“I need your help.” Sam stood like a supplicant in the dawn light, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

“My help.” Freya gazed at him calmly.

“With Inara.”

“No.”

“What?” He looked surprised.

“I'm not getting in the middle of this, Sam. You go and fight your own battles.”

“I tried. Yesterday. She won’t talk to me.”

She studied him, his smooth olive face, his long black hair, caught back into the nape of his neck somewhat untidily for a change. His clothes were crumpled too, as if he’d slept in them.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“I …” He was thrown for a moment, then recovered. “Honestly, no. I was trying to plan out a campaign of attack, but nothing worked.”

Freya smiled thinly. “You make it sound like a battlefield, and Inara’s the citadel to be taken.”

“I think she is. She’s the prize.”

“I'm not sure you’re who she needs, Sam.”

“I … I need her.”

“Is that enough?”

Sam sat down heavily in the wrought iron chair, not caring about the dew soaking into his pants. “I don’t know. I have to try.”

Freya sighed. She recognised the signs of love for sure, having seen it in the mirror often enough. Not that Sam would admit to it. Not yet. “Even if I talk to her –” She almost couldn’t take the hope in his eyes. “– you know it might not work. You’ve counselled too many people to really believe that it will automatically turn out right in the end. This isn’t a fairytale.”

“I know. And I have. I’ve told them to be realistic, to not rely on the one they love being the answer to everything.” He laughed hollowly. “Only I’ve just discovered it’s not the same when it’s yourself.”

Maybe he did know, Freya considered. “Were you like this with your wife?” she asked gently.

“Stupid?” Sam smiled ruefully. “Oh, yes. I’d spent so long telling myself that I didn’t need anyone, that I was so much better off on my own, yet when I saw her standing next to one of those crazy sculptures of hers, I … fell.”

“And you’ve fallen for Inara.”

He nodded