Howl's Moving Castle Fanfiction: As Others See Chapter 2 by Jedishampoo

Summary: A magical misfire ends with the wrong Howls in the wrong worlds. Howl's Moving Castle (Movie) crossover with Howl's Moving Castle (book).

Author's Notes: This is mostly an excuse to play with the people involved and see how I might make the movie characters would deal with Book!Howl and the book characters deal with Movie!Howl. WARNING: Most of it will be T-rated and lightly humorous but I'll switch it to M later, for SEX. And what I plan to do to the characters is not very nice in some ways, so be warned, you may hate it. Bwah hah.. It's all so very, very, wrong, I'm sure, but I couldn't help it. You'll see. ;) Thanks to sakura haru and sharpeslass for their betas!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, Diana Wynne Jones or Studio Ghibli does. I'm just playing with them.

x x x

As Others See, Chapter 2

Howl sprinkled a pinch of pink gol-powder into the air, spoke the word, drew a circle in front of him with his finger, and stepped forward. Into an invisible barrier. Again.

He glanced over at Sophie and Michael where they sat at the table, Calcifer floating above his grate between them.

"Third time's the charm, right?" he said, in a hopeful voice. Despite his two failures he felt much better than he had two hours ago. At least he was doing something.

"Are you sure you're doing it correctly?" Sophie asked in a weary voice, leaning her head forward into her hands. "It doesn't look like anything's happening."

"It's happening, Sophie, you just can't see it," the earnest Michael said. "Right, Calcifer?"

Green flames grew and shrank over Calcifer's somewhat sinister-looking blue face. "Yup. But you're being blocked. I can't tell what's causing it."

"Maybe you need more gol-powder," Michael suggested. He stood. "We were running pretty low, anyway. I should go get some more. Uh. Howl. Do you want to come with me?"

"No," Howl and Sophie said in unison.

Surprised at her refusal, Howl looked at her. He knew why he hadn't wanted to go. The thought of seeing their world was an enticing one, but he would rather keep working on the home-spell. He was too worried about Sophie to waste time exploring. His Sophie, that was. He raised his eyebrows at the other one.

"We should keep him where Calcifer can keep an eye on him," Sophie explained. "And Calcifer can't go without landing the castle."

Howl and Michael both rolled their eyes. "I just want to keep working, anyway," Howl told them.

Michael only looked relieved. "I'll be back," he said, and practically ran to the door and turned the square knob to yellow. It slammed behind him, and then there was silence.

Howl grabbed a cloth rag from the bench and bent over to erase the chalk line he'd drawn on the floor. He would have to draw it again; now there was gol-powder mixed with the chalk. He wondered if perhaps Michael was right, and he'd been using too little.

"He really just wants to run by Cesari's to see Martha," Sophie said.

She was speaking to him. Howl was somewhat surprised by this. "Martha?" he asked.

"My other sister," Sophie said. She stood and walked over to a closet and returned carrying a little broom and dustpan. She handed him the dustpan and jiggled the broom at him. Howl got the idea. He bent over and laid the pan on the floor, and let Sophie sweep the chalk into it.

"My Sophie's sister Lettie works at Cesari's," he said. "It just reopened. She doesn't have a sister Martha." Though Howl had known a Martha or two…

"I wonder where Lettie is, anyway," Sophie said, and turned to empty the dustpan into a little bin next to the bench.

Howl waited a couple of moments, but she didn't seem to want to continue chatting with him. So he shrugged inwardly and began to look over the books on the magic bench, wondering if he'd missed something that could help him.

"I suppose I should make lunch," she began again. "You are probably hungry."

"No," Howl said, keeping his voice light and friendly. "Thank you, though."

"Hmph. Well, I'll make some anyway. Michael and Lettie and whoever she returns with may want something." She paused for a moment and looked him up and down. "Though you should be hungry. You're a little thin."

Howl laughed out loud, which seemed to startle her a bit. But she'd made him feel even better. She'd sounded so much like his Sophie in that instant. "So I don't look exactly like him, then?" he asked with some satisfaction.

"You look a lot like him," she replied, staring at him with brown eyes-- his Sophie's eyes, odd with that red hair. "It's rather spooky, actually. Except for your eye-color, which hasn't faded as you'd said it would. They're still too blue."

"My eyes are blue," Howl told her. Since she was staring at him so intently, he felt a little more free to examine her in return. Perhaps her hair was the wrong color but Howl certainly couldn't call it unattractive. The dark yellow of her dress suited it, bringing out golden highlights shining among the pale red. With her big brown eyes, she looked like one of those fanciful paintings of Fall in Her Youth.

His eyes involuntarily slid down to look at the rest of her. Her figure, as he'd noted earlier, was nearly exact in size and proportion to his Sophie's. In fact, he rather thought the style of her dress would suit Sophie. It had one of the new lower waists that allowed the fall of the skirt to flare out in a saucy manner at the hips. And the bodice was modest but cut cunningly just so to accentuate her firm little bosom--

The sweat that broke out on the back of his neck caused Howl to realize where his thoughts had led him. He looked away in a hurry. Books, he thought. Crossing spell. He wasn't going to ogle a strange girl. Though he comforted himself with the idea that she was Sophie, in a way. And it had certainly been much longer than ten minutes since he'd thought about sex, thus disproving the statistic he'd ruminated upon earlier that morning. And he was only human, after all.

Perhaps Sophie had read his thoughts, because her cheeks flushed a little. But she didn't glare at him, or slap him, only turned away to dig through the larder. Howl didn't watch her as she bent over, not at all.

"So are you from Wales, too?" she asked him after a few moments of laying out bread and cheese.

"Wales? No," Howl told her, glad of the not-silence. "I've been there. Too rainy for me. I'm from right here in Ingary. Well, you know what I mean."

"Ah," Sophie said. "Well, Howl is from Wales. If you go into Howl's bedroom you can see it from his window. He hates to go there-- he always catches cold-- but I know he feels comforted by its being there. And now I'm talking too much about personal things. Argh.."

"It can't hurt for us to compare notes," Howl said, a bit surprised. "I wouldn't have minded seeing this place under other circumstances. And you only said it because you care about him, and I can't fault you for that."

"Hmmm," Sophie said. Howl could hear her as she sawed at a loaf of crusty bread, and the thunk as she sliced at some heavy cheese. "The problem is that you're actually listening to me, as well as talking to me. So tell me some more. When are you getting married, for instance?"

"I don't know, exactly," Howl admitted. "That's up to Sophie. Soon, I hope."

"Ah," she said again. Then, casually, "Tell me about her."

Ah, thought Howl. She was being so nice because she was curious and wanted information. Wanted to know what her Howl was experiencing. He couldn't fault her for that, either. And conversation went two ways; he might learn something, also.

"You look like her," he said, wondering what else to say. "Except for the hair. Hers is shorter, and a sort of silvery color, very pretty. There were some things that happened. A witch cursed her, and--"

"Hmm. I know the story, I think. How very odd, that someone else has lived my life." Sophie didn't sound very happy about it. But she continued. "You're different from Howl, though."

"I'm glad to hear it," he interjected. He wasn't too happy himself to think that he wasn't perfectly unique. He did feel better, however, to think that such was a general human failing, and not simply a failing of his own. He'd been told he was vain. Of course, she'd said that her Howl was vain also. This was maddening.

"I was trying to say," she said with a significant look and a threatening wave of her knife, "that then it must stand to reason that she's not exactly like me."

"True," Howl admitted. So he told her about Sophie, how sweet she was, how giving, hoping that this girl didn't take it to mean that she wasn't. Once he got started, he couldn't seem to stop. It was strange to realize, suddenly, that he was talking to her. It was easy, actually. Before his Sophie, he'd been rather close-mouthed himself. Of course, he hadn't had anyone to talk to, except Calcifer.

"Calcifer is practically her devoted slave, which is more than he ever was for me. And I've known him for sixteen years."

"Sixteen?" Sophie broke in. "Calcifer? You've only been with Howl for what-- five, six years?"

"It's all a drop in the bucket to a fire demon," Calcifer said.

"So?" Sophie replied. "It still means it's different. You're all different." She sounded happy at the notion.

Howl thought he knew how she felt. "We're all still special," he told her in a soft voice. He wondered if he was trying to convince her or himself. "You've been through a lot for him, I think, and that can't be discounted or duplicated. And I'm sure he appreciates it and still will, when this is all over."

"You're thinking about it too much. Oh! We're out of my favorite tea. Is that the door? Thank heavens, it's Lettie and Ben. Hello."

She sounded glad for the distraction. He could talk to her, but she was not the demonstrative sort, and Howl had embarrassed her. He really, really missed Sophie right then.

So he looked at the returning beauty Lettie, and the sharp-featured, sober-suited man who followed her in with a somewhat dumbstruck, melty expression. Some things were universal, Howl was coming to learn.

"That's him, Ben," Lettie said, removing her coat and pointing at Howl. "Isn't it the strangest thing? Sophie, where's Michael?"

Sophie developed a mulish expression, but introduced Howl to the newcomer. Howl watched the other wizard. The man stared back at him.

"How intriguing," Wizard Suliman said. "He's not Howl. But the resemblance is remarkable."

"So I've heard," Howl mumbled to himself.

The man shook his head. "I'm sorry I took so long. I was in the middle of something important." But the expression he shot at Lettie made Howl suspect that he'd still hurried through the something important.

"Sophie? Michael?"

"He's getting more gol-powder," Sophie finally told Lettie. "And probably visiting Martha."

"Gol-powder, eh?" Suliman said, staring. "Nice thinking. But I don't think that's going to do it."

Howl set his hands on his hips and sized up the other fellow. He could tell instantly that he, Howl, was a bit more powerful and experienced despite the other man's advantage in years. Still, Howl couldn't turn down friendly help, not in this situation.

"Oh?" he finally replied. "What do you think, then?"

The man was still gazing oddly at him, and Howl didn't think he was being sized up in return. Suliman's expression showed that he was still clearly in the Wow, he really looks like Howl, how can this be? stage. But Suliman answered, if somewhat incoherently. "I think it's going to take parts."

"Parts."

Sophie perked up. "You mean like in the yard?"

Suliman shook his head. "No, from my workshop. For me to go to your world-- dimension-- and arrange things. You," he said, pointing at Howl, "could probably manage it without parts, if you weren't so closely involved. But it was your concurrent spells that caused it in the first place, so you can't go there unless Howl comes back here. And I think it'll take both of you doing it at the same time. Hmm. This is tricky. I'll have to go home and work on it."

"You just got here, Ben!" Sophie objected. "At least eat some lunch first."

Suliman looked over at Lettie. "Don't mind if I do," he said. "It'll take a while to build, anyway."

Howl sighed. He was going to be stuck here forever. Perhaps he'd try the gol-powder spell one more time. Third time's the charm, he thought, not really believing it.

x x x

After lunch Howell figured it was time to work on getting home, to break that strange barrier he could sense, blocking his most inconspicuous attempts to cross over. But every time he approached the table where the books and spell ingredients were, Markl ran over to see what he was doing. "Are you going to try the spell again?" he'd ask, or "what do you want me to do?"

Howell dearly wanted to tell the boy to bugger off. But the ginger-haired tyke was so young, and so eager; and just too cute to rebuff. He'd made Howell smirk a couple of times during lunch. And besides, Howell told himself, he didn't want to blow his cover.

So he tried exploring, but exploring didn't get him much further. Howell first found a closet and a bedroom. The latter was full of women's things yet still managed to look completely unused. He shut the door on that room to find Sophie pausing in her dishwashing to stare at him oddly. Her room? he wondered. Did she live here?

She certainly seemed very at home here. But come to think of it, his Sophie treated his castle the same way. She didn't live there, though, at least not yet; her stepmother and stepfather made sure of that. And she never visited alone. A Martha or a Lettie accompanied her, always.

Of course, this Sophie had the old lady-- the Witch of the Waste, though they called her Granny here-- for a chaperone. And she was plenty frightening, though Howell had already discounted her as a threat. Mostly. She was the same Witch he'd known, or this world's version of her at least, but she had no fire demon, no powers. The only threat she posed was possibly to his virtue. Her eyes followed him more assiduously than did Sophie's, and the look in them could be described only as lascivious.

He opened another door and found another small bedroom, tidy but slept-in. He shut the door guiltily.

"Go on in," the old lady cackled. "Just give me a few minutes to get up and join you."

"Granny," Sophie sighed, taking off her apron and sitting at the couch. She looked at Howell, then looked down quickly and smoothed her green dress. The gesture drew his eyes inexorably toward her figure. Very like Sophie's, he thought.

"Don't be greedy, young lady," Granny said. "Sides, he likes it. I need a cigar."

"Two a day. You promised," Sophie said in a somewhat schoolmarm-y voice.

"All right, Miss Bossy. I'll wait 'till after dinner."

Sophie merely smiled at this, glanced again at Howell, then glanced away.

Howell couldn't comprehend it. When he'd teased her, she'd gone all injured and shocky. It must be something in the tone of voice, he mused. Or there was a history here he didn't understand, and couldn't ask about.

Frustrated, he stomped over to the last downstairs door, next to Calcifer's hearth. It led outside to a small, rounded, grassy yard.

No one followed him out, which was a good thing. But he also found no metal plates stored here, no other magic junk for spell-assistance, and that was a bad thing. Howell set his hands on his hips and looked up at the blue, blue sky, and let the afternoon sun warm him while the high-altitude fall breezes cooled him right off again.

"Grrr," he said.

"What's wrong with you?" came Calcifer's voice from beside him. Calcifer had turned around in the hearth to face the outside, and was watching Howell with narrowed yellow flame-eyes. "You've got Sophie all worried, and me, too. If you don't straighten up, then she'll never marry you, and then where will we all be?"

"It's not all that bad, surely," Howell told the little flame, thinking furiously. His eyes flew to his hand, and the ring upon it. He realized for the first time that it wasn't the right betrothal ring, his ring, and that it wasn't even on the correct finger.

He wondered again what his Sophie was doing at that moment, and realized that he missed her. He understood her. Sure, she could be a little cold, and she'd never have kissed him when he was passed out or have visited him in the bathtub, but surely that would all change once they were married. Wouldn't it?

"Bad? Aww, maybe not," Calcifer answered. "She'll never leave you. I just hate seeing her upset."

"You always did like her, didn't you?" Howell asked, looking at the small orange face and feeling very clever.

"Maybe," Calcifer said. "Except that time when she cleaned the fireplace and tried to put me out. Or when she dumped a bucket of water on me."

She did that? thought Howell. That sweet girl? He could hardly believe it. It might be pushing it, though, to try and get the whole story. So he just said "Yeah?" in a noncommittal tone.

"Guess she had to," Calcifer admitted. His flames snapped when he laughed.

Howell had an idea. "Calcifer, we've known each other a long time, right?"

"If you think sixteen years is a long time."

Sixteen? History he didn't understand, and couldn't ask about. Howell shrugged mentally, and chose his next words with care. "I need help with something. Something important. But I can't tell anyone in the house, even you, because it's a surprise. A good one. Where do I go? Who do I ask for help?"

Calcifer's eyes narrowed again and he was silent. Howell felt some trepidation at the pregnant pause, but Calcifer was only thinking. "Well, if not me, then I'd say Sophie. If not her, then I'd say nobody I know of. You'll just have to figure it out for yourself, like you always do."

"Ah," Howell said. What a depressing life this fellow had, he thought. No Wales to go home to. Howell wouldn't try to find it himself unless it was as a last resort, or else risk getting even more lost than he was already in this world. And this world's Howell had no apparent friends, except those here, cozy little family that they were.

But they were not his, Howell's, family. And he would have to find help somewhere. He came to a decision. He left the sun and the wind and went inside.

"I'm going out for a bit," he announced to the 'family.' He added a smile, his very best and most sincere, for the benefit of any hurt feelings. "I won't be long."

Sophie stood from the couch, and smoothed her gown again. Howell was momentarily distracted once more by the slide of her slim fingers on the green fabric, and the curves they caressed, and then he realized she was following him to the door. She leaned forward, clearly expecting a kiss. Howell screwed up his courage (odd, that) and offered her a quick peck on the mouth. Her lips were warm and soft. She smelled like Sophie.

He stood back, quickly, and turned the knob randomly to pink. The door led to a grand, bustling city. It certainly looked like Kingsbury. Howell wanted to cheer.

"Will you be home in time for dinner, do you think?" Sophie asked.

"I'd like nothing better," Howell told her with complete and utter sincerity.

x x x

The third time was not the charm. The door-powder spell had failed Howl once more, this time with an audience that included another wizard. Howl so very hated to appear foolish. Thankfully, if he left, he would never have to see these people again.

He stepped back from the invisible barrier yet again, and looked at the group eating lunch at the table. Sophie looked resigned. Lettie looked sad. Ben Suliman, however, looked impressed.

"You gave it a good go," the wizard told Howl between mouthfuls of bread and cheese. "If I didn't have an outsider's perspective, I'd have almost thought you were going to make it. Did you used to have a fire demon, too?"

"Yes," Howl said, and looked at the chalk on the floor. Another mess to clean up, and nothing to show for it except an outsider's perspective. He swept the floor, emptied the dustpan, and looked at his chalky, awful, gaudy clothing-- not appropriate for doing magic at all-- and had to concede temporary defeat.

"Natural talent too, just like Howl," Suliman added. He looked at Lettie and Sophie. "The resemblance, both physical and circumstantial, between two such fellows really is uncanny. And rather frightening." The girls just nodded in agreement.

Howl was tired of hearing how much he looked like Howl. He was tired of spells that didn't work. He was tired of being dirty. He was tired, period.

Still, he was nothing if not usually civil. "Did you say parts?" he asked Suliman. "How long do you think it might take to reverse this madness?"

"I can probably have something put together by tomorrow morning. We'll just need to plan a bit, of course. You'll need to tell me what to expect over there. If Howl's there, he'll know me, but I'll need to be prepared."

"True," Howl said. Just then the outside door opened, and Michael blew in, followed by yet another attractive female. She resembled Sophie and Lettie. This, then, must be Martha.

Michael's cheeks were pink and he was smiling like a bit of a fool. "Mr. Suliman! Am I glad to see you. And Howl's back! Wait, I'm sorry," Michael said, staring at Howl with a sheepish expression. "You're so alike that for a moment I thought maybe you'd done it."

"He certainly looks like Howl," the new girl said, staring as well. "Hello. I'm Martha."

"Hello," Howl told her, trying to smile. But he'd reached his limit with the whole resemblance issue. "Sophie, not to be rude, but I need to do something. Where's the bathroom?"

She flushed a bit and pointed across the kitchen to a door. Howl realized she'd gotten the completely wrong idea But there was nothing he could do about it at the moment; they'd all see soon enough. He had work to do.

"He acts weird, like Howl, too," he heard Martha say as he locked himself in the bathroom.

It was an impressive bathroom, too, Howl had to admit. It was fitted out like a bathroom in a palace, with a large mirror, a bathtub, shelves and shelves of potions, and lo and behold, a real shower. Howl tried the taps in the shower and was rewarded with a fine, misty spray of hot water. "Good going, Calcifer," he said, stripped, and went to look among the potions.

The shower wasn't as relaxing as a bath, but Howl decided he wasn't in the mood to soak. Something was bothering him; he felt jittery. So he found the potions he needed, did what needed to be done, and turned off the shower.

When he'd dried off he looked at the clothes on the floor. He hated to put them back on but he had nothing else to hand. How stupid was it, he thought, to have a bathroom on the ground floor and the bedroom upstairs? So he dressed again, hung a towel over his head, and exited to the main castle room. Only Sophie was there, cleaning up.

"Martha had to get back to work," she told him. "Michael went with her. Lettie went to help Ben. Our reputations are going to be in shreds after this. I hope you're happy."

"I'm not," Howl told her.

"Good," she said.

Howl looked at the stairs. The bedrooms were up there. He started up and then heard Sophie call out behind him.

"Where are you going?"

"To change," he said. "If you would please only tell me which door I need, I'll be out of your hair."

Sophie gasped. "But there are rules about Howl's bedroom."

"Well, what are they?"

"Don't touch anything."

"That's hardly helpful," he told her.

Sophie sighed. "I'll go with you, then, to keep an eye on you. But Calcifer is still here, so you just watch yourself."

Howl laughed, startling her again, and continued up the stairs. "I'd hoped you'd realized by now that I'm not going to try anything. I'm not a monster." At least, not anymore, he thought.

At the top of the stairs Howl found a short hallway. Sophie pointed to a door at its end, and Howl went in. And sneezed. He had to admit that the room was not as cluttered as his, but it was mightily dusty. Apparently even Sophie didn't come in here. Yet, he thought, eyeing her as she followed him in, and the ring she twiddled upon her finger.

"Well, if you're anything like Howl in more than looks, then you've probably got a reputation," she said in a prim little voice.

"Hmm," Howl answered, noncommittal. He couldn't exactly refute that particular statement, though he was faithful to his Sophie. He had no reason to look anywhere else, now. And there, it had been at least an hour since he'd thought about sex. The thought bothered him for some reason, but he couldn't fathom why. It was just another worry niggling at the back of his mind in a worrisome situation. He looked out the window at a grey-and-green scene that was somehow familiar. "Is that Wales?" he asked.

"Yes," Sophie said. "That's his sister's house."

"Sister?" Howl said, and felt very sad for a moment. "I always wished I'd had a sister. Or a brother."

"Oh," Sophie said, clearly uncomfortable, and stared at him. Her eyes were sympathetic. For a moment she almost seemed to be reaching out to pat his arm, but then her gaze became closed again and she brushed at some dusty books with nervous gestures. "Well, Megan is a bit of a bitch, if that makes you feel any better. And there I am, discussing personal things again. Curses."

Howl stepped back from the somewhat dreary scene at the window. "Well, it's about to become more personal, because I'm going to change clothes."

"Oh," she said again. She took a couple of steps back and twiddled her ring some more. "I'll turn around and stand by the door. And I'm leaving it open!"

"As you please," Howl said, and laughed at her silliness. He was not modest, and not interested in her. Well, not much, anyway, he thought, watching her graceful form as she glared at him and then spun to face the hallway.

He found the closet, and the most sober suit in it. He managed not to make any 'ick' noises at the mauve satin and lace suit, or at the awful sleeves on some of those shirts. He wondered, though, how this nice, black suit had survived among all the others. He put it on and found a mirror. The suit was slightly too large, and Howl felt pretty good about that, but it wouldn't do to look dumpy. He magicked it just enough to fit it properly, and ran a hand through his re-blackened hair. He looked pretty darn good, he thought, even if his eyes were still a little too green.

"Done," he announced to Sophie's back.

She turned and looked, and her eyes grew wide. "Oh! That's better. Mostly. You look less like Howl, at least Howl as he is now." She brushed at her skirts. "I can't believe I was in here while you changed clothes."

She looked, acted and sounded so much like Sophie in that moment that Howl didn't think before speaking. "Well, it's not like you've never-- Oh." The niggling worry from earlier grew from a pebble into a boulder, and slammed into his brain. He plopped onto the bed, sending up a cloud of dust. "Oh. Oh, damn."

Sophie looked at him and her expression grew worried; she ran over to him and slapped his shoulder. "What? What?"

Howl thought dimly that he must look really terrible to have engendered that sort of a reaction from her. He glanced down at the dusty bed. It didn't help. "I just thought of something. Sophie-- ah. Sophie sleeps with me. If she doesn't realize-- you don't think he'd--?"

"She what?!" Sophie hit him on the shoulder again, harder this time. "But you're not even married. See! You are a lecher."

He barely heard her, the thoughts were tumbling about so in his brain. He himself wouldn't, he thought. But he tried as he had earlier to imagine himself in the other Howl's head. They'd said he was sly. He had a lovely fiancee who loved him, true; but this Sophie wouldn't tell him enough about Howl, except through her silences, and those were not encouraging. His head definitely hurt now, and he left it that way.

She hit him again. "Defend your actions, mister," she said.

Howl looked up at her. "I don't have to," he said. "I'm going to marry her. It's just." He hated to say it. "What if she doesn't know? Really-- do you think he'd…?"

"Argh," Sophie said in reply, and hit him on the shoulder one last time. "If he does, then it's your fault."

"That's not helping," he said. She was misdirecting her anger again, Howl somehow realized. She wasn't sure what her Howl would do, and so blamed him, Howl. He was beginning to understand her a little, but it still didn't make him feel any better.

"I don't care. And here I am alone with you, lecher, but I can't leave you in here. So come on!" With those statements she stomped to the door and held it open, and pointed to the hallway. "I think I hear Michael now."

"How fortuitous," Howl said to her in a somewhat sarcastic tone that was surprising even to himself.

"Oh! Pretending to be you. What I won't do to him when he gets back," she mumbled as she followed him from the room.

That definitely did not make Howl feel any better.

x x x

Howell strolled the bustling streets of Kingsbury, hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty tune from a song about shepherdesses and dukes. This was to conceal the fact that he was in a very bad mood.

Normally he might have considered his situation an adventure. There he was, in a world like one of his own, but slightly different. Gorgeous weather; the sun cast a happy light upon the city, glinting white flashes from freshly-cleaned windows as he passed, and brightening the yellow-and-red royal flags waving from every pole. There were plenty of odd and fascinating little vehicles about, chugging cars on the streets and little wasp-flyers in the air; his own Ingary didn't have such bizarre things and Howell was pretty certain that none of those had existed at any point on Earth, either, even in America.

And there were plenty of girls, pretty girls in pretty fall-colored dresses strolling arm-in-arm with fellows or each other, giggling and shooting coy glances at other fellows, himself included.

Still, Howell was not happy. He'd had no luck on his quest to find the Wizard Suliman. They'd been pretty damn surprised to see him at the castle. That was never a good sign. And after he'd climbed those endless, guard-bedecked stone steps, and spoken to at least a dozen identical retainers, he'd been informed that she-- she-- was out today but would return tomorrow.

So, therefore, would Howell. Unless someone rescued him first. He had no better plans at the moment.

Oh, he'd tried to rescue himself. But even after finding a chemist's and procuring some spell-ingredients (and wasn't it lucky he'd found those coins in the pockets of those damned tight pants), and finding a nice, secluded spot, he'd been unable to magic himself back home. He had several suspicions as to why this was happening-- the foremost being that since he and the other Howell had been the cause of this odd switch, then they would have to reenact the exact same events at the same time to reverse the mixup. But there was no way to get over there to tell the other bloke what to do, and vice-versa.

And to top off his unfruitful hours in Kingsbury, every moment he spent alone when he wasn't working magic he was experiencing guilt over his deception. He'd been eyeballing and kissing some other man's girl, one who wasn't his own fiancee to boot, no matter that she looked and smelled and felt like Sophie. She wasn't; she was a different person, a bit soft was how he might describe her, and she certainly didn't deserve to be so taken in.

Mostly, he was annoyed with the guilt. He'd never been burdened by it before. Maybe it was something to do with the heart, though rationality told him this was not so; a heart was merely an organ that moved oxygen through the blood, and was not connected with emotion in any way. Maybe it had more to do with being happier than he had in a long time (until he'd gotten stuck here, of course). He'd found a girl he still wanted once he knew her. And Sophie-- the one here, was not her. But too close for comfort.

There was no chance that something similar was happening in his own world. Even if the other Howell tried anything, Sophie would never allow it. She hardly ever let him get too close for too long-- more's the pity.

So there would be no cosmic justice, only his own worries about himself, and how he was to get home. And it was too late to reveal himself now. He'd just have to stick it out, and pretend to be someone who was nice and never teased anyone and probably wasn't much fun at all.

So Howell traced his steps back to the Kingsbury castle entrance, took his hands out of his pockets, pasted on a fake smile, and opened the door.

The silver-haired Sophie was there, and she turned and smiled at him when he entered. "Hello, Howl! You must have had a very good walk. You look so much better," she said, her grin as bright as the sunshine outside.

Fingers of guilt tickled at his gut again. Who'd have thought he could make her so happy by only smiling? If he'd walked into his own castle smiling like that, his Sophie would have scowled at him suspiciously and asked what he had to smirk about. That was how she showed she loved him. He missed her.

But this Sophie tripped over and greeted Howell without outstretched hands. Surprisingly, the warmth of her fingers and the delight in her grin made him feel welcome, even lightened his foul mood. Then a sharp ache reminded Howell that the love here wasn't his. For a few uncomfortable moments he wasn't sure what caused the ache more: missing what he had, or having what he couldn't.

"You've got the color back in your cheeks. I'm glad. Though your eyes still look strange," Sophie said, and her kindness broke Howell's odd moment. Except she looked like she might try to kiss him again, so Howell released her hands after only a quick squeeze.

"Mi-Markl," he called, looking around the strange airy castle room. The boy's red head appeared over the top of the couch. Howell tossed a half-empty bag of gol-powder at him. "Take this and put it away, would you?"

"Oh, good, Master Howl. We were almost out."

"Let me show you what I made," Sophie said, waving her hands. She walked to the couch and bent over to pluck something off the cushions. It was a hat, pink with rose ribbons and little white-and-green silk lilies-of-the-valley around the brim. She put it on and twirled, green skirt flying to show her shapely little calves. "It's the wrong season for these colors, but I don't think I care."

She seemed almost gleeful at the notion. "Pretty," Howell said, and meant it.

"Do you think? I finished something else but I'll show it to you later."

"Um. Okay," Howell told her, not knowing what else to say. He looked over to see the flabby old Witch staring at him.

"I still say he's all wonky," the hag said.

"He's fine," Sophie told her firmly. "And I prefer blue, but Howl, your eyes actually look well with that suit." She looked him up and down and then blushed again.

This time Howell recognized that blush for what it was. His Sophie sometimes did the same thing, though she tried to hide it. It was what gave him hope for their romantic and sexual future.

The similarities between this world and his own were as striking as the differences, and yet he was starting to get used to them. It was an adventure after all, Howell decided. He might as well relax and stop worrying; he wouldn't be able to do anything useful until tomorrow, anyway, when he returned to see Royal Wizard Suliman.

"Why, thank you," he told her, and smiled. The smile might have been a bit feral, but he couldn't be sure. He twirled for good measure. The old lady laughed.

Markl rolled his eyes. "When are we gonna eat?" he wanted to know.

Howl felt his stomach rumble. Something sure smelled lovely and he'd had a long walk in the fresh air. And climbed a lot of steps. "Dinner sounds wonderful," he said.

Everyone looked at him in some surprise. "It must have been a very good walk, if you've got an appetite," Sophie said. "Vegetables and ham?"

"Still sounds good," he said.

Dinner was as jovial as lunch had been. Sophie seemed to be everywhere at first, setting out dishes, serving, cutting food for Markl and the old lady, tossing scraps at Calcifer. Unlike his Sophie at times this one seemed very matronly, like a mother or a housekeeper. Or maybe it was just that silver hair, Howell thought. Then she took off her apron and tried surreptitiously to check her reflection in a window before sitting, and again she seemed like a young girl.

There was a lot of chatter. At first Howell just ate and tried to laugh at the appropriate moments, but after a bit he realized he was enjoying himself. His Sophie rarely ate dinner with him, not since she'd become his fiancee and moved out of the castle (a backwards sequence of events if Howell had ever seen one). She and a Lettie or a Martha might cook, but usually dinner was very bachelorified and over quickly. Every now and then this Sophie shot him an odd look and Howell wondered if he was expected to be more participatory.

After a short silence at the table, and one of these odd looks, Sophie said, "If you will not tell us of your day, shall I tell you of something amusing that happened last year around this time?"

Howell opened his hand at her. "Be my guest."

Sophie quirked her eyebrow at his tone (Howell wondered if it had been too ironic) and in a show of very bad manners, set her elbows on the table. "Making the hat reminded me. And I remember because it was only a few days before the King's Birthday-- which reminds me again, have you decided what you're going to do about that? It's already the fourth."

Howell realized she was talking to him. "Still working on it. It's a surprise," he prevaricated.

"Hmm. Well, anyway, Lettie had just started at Cesari's," she continued. "She had already met a young man, of course. They were to meet in the park and she wanted a hat covered with fresh flowers. She said she wanted to look like a flower garden to impress him, which seemed rather silly, because Lettie doesn't need such things to keep a man's attention. But she was very young then. And I told her the day was too warm and they would wilt, but she threw a tantrum and insisted. She wanted dahlias, and coneflowers, and marigolds. They all make very bad cut flowers for hats, you know. Chrysanthemums would have been better. I didn't even think about the-- well, anyway, she met her young man in the park, and of course it was a warm day, and the bees were terrible--"

"Ugh, bees," Markl interjected.

Howell smiled at the boy and looked back at Sophie, interested despite the utter femininity of the story. This was the most Sophie spoken since he'd arrived here, and her face was animated, brown eyes laughing, fingers weaving little patterns in the air as she told her tale.

"Bees. They followed her everywhere, of course, because she smelled so good. Her young man, thinking he was being gallant, swatted at them. One stung her on the nose, which swelled to twice its normal size. She ran home in tears and wouldn't leave her room for three days, just lay in her bed and wailed at me and said that if I had to be right all the time, then I could have at least remembered the bees."

Markl rolled his eyes, and the old lady cackled at the foolishness of young girls.

Howell laughed and leaned forward on his own elbows. "And are you always right, Sophie, dear?"

She flashed him an innocent expression. "Of course I am. You know that."

"Except when you are wrong?" Howell leaned further. He was rather surprised to find that he was flirting with her.

She leaned forward as well, until their noses were nearly touching. "But I am never wrong. It comes of being the eldest sister." She grinned. "Can you remember a time when I was not right?"

"Well," Calcifer began.

"But oh, Miss Prudence, I seem to remember--" Howell started to say, and then stopped himself just in time, remembering who he was talking to and who she wasn't, and the history he didn't know and couldn't ask about. "Wait, I've forgotten," he finished lamely.

Sophie laughed. "Of course you have," she said, and kissed him on the nose, and for a quick, brutal moment, Howell wanted to come clean. He wanted to stop deceiving them all, and he wanted to ask questions. Perhaps they could help, his desperate thoughts told him. But nearly as instantly, the feeling vanished. For what could they do but make his life more difficult? They were only a little boy and two ladies, one young and one old, neither of whom had any magical abilities whatsoever.

And he wondered again what the other Howell was like, and how big a milksop he might be, if he couldn't tease anyone and had a girl who was always right.

He scraped his chair back from the table and stood. He surveyed the cozy scene for a few moments; saw the golden glow cast over the wooden room by Calcifer's warm-colored flames, the open and friendly faces watching him, and smelled the smells of a normal home. It was more appealing than he'd thought it might be.

But relaxing was not an option after all, when he was prone to relaxing too much in front of this not-family. Howell patted his stomach and said in a hearty voice, "Wonderful food, but unfortunately I've a need to get some reading done." He looked at Markl. "Got to get that spell right, y'know."

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong with you, Howl?" Calcifer asked, little yellow eyes narrowed.

"I'm fine! Really," Howell said, and forced a laugh. "It's just been an-- exciting day. And I need to look through some of the books in my room."

"Of course," Sophie said. She looked at him closely, then shook her head and stood to begin clearing the dishes.

The Witch creaked to her feet and patted her own large stomach. "Well, I'm going out for a smoke. Help Sophie with the dishes, why don't you, young man?"

Howell froze for a second, trying to come up with a quick excuse, but then realized she'd been talking to Markl.

"All right," the boy said, and shoved another roll in his mouth before standing to help.

Howell breathed an inner sigh of relief, then realized that Calcifer was still staring at him. He needed to make his escape quickly. "Night, all," he said with a small wave, then made for the stairs.

x x x

When Howl and Sophie came downstairs Michael had indeed returned. So at least Howl could impress him with his jet-black hair and with how much he no longer looked just like Howl. He still had that sick feeling in his stomach about Sophie, but there was nothing he could do. Waiting was his only option. And Sophie was strong. She'd rescued The Great Wizard from himself, after all, and had managed to clean up his act and his castle in the process. She could fly on her own for a bit, and afterwards they would just have to pick up the pieces as usual.

Michael gave Howl a bit of a startled look when he spotted him. "Did someone die?" Michael asked.

Howl could only laugh. "I certainly hope not!"

Michael laughed in return, a bit nervously. "You're dressed for a funeral, and so glum. But you look less like Howl, now, anyway."

"Good," Howl said, for that pleased him just fine. He set his hands on his hips and took a deep breath, and prepared himself to survive the next twelve hours or so.

"I'm going home," Sophie said with a glare at both of them. "I don't suppose I should bother to wait on Lettie."

Howl found that he actually didn't want her to leave just yet. At least she was familiar. She was a bit thorny, sure, but that he could deal with and had, many times in the past, from many people.

"I'd like to go out anyway," he told her. "Shall I escort you home?"

"You! No. I'm still irritated with you."

"Why ever for?" Michael wanted to know. He glanced over at the hearth in confusion. "Calcifer?"

"I don't know what she's talking about, either," Calcifer said with a wave of his green flame-hair.

"You can't leave. You're not allowed," Sophie said over her shoulder as she opened the closet, looking for her coat.

Howl opened his mouth, but surprisingly, Calcifer interjected in his defense. "He's an adult, Sophie. I'm not keeping him prisoner."

"But we need him to get Howl back!"

"And believe me, I won't miss that," Howl said, trying to hide a grin. "You think I don't want to get home?"

"He's right, Sophie. He hasn't done anything," Michael added.

Howl watched the little argument with some interest, as well as with some pity for Sophie. Michael and Calcifer were clearly enjoying her discomfiture. Her glare of steel pierced them all; she must play the martinet around here, Howl thought, even more so than his Sophie did at home. He missed her terribly for a moment then pushed the feeling away, tucking it back inside his subconscious where it belonged, along with nothing he could do and afterwards and he'd better not.

Sophie pursed her lips. "Fine, Calcifer. Traitor," she said, and tied her light brown cloak at her waist. She glared again at Howl. "I guess if you're walking with me then I can keep an eye on you, for a while at least."

Feeling a bit guilty about it but doing it anyway, Howl laughed at her again. Anyone could be a target for her fury. At least she'd stopped calling him a lecher. "I'm looking forward to it."

Howl watched her turn the square knob to blue, and played an instantaneous guessing-game in his head-- probably not the wastes. Kingsbury, then? But she opened the door onto a town that looked very like Market Chipping.

Outside it was late afternoon, and the slanting sunlight gave the yellow, cross-beamed houses a golden luminescence. The streets were quiet except for a few passersby, dressed in simple clothing and walking with purpose in their eyes, and a few horse-drawn carts. The air was clean, almost bucolic, unpolluted by mechanics.

Howl breathed deeply and offered Sophie a crooked elbow. She ignored it and strode ahead, fisting her little hands at her sides, forcing him to catch up. Breezes teased the loose strands of her long reddish hair, setting them dancing about her pale, stony face.

"Ben will see Lettie home, I'm sure," she said, staring straight ahead.

"And me," Howl added in a carefree tone, and breathed more of the country smells. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and considered whistling, but then decided she'd had enough aggravation. "Where are we?"

"Market Chipping."

"Ah, I thought so."

"Does it look familiar?" she asked. She didn't sound happy about it, as usual. Then she seemed to take a deep breath of her own, and spoke in a more conversational tone. "My mother and stepfather are in town for the fall festivals. He has houses everywhere. They'll live in Kingsbury in the spring, the country in the winter. They live in almost as many places now as Howl does. But I spent my whole life here. Curses."

"Getting personal again?" Howl teased. His mood had improved, and he wanted hers to, also. He suspected they had the same worry; they were almost in this together. So he took his left hand out of his pocket and jiggled her elbow with two fingers.

"What?" she asked, looking up at him. Her brown eyes had taken on a gold nearly the color of her dress in the fading sunlight.

"Come on, Sophie," he said, still feeling odd calling her that out loud. "Let me at least play the gentleman."

She didn't say anything snarky at that; perhaps she'd tired of casting aspersions on his nature. In fact, she didn't say anything at all, just hooked her elbow around his. She kept a regulation sort of distance, however, and focused her eyes ahead once more.

"That's my girl," he said, feeling somewhat nostalgic about it.

"You act so differently from Howl," she said after a minute or so of silence. "I know how to deal with him. And I'm still going to clobber him when he gets back."

Howl knew how she felt. "Do you often clobber him?"

"Of course," she said, and then laughed at herself. "That's why we get along so well. I don't baby him at all."

"Good," Howl said with some feeling, though he had a suspicion that she might baby Howl more than she thought. But he kept that suspicion to himself.

"I guess I just don't know how to deal with you. Or how to control the situation, getting Howl back, everything. It's out of my hands, and I can't stand it." It seemed that once she started talking, the floodgates were open. "I suppose I'll have to deal with this sort of thing all the time once I've married Howl. Still, happiness is not overrated at all, no matter what they say. Argh. I don't know what it is about you, but I can't stop telling you things."

"I don't mind. I like it."

"I know. That's probably the reason. I don't even talk to Howl like this."

"Maybe you should." By habit, or perhaps trying to be comforting, Howl tugged her elbow until she was a bit closer to him, and didn't look so much like she was being led away at gunpoint.

She let him do it. "Yes, but then I usually do or say something stupid."

"You? No, you're very sensible. I can tell." Then Howl realized he sounded like he was flirting with her.

She looked startled, but her surprise seemed to be directed more at his sentiment than his tone. "You're very smooth. But it's nice to hear it for once."

"I'm happy to oblige."

"You're too kind, sir," she said, then laughed. "See? I sounded ridiculous right then."

"No, we were both just being ridiculously polite." Howl was beginning to suspect he knew why she felt so free to tell him these things: it was because she could get a Howl-sort of perspective without embarrassing herself before the man she cared about.

Everyone had their issues, he decided. Sophie-- this one-- had some sort of fear of sentiment, fear of appearing to care too much. His Sophie had no problems with sentiment at all, much to his appreciation. Her issues had all been about her looks. But once she'd gained confidence by walking through fire and sorcery, she'd been able to move past it. And himself? He had... well, he was a bit moody, perhaps. And he was sure he had other faults.

Ultimately, though, this was not his world and he didn't plan to stay in it for longer than he absolutely had to. And if he wasn't going to worry about his Sophie back home, then he sure as hell shouldn't be worrying about this one. Still, he was. He just wasn't completely sure why.

Perhaps his silence went on for too long; she paused in her walking to stare at him, and he wondered if she was searching his face for irony or ridicule. Or maybe she was just looking for Howl. Finally, she said, "I must admit, you have a great deal of charm. So does Howl, though, so I guess it just stands to reason." She sighed and started walking again, pulling him along. "It makes one wonder how many sides one coin can have."

"I prefer not to think about it," Howl admitted.

"Me, neither," Sophie said. "It's rather freeing, not to think about it. So, when, exactly, are you getting married?"

And there she was again, not helping him to not think about it. "I told you, whenever Sophie says go." He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

"Hah. Maybe she doesn't trust you."

Howl laughed at her. She was projecting again. "That's not very nice," he told her.

"Perhaps not. But I have a theory, even so. Do you want to hear it?"

"Desperately," Howl said, not untruthfully. "Give me the insider's perspective."

She chuckled at the joke. "I think she will. I think--" Here she paused for a while, and narrowed her eyes at some passing, giggling girls, with that silent, get lost look she did so well. The girls moved on and Sophie practically yanked at Howl's arm, hurrying him along before continuing. "I think she probably has been very good and quiet her whole life. And now for a while she can play the part of someone who does not follow the rules. Every world has rules. Here, Howl is a respected sorcerer, one of the Royal Wizards. At home in Wales, his sister wonders why Howl doesn't have a job. If Sophie is an eldest sister-- it feels strange saying such a thing, like I'm talking about myself-- then she's expected to be responsible. But now she's being rather wanton."

In this particular instance Howl could not inwardly accuse Sophie of projecting; that scenario was something he had suspected himself. But he had no objections to wantonness on Sophie's part, none at all. In fact, he enjoyed it. Lots. And there, it had been at least another half-hour. "Oh," he said, lost in other thoughts. His smile must have been rather stupid-looking.

"And like any man, you take advantage." Sophie's voice was smug. "I believe I'm right, and it's refreshing to feel that way. Oh, look. I'm home."

"Huh?" Howl said, tearing his thoughts away from more pleasant things. He halted and looked up at an imposing, white-columned and red-bricked doorway set a few yards back from the street. A little gold plaque nailed into the bricks proclaimed it to be the residence of the Sacheverell-Smiths. The windows on the door were cut crystal-glass, and like prisms they caught the sun's last rays and spat them out into little shrinking rainbows on the stone porch.

"Nice," Howl said, thinking he should say something.

"Yes," Sophie agreed in a flat voice. Then she blew out a breath and pulled her arm from his, only to grab his hands. Her fingers were cold. "Good night. For the last time, I hope."

"Good night," Howl told her. He'd been trying to be kind to her, but her dismissals were beginning to grate on his nerves. And his ego. So he added, in a wry voice, "No kiss, I suppose."

To his surprise Sophie didn't slap him, merely stared at him and kept a firm grip on his hands. Her brown eyes were dark in the bare light of the dusk, and assessing. "You may, if you wish."

"Uh," Howl said, stupidly, and stared back at her. He took a moment to marvel at himself; how much had he changed, that such an invitation should flummox him rather than make him feel justified in his existence? He'd just never expected that from her. He coughed to recover his aplomb, and a teasing tone. "I was joking. What about your reputation?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him in some sort of challenge. "No one will be surprised to see me kissing my fiancee. You don't want to."

"That's not it! Well, perhaps. I am engaged. It's just-- why all the rules and regulations?" he asked, trying to remind her of her own excuses. His intuition had failed him at that point. He could come up with no excuse for her behavior. Or for his own hateful curiosity.

Sophie shrugged, still holding his hands in her cool, firm grip. "Sisters have to watch out for each other. Mostly, though, it's to annoy Howl. He thinks he can have anything."

Ah. Howl laughed darklySo he was some sort of revenge, then, for foul deeds real or imagined. Perhaps it was all the talk of wantonness, but Howl realized he was feeling the challenge. There was a healthy dollop of guilt there, too, mingling with the resident curiosity to form an oddly intriguing mixture of emotion in his belly. But how could he help it? She was Sophie, the woman he adored, in a way. A kiss wouldn't hurt anything. He'd done it before, after all, unknowingly.

"All righty, then," he said and jerked at her hands, closing the distance between them. Her face was pale and set, shining like a statue through the dimness. She didn't really look like she wanted to be kissed, though Howl thought he could detect a bit of reciprocal curiosity in her gaze. They were in this together.

So he bent his head and set his lips against her pursed ones. They were surprisingly warm given the coldness of her expression; but no, not really like his Sophie's at all. She just stood there, breathing through her nose for a few interminably disappointing instants. And then she pulled her hands from his and Howl figured it was over and began to back off.

But she'd only been gathering some sort of resolve. Her fingers gripped his shoulders all in a rush, forcing him to kiss her more firmly.

Forcing him? That was an unfair thought; Howl was participating in this foolishness, and quite willingly. Besides, he had something to prove. What, he wasn't sure. That he was something better than Howl, more tender a lover? Human nature was more powerful than magic most of the time, and made less sense. Not quite knowing what to do with his freed hands he did the obvious and familiar; clasped his fingers about her waist, warm through the plushy weight of her coat.

With his eyes closed Howl felt less guilty and somewhat more aroused. She did taste and smell like Sophie, heartbreakingly so, he thought, as he pulled her close and let his tongue tease the slippery inside of her mouth. She returned that intimacy, and after a few minutes he realized that he was enjoying that familiar-but-not sensation much more than he should. The flesh was weak, and her breaths harsh and excited.

Guilt was feeding his arousal, or at least so he told himself. At some point he'd squeezed her close, forearms pressing into her back, and he could feel more of her than he'd thought possible through that coat. And soon, he realized dimly, things would become irreparably interesting.

His arms uncrossed in a rush and Howl jumped back in a blundering manner that he hated but couldn't prevent. Sophie-- the wrong Sophie-- untangled her fingers from his hair and stared at him, as silent as he.

Her cheeks were pink in the light from the house; they gave life to that pale, heart-shaped face. Anger? Lust? Howl waited for her to slap him but she didn't, merely took her own step back.

"Hmm," she said, then yanked at the fabric of her buff-colored coat, straightening it in a very Sophie-like gesture. Her feet backed her away a few more steps, bootheels clicking on the stone pavement. She turned to ascend the short stairs that led to the porch. "I'm not her, you know. And I think I shall keep all of this to myself."

"Good idea," Howl said, unable to think of a better riposte. He felt a need to defend himself, and sought frantically for something to say. An uncharacteristic, naked admission found its way through his lips. "I do love her. Desperately."

"I know," Sophie said, and her voice held grave sincerity. "Good night."

Howl gave her a little wave, and turned into the night. The cool air was gratifyingly head-clearing. Yes, he'd been a revenge, and some sort of a test of her own curiosity. That didn't make his actions correct. Perhaps he did take advantage. Was that a fault, then?

Howl didn't want to think about it. He wandered the town, trying with little success not to think about his Sophie at home, and how he didn't deserve her, and how he wasn't going to grab hold of her as soon as he got home and never let go, only glue himself to her side like some sort of conjoined twin. He tried not think about how stupidly, blunderingly close he could come every minute of every day to losing her, and how no matter what happened here or there, he would pick up whatever pieces he could or risk a lonely, meaningless future.

x x x

Howell lounged on the bed in Howell's room, idly thumbing through some sort-of-familiar books of magic, and thanking his lucky stars for blessed privacy.

Away from the eyes of others he'd not needed the flattering suit. So he'd shut the door, found a comfy white lawn nightshirt, lit a few lamps, and prepared to wait out the night.

It was Calcifer's eyes that he'd mostly been avoiding. The little orange demon was figuring things out, and Howell was not yet ready for them to be figured. At least, unless he himself was doing the figuring. He flipped through a few pages in one of the larger, illustrated tomes, releasing a slightly musty, old-bookish scent into the air. These books were interesting but he doubted he'd find anything useful in them. He could only pass the time until tomorrow when he could apply to the Wizard Suliman for assistance.

Truthfully, he was hiding from Sophie as well. She was too attentive and affectionate, and he was too conditioned to be attracted to her. She kept getting so close, and tempting him with something he wanted but couldn't yet have.

So it was with no small measure of exasperation that he heard the doorknob turn and the door open, and saw Sophie slide through the gap. Who would have thought he'd have to lock it? Howell wondered. But not for long. She shut the door behind her, and the room suddenly seemed smaller than it should have.

"What--" he started to ask are you doing here? and then realized that it would have been an incredibly stupid question. So he recovered with, "is up, Sophie?"

"What a silly question," she said anyway. She set one hand at her hip and pointed the other at the side of the bed nearest the door. "Get over here. Sit," she ordered. "Let me look at your head."

"I'm fine," Howell said. He didn't want to get any closer. She was wearing a thin sort of robe-- over what he did not know-- belted at the waist, and somehow in this room, with the bed, it all seemed more uncomfortably intimate than it had when he'd been naked in the tub and she'd merely been doing laundry.

"Now," she said, and jabbed her finger on the bedspread a couple of times for emphasis. "Or I'll come over there. Let me see your head!"

She'd probably do it, Howell decided. She was being uncharacteristically bossy, acting sort of like his Sophie. He had little choice. So he scooted over to dangle his legs over the edge of the bed, making sure the nightshirt covered everything, and prepared for his medical inspection.

The inspection wasn't very clinical. Her fingers were gentle against his scalp, light and sensual as they brushed at his hair. Even more so was the way she pressed the top of his head into her shoulder so she could bend over him. He was trapped in a little circle of her warmth and the scent of freshly-washed skin. A tendril or two of her hair brushed damply against his cheek and he realized she'd probably just bathed.

"I am a wizard, in case you've forgotten," Howell said, to break the uneasy moment.

"I haven't, Love," she said in a tone that was no-nonsense and sweet at the same time. "How could I? Every day an adventure of some kind."

She didn't know the half of it. "As you can see, I'm fine," he said aloud. "So you can--"

"I see," she said before he could finish, and kissed his forehead. Her fingers slid down to sit on his shoulders.

She was very close. Howell looked up at her, hoping his expression was not too pathetic, and wondering what it would take to make her leave. Again he toyed with the idea of telling her who he really was, and again he discarded it. Only a few more hours, he hoped, and he would be back where he belonged. She need not know until it was too late to punish him for his deception.

"Poor Howl," Sophie continued, smiling tenderly. "Grumpy again, and here I'd promised to show you something."

"What?" Howell asked before thinking.

Sophie took a step back and Howell was very thankful. But only for a moment, for she grabbed one of the dangling silken ends of her robe-tie and flipped it in his face rather saucily. When he didn't take the bait she puffed out an exasperated breath, setting her silver bangs flying, and pulled at it herself. Howell stared, helpless and transfixed as she opened the robe.

He told himself he was very thankful when she dropped it to reveal a pink nightdress. Not for long, though, because the gown was somewhat revealing in itself. It was long, reaching to the floor, but the sleeves were mere pink straps and the bodice sheer, and tight. It snugged against the curves of her little breasts, and he could see the slightly darker shape of her nipples beneath it.

Howell was gaping, he knew, and he felt little surges of fever-heat radiate throughout his limbs; whether it was from arousal or embarrassment he wasn't sure. He dragged his eyes up to her face.

Her cheeks were as rosy as her nightdress, and she dropped her gaze from his. Still, her words were as bold as her actions. "I made it. Aren't you going to tell me what you think?"

"Pretty," Howell said quite truthfully, and swallowed.

"Thank you," she replied, and took a step closer until she stood between his dangling, bare legs. With him sitting and her standing they were comparable in height. Her hands clasped his shoulders again and she wouldn't look him in the eye but stared down between their bodies, silent and waiting.

Howell had to still his hands flat on the bedspread, not allowing himself to touch her, to see what she might feel like. She was formed just like his Sophie, but she wasn't her and it wouldn't be fair for Howell to take advantage of their resemblance. Sure, she was practically throwing herself at him. But that was only because she thought she was with the man who loved her.

"I'm pretty tired," he lied, trying to make his tone as soft and apologetic as possible. He wanted her gone, but found he couldn't bear to hurt her feelings.

"Oh," Sophie said, and laugh-coughed, embarrassed. "Oh. I'll let you sleep, then."

But she didn't leave right away, as a woman spurned might. She patted his shoulders once, twice, then leaned over to kiss him.

She'd kissed him before but this was different, worse than before because of their situation. It was unique and endlessly fascinating every time, it seemed. Still, Howell told himself he couldn't bear to embarrass her further, had to let her down easy; and so he kissed her back. Just for a moment, he told himself.

Except this time she opened her mouth, and barely touched his lips with the tip of her tongue. Howell couldn't resist a taste. And yes, the inside of her mouth was as excitingly slippery and sweet as Sophie's.

For his Sophie had let him kiss her this way once, for about half a minute, before she'd slapped him. This one, however, only made happy little noises and pressed closer, and Howell realized he'd let his hands roam over her back, and she was pliant and warm and it had been a very long time since he'd been wrapped around a half-naked woman in such a way, and it was lovely.

His Sophie was playing by the old rules, frustrating him with her constant company. This one, in this world, should have been doing likewise. Yet this world's Howell, despite apparently being such a nice guy, had managed to get his girl into bed with him. Howell had to congratulate him for that, at least.

The thought didn't last long; those delightful breasts he'd so admired earlier were pressed against his chest, and he found that one of his hands had slipped around her side, and that his thumb was tracing the curve of her soft, feminine flesh. This only provoked her to moan and lean into his hand, and gasp little excited breaths into his mouth.

How often had Howell looked at Sophie-- even this one-- and imagined holding her this way, getting his hands on those womanly curves? Here was his chance, half-unwrapped and shoved into his arms like a gift from the heavens. And yet she didn't know who he was.

As desirable and willing as she was, what he wanted to do was wrong. If there was a Hell, then Howell would go to Hell for that, surely.

He didn't want to find out about Hell. He yanked his hands back to the safety of the bedcovers to keep from touching her further. He would enchant her, put a spell on her that would make her back out the door and forget she'd ever been here.

And just then she backed off and Howell wondered if he'd whispered the spell without knowing. But no, she was only reaching up to untie one of the straps to her nightdress. They had ties. He hadn't noticed that earlier. And she was undoing one of them.

Howell stared, transfixed as a trapped animal once more, as the thin, blush-colored material fell away. His brain couldn't conjure the words of an appropriate spell. Her breast was as lovely and round as he'd imagined. One touch wouldn't hurt. Howell was going to Hell.

He clasped the warm weight of her flesh in his fingers, feeling the delightful scrape of her taut little nipple against his sensitive palm. Then before he realized it he was kissing the other breast, running his tongue around sweet, soap-tasting skin, and she moaned and called him her love.

And she was so many things and Howell felt them all; she was his Sophie but not at the same time; what could be, what could have been, everything all in that moment. Then her gown had fallen to the floor and she was gloriously naked and trying to crawl into his lap. Her fingers crept under the collar of his night-shirt at his nape, and they were enchantment on his skin, the sorcery of the flesh. And he was going to Hell and he didn't care, because he wanted her, painfully in fact, and she thought he was the man who loved her. And for the moment he was; he loved her desperately.

"Sophie," he said, and rolled her onto the bed under his propped elbows. And she only said "yes" and wrapped her thighs about his hips and her fingers traced more of those sorcerous lines up his sides, under his nightshirt.

In that moment she wasn't any of the things he'd imagined her to be-- not a sensitive girl or a motherly, housekeeper-sort-- just a passionate woman, unaffected and sensual, a deadly combination. Howell closed his eyes and let sensation take over, buried his face in the cool damp of her scented hair, heard her soft voice (Sophie's voice) encouraging him as he moved inside her, felt the tight grip of her around his aching, sensitive flesh. It was all just too perfect.

It might have been better if it had been a little less perfect. If she had just lain there, not tried to move, not made those lovely little noises-- After only a few minutes of this blissful activity, Howell felt his gut tighten, that breathless moment, and then the lovely and yet unavoidable release.

It had indeed been too long. He was like some green university lad, too quick on the draw. He couldn't look at her, he couldn't. He collapsed on top of her, breathless, and buried his face in the covers above her shoulders. And waited. He was sure his cheeks were flaming.

But there were no recriminations, nothing awkward, nothing he deserved; only soothing fingers on his back and the sound of breathing.

After what must have been a few minutes Sophie's gentle voice broke in on his humiliation.

"Howl, are you all right?" she whispered.

"Yes. Why?" was all he could manage.

Another few seconds passed. She spoke again, and now there was gentle teasing in her voice. "You hadn't moved a muscle in five minutes, at least. I thought perhaps you'd died."

Only of shame, Howell thought. He had plenty of reasons, after all. He didn't say it aloud. But he did roll to his side so she could move, and he lay facing the general vicinity of her chin. He was a coward. What would the other guy do? Probably say he was sorry. Howell supposed he owed her something. "Sophie, I didn't mean to do that," he said. He hardly choked on the words at all.

"What do you mean?"

She didn't know? was Howell's first thought. His second was, well, maybe she was used to it. Maybe the other fellow did this to her all the time, and she didn't know any better. The thought was enough to make Howell feel a little bit better, at least. He risked a glance up into her eyes. They were warm brown in the golden lamplight. She was smiling.

"What a day," he said, with plenty of feeling.

"My poor love," Sophie said, and clasped her fingers around his back, under his nightshirt. "Was it difficult?"

It had been very difficult, but he couldn't really tell her why. And now he wanted to die and yet she was expecting to be held and talked to.

And why shouldn't she? She didn't realize she'd just given her body to a stranger. And he hadn't even removed his nightshirt. He couldn't think of anything to say.

Her free hand, the one not buried underneath him, slid around to pat him on his stomach. "I think you've gained some weight. I approve."

Howell would swear his heart stopped. He was mortified. He couldn't even breathe for a few moments. Was she saying he was FAT? How could she say such a thing? Finally he croaked out, "What?!"

Sophie gasp-laughed, and to make it immeasurably, infinitely worse, she squeezed his side. "Don't look so horrified! I like it. You needed a few pounds."

Howell just stared at her, mouth agape. He wanted to scream. Was his humiliation never to end? She looked so earnest, and her caressing fingers were playing merry havoc with the nerves in his abdomen. How could she look so earnest, and touch him in that way, and yet say such a thing? "Eh," he meeped.

"Oh, Love, I'm sorry!" she said then, and squeezed his bottom, and kissed his chin. "I know you're tired."

Howell knew he was going to glare at her, so he rolled over onto his back and shut his eyes. He may have been royally miffed but he couldn't scream at her, not after what he'd done. "You can't even know the time I've had of it," he told her, quite truthfully.

"That bad?" She was kissing his shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, but it was a bit tickling and arousing.

"That stupid spell. I knew it was nothing but trouble. I'll never be able to face the king again. I'll have to run away."

"Oh, is that who it was for? I'd wondered." She was running her hand along his hip.

"Uh, yes," Howell said. He'd almost let something slip, there. She was distracting him with all her touching and kissing and nakedness.

"Well, you'll figure something else out."

"I doubt it. That's the one. What a load of trouble."

"Poor Howl." Her fingers were running alongside the inside of his thigh. It was more than he could take.

"Would you stop saying that?"

His tone was nasty; her fingers and the kissing stopped all at once. She was silent. Howell opened his eyes to see an awful, surprised look at on her face, like a child that had been slapped. Her mouth was slightly open.

"Huh," she said. "I'm sorry." She rolled over, facing away from him, and lay there for a minute or so.

Howell felt awful. He was some kind of monster. Not only was he deceiving her terribly, but he was being an ass.

Sure, he was frustrated at being stuck here in the wrong world. And she'd said you were fat, an evil, inner voice reminded him. Contrite Howell remembered that well, yes, so the other Howell's pants had been a little tight on him. He was still getting used to the existence of a contrite Howell. He didn't know why this woman made him feel so guilty.

But she'd cared for his injury, given him fluffy towels, made food for him, and had given him her amazing body sweetly and sensually and without reservation. All he did was take, take, take, and then snap at her over something that was not her fault. He was going to Hell.

He owed her another-- something. "Sophie--" he began.

"Don't," she said. She sat up and dangled her legs off the edge of the bed, still facing away from him, then stood. Outrage and hurt showed in every inch of her expressive little figure. "I should have left you alone. I just thought--" and here it seemed that her voice cracked a bit. She shook her head, silver locks flying.

"Sophie--" Howell began again, reaching out to her.

"Oh, never mind." Sophie bent over, giving him a lovely view of her rounded backside. He was a lecher. He was a monster. She was digging around on the floor beside the bed. "Where's my nightgown? Where's my robe? Argh!"

Howell scrambled over to the edge of the bed and caught her, wrapping his arms around her, and buried his forehead in the nape of her neck. Her hair hadn't even dried.

"Sophie. I-- I wasn't myself." Howell couldn't believe that was the best he could come up with. At least it was true, in a way. But he was going to make a terrible husband. Still, he felt some of the tension leave her muscles.

"I knew you were tired," she said.

And that made Howell feel even worse. He kissed her shoulder, the salt-sweat-soap-skin-taste of her. The other Howell was going to kill him. And he deserved it. On top of all his other sins, he'd made the other fellow's girl cry.

But he found that now, after making love with her, it had become for him something beyond 'the other fellow's girl.' Now it was intimate, personal. Between himself and Sophie. Not just "this Sophie," but Sophie.

"Look at me," he whispered. Howell turned her around to face him in the circle of his arms. It was a parody of their earlier position, when she'd first come into the room. He'd done the wrong thing before, and he sensed he was going to do it again. But this time, he was bloody well going to do it correctly.

Sophie gave him a little smile to let him know she might be willing to forgive him. The sun shone; Howell's entire body tingled with its light. He thought of her wrapped around him, and of the taste of her skin, and felt a tingling, throbbing ache in his belly. He wanted her, more than before.

He hadn't even kissed her properly. And he wanted to. If he was going to be murdered, then at least wanted to make it all worth it, and to do his best to make her feel better.

"Dear Sophie," he whispered, and cradled her cheeks in his fingers, admiring her pale, lovely skin in the lamplight, and the way its warm glow gave her hair the barest sheen of gold. And this time he kissed her tenderly rather than all in a schoolboy rush, and savored the feeling of the slow sweep of her tongue against his, and the silken feel of her flesh under his fingertips. And this time, when he lay Sophie back onto the top of the gold bedcovers it was not the same at all, just infinitely more lovely to feel her stomach muscles moving under his and to taste the sweat on her shoulder. For bits and moments through it all, he was madly in love with her. He said things, things that meant everything and nothing, and he forgot them as soon as he'd uttered them. And when he heard her gasps and cries and felt the tight contraction of her climax around him, he thought it the most wonderful thing in the world.

And later, as he drifted off with his arm draped over her naked, sleeping body, he wondered if this was what it would be like with his own dear Sophie. And he wondered whether or not he could ever learn to be a good husband. And if there was a Hell.

x x x

End Chapter 2.

On to Chapter 3

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