Arthur had never been particularly good at choosing gifts. Whenever he wanted to buy you something, he usually leaned toward practical things; a sturdy pair of gloves, a thick shawl for cold nights, or the small hunting knife he'd once spent far too long examining before ultimately deciding against it. So when he stopped in front of a shop window in Saint Denis and found himself staring at the chemise displayed there, he probably should've asked himself what the hell he was doing. He looked at the thin fabric, the delicate lace along the neckline, and the narrow straps at the shoulders. Then, without meaning to, he pictured you in it.

Arthur tore his eyes away from the window and cleared his throat. He'd only thought it would look nice on you. That was all. What was so strange about a husband wanting to buy his wife something pretty? He told himself that as he stepped into the shop. He told himself the same thing while the shopkeeper wrapped the chemise in paper. Even when he tucked the parcel beneath his arm and stepped back onto the street, he carried on pretending he believed it. As for that brief image that had crossed his mind, he made a particular effort not to think about it.

He didn't tell you what was inside when he gave you the parcel. While you eagerly tore open the paper, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, looking far more occupied with cleaning his gun than necessary. When you lifted the chemise and stared at him in surprise, he glanced up for only a second. "Saw it in a window," he muttered. "Figured it'd look... nice on ya." His voice dropped slightly toward the end of the sentence. When you smiled and threw your arms around his neck, Arthur buried his face in your hair and thought he'd successfully gotten through the whole thing.

He was wrong.

When he returned to the tent that night, he found you standing in front of the bed, busy undoing your hair. You were wearing the chemise. Arthur stopped dead at the entrance of the tent. It took him only a few seconds to realize that the image that had crossed his mind in front of the shop window looked nothing like the reality before him. Reality was much worse. Or better. Arthur couldn't quite decide which.

When you turned to him and smiled, Arthur remained silent for several seconds. Then he shook his head and muttered under his breath.

“Remind me never to buy you clothes again.”

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Clemens Point was unbearably hot that night. Although the sun had set hours ago, the day's heat still lingered in the earth and among the trees, while the humidity rising from the lake settled over the camp like a heavy blanket. The sides of the tent had been left open, but the air drifting inside could hardly be called cool. Arthur was leaning against the edge of the bed, his journal resting across his knees. A charcoal pencil sat between his fingers; judging by the page in front of him, he was drawing, though one might have said he'd been darkening the same patch of shading far more than necessary for the past several minutes.

That night, you were wearing the thin chemise you'd bought the day you returned from Saint Denis for the first time. It wasn't really for Arthur. At least, not at first. While Arthur was taking care of some business in the city, he'd left you at the general store to wander around, and when you'd spotted it, you'd simply thought the fabric might prove useful on nights as hot as these. You hadn't given it much thought when the shopkeeper handed you the parcel. Now, the thin fabric clung lightly to your skin, the narrow straps over your shoulders shifting whenever you moved. You'd pinned your hair up at the nape of your neck and sat at the other end of the bed, lazily waving the fan in your hand.

Arthur looked once. Then he went back to his journal. A few seconds later, he looked again. This time, his eyes lingered on your legs a little too long before returning to your face. You knew he thought you hadn't noticed; Arthur had never been quite as good at hiding his glances as he believed. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you drew one leg up onto the bed, folding it beneath your hips and settling into a more comfortable position.

The sound of charcoal scratching across paper stopped.

When you turned your head toward him, Arthur was still staring at his journal. His brows were drawn slightly together, his jaw tense. At last, he let the pencil slip from between his fingers and cast you a sidelong glance.

Arthur had been away from camp for several days. Dutch had sent him north with Charles and Javier on a job and said it would take two days; when they returned four days later, the look on Arthur's face made it painfully obvious he hadn't gotten a proper night's sleep the entire way. When he saw you, he only gave you a faint smile, brushing a hand against your waist as he passed and pressing a brief kiss to your forehead. He wasn't the kind of man to do much more than that in the middle of camp. But you noticed his fingers linger at your waist a moment longer than necessary before he finally pulled away. Then he headed toward Dutch's tent to hand over the camp's share. You immediately hurried back to your tent.

The thin chemise you wore that night hadn't been chosen by accident. Arthur had seen you in it once before and, in that uniquely awkward way of his, had muttered, "That's... uh, real pretty on you, darlin'." So you lay stretched across the bed, pretending to read the book in your hands while waiting for him to return to the tent. When Arthur finally stepped inside, he said nothing at first. He unbuckled his gun belt, left his hat on the chair, and undid the top few buttons of his shirt. Then he looked at you. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and a tired, suspicious expression settled across his face.

You simply tossed your hair back over your shoulder and returned to your book as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Deep down, though, you were waiting for a compliment. Arthur eventually dropped his boot to the floor and sat down at the other end of the bed. You could feel his eyes following you. Neither of you spoke for several minutes; then, turning a page, you asked in an innocent voice, "How was the trip?"

"Miserable," he grumbled. His eyes dipped to the chemise again before slowly finding yours. "An' now my wife's sittin' there pretendin' she gives a damn while readin' the same page for ten minutes." Just as you had noticed his glances, Arthur seemed to have seen right through your little act. “An' besides... you're holdin' the damn book upside down.”

When Karen and Mary-Beth returned from Saint Denis that afternoon, they had several small parcels with them. They'd been far too secretive about keeping whatever they'd bought hidden from everyone else, eventually calling you into one of the tents and dropping a parcel into your lap. The first thing you did when you saw the thin chemise inside was raise your eyebrows. While Mary-Beth went on about how lovely the fabric was, Karen merely grinned and said, "Let Morgan get a look at you in it, then you can thank me." You'd told them you would never wear it.

That night, you changed your mind. Partly out of curiosity, and partly because of the suffocating Clemens Point heat. By the time Arthur returned to the tent, you were already sitting on the bed, reading the book you'd borrowed from Mary-Beth. You looked up at the sound of his footsteps and smiled at him as you always did. Arthur, however, stopped at the entrance of the tent for a moment. His eyes went first to your face, then drifted down to the thin fabric covering you. Then he quickly looked away, as though he'd accidentally seen something he wasn't supposed to.

Without saying a word, he unbuckled his gun belt and left it on the chair. After setting his hat on top of it, he moved to the other side of the bed and picked up his journal. You returned to your book. Arthur, apparently, returned to his journal as well. But after a few minutes, you noticed he still hadn't turned the page. His charcoal pencil hadn't touched the paper once, either.