Love and Death


It was the next evening.  Ashandra and Kaona were in the drawing room with Quinton.  Ashandra was reading a book to avoid talking to Quinton.  Although she stared fixedly at the pages of the book; periodically turning a leaf, her thoughts were far from what she read.  Her fantasies were devoted entirely to Cristof; his foreign good looks, his charismatic performances, the way his warm brown eyes softened with his voice whenever he spoke to her.  A happy smile crept to Ashandra’s lips as she meditated over those subjects.
Quinton, who sat on a couch across from Ashandra, was entertaining some guests; friends of Ashandra and Kaona’s father.  This company included two young ladies; Elaine and Clair, escorted by their brother; Laurence.  All three of them were the same age as Ashandra, and her sister and fiancé.  They came from respectable families, and Lord Bronte hoped that their association would have a positive influence on his two delinquent daughters.
As Quinton engaged in conversation with Laurence and his sisters, he would occasionally glance at Ashandra in the corner, absorbed in her book.  Seeing her smiling to herself, he fancied that she was pleased to be in his company, and his recent thoughts that Ashandra did not care for him were quieted.  Reassured, he set out to enjoy himself for the course of the evening.
Kaona, however, knew better.  She was seated along the wall at the pianoforte, behind everyone else in the room.  As she picked out lively, cheerful songs, playing them in a careless, almost childish style, she also watched Ashandra, knowing full well the true source behind Ashandra’s jollity.
It was at this moment, that particular vein of the conversation grabbed both Kaona’s and Ashandra’s attention.  Elaine was speaking:
“Have any of you gone to watch the young man perform his tricks in town yet?”
“Which man?” Laurence asked.
“The magician.  What’s his name? . . . Cristof,” Elaine replied.
“I haven’t seen him,” Laurence answered.  “But isn’t he the one who’s been doing things like levitations, lighting himself on fire, and other body mutilations?’
“I’ve heard he’s quite charming,” Claire commented.
“I wouldn’t get too attached,” Elaine warned.  “There’s been a lot of talk in town just recently.  People suspect Cristof is a sorcerer.”
There was a slight pause, during which Kaona played the first eight notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony ominously.  She looked over at Ashandra, who glanced back at her over her book.  Their eyes met, and Kaona understood that Ashandra wanted to leave and try to meet Cristof.  Kaona held up one finger, in a gesture that Ashandra interpreted as “wait for it.”  She continued to play.
The conversation amount the other four individuals on the couches had resumed, however.  The subject had been switched to classical composers.  Their talk was rudely interrupted by a musical crash, and they turned, finding the cause of the commotion.  Kaona had apparently passed out and slipped sideways off the piano bench onto the floor.
“I’ll go get help,” Ashandra stood up, feigning alarm.  Before anyone could protest, she had left the room, grabbed her cloak, and was out on the streets, heading for the Flaming Barrel.
The streets were dark and almost deserted at this time of the evening.  The only members of the population in view were tramps and drunkard who lurked around corners and leered at Ashandra from alleyways.  She now wished that Kaona had chosen to accompany her.  Oh well.  It wasn’t long before Ashandra was stepping quietly into the brightly lit interior of the Flaming Barrel.  The bar was still lively at this time of night, although the crowds had definitely thinned since Cristof’s earlier performance.  Ashandra scanned the room hopefully, but could see no sign of the magician.  Disappointed, but nevertheless deciding that she might as well accomplish some objective for sneaking out of the house alone, Ashandra seated herself at an empty table and ordered a quart of ale.  Her drink was served to her by the ancient, weathered bartender who looked as though a few more years would render him indistinguishable from the scarred and grainy wood paneling behind him.  No sooner had he plopped the mug down on the table before Ashandra, when a low, dulcet voice issued from the shadows behind her.
“So tell me, how is it that such a charming lady can end up in a place like this, sitting alone at a table by herself?  I would think such a thing to be impossible, and I have dealt with the impossible quite a bit in my line of work.”
Ashandra turned and found that the owner of the voice had emerged from the shadows.  It was Cristof.  With a smile, he paid the barkeep for Ashandra’s drink, and the old man left them.  Cristof turned and sat down across for Ashandra, who developed a sudden attack of shyness and began to quickly sip her ale.
Cristof didn’t say anything at first.  Instead he snapped his fingers, and a blue flame rose from his finger.  He lit the candle on the table, and then blew out his finger.
“It’s dangerous, you know,” Cristof began, “walking through town alone at this time of night.  I didn’t realize you’d be coming, or else I would’ve offered to escort you.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t understand,” Ashandra replied.
“You don’t understand what?” Cristof asked.
“What you interest in me is.  I mean, I’m sure you meet hundreds of girls as you travel around, and they’re probably all more exciting that me…”
“I don’t know what it is exactly,” Cristof interrupted.  “I’m drawn to you, you fascinate me.”
“I fascinate you?” Ashandra asked incredulously.  “I can’t pull strings out of my eyes or light myself on fire.  We actually I could, but I don’t’ think it would be a very successful experiment.”
Cristof shook his head.  “Tell me about yourself.  What are your interests?  What’s you life like?”
Ashandra shrugged.  “Well, there’s not really that much to tell.  You’ve met my sister Kaona.  We’re the only two daughters of Lard Bronte.  We live at the edge of town, it’s like this big freakin’ house; you can’t miss it.”
“Does your father know you’re here?’ Cristof asked suddenly, a look of concern crossing his face.
“Well, no.  But it’s okay.  Kaona and I sneak out all the time,” Ashandra hastily reassured Cristof.
“Did you sneak out earlier, to see the show?” Cristof asked.  Ashandra nodded.
“That’s not good.  Won’t you family be worried?” Cristof impatiently waved away the barmaid who brought more ale.  His attention was devoted entirely to Ashandra.
She sighed.  “I don’t know.  Sometimes I don’t’ even know if he cares about me anymore than making sure me and my sister get married off to wealthy families to increase his power.”
“That’s not true.  I’m sure your father loves you and is probably worrying himself into his grave over you.  And we’re going over there right now.”  Cristof stood up.  Ashandra almost upset the table in her frantic rush to get at Cristof before he could leave the tavern.
“Are you crazy?  What do you want to meet my father for?” she half-begged an answer from Cristof.
“It’s customary that I meet your family and officially announce my courtship of you,” was the response.  “Come on, I’ve faced worse things.”
For a moment, Ashandra was caught off guard.  She repeated the word courtship to herself, and just barely suppressed an excited giggle.  Then she was somber again.  She sighed.  “Okay.  Fine.  Whatever you say,” she relented.  Then her face brightened again, and she skipped after Cristof.  “Hey, maybe you could cast a spell on him.  You know, charm him somehow.”
Cristof laughed merrily, “I’m an illusionist, not a warlock.”  He took Ashandra by the hand and in no time at all, they were both standing in front of the large mansion where Ashandra lived.
“Well, there it is.  Now can we get out of here?” Ashandra tried in vain to pull Cristof away, but it was like trying to move a brick wall.  Cristof put his arm around her waist.  He was watching a man who had just left the house and who was now making his way angrily towards them.  Ashandra noticed the man as well and stiffened.  It was her father.  Cristof strode forward and confidently shook his hand.
“Lord Bronte, my name is Cristof.  I’m a friend of you daughter.”
“You’re the magician,” Lord Bronte accused.
“Yes.  With your permission, I wish to…” Cristof trailed off suddenly.  His eyes had widened, as he stared at the area over Lord Bronte’s head, and for the first time since she had met him, Ashandra detected fear in his dark orbs.
“You want to court my daughter,” Lord Bronte sated flatly.  He appeared not to notice Cristof’s abrupt change of behavior.  “I can not allow this.  You must understand that Ashandra is a lady of noble reputation, and must there fore marry only one who is of the same status as her.  That is simply the way it is.  I’m sorry, but I must reject your proposal.  In fact, it is probably best if you two don’t associate with each other at all, ever.”
“Forgive me,” Cristof whispered.  Ashandra did not know whether he was addressing her or her father.  Before she could say anything, Cristof had turned and ran, disappearing as the darkness swallowed him.
“Go inside the house, Ashandra,” Lord Bronte said wearily.  He seemed drained of energy, and didn’t even reprimand her for going into town alone and without permission.  Ashandra was about to protest, but she saw how fatigued her father was.  Instead she turned to stare after the direction that Cristof had ran, and then she entered the house.  Lord Bronte followed closely behind.  Neither he nor his daughter had seen Quinton watching the whole scene from an upstairs window, or the look of detestation on his face as Cristof had put his arm around Ashandra’s waist.  When Cristof had left, Quinton had snuck out of the house and quietly followed after him.
Kaona came to her later that night, after everyone else had gone to bed.  She entered Ashandra’s room as she was getting ready for bed.
“So, tell me what happened,” Kaona said quietly.
Ashandra quickly told her about meeting Cristof in the Flaming Barrel, and how he had demanded to meet her father and announce his courtship, and about how he had suddenly become very frightened of something, and left without giving her another glance, or any other explanation.
Kaona said nothing after Ashandra finished her narrative.  She sat at the edge of the bed, absent-mindedly tracing an endless pattern on the bed coverlet with her finger.  If she had any idea about what had come over Cristof, she kept it to herself.
Finally, Ashandra could no longer stand her sister’s silence.  “Well, what do you think happened?”
“I have no answers for you,” Kaona replied.  “I could follow him, if you wanted me to.  Which direction did you say he ran?”
West, in the direction of the fields,” Ashandra answered with a voice full of remorse.  “But it’s no use to try and follow him.  He’s had too much of a head start.”  She bowed her head.  Kaona cupped Ashandra’s chin gently with her hand and tilted her head back up.  There were tears glittering wetly on her lashes.
“It wasn’t you,” Kaona assured her.
“How do you know?”
“Because I don’t’ know a single man who would take the time to play Mia, drink ale, levitate a girl and ask to meet her family unless she mattered enough to him to make the effort,” Kaona answered.  There was a strong tone in her voice.  The she added more softly, “There’s an explanation for all things worth explaining if one is patient enough to wait for it.”
She left the room, leaving Ashandra with her thoughts.  Ashandra lay down on her bed, determined to meditate the whole night long if she had to, until she came up with an appropriate explanation for what had happened.  She fell asleep within minutes.
Cristof ran though a field.  It had rained recently, and mud splattered on his boots, soaking him all the way up to his calves.  But he only ran faster, and he cut across one last filed, coming to a stop at a gnarled sycamore tree which grew nest to a stile along the fence line.  He knelt down at the base of the tree and grasped the roots in his hands.  The earth underneath and between the root gave way, forming a hole under the tree.  Ducking his head, Cristof crawled into the passage, as the roots and earth fell back in place behind him.  Once Cristof had disappeared from sight, Quinton emerged from the field, noted the place where Cristof had moved the roots, and then he turned and walked back to Lord Bronte’s estate.
Underneath the tree, the tunnel dropped down steeply and became wider, so that Cristof was now able to stand and proceed quickly down the underground slope.  He had no gone far before the dirt tunnel gave way to paved stone walls, ceiling, and floor, making his footsteps echo as he quickened his pace again.  Torches, fastened to the wall with brackets, let up the gloom with a mysterious blue flame.
Cristof stopped as he came across an armored skeleton lying across the floor in front of him.  He showed no surprise as the skeleton tuned its head to grin jeeringly at him, and he did not flinch as the skeleton picked itself off the floor and came towards him, raising a sword high above its head.
The skeleton brought the blade down at a speed which made the air sing as the sword cut though it, and then it hit Cristof, braking through his skull and cutting through bone and sinew with a sickening crunch.  The sword was drawn out of Cristof’s stomach, and in the light the blade was revealed to be clean; not a single drop of blood stained it.
The skeleton stared at the sword with hollow eye sockets, and then at Cristof who stood whole and unharmed in front of him.  In a single movement, the skeleton collapsed back onto the floor, somehow managing to land in the same position that it had been laying before.  Cristof delicately stepped over the now motionless skeleton and continued down the passage.  He came across more skeletons as he progressed further down the hall, but unlike the first, these skeletons did not stir as Cristof moved by them.
Eventually, the corridor emptied into a huge cavern that was almost completely filled by a dark lake.  It was impossible to tell see into the depths of the water, except for were the water met the edges of the room.  Here the water was shallow, and Cristof was able to see thousands of personal effects, such as coins, jewels, clothing, and weapons, which completely covered the bottom of the lake.  Pillars rose up out of the water, formed by hundreds of skeletons, reaching up to the pitch-black ceiling high above.  The walls and ceiling were made up of skeletons as well, and two large piles of skulls flanked a pedestal at the far end of the room.  A small bridge of stone that was raised a few inches above the water stretched across the length of the room, and came to an end at the base of a large pedestal, on which rested a colossal hourglass, full of black sand.  Periodically, a piece of sand would fall from the top of the hourglass to the bottom, and whenever this happened, a hushed scream would echo from somewhere within the underground structure.  Behind the hourglass there was a carved stone statue of a figure shrouded in a billowing black cloak and a hood.  A stone scythe was clutched in its hands.  Every time the sand dropped and the scream sounded, red eyes seemed to glow hungrily from beneath the hood.
Cristof charged across the stone bridge and past the hourglass.  He walked to the left of the statue and entered a small doorway which led into another room.  This room was much smaller and more elegant than the other, and lit with blue flames that floated along the ceiling, weaving and entwining into intricate patterns.  Tapestries of armored skeletons riding skeletal horses into battle hung form the walls.  At the far end of the room was a raised throne, carved from black marble.  A skeleton was sitting in this throne, wearing a black cape and a silver crown, with a silver scythe grasped tightly in its hand.  It was the same scythe that was held by the statue in the previous room.  Red light filled the sockets of the skeleton, and they seemed to grow brighter as Cristof casually strolled across the room and approached the base of the throne.  He didn’t kneel; he had already preformed obeisance when he had knelt to touch the roots of the tree and crawled underground on his stomach.
“What’s going on, man?” Cristof demanded in a less than formal tone of voice.  The skeleton-king didn’t answer, so Cristof continued.  “Don’t get all innocent with me.  I could see the blue fire above Lord Bronte’s head.  He isn’t supposed to die now.”
“But you are the one who offer the invitation,” the skeleton-king rasped.  His voice was low and eerie, yet powerful.  “You informed the young lady that her father was probably worrying himself into the grave about her.  It’s been a long time since you’ve breached the Underdark, but you above everyone should know better than to talk about death idly.”
“I didn’t mean for you to kill the poor guy off!” Cristof exclaimed, spreading his hands.  Then his demeanor changed, and he walked up the steps to the throne and seized the skeleton-king’s cape in his hands.  “You can’t let him die.  It’s Ashandra’s father, and I couldn’t do that to her.  I love her!”
“And I am your father, Cristof Angelus!” the skeleton-king thundered.  He reached up and touched Cristof’s chest, his skinless fingers sinking into the flesh just above his heart.  Cristof screamed, his body trembled, and then he became a partially decayed skeleton himself.  “For three hundred years you have walked the earth with the children of men,” the skeleton-king continued.
“And I’ll walk with them for three hundred more,” Cristof proclaimed, “Until the day that you decide to destroy me.  I’m far more interested in entertaining people than in claiming their souls.”
“You may entertain them, buy you can never be one of them.  Even though you have never expressed an interest in the work, you are a prince of death.”  The skeleton-king with drew his hand from Cristof’s chest, and he reverted back to his normal form.  As Cristof massaged his chest, the skeleton-king sighed.  “You say you love her, yet you’ve just barely met her.  She can never know who you truly are.  She’s used to an elegant life style, and being taken care of.”
“I can take care of her,” Cristof insisted.
“You can offer her only a life of constant traveling, of rainy nights by a deserted roadside, of watching you constantly risk your neck.  The only thing you can offer her is death.”  The skeleton-king fixed Cristof with a piercing gaze.  “Death is what you will bring her if you stay with her.  I will spare Lord Bronte’s life, but you must take yourself away from the girl, or her whole family will die.”

The morning sun shone bright and cheerful, making the stained glass windows of Lord Bronte’s house reflect back the light like multi-hued flame.  Cristof stood underneath a tree just off the edge of the estate.  He was caked with mud, and dirt sprinkled from him as he paced back and forth around the tree.
“Listen, Ashandra.  You are a very beautiful woman and a wonderful person, but I have to leave, and it’s not because of you.  I just…need to take care of some things,” he muttered to himself.  This was followed by, “You know how sometimes I can make myself disappear?  Well, what if one of those times I can’t make myself come back?”
Cristof stopped pacing and addressed the tree, speaking in a bitter, sarcastic tone of voice: “Yeah, I’ll just walk right up to her and be like ‘Hey baby, how do you feel about dead people?’”  He was about to try another conversation, when he heard someone else talking at the front of the house.  Keeping himself hidden, Cristof peered around the tree to see who was talking.  It was Quinton and another man.  They kept their voices low, but Cristof was able to make out certain phrases:  “The man is a sorcerer.  I’m sure of it.”  “The city officials know how to take care of his kind, Master Quinton.”  “If I see him with Ashandra again…”
As Cristof listened to them, an idea formed in his mind, and he smiled to himself.  He surreptitiously left his place by the tree and went into town to get himself cleaned up.  Meanwhile, the city official bid good day to Quinton, and promised him that it wouldn’t be long before the courts arrested Cristof on the charges of witchcraft, which was punishable by death at the stake.

Ashandra had awakened as the first rays of light crept through her window.  She dressed quickly, dismissing the maid who had come to aid her in dressing and tidy the room.  When she was alone again, she made the bed herself and began to apply her makeup and dress her hair.  While she was in the process of doing these tasks, there was a gentle rapping at the door.
“Yes?  Who is it?” she called from her place in front of a mirror.
“Marie Antoinette,” a familiar masculine voice answered.  Ashandra quickly rose to open the door, reviling Cristof to be standing in the hallway.
“My father will kill you if he sees you here.  How did you get in the house?” Ashandra asked curiously.
“Magic,” Cristof replied in an exaggerated mysterious voice.  He grinned.  “I thought it would be rude to just pop in your room uninvited, so I settled for just outside the door here.”
“Well, come in then,” Ashandra stood aside to let Cristof pass by her.  Once he had entered the room, she shut the door again, then turned to him slowly.
“Where exactly did you go last night?” she asked, trying and failing to keep her voice steady.
Cristof looked abashed.  “I am sorry about that.  I had to go check something, I thought you’re father was in danger.  But there’s nothing to worry about anymore.”
Ashandra looked down at the floor.  “I thought, maybe it was…me,” she said slowly.  Cristof heard the tremor in her voice.
“Oh, no.  Never.  Come here,” he walked over to her and put his arms around her shaking shoulders.  Ashandra rested her head against his chest, and slowly stopped crying.  Cristof offered her a handkerchief, which she gladly accepted.
“I feel terrible now,” he confessed.
“Oh, don’t feel like that,” Ashandra pleaded.
“No, I mean it.  I’m going to make it up to you, starting with this.”  Cristof took the handkerchief back from Ashandra and flipped it upside down.  It turned into a deep red rose, which Cristof offered to Ashandra with a flourish.  As she took it, Cristof bent down and softly brushed his lips against her hair.  When she looked up, surprised, Cristof kissed her on the lips.  Ashandra kissed him back, dropping the rose on a nearby table and wrapping her arms tightly around him.  When they finally broke apart, Cristof asked her, “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
Somewhat taken aback, Ashandra shook her head.  Cristof pulled a small table out from the wall, and threw back the velvet cloth which covered it.  A small breakfast laid out for two had appeared underneath the cloth.  Ashandra placed two small chairs on each side of the table, and she and Cristof sat down to it and ate.  After breakfast, Cristof stood up, and prepared to leave.
“You can’t go already,” Ashandra exclaimed.
“I have to,” Cristof said regretfully.  “But I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.”  He kissed her briefly and left the room, disappearing just as suddenly as he had come.

True to his word, Cristof did return the next day.  Ashandra had walked upstairs to the library to fetch a book, and when she opened the door, she found herself staring face to face with a monkey.  She screamed, and the monkey screeched and backed into the room, bumping into Cristof, who stood in the center of the room, laughing.
“This is Cody,” he introduced her to the monkey.  “Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you.”  He then proceeded to entertain both Ashandra and the monkey with simple tricks involving a scarf.
It was like that for the next couple of weeks.  Cristof would show up in random places of the house and surprise Ashandra.  Sometimes he and Ashandra would just sit and talk together.  At other times, Cristof would perform simple performances of magic.  Once he brought his cat Hamlet and levitated him for her.  Another time, when Quinton had arrived for a visit that day, Cristof changed the color of his wig from brown to a sickly green color.  Ashandra was nervous at first for Cristof to make his presence known to other people of the house, particularly her fiancé, but Cristof seemed to almost seek Quinton out in order to perform magic tricks in front of him.  
Quinton voiced his displeasure once to Kaona.
“I don’t like that man who’s constantly around Ashandra,” he remarked.
“Who?  Cristof?” Kaona asked.  “Well, you know, it’s not like she’s been officially married or anything.  In fact, for all you know, she and Cristof might just be good friends.”
“Speak of the devil,” Quinton muttered, spying Cristof as he came up the hall behind them.
“I prefer to go by Cristof,” he remarked.  “So, have they managed to dye your wig back to its normal color yet?”
Quinton turned pink and walked away.  Cristof waved after him cheerfully, said hello to Kaona, and walked upstairs to Ashandra’s room, whistling.
One afternoon, Ashandra and Kaona had been sitting on a balcony drinking tea with their friend Elaine, when she stood up so suddenly, her teacup fell to the ground and shattered.
“That man is flying!” she exclaimed, pointing to the gardens.  Ashandra and Kaona both looked over in that direction.  Sure enough, Cristof was hovering in midair over the top of a lilac bush, and slowly traveling in the direction of the balcony where the three ladies sat.
“Yeah, he does that sometimes,” Ashandra said casually.  She stood up to meet Cristof at the end of the balcony, and graciously accepted the armful of flowers that he offered to her.
“Did you break a cup?” he asked Elaine, who was still too shocked to answer him back.  Nonplused, Cristof scooped up the pieces and placed them in his hand.  Then he quickly flipped one hand over the other, and opened up his hand again, reveling the cup to be just as it was before, with not a crack in it.  He handed it to Elaine, greeted Kaona warmly, and kissed Ashandra on the hand.
“Ladies, it’s been a pleasure,” he complemented, and then he vanished before their eyes.  This was too much for Elaine, and she fainted away completely and fell to the floor, as the teacup fell from her hand and shattered once again.
One evening, Cristof and Ashandra went out for dinner in a beautiful garden.  The owner of the garden knew Cristof well, and had prepared a table for them in a gazebo overlooking a river.  The top and sides of the gazebo had been lit by a number of candles, and a table of food and two chairs had been set up in the middle.  Cristof and Ashandra seated themselves at the table and began to eat.  The food was different from anything that Ashandra had eaten before.  They started with bread dipped in herbs and olive oil, followed by lentil soup.  The main course was lasagna with a side of salad.  Ashandra tried the food and found that she quite enjoyed the taste.  Cristof waited until she had begun to show signs of slowing down and finishing her dinner before he spoke.
“I might be leaving for a while,” he said solemnly.  Ashandra looked up from her salad at him, a look of panic coming over her face.
“People around here think I’m a warlock,” Cristof continued.  “You’ve heard them talk.”
“That doesn’t matter.  I mean, if they caught you, you could just escape or disappear anyway,” Ashandra protested.
Cristof smiled sadly.  “Maybe,” he sighed.  The two of them walked on a small path around the garden, admiring the silver reflection of the moon on the waters of the river.  Cristof said nothing more about leaving, but he tenderly put his arm around Kaona’s waist and held her tightly.  “I love you,” he whispered, kissing her ear.  Ashandra slipped a quartz necklace from her neck and placed it around Cristof’s neck.  He touched it, looking at her with pain-filled eyes.
They returned to the balcony and thanked Cristof’s friend, and then the two of them walked back to Ashandra’s house.  When they arrived, they found a group of people gathered in the front.
“What is going on here?” Ashandra asked to no one in particular.  She gasped as two men in uniforms grabbed Cristof and pulled him away from her.
“What are you doing with him!” Ashandra demanded.  Her question was answered by Quinton, who stepped forward and stood in front of Cristof, looking pleased with himself.
“This man is being arrested for witchcraft,” he answered Ashandra, looking at Cristof with utter contempt.
“What he does isn’t witchcraft,” Ashandra snapped at Quinton.  “It’s an illusion.”
“He performs things that are impossible to accomplish, except through the craft of the devil,” one of the men holding Cristof broke in.  Cristof said nothing, but he pulled himself closer to Quinton, bared his teeth suddenly, and bit one of the buttons off the front of Quinton’s shirt.  There were murmurs of shock and surprise, and Cristof spat the button into his hand, and then placed the button back on Quinton’s shirt.  When he moved his hands, everyone could see that the button was still sewn onto the shirt.
Cristof smiled at Quinton, and leaned in closer so that only Quinton and Ashandra could hear what he said: “You take care of my girl for me.  Treat her like a lady, or I swear I’ll come back to haunt you.”  Then Cristof was taken away to the town jail, despite Ashandra’s pleadings.  When everyone had left, Kaona came outside to stand by Ashandra.  
“Don’t worry about Cristof.  He can take care of himself,” she told Ashandra.
“They’re going to kill him,” Ashandra answered, turning pale.
“Well aren’t we dealing with the man who considers the day wasted unless he comes up with at least three different ways to kill or maim himself before lunch?” Kaona remarked.  That got a small smile from Ashandra, but she still looked worriedly after the direction the men had disappeared with Cristof.  “He told me he loved me,” she confided to Kaona.
“I know he does,” Kaona replied.  She led Ashandra back into the house and closed the door.