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Phinyx European Headquarters
Schoenborn Palace, Prague
Friday, 14 December 2029
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"Tetrarch Karolina?" called Amshula from her station.  "Gate security scanners show this fellow has a sword hidden on him.  The blade's curved; could be a saber."

Karolina abandoned her manual on small-arms training and immediately punched the button that relayed the man's image to the counselor's com-screen, flagged Priority A-1.  Then she swiveled her chair around to take a look at the monitors on the far wall.

Monitor 4 showed the man--185 centimeters, powerful build, wearing a knee-length green cape over black trousers and white shirt--nodding pleasantly to the two uniformed Guardians at the outermost gate.  A plain-clothes Guardian, seated near the stone fountain and apparently enjoying the winter sunshine, kept her eye on him as he walked across the courtyard.  Monitor 8 (a view from inside the lobby) showed another plain-clothes on her way to the front of the reception desk, ready to delay him if ordered, trained to disarm or kill him if necessary.

Like most people, the man paused just outside the arched entryway of dark stone to look up at the carved stone garlands over the windows of the four-storied building, and camera 6 was perfectly positioned to take advantage of his predictable behavior.  His dark hair was cut short, and his clean-shaven face was improbably handsome.

"Mmm," murmured Amshula appreciatively.  "I'm off-shift in half an hour; maybe he'll still be here."

"You have class on assassination this afternoon," Karolina reminded the young woman.

"Not until two."

"It's nearly noon."

"For him, I'd skip lunch."

Karolina would, too.  But-- "You won't get the chance," Karolina said, for while they'd been talking, the counselor's reply had appeared on Karolina's com-screen.  Karolina sent the all-clear signal to the Guardians at the entry points, then told Amshula, "Sister Caorran's been assigned to escort him, and then he has an appointment."

"With who?"

"The counselor."

Amshula's eyebrows went up.  "Who is this guy?"

"Let's find out."  Karolina turned on the audio pick-up, and they heard the receptionist say, "Your name, please?"

The man's voice was pleasantly deep and darkly suggestive, just like his eyes.  "Duncan MacLeod."

=====

Duncan had just given his name to the receptionist when a woman dressed in a blue tunic and green leggings burst through the door to his right.  "Sara!" he called, and she came at him running and landed in his arms with a thump, just like when she'd been six years old.  Her hug was sweet and strong.

"What a surprise!" she said.  "I had no idea you were coming to Prague."

"A sudden whim," he answered, although--if he were completely honest--it was neither.

"I'm so glad," she said, moving back to look at him, the long braid of her hair swinging.  "Oh, my."

"What?"

Her fingertips brushed his temples, the hair that until recently had been gray and was once again black.  "You look so young."

"And you look beautiful," Duncan replied, sidestepping her comment with the ease of long experience, and with complete truthfulness.  Sara had inherited her mother's stunning features, though her hair was dark honey instead of pale gold, and her eyes were more gray than blue.  "Daniel's a lucky man."

"As long as he keeps thinking so," Sara said with a smile.  "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Then we will."  She turned to the woman at the reception desk.  "This is an old friend of my family's, Sister Marjeta," Sara said, linking her arm through his.  "I'll escort him while he's here."

"Yes, Sister Caorran," Marjeta said with a nod and then turned to answer a blinking phone.

"Sister Caorran?" Duncan repeated softly as they crossed the marble floor of the lobby and started up the grand curving staircase.

"That's what I'm called here.  Many of us chose new names.  It's a recognition of our commitment to the community, to the work."

"Like nuns?"

"Yes, in a way.  Only, not *all* the vows."

"I'm sure Daniel is glad about that."

She grinned impishly and said, "So am I."  At the top of the stairs, she pushed open a great brass-studded door.  Duncan followed her into a vast room full of light and shadows--light from the row of windows all along one wall, more light leaping from the mirrors and dancing from the chandeliers high above, and shadows from the past.  The long skirts of dancing women swirled by, as men in velvet and lace kept time with stamping boots and clapping hands, and musicians played at the far end of the salon.

"What?" Sara asked, and the shadows and the music disappeared.

He summoned a smile.  "Oh, just admiring."

"You mean remembering," she corrected.  "I know that look."

"I guess you would," he said.  She'd grown up with an Immortal, and she worked with one nearly everyday.

"When?"

Duncan thought back.  "In 1754.  Or maybe '55."  He pointed to the elaborate fireplace on the side wall.  "Right there is where Amanda set fire to a contessa's gown.  She got the fire put out."  His grin came of its own accord.  "She also got the contessa's jewels."

"Ah, Amanda," Sara said with a nod.  "I should have known."  Her gaze became intent upon him, grey-blue eyes searching his.

"What?" Duncan asked.

"You look so young," she repeated, and Duncan knew from experience that she wasn't going to let him side-step again.  Sara had a tendency toward stubbornness.  "Younger than I am," she added.  He'd died for the first time at the age of 29; Sara would soon be 33.  "I can't call you 'Uncle Duncan' anymore," Sara concluded.

Duncan had to nod.  "It could be …"

"Awkward," she finished for him, and Duncan nodded again.

"How about just 'Duncan'?" he suggested.

"Duncan," she repeated, trying it out.  "Why not?  It is your name.  Or was.  Have you gone back to it?"

"Mostly.  I started using it again a month ago, when I left New Zealand."  Mark Johnson had had a good life for thirty years--bought a farm in New Zealand, married a wonderful woman, raised two children, even held a granddaughter in his arms--but that life was over.  It was time for Mark Johnson to disappear and for Duncan MacLeod to return.

Sara pulled him to her for another hug, even stronger than before.  "I was so sorry to hear about Aunt Susan.  And to have it be so--"

"Thank you," he said quickly, cutting off the flow of  words.  Not that he didn't appreciate the sympathy behind them, but he'd heard those same phrases and accepted those same condolences more times than he wanted to remember since the plane crash five months before.  "The flowers you and Daniel sent were beautiful," Duncan said. "Susan loved white roses."

"I know.  She would always show us her garden when we visited."  Sara pulled back, but kept hold of his hands.  "Did you sell the farm?"

He nodded.  "I signed the papers six weeks ago. Neither Paula or Tom is interested in sheep farming.  But it went to a good family.  They'll keep it well."

"That's good," she said.  "I'm glad Colin's kept our farm in the Highlands.  I can't live there, but I like having it still be in the family."

"I know what you mean," Duncan agreed.  "And it's been good for your dad, too, being able to live in the caretaker cottage there these last three years.  The Highlands have always been his home."

"Colin says he's doing OK," Sara said with a quick nod and a tight smile.  "Better than that first year after Mom died."

Duncan would have given Sara a hug then, but she let go of his hands and turned away to open a small door that was blended into the wainscoting on the wall.

A long hallway, another set of stairs, and two more doors found them at a dining hall, busy with the chatter of voices (mostly female) and the clink of dishes.  They chose food from a buffet, then Sara picked out a table for two near a window overlooking a garden, all bare twigs and gray stone at this time of year, save for a pair of magnificent hollies in the distance.  "Cassandra won't be joining us?" Duncan asked as they sat down.

"She wishes she could, but the president asked her to call him at 12:15.  I'll take you to see her after lunch."

"The president of Phinyx Company?"

"The president of the United States."  Duncan blinked at that, and Sara explained, "She was on his staff when he was a senator.  They're good friends."

"I see."  Duncan started on his soup, deciding to save his questions about that for Cassandra.  "How have you been, Sara?"

"Busy.  Daniel's out of town for a conference this week, and Alea has a cold, and then work is always hectic this time of year, organizing food distribution and fuel rationing for the winter."

"I thought you looked a little tired."

She wrinkled her nose in a quick grimace of irritation.  "That, and I had a miscarriage last week."

"Oh, Sara."  He reached across the table for her hand.  "I'm so sorry.  This is … the second?"

"The third."  He started to speak, but she cut off his expressions of sympathy just as he'd cut off hers.  "I've had one child."  Her smile was determinedly brave as she squeezed his hand and let go.  "That's more than most women these days.  I'm lucky."

She was.  In the last dozen years, the sterility plague had spread across the globe.  Births were rare, and many schools for young children stood empty and silent.  On the positive side, orphanages were mostly empty, too.  "How's Alea?" he asked, and as he had hoped, just the mention of the little girl's name brought a proud smile to Sara's face.

"Very happy to be three.  She loves music; she's always singing.  And there are other children here, so she has playmates."

"She's here, in this building?"

"Oh, yes.  We have a daycare and a school here.  It's almost naptime, but we can see her later this afternoon."

"I'd like that," Duncan said then switched to the older generation. "Have you seen your dad lately?"

"In September."  Sara sliced her potato in two with a single, neat stroke.  "He stopped by here for a few days on his way back to the Highlands after he was with you in New Zealand."  She looked up then.  "He said it was good to spend time with you."

"It was," Duncan agreed.  "We haven't done that very often lately."

"Often? Do you mean the last fifty years?" Sara teased.  "Or the last hundred?"

"Hundred, I guess," Duncan said with some surprise.  Connor had been busy raising Rachel in the 1940s and '50s, and then he'd opened the antique shop in New York City.  There had been that sailing trip in '77, but then Duncan had met Tessa and Connor had married Brenda, so there went the '80s.  For the last thirty years, their families had kept them busy on opposite sides of the globe.  They'd seen each other, of course, at least every other year, but a holiday with wives and kids wasn't the same as two clansmen roaming the world.  "In fact," Duncan said, "we had such a good time that I'm on my way to Scotland to see him again.  You'll be at the farm for the holidays, right?"

"I don't think so, Duncan.  Not this year.  Things are so busy."

"All the more reason to come."  He leaned forward with an encouraging smile.  "John and Gina are coming, and Rachel, and of course there are horses.  Alea would love that, right?  I know you miss riding.  We can celebrate my birthday, your and Colin's birthday, Christmas, New Year's Eve, and then your dad's birthday … And we'll be walking to the stones to see the sunrise on the solstice."

"The solstice stones," she said softly, looking away, a faint smile on her face.  Then she shrugged.  "That's a guy thing."

"Sara," he said reprovingly.  "It's a MacLeod thing."

She smiled even as she shook her head.  "I'm not a MacLeod anymore; I'm Sister Caorran here at work and Sara Harulfson at home."

"You'll always be a MacLeod, Sara," Duncan told her firmly, "no matter what name you bear.  The name doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," she corrected, then proved it by calling him by name: "Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

"All right," he allowed.  "It does matter.  But whether you call yourself one or not, you're a MacLeod.  And you should come home for the holidays, Christmas at least.  It would mean a lot to your father to have you there."

"It would mean a lot to me, too," she answered softly.  Her faint smile reappeared.  "Maybe we will.  I'll talk to Daniel, see about our schedules."

"Good," Duncan said, satisfied.

"You'll have to die your hair gray again," she pointed out.  "Colin's wife doesn't know about Immortals, and neither does Daniel."

"I know," Duncan said, grimacing as he ran his hand through his hair.  "I still have a little dye left.  It'll be enough."

She was silent for a moment, seemed about to speak, but then stood and announced, "I'm getting some coffee, and I think I saw blueberry chiffon tarts at the dessert table.  Join me?"

Duncan was already on his feet.  "Of course."  Halfway to the buffet, he stopped and turned, hearing a familiar voice at a nearby table.  But the man's hair was too dark a brown, the chin too narrow, the eyes the wrong shade of blue.

"He sounds just like Colin, doesn't he?" Sara asked.  "I did the same thing when I first heard him.  Sometimes, I still do."

"Who is he?" Duncan asked as they poured coffee into white china mugs.

"Paul Edgerton, my half-brother."

"Your biological father …"

Sara was nodding.  " … got married and had a family of his own.  Colin and I have two half-sisters, too.  They're still in England.  Paul's really good with computers; the Sheffield office hired him seven years ago.  He transferred here last spring."

"Does he know?"

"No," she said, placing a tart on her tray.  "I don't look that much like his sisters, and he's never met Colin."

Duncan selected apple strudel, and they finished their luncheon with talk of Alea's antics and Duncan's plans.  "Paris, after the holidays, I think," he told Sara.  "It's true, you know; it really is beautiful in the spring."

"You love Paris," Sara said, an observation that surprised him, coming from her, even though it was true.

"As they say, it's a city of love."  It had been for him, and more than once.  Perhaps it could be again.

She nodded, but then her eyes unfocused slightly, as if she were listening to voices only she could hear.  She probably was; subdermal receivers left your hands free, and couldn't be mislaid or stolen like phones.  The two guards at the gate and the guard at the fountain had them; Duncan was sure.  Sara's eyes focused again, and she asked, "Should we go see Cassandra now?"  Duncan nodded, and they carried their trays to the wash line then left the hall.

They'd gone up one flight of stairs and halfway down a corridor when Duncan nearly collided with a trim young woman in gray.  "Excuse me," he said.

"No, excuse me," she replied, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her smile bright and warm.  Unlike most of the women he'd seen today, her hair was clipped very short, a soft velvet blackness close to her skull.  Her skin was dusky cream, her eyes chocolate brown.

"Guard Amshula," Sara greeted her, and Duncan realized that Amshula's gray jumpsuit with black piping was a military uniform of some kind.  The only insignia she wore was an enameled pin on her collar, a silver sword upright behind a circlet of olive leaves.  He'd seen the same badge on the guards outside.  Sara wore a pin, too, though hers was of a blue and white earth spinning on an axis of gold.

"Sister Caorran," Amshula replied, letting go of Duncan's arm.

Duncan offered Amshula his hand.  "I'm Duncan MacLeod."

Her handshake was quick and firm, her smile even brighter than before.  "My name's Amshula; I'm glad to meet you.  Have you been to Prague before?"

"Yes, but not for some time.  Things have changed."

"Perhaps I could show you around," she offered.  "I moved here two years ago from India, and I have come to love this town."

"He's on his way to an appointment," Sara told her.

"And I am on my way to a class.  But later?  Three-thirty?"

A walk in the city on this cold, sunny day sounded like an excellent way to recuperate from hours on airplanes and trains.  But Amshula obviously was also interested in another type of exercise, and Duncan wasn't. Not now. But explaining why would bring forth either sympathy or an attempt to "console" him, and Duncan didn't want either. He hadn't wanted them from Amanda, and he certainly didn't want them from a mortal woman he'd just met. "I'm sorry," he said, giving her a sincerely apologetic smile. "I'll be busy."

"Perhaps tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid I'll be leaving in the morning."

"Ah." Her gaze swept from his feet to his face then she gave him another dazzingly smile as she handed him her card. Her fingers were warm against his palm. "If you'll be in Prague again, v-mail me."

Duncan's smile promised nothing, but she seemed to take it as a good sign. There was a definite sway to her hips as she walked away. "Friendly girl," he commented to Sara as they continued down the hall.

"Very friendly," came the dry reply.  They turned the corner, and Duncan stiffened slightly as the sensation of another Immortal's presence ran up his spine and settled at the base of his skull.  "No need to knock, is there?" Sara noted, then opened a wooden door.  

"Duncan!" Cassandra called, and she met him halfway across the long, narrow room.  "It's so good to see you again," she said as she kissed his cheek and briefly clasped his hands.

It seemed Cassandra still wasn't much for hugging, at least not with him.  But her eyes were bright, her smile genuine, and she looked happy and at ease.  Quite a change from the woman who'd appeared in his dojo thirty-three years ago, speaking words of an ancient prophecy and begging him to kill a man who had hunted her--and haunted her--for years.  Quite a change, too, from the raging virago who, six months after that, had set out to kill another enemy while battling nightmares from her past.  Ten years of therapy and twenty years of working at a job she liked had helped her enormously.

"Cassandra," he said and kissed her cheek in return.  Behind him, he heard the door shut as Sara disappeared into the hall.

"Come sit down," Cassandra invited, leading the way past the desk to a pair of comfortable chairs standing in front of the multi-paned window that went from ceiling to floor.  She set her knee-length hair to one side as she seated herself, her turquoise skirt flaring about her and her long, silver earrings sparkling in the sunshine.  "How have you been?" she asked, but the intensity of her gaze and warmth of the words made it more than the standard conversational opener.

Duncan ducked it anyway.  "All right."

She didn't take his hint to leave it alone.  Cassandra, like Sara, had a tendency toward stubbornness.  "Saying goodbye is always hard," she said softly.

"Especially when you don't get the chance to say it," he retorted, and saw with a brief flare of satisfaction how she winced at the pain in his words.

"That does make it worse," she agreed, her eyes far away, and he realized that some of the pain was her own.  "I'm sorry for your loss, Duncan," she said, and that formal phrase gave them both a place to hide.

"Thank you," he replied simply.

Cassandra finally got the message and changed the subject.  "So, you're Duncan MacLeod again."

"I've been Mark Johnson for thirty years.  It's time."

"Connor would certainly agree.  Though not, perhaps, on the choice of name."

Cassandra's witch-powers didn't seem to be working today.  "Connor suggested it," Duncan told her.

Her eyebrows went up, but then she nodded.  "Being Connor MacLeod again has been good for him.  And giving his name to his children  He's always wanted that."

So did Duncan.  Maybe someday …

"How does it feel?" she asked.  "To be Duncan MacLeod again?"

"Good.  But different."

"Because you're different?" she asked.

Duncan considered that.  "Maybe."  Living under another name had changed him.  But just plain living had changed him, too, and as of next week, he'd have 438 years of that.  No matter.  "Duncan MacLeod is who I am, and who I'll always be."  It was long past his turn to ask her a question.  "Is Cassandra the name your father gave you?"

"No," she said, her eyes going distant, looking into the past.  "That name is gone.  That girl died, long ago."  Cassandra focused on him, returning to the here and now.  "The lady of the temple told me what I was, and then she gave me my name."  She smiled as she repeated his phrase: "Cassandra is who I am, and who I'll always be."

"As Connor will always be Connor."

She nodded, her smile lingering, then prodded, "And Methos?"

"I suppose.  He's had that name for five thousand years."

"But he hasn't used it for the last two thousand years."  The words sharpened.  "Except with you."

"And with Amanda and Dawson," Duncan pointed out.  "And with you."

"He had no choice with me.  I knew his name."

And his past.  The words went unsaid between them.  Silence could be sharp, too.  So could secrets; they all knew that.

"What can I do for you, Duncan?" Cassandra asked suddenly, warm and friendly again.  "This isn't simply a social visit."

"No," he agreed.  "You and I never go to each other unless we need something."

"True enough," she said, almost sadly.  "Though I do take pleasure in your company, Duncan, and I would like to be your friend.  And so, if I can help you now, I will.  What can I do for you?" she asked once again.

It shouldn't be hard to ask this one simple question of her, and yet … it was.  Was the reason pride?  A desire for privacy?  A reluctance to expose this want--this need--in him?  Especially to her? But what business was it of hers?  None at all.  And it wasn't as if he were the only one interested; she'd been the first to bring up his name.  "I'm looking for Methos," Duncan said.

Cassandra, annoyingly enough, did not seem surprised.  "Have you asked Emory Dawson?"

"She said she couldn't help."  Which, Duncan knew, didn't mean she didn't know.  Not that Emory would lie to him, but she would protect Methos's privacy, if he'd asked her to.  She'd been good at keeping secrets even before she'd met Joe Dawson; ten years of marriage to a Watcher had just given her extra practice. Had Methos asked her to keep quiet?  And if so, why?  Duncan hadn't wanted to put Emory on the spot, so he hadn't pressed her for more information.  Cassandra was another story.  "Do you know where he is?"

"No.  I'm sorry, Duncan, I can't help you, either."

"I thought you kept track of him."

"I try," she said dryly.  "Sometimes I even succeed.  But mostly, I have to wait for him to come to me."

So had Duncan, over the years.  He was tired of waiting.

"The last time I saw him was two and a half years ago, at Alex's funeral," she said.

That was the last time Duncan had seen him, too.  Methos hadn't come to Susan's funeral; Duncan hadn't known how to reach him.  Two weeks after, flowers had arrived, with a card that read only, "My deepest condolences.  M."

"He was living in Toronto then," Cassandra continued, "studying engineering at university, but he was graduated in December that year.  Amanda might know where he went."

She didn't.  Duncan had already asked.  "Thanks anyway, Cassandra," he said.

"If he contacts me, I'll tell him you'd like to see him," she offered.

Methos knew that already.  Or he should.  Duncan let it go with a nod, then asked, "So, what did you and the president have to talk about today?"

She blinked once before she answered.  "His daughter would like to have a child.  He called to see how the fertility research was going."

"And how is it going?"

"Slowly."

"Is that all you talked about?"

"Oh no, Tom and I are old friends.  We talked about his dog, his wife, his golf game, and his strategy for reelection in the fall.  He's worried about the coalition of Reds and Blues holding together, especially with Texas and New England each threatening to secede because of the other's laws."

"States' rights," commented Duncan sourly.  That issue had torn the U.S. apart nearly two hundred years before; it might again.

"Mmm," Cassandra murmured, though whether in agreement or disagreement, Duncan couldn't tell.  He fought back a sudden urge to yawn, and Cassandra said, "You must be tired from traveling.  Would you like a room to rest in for a few hours, perhaps spend the night?  You and I can  talk more over dinner, and you could play with Alea this afternoon. We also have a fully equipped gym."

"That would be wonderful, thank you." A nap, a playdate with Alea, a brisk stroll around Prague followed by some exercise, then dinner with Cassandra and a place to spend the night.  "Perfect."

Cassandra opened the narrow door behind her desk and beckoned to the young woman in the adjoining room.  "Sister Janna, would you please escort Mr. MacLeod to a guest room?  The third floor."

"Of course, Sister," she said, smiling shyly at Duncan as she opened the door to the hall.  "This way."

"I'll see you at dinner, Duncan," Cassandra promised, and she waited until Duncan and Janna were all the way down the hall before she shut her office door.  As Cassandra turned around, the narrow door near the bookshelves opened, and Sara stepped into the room.  She sat on the edge of Cassandra's desk, her feet swinging, while Cassandra leaned back in her desk chair.

"Why does he want Methos?" Sara asked, getting right to the heart of things, as usual.

"To take his mind off Susan?  Methos always gives Duncan plenty to think about."

"Why do you think Methos hasn't been in touch with him?"

"Perhaps because he knows that Duncan needs to think about Susan some more.  Six months isn't much time after losing a wife of twenty-three years."

Sara nodded sagely.  "Doesn't want to be caught on the rebound.  Who does?"  She grinned.  "Not you, that's for sure."

"Impudent chit," Cassandra retorted.

The grin grew wider.  "That means I'm right."

She was, but … "Timing is always important, and between your father and me, with our history …," Cassandra started to explain, but Sara waved it away.

"I know," she said fondly.  "You want him to be happy, and you also want him to want you.  So you're waiting to see if he's ready.  I get it.  I'd do the same."  She started rearranging the pens in their holder, matching orphan lids to topless pens, and looking up occasionally from beneath her bangs.  "Do you think Uncle Duncan--I mean Duncan-- is ready?  For sex?  Or for a relationship?"

"Maybe.  People grieve in different ways.  They heal in different ways.  Sex can be healing. Duncan seems to find it so. Within a month after his long-time lover Tessa died in the 1990s, he'd been with two women."

"He turned one down today. Amshula nearly ambushed him on the way here, and even though he ducked her invitation--twice--she still gave him her card. Maybe she should be reassigned to the fourth floor."

"A courtesan requires empathy as well as enthusiasm," Cassandra reminded her.  "Her psych eval was accurate; she belongs where she is, with the Guardians.  She'll settle down in a few years."

Sara looked skeptical, but she didn't argue the point. "Still ... Uncle Duncan's been married so long, and he likes women so much.  I can't see him with a man."

"I can," Cassandra said.  "At least this one." She'd seen them together only a few times, but whenever they spoke of each other, she'd heard the intensity in their voices and seen the yearning in their eyes.  A cautious yearning in Methos, an uncertain yearning in Duncan, but yearning all the same.  But before his quarter century with a family of his own, Duncan hadn't been ready.  He still wasn't, not quite.  But soon.

"Does that bother you?" Sara asked.  "I mean, not him and a man, but him and Methos?"

"Actually, I rather like it.  Methos will keep Duncan busy, and Duncan will keep Methos in line."  And she wouldn't have to worry about either of them bothering about her.

Sara pushed the pen holder--now organized--aside.   Her feet stopped their swinging.  "Why did you tell Duncan the research was going slowly?"

"It is."

"I was reading Grace's report while you talked to Duncan.  She says the new vaccine looks promising."

"It still needs to be tested, and that takes years."

"I don't have years," she said, tossing her braid back over her shoulder, her mouth set in that stubborn line Cassandra knew very well.  "I'm going to volunteer."

"Caorran--," Cassandra began, using her special name, her name of power, the name Cassandra had gifted her with when Sara had turned seven years old, on a winter day of silent voices and quiet snow.

"I've dreamed of my son, Cassandra!" Sara said, that power humming within her now.  "I've seen him, alive and well, and standing between me and Daniel."  She leaned forward eagerly.  "I want another child."

So did many women.  "It could be an adopted son," Cassandra pointed out.

"He's not."

Cassandra paused.  "The dream is that clear?"

"Yes."

Cassandra's dreams had never been that clear.  But each talent was unique, and Caorran's foresight had been uncannily accurate before.  Cassandra had hopes that the tendency would breed true, in Alea and in the offspring of Colin, and Paul, the half-brother, and the two half-sisters in England, too.  And to have a boy from Caorran …  Yes, indeed.  "You should discuss it with Daniel first," Cassandra said.

"I'm going to, as soon as he gets home."  She stretched her arms behind her head, cracking joints and flexing muscles.  "Council meeting tonight.  Full regalia, right?"

She nodded.  "It's Nina's investiture as Healer.  It'll be good to have nine members again."

"Yeah, no more tied votes," Sara said, but Cassandra knew the number nine had more benefits than that.  Three-filled three, nine months from conception to birth, nine muses of poetry and dance …

"At least we don't call it the Gray Council," Sara said.  "And we don't have to wear long gray robes with enormous hoods, and we have chairs so we can sit down."

Cassandra laughed aloud, remembering a television show from forty years before.  "Your mother let you watch too much TV."

"Babylon 5 was on DVD," Sara protested.  "Just like Star Trek.  Those spotlights on the Gray Council reminded me of transporter beams.  Colin and I were always waiting for Scotty to beam them up."

"What a cross-over that would be," Cassandra said then continued in a horrible Scottish accent, "Captain, I dinna have coordinates for that alternate universe programmed in ma transporter!  It'll blow up the ship, fer sure."

"Och, ma wee puir bairrrns," Sara joined in, clasping a hand over her heart.  "Ma engines, ma bonny, bonny engines."  She fell over sideways on the desk and croaked, "I'm dead, Jim."

"Then why are you still talking?"

"Oh, come on, Cassandra," she said, sitting up again and pulling her legs up so she could wrap her arms about her knees.  "Nobody really dies on shows.  They always come back somehow.  Like Immortals."

Except it wasn't "always," even for Immortals.

Sara knew that, too.  "Who do you miss?" she asked softly.  "Which Immortals do you wish were still alive?"

"Only the Immortals?"

She shrugged.  "You know we're going to die; that's a given.  So you're not in for the long haul.  But with Immortals, you might think, 'This person I can know for centuries, maybe for my whole life.'  That's got to be different."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed.  "There's that chance, that hope for the future."

"So who do you miss?" Sara asked again.

"Oh my."  Cassandra leaned back in her chair, thinking.  "The lady of the temple, most of all.  She was my first teacher, my mother in a way.  Kalia, a priestess there, a sister to me.  I could use her help now.  Ramirez, of course, my fourth husband.  I miss Rebecca, though I never knew her.  I wish we had met.  And I miss Orlath.  She had such brilliance, such joy."

"Your student?"

"Yes, but not in Immortality.  Ceirdwyn was her teacher for that.  I taught Orlath pottery, weaving, music, the arts.  We lived in a monastery in Ireland, before the Vikings came for the gold."  Before Roland came for her.  Cassandra suppressed a shudder and banished the memories, then sat up straight.  "Thank you, Sara, for asking that.  Sometimes we Immortals focus on old enemies so much we forget about our old friends."

"It's neat to hear about them.  I think I'll ask my dad the same thing, when I see him over the holidays."

"I'm glad you've decided to go," Cassandra said.

"Me, too."  Sara hopped off the desk and headed for the door.

"Sara," Cassandra called, and the young woman turned around.  "I don't think Duncan needed to know I was talking with the president."

That stubborn look was back again.  "I think he did."

"Your father has appointed himself my guardian.  Your mother set Methos on my trail.  I do not need your Uncle Duncan looking over my shoulder, too."

Sara cocked her head to one side, looking very much like her mother often had.  "When I was six, you told me, 'Need and want are not the same.'"

Cassandra forced herself to confront the truth of that.  She didn't want Duncan looking over her shoulder, but in Sara's opinion, she needed him to.  And maybe Sara was right.  Like mother like daughter, again.

"I've always remembered that, Cassandra, because you were right."  Sara waved cheerfully then left the room.

"Impudent chit," Cassandra said once more, but she was smiling, and the words were full of love.

Friday, 14 December 2029
----------------------------------------------

"I'm concerned about the corrision at that temperature and pressure," Hans pointed out, and three of the others at the table nodded intently. Michelle sighed.

Kyle took a slow and thoughtful drink of beer. "What about a preceramic polymer coating?"

"Siloxane?" Kirstin suggested.

"Or maybe silicon nitride," Claude replied.  "A binder would reduce void formation during manufacture, though the material would need reinfiltration."

"That can get expensive. Maybe if we...."  Kirstin started sketching a diagram on a cocktail napkin, only to have Michelle reach across the table and take it from her hands.

"Stop that," Michelle said sternly. "We've been designing that rocket engine for more than a year, and we work on it every single day. It's Friday night. We're in a bar. We have beer. There is music." She waved her hand behind her at the people the dance floor and the trio of musicians in the corner, who were pounding out a song from half a century ago while their singer wailed, "Don't touch me, please. I can not stand the way you tease!"

"On Monday," Michelle concluded, "we go back to the Research Center and we design the rocket that will take us to the stars. But tonight, we have fun."

Kyle laughed and lifted his beer to her in salute. "Well said!" That had been his philosophy for many years. Enjoy now, and work another day.

Claude followed his example and saluted too, then set his empty mug down with a solid thump. "Tonight, we drink!"

"Tonight, we dance," Kirstin added, with a saucy smile and a twinkle in her eye. She offered her hand to Hans, and he stood with a quick bow and went with her to the dance floor.

Kyle offered his hand to Michelle, but she shook her head. "Not this song." He didn't ask her why, simply nodded and turned slightly to watch the dancers. Hans and Kirstin had traded partners already; it was that kind of dance and that kind of crowd: young, unattached, and frenetic. Their energy had an air of desperation, rather like the macabre balls during the years of the Black Death. The voices around them were mostly German, but quite a few speaking Dutch or using English or French as a common tongue to communicate. Refugees from the drowned lands, no doubt.

He turned back to Michelle and Claude and joined their conversation about time-shift anomalies in the various Star Trek alternate universes--an engineer's idea of nerdvana. When the song ended, Kirstin and Hans came back with more beer and happily joined in.

Yet even the fascination of sci-fi occasionally paled. Kirstin was expounding on her theory that the gate at the City of Forever was actually a Star Gate and the guardian was an ascended being, when the men abruptly stopped listening. A woman had walked into the bar.

No, not walked. This woman prowled. Above high-heeled sandals, black leather laces crisscrossed their way up ankle, calf, and knee. Bare thighs gleamed beneath a very short skirt of green, and a sleeveless vest of black leather with only two buttons exposed arms, midriff, and back, but just a tantalizing glimpse of bosom. Her left hand was at her shoulder, holding onto a dark green cape that floated behind her like water and shifted at every breath. Cloud cloth, they called it, the latest release from the Ephesus line. At the corner of each eye she had drawn the eye of Horus in black eyeliner, and her lips were the color of blood. So were her nails. Long, red tresses streamed down her back, and her only jewelry was a choker of green satin ribbon wound around her neck. She paused at the edge of the dance floor, a faint smile playing about her lips as she scanned the crowd.
 
"Looks like Cat Woman forgot her whip," Kirstin remarked and turned back to her drink.

Michelle punched Hans on the shoulder. "Breathe, man. Breathe." He nodded, but neither he nor Claude looked away.

They didn't need to. The woman was heading towards their table, apparently having found who she was looking for. The three men stood as she came near, and Michelle and Kirstin rolled their eyes at each other. Kyle took a step away from his chair and reminded himself to breathe.

"Philippe!" the woman exclaimed, her voice low and throaty and filled with the memory of silken nights and wanton days--and the promise of more to come.

"Serena," Kyle greeted her, swallowing in a throat gone dry. To either side of him, he was vaguely aware of the dumfounded expressions of his co-workers. She smiled, slowly, lusciously, then flowed into his arms. Her mouth tasted of brandy, and her hair felt like silk.

"Who the hell is Phillipe?" he dimly heard Hans say. "And how does Kyle know her?"

"He knows her extremely well, it seems," Michelle's voice said dryly.

Methos (a.k.a. Kyle Winston a.k.a. Philippe Jarbeau a.k.a. a thousand other names) didn't respond. His tongue and lips were occupied, and his hands and arms and all his senses were filled with the delectably insatiable Serena.

Enjoy now, and work another day.

~~~~~

Perhaps he should change that to: Enjoy the night and the day. And another day. And another. Finally, on Tuesday morning, he said, "I have to go to work."

Serena stretched, in the only way she could, with her toes pointed and her arms over her head. Her movements tightened the green satin ribbon that outlined each breast and wound once about her throat. She blinked slowly through heavy-lidded eyes. "Why?"

"I'm the lead engineer on a project. We need to finish by spring, and my team needs me."

She pouted prettily. "I need you."

Methos leaned over and lightly traced a finger down the bridge of her nose, across her lips, pausing on the lower one long enough for her to open her mouth and swirl the tip of her tongue across his finger. He moved on, following the curve of her chin and skimming across the delicate skin of her throat, ending in the hollow where her heartbeat showed. His fingertip caught in the ribbon and twisted it tight just for a moment, and she drew in a sharp hiss of breath. On his finger moved, sliding in a straight line between her breasts and onto the softer skin below. Then lower, and lower, more and more slowly, then lower still...

Her eyes were closed now, her breathing shallow, and her creamy skin flushed. "Philippe..."

"Time for work," he said cheerfully and got off the bed.

"Philippe!"

He held up two shirts. "What do you think? Blue or white?" She didn't answer, pouting not so prettily now, so he finished dressing without her help. "I'll be back around five," he told her, with one hand on the doorknob.

"I want to see where you work," she announced.

He'd been expecting her to protest his exit, but he hadn't expected to hear that. He shrugged. "It's a research lab. Lots of computers, equipment, machines…"

For once, her smile was amused instead of enticing. "Yes. For designing rocket engines. I know. My company is one of the Research Center's sponsors."

"Your company?"

"Kerametallen."

Kerametallen, the company that made the preceramic polymer coating he'd suggested on Friday night. The company for innovative technology in materials engineering. The company that Michelle and Hans were both hoping to get jobs with once the project was done. Methos came back over and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not just a pretty face with a gorgeous body, you know," Serena informed him, then stretched once again to remind him just how gorgeous her body was.

"Clearly," he agreed, enjoying the show.

"I'll go home for some clothes then meet you after lunch at the Research Center. Yes?"

"Yes," he agreed again.

"One more thing before you leave for work, Philippe."

"Yes?" She didn't answer, and he finally dragged his gaze back to her face.

"Untie me."

~~~~~

At the center, conversations stopped when he entered a room. Methos had expected that. Calling in "sick" on Monday had given the rumor mill plenty of time and even more material. He'd also expected the sly grins, ribald comments, and clandestine questions from the men. He rather enjoyed the speculative glances and smiles from the women. They hadn't had much interest in Kyle Winston, the polite yet boring Canadian engineer, before. But, they were obviously thinking, if a Cat Woman without a whip is willing to fall into his arms—and spend three days in his bed-- there must be more to this fellow than meets the eye.

So true.

Methos got through the morning with bland smiles and a frequently repeated explanation: "We were in theater together in college. Philippe was my name in a play."

So not true.

After lunch, Methos met Serena in the lobby. She'd donned the sensible outfit of a business woman and pulled her hair into a neat braid coiled at the base of her neck. She was even wearing horn-rimmed glasses.  And, Methos was willing to bet a month's salary, underneath it all she was wearing exotic and expensive lingerie that could only be purchased by appointment in a private boutique in Berlin. Or perhaps she was wearing nothing at all. He looked up from his speculative perusal, only to met her amused and knowing eyes.

"Mr. Winston," she greeted him politely.

"Miss Gordon." He was equally polite.

"I believe you will be showing me the facilities?"

"I'd be delighted."

They wandered about the building, and conversations stopped even more abruptly than they had this morning. The men were busy ogling, the women busy evaluating. Serena--true to her name--seemed serenely oblivious to it all. Methos headed for a less crowded area.

It was in the machine shop, between the drill press and the water abrasion tank, that she popped the question. "Will you go into space with me?"

"Space?" Someday, yes, he wanted to. That was why he'd started working here, sothat in the future he could see new worlds. But that was a long-term goal. "I'm an engineer, not an astronaut."

"Nor am I. But they do sell rides."

"Right." He nearly laughed. "For how many million?"

"Seventy-two. I can get us both round-trip tickets."

"Right," he said again. She said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow in challenge. Methos ran his hand through his hair. "You want to spend one hundred forty-four million to go up in a rocket, orbit the earth for a while, and them come back down."

"Yes."

"Lot of money to look out the window."

"Oh, we wouldn't be spending all the time looking out the window."

"Ah." He nodded as the image of silken red tresses floating all about them came to mind.

"Think of it, Philippe," she said, stepping closer to him and laying one hand on his chest, just above his heart. "All that money will help fund the project, while you and I can have a private adventure."
 
"Mmm."

Sometime during the tour she had removed her glasses. She smiled up at him through dark lashes then whispered the most seductive words of all: "It will be new."