback to the last time she'd worn them, the two of them lying on his bed on top of the covers, fingers intertwined, talking.

He couldn't lose her. Not like this. He wouldn't. That was what he kept telling himself. As if repeating the words could make it true. As if through sheer force of will, he could fix it all. Make it all better, like a mother kissing a child's skinned knee.

He finally covered her with the softest blankets her could find, brushing her hair back from her forehead tenderly. He'd washed the blood out of it best he could, and it curled against her neck and cheeks.

He opened the infirmary doors and gestured for Mal to come inside before closing the doors again.

The others were outside in the passenger lounge, which was serving for the moment as waiting room. He could see Book and Jayne through the one window he hadn't dimmed during the examination, the former with his head bent in prayer, the latter simply staring straight ahead, something dangerous shining in his eyes. And now that he was paying attention, he could hear Wash's and Zoe's voices through the closed door. They were all worried. They were all frantic. Because it was Kaylee.

He had no idea where River was. That thought jolted him for a moment.

"How is she?" Mal asked, looking grim as death. They were the first words he'd spoken in more than an hour. Since they'd found her.

"No internal bleeding near as I can tell from the scans," he answered as he leaned heavily against the edge of the examination table, the rush of adrenaline wearing off, taking its toll as it fled. "She's got broken ribs, a type 1 pelvic fracture—it's hairline and should heal with bed rest. Two broken fingers on her left hand—I've set and taped them, and the swelling should go down in a few days. And she's lost a tooth—a right molar, but her jaw wasn't broken. That's something, at least. Bruises, shallow cuts, contusions. I've doped her for the pain—"

"She gonna come though?" Mal interrupted him, and he winced.

It was so much easier, just to list every hurt, one by one. Pretend that together, all the pieces didn't make such an ugly picture. Simon was thorough. He knew his job. He knew how to care for his patients.

It was so much easier when it wasn't the woman he was fairly certain he was in love with, lying unconscious on the table.

"There's only so much I can do for her here," he said matter-of-factly.

"Tell me where we need to go, and I'll take us there."

Simon nodded, feeling increasingly numb.

"Mal?"

"Yes?"

"There's more."

In thirteen-year-old Kaylee Frye's unvarnished opinion, Michael O'Brien was the cutest boy in Riverside.

Kaylee had watched him, the last four weeks, as he and his sisters stood in the back of the church at services. Sweat made his dark blond hair stick to his neck, which was red from hours spent out in the sun, loading cargo onto the big freighters with his daddy and brothers. His eyes were this kind of pale blue, and she bet that up close, there were maybe flecks of gold in them. Because that was how, in the cache of romance novels Sasha had left her when she'd gone off to school,the hero's eyes were always described. Didn't matter what colour they were—there were always flecks of something in them. She itched to get up close enough to see for herself.

She'd helped her mamma and grams set up their corner of the bake sale—Margaret Frye's peach pie was legendary, and Grams' applesauce cake wasn't too shabby neither, especially covered in thick whipped cream. Folks were already starting to line up when Kaylee caught sight of Michael out the corner of her eye, talking to Harb Jenson and his cronies.

Rumour was that Jenson was going off to fight in the war like his daddy and uncle. Half the girls in Riverside were staring at him, heads bent together, whispering. They said that the war would be over soon—but then, they always said that. Heck, they'd said it that first Christmas, and that had been nigh on three years ago, now. It was just somethin' people said, her daddy had told her, because they wished it were so.

Zephyr was split pretty much down the middle, in terms of how folks felt about the war. When you didn't have much to start with, it was easy to see why the Independents had tried to secede, to hold onto what little they had free and clear, her daddy had explained to her when she was old enough to ask where her cousin Charlie had gone. And why he hadn't come back. But the Alliance was good for stuff too—like medicine, and schooling—and there weren't nothing in the 'verse that was just black and white. There was all sorts of shades of grey to trap a man in-between.

Mamma still cried for Charlie, sometimes.

She got herself a cup of punch from the bowl little Nellie Reilly was standing next to, and when she turned, there was Michael O'Brien, standing there with a flimsy paper cup of his own.

"Heya," she said, trying to sound calm and cool even though her tongue felt too big in her head and some of the punch splashed over the side of her cup, sticky sweet juice dripping down the side of her hand. Normally, she'd just lick it off—not wanting to waste a drop. But she just pretended that she hadn't noticed, and prayed he wouldn't either.

"Hey," he said, and smiled. Two of his front teeth were a little crooked, but that only made her stomach tighten with butterflies, because he was smiling at her.

"You're Kay Frye, aren't you?" he asked, taking a sip of his punch.

"Kaylee," she corrected automatically, and felt her cheeks heat up with a flush. "Um... that's what—everybody just calls me Kaylee."

"Sorry, Kaylee," he said, and smiled again. "I've seen you around."

"Yeah—I work with my daddy," she looked around for him, to point him out, but he'd already disappeared—probably to play horseshoes down by the river with her uncles and cousins like he usually did on Sundays. "As a mechanic."

"Yeah, that's what I heard." He took another swallow of punch, and she could see Mary Ellen Parsons and Cassie Rose giving her the glare of death from over by Mrs. Keller's rows of muffins and tarts. Mary Ellen had had her eye on Michael O'Brien ever since his folks had moved to Riverside, and there was gonna be some hair-pulling for sure, next time she and her crew got Kaylee alone in the church hall coat closet. "You really as good as they say you are?"

She took a sip of her punch, turning her back on the girls. "Depends—what they say?"

"That you can re-wire a mule's transmission in seven minutes."

"Naw, that ain't true," she said with a laugh.

"It ain't?" He looked crestfallen.

"Nope." She grinned. "I can do it in five."

"Kaylee!" Grams called from the table, and she glanced back to see both her mamma and grams waving her over to help them out with the line of folks waiting to get their sweets.

She put her half-empty cup down on the edge of the table and wiped her sticky hands on the skirt of her floral print dress. "I gotta—"

"You gonna be at summerfair?" he asked quickly, reaching out to catch her, and she got goose-bumps as his strong brown fingers closed over her tanned forearm.

"I was planning on it, yeah." She tucked her hair behind her ears, suddenly feeling coy. "Why? You, ah, gonna be there?"

"I might."

Yep, his blue eyes had flecks in 'em, all right. Right around the irises there were little bits of gold, like the sun shining in a summer day.

"You gonna save me a dance?" she asked, bold as brass, heart hammering in her ears.

"I might."

"Well, I guess I'll just have to see you there," she said, sauntering past the gossiping girls with a wide grin and a skip in her step.

Mal hadn't seen the punch coming. He had to hand it to the doctor—his right cross was definitely top three percent.

"You son of a bitch," the boy said, softly—so Zoe wouldn't come in, guns blazing. So softly that Kaylee, lying there on the table wouldn't have heard—even had the sound of his fist meeting flesh and bone penetrated her drug-induced slumber. "You rutting bastard," he said, with as much hatred and anger as Mal had ever heard in his voice. But the second punch never came.

Mal wiped the blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving Simon's. He slid the doors of the infirmary open and met the anxious faces of his crew.

"Is Kaylee going to be all right?" Wash asked, blond brows furrowed. Zoe was at his side, her hands resting on his shoulders.

"She'll heal," Simon said, his jaw tight.

"Doc did a good job patching her up, she's gonna... She's gonna be okay," he said, avoiding Simon's eyes. "Wash—break atmo. I want us as far away from here as we can get without burning out our engines."

"Sir?" Zoe prompted him. "What about Badger's men—"

Mal swore. He'd forgotten all about the job. That was how shook he was. He'd almost forgotten why they were on Greenleaf in the first place. It had been completely pushed out of his mind by the shock of coming down the stairs and finding Kaylee being carried unconscious into the cargo bay, her hair matted to her face with blood. It was something he had a feeling he'd be seeing every single time he closed his eyes, possibly for the next month.

"We're not waiting for Badger's men," Mal said, making his decision even as the words left his mouth. "We're getting out of here now."

Zoe's gaze was wary. "Badger ain't gonna like that."

She cared about Kaylee as much as he did—maybe even more. But it had always been her job, from day one, to be the voice of reason when his had fled him. So he didn't resent her much for saying what he already knew.

"Badger can go hang. We got our own to be looking after."

"Any particular course...?"

He turned back to Wash. "Just get us the hell off this rock."

Wash, so pale Mal thought he could count his freckles, nodded and with one last squeeze of his wife's hand, headed up the stairs towards the flight deck. His footfalls echoed in the sudden silence.

"What about them that did this?" Jayne asked, and Mal almost started. The big mercenary had been quiet ever since the doc had shooed him out of the infirmary. He'd sat on the lowest step of the metal ladder, passing his bowie knife from hand to hand, a muscle clenching in his jaw.

Mal knew that Jayne had a soft spot for Kaylee—hell, they all did. Waves of fury came off the mercenary like heat, and Mal knew exactly what Jayne wanted to do right now. He knew because he felt it too, ripping through his gut, twisting and burning.

He wanted to kill. It was that simple. He wanted to make it slow, he wanted to make it last, and he wanted to make it as painful as possible. But mostly, he wanted to destroy the bastards who had used and abused an innocent girl who'd never hurt another soul. Who didn't have it in her to hurt a fly, let alone another human being.

"You let me worry on that for now."

"Dammit, Mal—"

"I said leave it, Jayne."

Jayne was a pack animal, and he didn't have it in him—yet—to take Mal. So he backed down. Mal could tell he didn't like it, but he backed down and inside him, something relaxed just that fraction more. The last thing Mal needed right now was for Jayne to push him. Because, state he was in, he might just do something he'd regret. And he needed Jayne.

He needed all of them.

"I need to go change my shirt," Simon said, fiddling with the bloodstained cuff. Mal nodded at him to go ahead, but Simon didn't even seem to see him. The boy looked like Mal felt—wrung out, drained, angry. Mal didn't blame him. Didn't blame him one bit.

"Captain, do you think the doctor would mind it I—if I prayed for her?" Book asked, and Mal bit back an automatic bitter rejoinder. Instead, he nodded and watched as the shepherd pulled up a stool, taking the unconscious girl's hand in his as he bent his head in silent prayer.

Save your prayers for them that did this, Preacher, Mal thought, but didn't say. They're the ones who're gonna need 'em.

"Mal?" Inara followed him out of the passenger lounge, running to catch up to him.

"Inara, this isn't really—"

"I'm not blind," she said simply. "And I'm not stupid."

He should have known he couldn't hide it from her. He felt light-headed, suddenly; like all the air has gone out of him. "She'll be... she'll get through."

Inara stared at him, her dark eyes unreadable. She'd been all dressed up—just come back from an appointment. Now the kohl around her eyes was smudged, the lipstick bitten away, and she had her shawl wrapped around her as if she was chilled to the bone, even though Serenity's E-Cee was regulating the temperature just fine.

"Who are we running from?" she asked, hand on his arm. He looked down at those dark red fingernails, staring before he shook off the comfort of her touch.

"Who said we're running?"

Kaylee ran. Her long legs ate up the distance between the river and the boarding house, but she made sure she was going slow enough that he could still catch her. After all, the whole point was the getting caught. Sure enough, an arm snaked out and got her round the waist just before they hit the front porch.

Wilson wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her neck, and she squealed as he deposited her on the wooden porch swing, which creaked and groaned in protest, its chains rattling. His beard scraped her jaw as he kissed her—smacking kisses that slowed and changed into long, sensual ones that stole her breath clean away and made her stomach drop like she was in zero-gee.

She'd met him at the shop—like dozens of other pilots in port, waiting for their ships to get set to rights before they headed back out into the black. He'd been hanging around for days, and she'd taken a shine to him. He was older than she was—more than a decade, but his green eyes sparkled with a kid's joy and laughter as she'd shown him around town, arm tucked in his.

Sam and Kyle had ribbed her for days, but her daddy had just scowled. She knew how he felt about her taking up with an older man—which was why she'd told her mamma she was going to spend the day out with Mac at the stables. Her cousin—only six months older, and much more like a sister than the sisters she did have, on account of them being grown and married when she was just a kid—had been more than happy to help with the little subterfuge. It all seemed like a grand romantic adventure, and Kaylee felt like the heroine of some story as Wil swept her up and carried her inside like a bride on her wedding day.

The boarding house kitchen was empty, late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and making dust motes dance through the warm spring air. Mrs. Riordan was off at the market, and they hadn't seen hide nor hair of the other boarders all day. She'd dropped back down to her feet, so they could climb the steep wooden staircase to the second floor room Wilson had rented for the night while his ship, a sleek 80-10, was being overhauled down in the port.

They fell on the bed, kissing, and the brightly patterned coverlet got rucked up beneath her shoulder blades as he pushed her back up against the pillows, hands buried in her hair. She fussed with the buttons of her dress impatiently, gasping as his hand found her breast.

She was startled out of her fog of desire by thunderous knocking on the door of Wil's room. She hastily re-buttoned her dress, tugging the skirt back down as he bounded up to answer it, re-fastening his trousers as he went.

"Mrs. Riordan, I'm a little—" he began, and then stepped back as the door flew open.

"You treacherous snake!"

Ephram Frye had his hands around Wilson's throat and looked like he was gonna throttle him. His face was beet red, his sandy hair sticking up, and his eyes were wild.

"Daddy!" She leapt up, trying to pry her father's hands from Wil's throat. "Daddy, stop it!"

"She ain't nothing but a girl, you gorram—" Ephram snarled as Kaylee managed to hold him back long enough for Wil to step backwards and land heavily on the bed, massaging his throat with his fingers.

"Sir, I don't—I didn't—" Wil croaked, and Kaylee got Ephram around the waist as her father lunged for him again.

"Daddy, stop!"

She flinched as he turned on her, his expression thunderous.

"Kaywinnet Lee, you git your ass out to the mule this instant."

"B-Bà bà—" she stammered, eyes wide. She'd never once in her fifteen years seen her father so mad, not even when he'd caught her making out with Mitchell Graves last summer. He'd given her a whupping when his folks had come to fetch him home, but he hadn't been even half so mad as he was now.

"I said now, girl!"

"Pop, please don't hurt him—" she begged.

"Git!" he snapped, grasping her roughly by the arm and half-dragging her out into the hall. She ran down the stairs, half-blinded by tears as she stumbled past a gobsmacked Mrs. Riordan who was unloading a box full of dry goods.

Kaylee sat in the mule, shaking, her eyes fixed on the front door. She had all sorts of terrible images running through her head—each one worse than the last—and tears ran down her cheeks unchecked, making them sting. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, blinking and hearing muted shouts still from the wooden frame house. She was petrified of her daddy killing Wilson and being carted off to jail by the Feds. Of what her mamma would say, and how they'd manage the shop...

Ephram stomped down the stairs a few minutes later, his face still all red, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. He started up the mule, and they drove all the way home in silence. Kaylee couldn't stop crying, and she was too scared to ask what he'd done to Wilson. His face was like the side of a mountain, features carved of stone.

They pulled up in front of the house, and her mamma was standing on the front porch, arms crossed, looking half as stony as her husband.

"I see you found her," she said, not even meeting Kaylee's eyes.

"Down at Riordan's with that liúmáng from Harlan's ship," he said, and Meg just sighed and went inside. The screen door slammed behind her, and Kaylee still sat on the hard seat of the mule, wiping at her cheeks as her daddy sat down on the porch swing. He motioned for her to come sit beside him, and she stumbled to her feet, feeling light-headed.

The swing creaked and groaned as she sat down, smoothing her dress as best she could. She stared at her shoes, eyes still burning. They just sat for a few minutes, and she finally glanced up warily from beneath her lashes at her father.

He looked so tired. So much older than he'd ever looked before.

"Kaylee, how old are you?"

"Fifteen, you know that, Pop. My birthday was two months back."

"Do you know how old that man you was with is?"

"Older'n me," she said, her voice very small. She was tall for her age—could pass for sixteen, maybe even seventeen, she get herself all dolled up. She'd never told Wilson how old she actually was.

"Do you understand that it ain't right for a man that age—more'n ten years older'n you—to take up with a girl? Do you understand that what he did—"

"Daddy, he didn't do nothing!"

"Only 'cause Mac told me where you was. If I'da gotten there an hour later—don't you lie to me, Kaywinnet. I know what you was about."

"I'm sorry, Pop."

"No, you ain't. But you will be. Now you listen to me, Kaylee Frye, and you listen good, 'cause I am only gonna say this once. You got yourself a gift. A natural talent."

She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up a hand for silence.

"And you get yourself in trouble by some shiny pilot and end up an indentured servant living on some border planet, with six brats and a husband you'd never see except when his ship was in port—you are throwing that gift away and spitting in the eye of the God who gave it to you."

She started to cry again, holding in her sobs as best she could as he took her hand in his.

"Kaylee-bird, you got a mess of cousins all in the same sorry state, and you are headed down that same road. Getting all ahead of yourself. Do you understand me, girl? You have a gift. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna see you end up some gutter trash, wasting what the good Lord gave you. You're better'n that. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"Now you go get cleaned up, and help your mamma with supper."

"You ain't gonna whup me?"

"I just beat the hell outta a man half my age—that's all the whupping I can do in a day."

"I'm sorry, Bà bà," she said softly.

"You show me you're sorry by never getting mixed up in a mess like this again, dong ma?"

She went inside, but not before she saw her daddy start to cry, sitting there on the front porch on a Sunday evening, the sun blazing down and casting long shadows on the lawn.

Simon sat on the end of his bunk heavily. The bloodstained shirt slipped from his fingers, landing in a heap on the floor. He stared down at his knuckles, where the blood oozed from where the skin had broken against Mal's teeth. Just stared.

"There's DNA evidence. We can find whoever did this, prosecute them—" Simon had said, almost rambling, and Mal had shook his head.

"I know who did this."

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he started. But it was only River, dark eyes wide in her pale face half-hidden by her hair. He wondered for a moment where she had been—he couldn't remember seeing her in the lounge. He should have gone to look for her—tell her himself what had happened. Kaylee was her friend. She must have been worried.

"Put on a brave face, so no one saw," she said softly, her fingers tightening on his shoulder. "No cracks. No eggshells."

"River..." he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

She was frowning, her dark eyes shining with her own unshed tears. "Hands where you'd been—hurting and twisting. Teeth, and hands, and other things. And so much hurt, and so much pain."

Everything inside him felt tight—like a toy whose spring had been wound too far. Like he would snap, or fall to pieces, at the slightest pressure.

She blurred, reduced to colour and shapes by tears. He blinked, and she came back into focus.

"Not your hands. They heal people. Keep them from harm and injustice." She took his face in both her hands. "You have clarity of purpose. You're purposeful."

River brushed away his tears with the balls of her thumbs. His mother used to do that, when they were children. Easing away all the pain with a gentle touch.

He'd always imagined that once he became a doctor, he'd be able to do that with his hands. Erase every trace of a wound with just the brush of his fingers. He reached up to wrap his hands loosely around her wrists, tracing the curve of her thumb with one of his.

"Not your hands," she repeated, as if the words could heal. She carefully put her arms around him, as if he was fragile and would break.

Which he did.

Sinking to his knees, he wrapped his arms around her waist, cheek against her stomach. She stroked his hair, murmuring empty words of comfort as his shoulders shook and his tears soaked the front of her dress.