Kurt's days bled until they ran together, one into the next.

He had been married to David a week, then a month, then two months, but the time that passed meant nothing to him. There was nothing for him in Lima, nothing for him to look forward to, and everything he left behind him was gone, washed away like the dirt off his father's porch during the autumn rain. Only this downpour hadn't made him clean; it had weathered him thin, eroding him away until there was so little left, his friends and family back in Defiance probably wouldn't recognize him, even if he wore a sign.

Kurt hadn't heard any word from his stepmother or from Rachel, not a letter, not a telegram since he'd been in Lima. He knew it wasn't because they hadn't written. Kurt was certain they had. But anything that came for him would be denied by David at the post office and returned, or shredded by him on sight.

Kurt was probably an orphan by now. If not, that would be a miracle.

Kurt had tried to send a letter to Carole. He didn't detail everything that had happened between him and David, or the things that continued to happen, but he needed some advice. Carole's first husband was a regimental man with a temper, and when he was relieved of duty, he hit the bottle pretty hard. But the man didn't lay a hand on her, and Kurt wanted to know why. How did Carole's husband drink, yet manage to keep his hands to himself? Was there something that Kurt was missing? He hoped Carole knew.

Kurt had managed to scrounge together a few pennies for the postage. He had planned to send it out on his next trip to town, but there wasn't another trip to town for him, not for a long while. When he finally did get the chance to send it, it found its way back to the post office marked ‘undeliverable as addressed'.

David was the one who picked it up. He brought it home and tossed it in Kurt's face, the envelope ripped open, the letter inside read. Then he let Kurt know in no uncertain terms that he wouldn't be sending another letter out again.

Kurt started to hate his existence. Life had been difficult in Defiance, but he never once wished for it to be over. Here in Lima, he did, every single day. The worst part was, he'd done it to himself, and with one signature.

He had become the thing that he feared.

Defeated.

Invisible.

Forfeit.

He'd seen this same thing happen in other arranged marriages, mostly with women, sold off by their families, much for the same reason. They lost themselves, their identities erased. They existed to cook and clean and bear children; to neither be seen nor heard.

With the exception of bearing children, that was the definition of Kurt's life. He had nothing. Not a thing to his name. Not a cent. Not a single belonging that he had brought with him. David, in his spite, took it all, and left Kurt with shreds of clothing – none of his well-crafted and creative outfits, none of the tools he needed to make more. They had been stowed in his mother's trunk, which disappeared after their wedding night. In its place, Kurt was given two pairs of pants, some shirts, and a hand-me-down hat, a size too big, that he could use to cover the bruises on his face, should he ever be allowed to go to town to do the shopping.

David worked for his father, in the business of moving herds or grain or whatever else made its way to the Karofsky family stores. Sometimes he left for the trail and was gone for days. Other nights, he drank himself to sleep and passed out in their room, not waking again till almost noon the next day. In this, David ran like clockwork, and Kurt used David's moods to develop a schedule – one that gave him the chance to escape life for a while, if only inside his own head.

Kurt spent his nights after his husband was done with him lying on the living room floor. He started out sitting in a chair, but found he was in too much pain to sit upright, so he retreated to the floor where the cool wood could soothe the ache in his body. At first, he would lay there and dwell on the hell his life had become, and how he might work to change it. Maybe he could appeal to David. Maybe he could be more giving. Maybe he could give himself up completely, do whatever it took to make this a happy home – apologize, grovel, kowtow, willingly give his body over for sex - even if it killed him inside.

Once Kurt realized that none of that was a possibility, he simply lay on the floor and listened to the night speak, to the wind and the birds, and the animals scurrying here and there, beneath the house, searching for shelter. If he could, he would tell them to go a thousand miles away from here. This place, it wasn't safe like Paul Karofsky said it would be.

It wasn't a home.

It was a few days after their wedding, while Kurt was recovering, that he started to hear the music.

He had a minor concussion. He'd only had one other in his life, from falling out of one of his mother's apple trees, but he recognized it when it came around again. Luckily, David left right after for a few days. He'd only gone into town that time, to celebrate his marriage, but it gave Kurt the opportunity he needed to rest. Kurt couldn't stand straight, and he threw up whenever he tried to walk, so David didn't stress on him to cook or clean. Kurt thought it might be out of guilt. Or maybe he knew that if he forced him, he might succeed in killing him. Whatever the reason, he left Kurt relatively be.

He still came for him at night. That didn't change.

Those first few days, Kurt swore the music was in his head – memories from back home, when he could hear the piano at the saloon in town from his front porch on the nights he didn't play, or Sugar Motta's fine instrument, finding its way across the meadow to his ears, carried on the evening breeze. This piano sounded much louder, poorly played, and way off-key, which led Kurt to believe that it was all in his head, his fuzzy mind playing tricks on him.

His first trips to town, he went to do the shopping. David brought home most of their goods from his travels between Defiance, Lima, or wherever he needed to go. But there were times when Kurt going to town was a necessity. David ran a tab at Sylvester's Sundries (for food, David warned Kurt, and essentials, which usually meant rye – nothing else). Sue Sylvester ran the establishment. Lima's most infamous spinster, she was a tall, sharp, intimidating woman, with an unkind look about her, and a skeptical stare for everyone who walked through her door. She didn't seem to like anyone much, and insulted every customer who came in, even if they were buying out half the store and paying in cash. But Sue ran one of the largest general stores that end of Ohio, and if she didn't carry something, she could definitely get it, even if it meant traveling through Indian Territory. No one knew how she did it, and she didn't divulge. She said once that she and the Shawnee had an understanding, and left it at that.

Rumor had it she kept a genuine Shawnee scalp underneath the counter of her store, which she had won in hand-to-hand combat with a scout outside of Lima, but no one ever had the nerve to check.

Walking through town to get to the mercantile, Kurt heard the music play. It was louder here, still off-key, but it came with chatter and laughter, and a thread of joy he remembered hearing in Defiance. It was something he never imagined he would miss so much. Kurt stood on the steps of the mercantile and listened, trying to narrow down its origin, but there was no denying that the music could only be coming from The Canary Cage. As unskillful as the pianist was, music was still music. Music had been one of Kurt's first loves, and this music lured him towards the saloon's swinging doors.

Looking inside, the place was gigantic, more so than it appeared from the street. It wasn't a dance hall, a gambling hall, or a drinking hall. It was all three. Through the doors, Kurt saw past the bar to his left, over the card tables in front of him, to the stage on the opposite side – a golden gilded stage with what looked to be a real velvet curtain covering it. The piano sat off to the corner, the elderly pianist banging on the keys.

Kurt felt thankful that, with his off-key playing, he made no effort to sing.

“In or out?”

Kurt heard the voice behind him, but it took a moment for him to realize he was being addressed.

“I'm sorry,” Kurt said. “What?” Kurt turned to face the owner of the voice, coming face to face with a man his height, with coffee-brown hair, and the most fascinating green eyes Kurt had ever seen. Kurt's father had green eyes, but they were subtle like moss, and had grown clouded with sickness and age. These green eyes were stunning. Kurt's mouth must have dropped a little because the man ducked his head and laughed, a dot of pink coloring his cheeks.

“In or out?” the man repeated, pointing to the door. “I would recommend picking one, because Blaine, he don't take too kindly to stragglers hovering outside his door, gummin' up the walkway.

Kurt shook his head, trying to pay attention to the man's words with those eyes examining his face, the man's shy smile fading as he traced the bruises splitting Kurt's lip, the indigo ringing his eyes. Kurt would have said out and excused himself, but he didn't know anyone in town by name besides the owner of the mercantile. He felt he should know as many people as possible, just in case.

Kurt had already met the doctor, but the man didn't work in town.

“Blaine?” Kurt asked. “Who's Blaine?”

“Blaine Anderson,” the man said, pointing past the door and up towards the balcony. “He owns the saloon.”

Kurt's eyes followed the man's direction, and what Kurt saw made his jaw drop even farther. There he was, Kurt's mysterious man from his first trip through town, wearing a similar suit, sitting in a chair that overlooked the main hall, like a king on his throne.

“Blaine Anderson,” Kurt repeated, trying out the man's name on his tongue, letting it jounce around in his head, get embedded in the cracks and the crevices so David couldn't knock it loose.

“Yup,” the man said, dodging to one side to avoid the door opening, the patron pushing past him dead and determined to be on his way whether the man talking to Kurt moved out of his path or not. “I wouldn't let him see you hanging around out here if I was you.”

Kurt nodded.

“I'll keep that in mind, Mr….”

The man smiled wide and offered Kurt his hand.

“Smythe,” he said. “Sebastian Smythe. I tend bar here. So if you ever want a drink or a hot meal…”

“I know who to talk to,” Kurt said, giving the man a real smile. It pulled his lips up and made the split in the top one sting, but that didn't bother him.

“Good,” Sebastian said, the dots of pink returning to his cheeks. “That's good. Well, I'd better head inside. I hope I get to see you again, Mr….”

“Hummel.” The slip didn't register when the name left his mouth, but Kurt didn't want to correct it. In his heart, he wasn't a Karofsky, and if this man ever got the chance to know him, then he'd understand why. “Kurt Hummel.”

“Kurt Hummel.” Sebastian repeated it the same way Kurt had done with the name Blaine Anderson, like he didn't want anything to knock it loose. “Well, I'll be seein' ya, Kurt Hummel. And remember…”

“Stay out of sight,” Kurt said. “Got it.”

Kurt watched Sebastian, hesitant to go, make his way through the swinging doors and the crowd inside to the bar. He looked from Sebastian, up to Blaine Anderson, back down to Sebastian, and sighed.

In another lifetime, huh? he thought to himself, taking Sebastian's advice and leaving before he got caught.

There was something about The Canary Cage, something Kurt couldn't get out of his head. It was glorious. It was lively. It was how he pictured New York City, with the people and the music and the laughter, all rolled together in this desolate shithole called Lima. For the first time since he came there, Kurt felt something akin to happiness flare in his chest, melting away the hate that David Karofsky had beaten into him.

Kurt didn't want it to go away.

He needed it. He couldn't live without it.

It was something he might be willing to die to keep.

And even though he knew that David might hide the skin clean off his bones, Kurt had to go back for more of it.

Kurt wasn't brave enough to try and go on nights when David was in the house, but the next time David left for Defiance, moving another herd for his father, Kurt got dressed and headed into town. Kurt ran to The Canary Cage for shelter, to lose himself in the bawdy music, to let the saloon fill him with its energy and its laughter.

To bring back the old Kurt, beaten into hiding, or make him into something new.

Kurt spent whole nights at The Canary Cage, standing outside its doors. He hid in the angular shadows and peeked in, skittering out of the way when customers came in and out. He found a spot where he could stand and gaze up at the balcony, and see him.

Blaine dressed in some of the finest clothes Kurt had ever seen a man wear. His taste was impeccable, and from Kurt, that was saying something. Blaine wore his gun belt low on his hips to keep his Colt in plain view beneath his jacket - a reminder to everyone who came in who laid down the law inside The Canary Cage. Kurt had seen many men glance at it, some even coveted it, but for the times Kurt came, he hadn't yet seen anyone give Blaine a reason to use it.

Blaine usually sat in a velvet high-back chair, with a girl on one leg and a shot glass in his hand, but he rarely drank. It was a prop, something to put men at ease, or throw them off their guards.

Blaine Anderson was like a character straight out of the pages of a dime novel. He was smooth, suave, and one of the fastest draws in this part of Ohio (from what Kurt had heard), but he didn't need to prove himself. Fights rarely broke out in his saloon, and when they did, Blaine didn't even need to handle them himself. The rowdy men that customers didn't toss out on their own, Blaine's hired guns handled.

It was one of the reasons Kurt felt so safe here, even if he didn't venture inside.

Kurt thought no one could see him. He kept low, quiet, and out of sight. He didn't get in the way of anyone coming up the steps. Customers ignored him as they passed by. But unbeknownst to him, he had captured someone's attention.

Someone who had gotten annoyed at his loitering.

Kurt knew the names of most of the girls who worked Blaine's saloon, since they were shouted by the men throughout the gambling hall. Some girls stuck to the cathouse, and Kurt didn't know them as well. But he knew Kitty Wilde, knew her bouncy blonde pigtail of sausage-sized curls; knew her petite, snowy white hands; and her flashing blue eyes. So Kurt knew when he saw delicate fingers curl over his shoulder and shove him from behind, thrusting him through the doors and into view, it was Kitty doing the shoving.

“Now who do we have here?” she asked. Santana – a feisty brunette, one of the more popular girls with the regulars - followed, grabbing Kurt by the collar and pulling him the rest of the way in. Kurt twisted out of her grasp, more worried about the bruises below his collar showing than of getting hurt by this woman who happened to be deceptively strong.

“I'm not looking for trouble,” Kurt said when he saw eyes turn their way – eyes belonging to men with guns on their belts when Kurt had none. He never saw the need, and besides, David would never let him keep one if he had.

“You know, this ain't no peep show,” Santana said. “If you wanna look, you gotta come inside and buy a drink.”

“I'm sorry,” Kurt said, hurrying to re-button his collar. With his eyes on his hands, he didn't see the look that flashed from one girl to the other as he adjusted his shirt. “I don't drink.”

“Then you could at least give us a coin for the peek.” Kitty put her hand out, grabbing the air to stress her meaning.

“Oh…all right,” Kurt said, reaching into his pocket, hoping that he had something in these pants. The way David rifled through his belongings every night, Kurt was surprised when he found he had any money left. Another blonde girl walked up. Kurt saw her coming over the top of his eyes, and he knew her right away. Her name was Brittany, and if Kurt had a favorite here amongst the girls of The Canary Cage, it would have to be her.

Brittany caught sight of something when Kurt lowered his head, and put curious fingers to his scalp, the skin there having more abrasions from being slammed to the floor than he had hair.

“Who you been tussling with?” she asked, innocently intrigued by the various marks and scars he'd thought he hid better. “Robbers? Indians? Rustlers?” Many of Brittany's customers learned early that she might give them a knockdown on the price of a poke if they had a decent story to tell. She especially favored stories involving Indians, but she liked it when the Indians won, not the cowboys.

“If it were Indians, he wouldn't have a scalp, moron,” Kitty said, hands planted firmly on her hips.

“Take care who you're calling moron, pendeja,” Santana scolded, while an unimpressed Kitty rolled her eyes. “We'll see if your scalp's not on too tight.” She grabbed one of Kitty's thick curls and yanked, pulling her head to one side.        

“Ow!” Kitty howled, making a lunge for Santana's hair where it spilled over her shoulders. “You filthy little Mexican bi---“

“It's nobody, alright?” Kurt said, stepping away from the melee. “I…I'll pay you something for the nights I came. And don't worry. You won't see me anymore.”

“No,” Brittany said, “wait.” She reached out and grabbed Kurt's wrist, letting go when he hissed. She looked down at his arm, exposed where the sleeve rode up about an inch, exposing faded bruises underneath. “I…I know those marks.” Brittany made a gesture to her wrists, and then her neck when Kurt's fidgeting unwittingly revealed more. “Those bruises. Tana.”

“Yeah,” Santana said, nodding sadly. “I get it.” She tapped Kurt's shoulder to get his attention, which he was purposefully denying, attempting to hide from the conversation that was going on fine without him. “So which is it, lilac? Father or husband?”

Kurt opened his mouth, ready to come out with a lie. He had one practiced, and had used it several times before. That was before he discovered that nobody really cared whether he was being beaten or not. They just wanted in on the gossip. But these girls weren't asking for a lie like everyone else. They wanted to know the truth.

“Husband,” he admitted quietly.

Santana nodded.

“Is he here right now?” Santana asked, sweeping her eyes around the room.

“No,” Kurt said. “He goes away sometimes. Rides the trail for about a week, moving herds and stock and whatnot. He wouldn't approve of me being here…or out of the house in general.”

“Well, you're more than welcome to stay here with us,” Brittany offered.

“Brittany,” Kitty hissed. “What about…”

“Oh, he don't have to worry about Blaine none. Blaine's a big puppy,” Brittany said. “He won't say nothin' once we tell him...”

“No!” Kurt cried. If there was anyone Kurt didn't want involved in his marital woes, it was Blaine Anderson, for Christ's sake! “No, please. Don't tell him. I have trouble enough with the people in this town as is. I don't need him spreading my story around.”

“He wouldn't do that,” Brittany said, saddened that Kurt would think it. “Maybe he could help you.”

Kurt shook his head. It sounded nice, though. Kind of like déjà vu – Finn running to his rescue when David lifted him up by his arms, ready to toss him to the ground.

“I don't know that there's any way he could help me,” Kurt said, “but thank you. All of you. For wanting to try.”

***

It took Blaine a week to notice the newest customer sitting among the usual rabble in the gambling room, and once he did, he wondered how he hadn't noticed him before. He wasn't one of his regulars. He didn't wear a gun belt, so he wasn't a slinger, and he was too clean to be a cowboy. He sat with his back straight, his ankles crossed, and his eyes down in a passive way – like he wanted to be ignored, and not just to keep the peace.

No, this man looked like he wanted to disappear.

Blaine watched out for him every night. After he saw him the once, he wasn't difficult to locate in a crowd. He seemed familiar, but Blaine couldn't place how. Blaine saw hundreds of men a night - some from town, some passing through - so his memory got a bit hazy after a while. But Blaine thought for sure he remember a man like him. He had an elegance about him, something rare in a throughway town like Lima. He didn't limp around bowlegged, so he didn't make his living on a horse. That meant he must be from somewhere nearby, close enough to walk. It was the clothing that kind of threw him – too baggy and ill-fitting for a man who looked like he could be at home at the theater, or a fancy restaurant.

If not for the downcast eyes.

The man intrigued Blaine, and in his business, that didn't happen a lot. People were people were people. As long as they spent money and didn't cause a ruckus, he didn't make a point to remember one from the other.

But intrigue turned into irritation when Blaine noticed how his girls doted on him (not in any way that would make Blaine money), how Sebastian stopped cleaning the glasses or wiping down the bar from time to time to talk with him, and how, after a full hour of sitting, he didn't once have a glass of anything stronger than water put in front of him, and Blaine didn't charge for water.

He was beginning to think that he should start.

Blaine got up from his seat in the balcony and started toward the main floor, eager to find out this man's story, and tell him to put up or get out.

Brittany saw Blaine first. Like most people who frequented The Canary Cage, she recognized the clunk-chink…clunk-chink…clunk-chink of Blaine's boots as he strode across the planks overhead. She bounced up from the lap where she sat, overseeing a game of Faro, and rushed to cut him off when she saw where he was headed.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Brittany said, directing a dancing Kitty Kurt's way with a flick of her wrist, and racing to intercept Blaine as he came down the stairs. “Hey, Blaine.” She spread herself across the bottom step, elbow leaning on the wall to support her head, foot up on the railing, blocking his path into the gambling hall. “What d'ya know?”

Blaine looked at the girl stretched out in his way, and smirked.

“Hey now, Britt,” he replied. “Not much. But I wanna know, who's the new seat warmer?”

Brittany's eyes darted around, intentionally not landing on the man she knew Blaine meant.

“Who?” Brittany asked.

Blaine raised a brow, resting his hand on her foot propped up on the railing and drumming his fingers impatiently across the toe.

“You know who, Britt.”

“Uh…” Brittany played dumb and stalled longer, shooting a slow glance at Kurt, then back to Blaine.

“Oh him?” - Brittany jerked a thumb over her shoulder - “That's Kurt. He's just a friend,” Brittany answered in a guarded voice. She tossed a second glance over her shoulder, watching as Kitty stood guard. “He likes to listen to the music. He does no harm, keeps Sebastian company. I told him he could sit a spell.”

“Yeah, he certainly does sit,” Blaine said, “and he sure likes to listen, but he don't order nothin'. I'm sorry, Brittany, but he's gonna have to go.”

“No!” Brittany almost leapt out of her skin. She put her hands up to stop Blaine when he attempted to push her leg off the railing and pass through. “Don't make him go, Blaine. Let him stay. Please?”

Blaine looked the girl over, the worry on her face confusing him some. Brittany had Santana, and regardless of her line of work and her easygoing nature, she didn't often take a shine to the men she entertained. She didn't get attached to customers, which Blaine appreciated. So this concern over some average Joe who hadn't gotten a poke off her was definitely new.

The fact that Santana, possessive as she was, would allow it, made it doubly so.

“I'm sorry, Britt.” Blaine pushed, hoping to wheedle the story out of her. “He's occupying a seat that's meant for paying customers.”

“Then I'll pay,” Brittany pleaded. “The price of one whiskey for every night he come in.” Blaine narrowed his eyes at her, and she withered. “Two!” she said, holding two fingers up for emphasis. “Two whiskeys for every night he come.”

“You're paying me to let him sit a stool?” Blaine asked. He could have laughed. “Who is this man to you, Brittany? Long lost brother or sumthin'?”

“I can't…I can't tell you,” Brittany said.

Blaine crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her sternly.

“Britt…”

“I can't, Blaine,” she said, becoming more distressed. “I promised him I wouldn't.”

Blaine sighed. “Well, if you can't tell me…”

“Blaine,” she whined through her teeth, “I can't tell because he's…he's one of us.”

“He's a saloon girl?” Blaine said with a chuckle. “I guess he's got the legs for it,” he teased. Most times Blaine didn't understand a lot that came out of Brittany's mouth, but she was even-tempered, good-hearted, and fun as heckfire to have around. What she said, though, downright didn't make sense. But he had to take her at her word because, incomprehensible or not, Brittany wasn't prone to lying. It wasn't in her nature.

“No, he's not a saloon girl.” Santana made her way over from a table close by, not appreciating the snarky tone of Blaine's laugh. “She means he's abused. Unwanted. Lonely.”

“Abused?” Blaine pounced at that, stealing a glance at this customer. He found the man's eyes – wide, scared eyes – trained his way. Kitty spoke to him softly, her hands holding his arms to keep him from bolting. His face was covered in so many healing bruises, Blaine could hardly see the skin underneath. His lips were split in multiple places, and his neck – dear God in heaven, his neck was covered in intertwining marks, some going yellow with purple ones above them, each one looking like a finger to Blaine's eyes. This man and Blaine's gaze locked, and Blaine couldn't look away. Those blue eyes, brimming with intelligence alongside fear, seemed to beg Blaine for a hundred things. Blaine wished he knew what some of them were, so he could give them to him. “Who's abusing him?”

Brittany shook her head, on the verge of tears.

“I've told you too much Blaine,” Brittany said. “I can't…”

“His husband, alright?” Santana cut in, rescuing her girl from Blaine's unnecessary interrogation. Brittany glared sorrowful eyes at Santana, but Santana rolled hers – not as scornfully as she would with anyone else, but still. “I didn't make him no promises,” she said. “Besides, if he's gonna be hiding out here, then Blaine should know. It's his place. What if his husband comes ‘round looking for him?”

Santana's reasoning soothed Brittany, and she didn't look as harried.

Blaine looked back at the man, rising from his stool with both Kitty and Sebastian trying to persuade him to stay. But he broke free with an apologetic shake of his head and a sad smile, and headed through the crowd, out the swinging doors.

“Well,” Blaine said, turning back to Brittany, pinching her chin fondly between his thumb and forefinger, “if you like him so much, and you're willing to vouch for him, he can stay.”

“He can?” Brittany asked, bouncing in her shoes and clapping her hands beneath her chin.

“Yup,” Blaine said. “But do me a favor. When he comes in next, send him up to my table.” Blaine looked over toward the doors, hoping the man had changed his mind, but he was gone. “I think I'd like a word with him. See if there's something I can do to help.”

“Oh, thank you, Blaine!” Brittany chirped. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

Blaine gave the giddy girl a wink, and climbed back up the stairs to his balcony, his mind filled with thoughts of that pale man, scared as a rabbit, walking home in the dark, on his way to greet his husband, and whatever punishment that bastard had in mind for him.

Blaine didn't have a mind to come betwixt a married couple, but this wasn't right by any stretch. This wasn't a marriage; it was abuse, plain and simple. That man's frightened eyes, the cuts in his lips, his eyes blackened at least nine times over…there had to be a way to stop it. Maybe not the law way. They hadn't had a sheriff in town more than a season. But there had to be something Blaine could do, and not just for Brittany's sake.  

When that man came back, Blaine would sit him down, and they would hash this out between them. They would come up with a solution to his problem. Blaine didn't know how, but they'd cross that bridge when they got to it.

But the next night, David returned home early, and took a week's worth of frustrations out on his husband. Problems over money, his horse slipping a shoe, a missing shipment of goods, translated into punches that nearly dislocated Kurt's jaw.

In town, at The Canary Cage, Blaine Anderson left orders to escort Brittany's pet up when he came, but that otherwise, he wanted time alone. He set up his table special for his guest. He had Sebastian send up a plate of appetizers. He uncorked a bottle of red wine. He even put out a tablecloth. Blaine waited the evening in the balcony for the favorite customer of his girls to return, but the man with too many bruises and sad, blues eyes never did come.