On the edge of Pinocchio's yard, Hobbes ground to a stop. It had really occurred to him that he'd been almost running all the way from Eostre's, not until he remembered and thought about the burn in his chest and the way that his fingernails had been digging into this palm. He stopped there, on a dime, and caught his breath.

He could almost see the spill of the light from the candles from here. Slowly, he closed his eyes.

Eostre hadn't been angry. She'd taken her daughters and kissed Tom slowly, and looked like she might have been laughing. And then she'd sent him on his way.

Hobbes wasn't afraid. That was the point, the whole damn point. He wasn't afraid, but he couldn't see the limits....and until you could, you had no idea what you were capable of. He understood this without really understanding the words. The reasons couldn't be distilled down into sentences. Instinct wasn't always something you were born knowing. Sometimes it just came to you later on.

Which is why, when Hobbes got to the doorway, he didn't look up. He lingered, head down, and waited.

He wasn't late.