Jackie DeCoeur was perched atop a low chair on the ranch house porch, trying doggedly to buff out a deep scratch that she had somehow gotten in one of her favorite boots, when she heard someone call her name.

"Out Wasteward there’s a legend that everybody knows," said a small, high voice that came drifting out from an open window near to where Jackie sat. The sing-song refrain continued: "And every time a train rolls by that legend surely grows. A rovin’ red-eyed bandit is the subject of those tales, and they call her Red Jackie, the true queen of the rails!"

Red Jackie rose quietly to her feet and crossed the few paces to stand next to the window. She moved like a ghost, without raising so much as a whisper from the porch's wooden boards.

"So sleep through the night, work through the day," a second, familiar voice sang, as Jackie peeked between the slats of the painted shutter. "And pray ya never find yerself in Red Jackie’s way!"

The window peered into the ranch house's kitchen, and it was usually kept open during the day in an attempt -- largely doomed -- to vent some of the heat from the stove. Inside, standing side-by-side in front of the copper washbasin, Jackie could see Trotter and a small centaur girl cleaning the pots and plates from that morning's breakfast. Trotter held a clean rag in one hand, and a cast iron pan in the other, and he wiped the black pan dry as he sang the chorus from the folk song about his red-eyed lover. After finishing the couplet, he nodded slightly in the direction of the young centaur, who was cleaning a pewter plate with a sudsy cloth, and she picked up the song from where the white fox had left off.

"Some say that Red Jackie has a demon for a pa," she sang, as she scrubbed the plate clean. "And while her trains are rollin’, she’s a’runnin’ from the law. There ain’t no way a’ knowin’ just where she is gonna be. Make a bargain at the crossroads, though, it’s Jackie’s eyes you’ll see!"

Neither Trotter nor the girl looked up from their work as Jackie eased her way in through the window. Meanwhile, the centaur had passed the clean plate to the fox, who began polishing it almost to a mirror sheen.

"So run, children, run!" Trotter sang, tapping his foot in time with the campfire song's driving rhythm. "Fly, children, fly!"

Jackie crept up silently behind Trotter, until her reflection was suddenly visible in the surface of the plate.

"Or you might just find yourself in Red Jackie’s eyes," she whispered in Trotter's ear, just inches away.

Jackie DeCoeur had never known that foxes could jump so high. She had to re-plaster the ceiling to repair the gash that the plate made when it went flying out of Trotter's hands.

Trotter, meanwhile, sulked all through the day and into the evening, relenting only when Jackie promised to make it up to him later that night.

Afterward, as they lay together in bed, Trotter asked her why she'd done it.

Jackie DeCoeur smiled, and gave him a red-eyed wink.

"Sometimes I just feel compelled to remind you that I'm no angel," she said.

"No danger of me forgetting that," Trotter said, and he smiled back. "After all, I ain’t never seen an angel with eyes as red as those."

Dyllyg reeled as yet another punch landed against his throbbing jaw. Had he not been securely tied to the pillar, he would have fallen. As it was, his legs slumped, and the ropes bit into his arms as his own weight pulled them tighter. The young Maguv-in-training was blindfolded, so he had no idea which of the Rulus’s servitors had the honor of doling out the punishment, but whoever it was had remarkable stamina. Dyllyg had been taking this beating for well over an hour. He had no idea how he was still conscious.

Dyllyg had no idea how much more time passed, but eventually, the punching stopped. After a long moment, the ropes binding him were cut, and he slumped painfully to the ground. Moving slowly through his pain, Dyllyg managed to raise one arm to the blindfold and pull it off, expecting to see one of the barbarian Maguvs of Kokkinos standing above him. To his surprise, all he saw was Syl herself, smirking.

“Do not look so shocked, child,” Syl purred. “I am more than capable of administering discipline in my own home.”

Dyllyg looked down at Syl’s hands. They were pale and pristine.

Syl scoffed. “I have no need of being so barbaric. Do you not see, Dyllyg? The punching was inside you the whole time.” As she spoke, she tapped the side of her head lightly with one finger. “Let this serve as a warning for you. If you ever allow your thoughts to stray to those of rebellion again, I will allow my brother to handle your discipline. And while his methods will end much more quickly, they will also leave unpleasant scars. Or cinders. Have I made myself clear?”

Dyllyg nodded. It was the best he could manage.

“Excellent,” Syl said. “Because it is one thing to be punched from the inside. Imagine what it must be like to be ignited?”

And as soon as Syl had left, Dyllyg imagined just that.