16

Aces and Eights

R. Wilson

2-27-09

Chapter One

Purdey did a high kick catching Wofford under the chin. As he went down she spun delivering a roundhouse kick to Newhouse's abdomen. Gambit followed with a knockout punch to the man's jaw. Steed blocked a swing from Kingsley with his right and hit his man hard with his left fist. The man staggered and Steed followed with two powerful blows from his right. Kingsley went down and stayed down. Steed looked at his two companions, despite the bruise he could feel forming below his left eye, his smile telegraphed the satisfaction he felt at ending their latest assignment. He was about to suggest they all get a much needed drink when he saw Gambit's and Purdey's eyes widen, but not in time to avoid the surprise attack they were trying to warn him about. In the same instant he felt a sharp pain on the side of his head. He heard them shout his name and saw both begin to move toward him and then all went black.

Steed could hear the pounding in his head. In fact, it was all he could hear. Blood rushed passed his ears at an alarming rate only to bounce off his inner skull and take a stabbing plunge at the back of his eyes. He knew that opening them would be painful, but there was nothing else for it. He couldn't lay on the ground forever. Just for an instant he had to admit that it sounded tempting. No fighting, no shouting, no one trying to kill him, just peace and serenity. With a sigh of resignation, he sat up and opened his eyes, but the view that awaited him was not what he'd expected. For a moment he wondered how long he'd been laying there. The last thing he remembered he was involved in a fight under bright, sunny skies. Now he was surrounded by fog. Living in England, that was not an unusual phenomenon, but he'd never know it to roll in that fast. There was an unusual quality about this fog, as well, something he just couldn't pen down. Oh well, he thought, as he struggle to his feet, time to get moving. He needed to locate his colleagues and make sure Kingsley was taken into custody. He stood with only the slightest of groans, felt the side of his head where a nice lump had already formed. He was looking around for his bowler and brolly when he heard it.

"About time, I was starting to get board."

Steed turned, a little too quickly, for the blood seemed to slosh to the other side of his head sending the throb into renewed heights. There at the edge of the fog bank was a young woman. She wasn't part of the group he had tangled with, he was sure of that. She was small, perhaps a little over five feet, dark hair, the eyes were green, or brown, or both? The more he looked, the less he was sure. She seemed to be perched upon something he couldn't make out. Elbows on knees, head resting in the palms of her hands and staring directly at him. He wasn't sure what was going on. Was there someone, or more than one someone, hiding behind the fog, waiting for him to take the bait? He decided that tact, diplomacy and a little charm might be the wisest course until he could figure things out. "Heaven forbid," he told her, with his best smile.

The woman raised her chin from her hands, "Yes, well I don't know about that . . . yet," she said. "I've been working on that for years, but the ideals of those with decision making powers and my mouth seem to be fundamentally apposed. However, that's a conversation for a later date. How do you feel?"

Steed ran his hand through the short hair on the side of his head to smooth it down. "Never felt better," he said jauntily.

A small chuckle escaped from the woman. "You're a liar. Your head hurts and you feel like hell, but if you don't want my help then so be it."

"What did you have in mind?" Steed asked as he moved a bit closer to the figure. The woman hopped down from her perch and waved her hand to the right. Steed watched as a table and chairs appeared out of the fog. Resting upon the table was a decanter and two glasses. He wasn't too surprised. He'd seen parlor tricks before, even performed a few in his time.

"Brandy, Mr. Steed? I believe that is your usual method of medication in these instances." She poured, sat down at the table and downed one glass of the amber liquid like . . . well, like she'd been doing it for years.

"Aren't you a bit young for that?" Steed asked as he picked up the other glass. Up close she looked to be about fifteen.

"I'm older than I look," she explained, "so I try not to look too often."

"Where are Purdey and Gambit?" He tried to make the question as casual as possible.

"Yeah . . . well, we'll scrub round that for the moment."

He felt comfortable consuming the Brandy. He'd watched her pour from the single container and drink some herself. Of course that didn't mean that the Brandy couldn't have been poisoned or drugged. She could have taken an antidote prior, but he was willing to risk it. "Since you obviously know my name, am I permitted to know yours?"

"Call me Sam," she said.

"Short for Samantha?"

"No, just the right size."

"It's a little unusual given the circumstances don't you think?," he asked.

"Not from where I sit," she answered. "Now if you don't mind I'd like to get on with things."

"By all means. Purdey and Gambit?" The smile on Steed's face belied the steel in his gaze.

The woman seemed unaffected. "An amazing couple," she said thoughtfully, "a good sense of comedic timing, but an unfortunate tendency of picking up bad habits from their elders. Thankfully they're not my problem. To answer your question however, they are where ever you left them I would imagine. I'm not interested in all of your outside relationships, thank the world. I'm only concerned with one and I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible. I left a very good poker game for this meeting. You know, it never fails. As soon as I start winning they can't do without me." This last was said more to herself than to Steed.

"Sorry, I'm sure," Steed interjected, not understanding, nor caring about the ramblings of his capture. "Purdey and Gambit?" he reintroduced the topic of his interest.

"Mr. Steed, I know you . . ."

Steed interrupted. "Just Steed," he clarified.

Sam's eyes rolled. "My apologies," she told him with no sign of sincerity. "As I've said, I don't know where they are and frankly it's not my problem. I have enough trouble dealing with you."

Steed poured another Brandy. "That's not the first time I've heard that and I'd be delighted to sit and debate the matter, but where are Purdey and Gambit?" Sam jumped up from her seat, ran her fingers through her hair as though to pull it out by the roots and let out a groan. Steed watched as she circled the edge of the fog bank. She appeared to be mumbling to herself. Steed merely sipped his drink and watched wondering why no one else had shown themselves. He saw no weapons on the girl, there had been no threats, aside from asking if he'd like a drink, there had been no questions. He had time to wait. He hoped his friends had the same.

After controlling the frustration that threatened to boil over, Sam returned to try again. "Look, Steed, I know that you are a stub, er . . . persistent soul and under most circumstances it can be one of your better qualities. I also know that trusting someone you don't know, and sometimes those you do know, doesn't always come easily for you. However, I can tell you that bypassing your normal reticence this time will make things go a lot faster and will certainly make things easier for me."

"And just who are you?" Steed's curiosity finally got the better of him.

Sam reached into a pocket and pulled out a card. She held it up, turning it this way and that to catch a better light, although there was no greater light in one direction than another. She lowered the card, sighed and gave him a very unconvincing smile before beginning. "I am your guide through the mystic . . . oh, hell. I can't spout this drivel." She threw the card into the air discarding whatever was written on it.

Steed watched to see where it landed. If he could get a hold of it, perhaps it would shed some light on this situation. The card never came down. It must have gotten lost in the fog, he thought, or it was another party trick intended to impress him. Sam was rubbing her eyes as though a great pain had settled behind them. Steed could commiserate.

"They give us this stuff and expect us to smile and deliver it with a straight face as though it doesn't make us look like complete idiots." She sighed again a tired resigned sound and looked at him for the first time with sincerity. "I've never been much of a conformer, you see. I suppose that's why I've been stuck in this position so long instead of moving up to the next rung. My supervisor keeps telling me that it's my attitude, but I say by the time it's gotten to this point; diplomacy doesn't really come into it. I mean I tried it their way once and what happened? The man still went to the theater. I mean the play wasn't even that good," she stopped suddenly, "but I digress.

"Steed, I could go into detail and tell you that whenever a baby is born they are assigned someone like me."

"From the time they're born?" he asked. "That must be a rather daunting task." So it was a sleeper, he thought. He'd never heard of one going back that far, but in light of the situation in Paris six mouths ago, it wasn't out of the question. However, they had all been Russian; none had an American accent, but sleepers he could deal with.

"No, I'm not a sleeper."

That took him by surprise, but he gave no sign of it. "What? Never?" he joked.

"No, never."

The way she was looking at him gave him a slightly uncomfortable feeling. He quelled the feeling remembering that some of the events from their Paris case made the papers. It wasn't completely out of the question for someone to make the leap that he would be remembering.

"If we could get on. As I was saying, I don't want to go into a long drawn out explanation. You're not an unintelligent man, surely you can agree that individuals live and die by the choices they make throughout their lives."

Steed nodded. He knew better than most,

"Many things influence those choices. Everything from the family they are born into, the schools they attend, jobs they hold and people they come in contact with play a part in life's design." She walked to the table and picked up the glass she had drained earlier.

Steed reached for the Brandy to fill it for her, but saw that it was already filled. Now that was a neat parlor trick, he thought. She began pacing as though considering what her next words should be.

"Under normal circumstances, an individual would not meet his or her, ah . . ."

"Guardian Angel?" he suggested. This ridiculous tale was becoming fun. Sooner or later the interrogation would begin. He'd been through sillier sessions than this and he had to admit that it had being tortured beat all to hell.

Sam turned around with a look on her face of one who knew she was being wound-up, but she took it in stride. "Having a good time, are we?"

"I've had worse," he answered honestly.

"Yes, I'm aware, but since you're having such a good time, let's move on. The term Guardian Angel isn't quite right and it's a bit old fashioned. We prefer Time Stream Managers or TSM for short. You now how bureaucracy goes, they have an abbreviation for everything." Sam's face took on a more serious tome. "While we're at it, let me just say that you have been a real pain in my . . . well, the back of my front for as long as I can remember. From the time you made that bet with your childhood friend, what was his name? Dobbin wasn't it?" She didn't wait for his reply. "Bet him you could swing across that pond at your Aunt . . . God, even I can't keep track of those."

"As I recall, I won that bet," he stated. Whoever had done her research certainly had been thorough.

"You broke your collar bone! By the way, I lost five bucks on that one. Of course that's minor compared to your adult life. Let's see, you've been run over, shot, stabbed, blown up, beaten, poisoned, switched bodies," her eyes jerked back to him, "that was a neat one, by the way, all culminating in your last episode, being shot in the arm. Paris wasn't it?"

That uncomfortable feeling was beginning to deepen. An agent in the field as long as he had been would encounter many, if not most, of the instances she mentioned, but the body swapping case was still highly classified. That is, on the British side. It was possible that Sam had just given him information about which group he was dealing with. "I would be less than a gentleman to disagree with a lady."

"You'd also be lying, again."

Steed drained his glass and stood. Whatever was going to happen, he needed to get it out in the open. "As much as I'm enjoying this trip down memory lane, I think it's time I was going."

Sam sat back in her chair with a big smile. She actually chuckled. "You really are a funny fellow," she said, but made no move to stop him. "You've actually hit the nail on the head. This is a trip down memory lane, in a way."

"What way would that be?" he asked. He made his way to the edge of the fog and although he saw no one emerge, he braced himself for the attack he was sure would come. He took one last look at the woman. She was simply sitting there smiling at him. "No reply? I'm disappointed. I thought you had all the answers."

She spoke only two words, but they were enough. "Emma Peel."

Steed knew the surprise showed on his face. That was the last thing he expected to hear and definitely the last thing he wanted to talk about. With only a minor pause he slipped into the fog. Again the oddness of the phenomenon struck him. With Sam he could see a good twenty feet, but now he had to hold his hand up to within an inch of his face to see anything. There was no sound. No traffic, birds, wind, no sounds of someone pursuing. Complete silence. He moved slowly, unsure of his surroundings or foot holds. It was possible he was standing on a cliff and simply couldn't see it. Why had she mentioned Emma, he wondered? It had been ten years since he'd seen her, outside of the society pages that is, and more than six months since he'd spoken with her. He remembered the call he'd made to her prior to his trip to France. He'd used the strange case developing there as an excuse. He'd thought of calling her many times, but never worked up enough nerve to go through with it. When he finally had, everything he had feared came true. Oh, they had conversed on friendly terms, but something didn't feel right. Just hearing her voice brought back a pain that he thought he'd put behind him. The result was a stilted conversation, rather like someone you knew once-upon-a-time that you run into accidentally. Neither knows quite what to say so you leave as soon as possible regretting having spoken at all. Still, he had hoped that he'd opened a door, but she never tried to contact him after that. He took a few more steps and was surprised when he stepped out into a clearing for sitting right there at the same table, now reading a racing form as calm as could be, was Sam.

"Ready to talk?" she asked. "You know, if I win this hand I might put money on this horse "Emma's Pride". What do you think?"

Steed stepped back into the fog. Must have traveled in a circle, he thought. He'd be more conscious of that this time. He set off again. Instead of turning back, he turned right. He wished he had his umbrella with him. There was a small compass built into the handle and it would certainly come in handy now. His mind wondered once again. He knew that events from the passed could come back and haunt you with a vengeance. Could that be it? Could Sam, and whomever she's associated with, be looking for Emma? Could she be in danger? That didn't make sense. It wouldn't be that difficult to locate her, so why the elaborate charade? No, it didn't add up. He had no idea how long he walked. It had to be quite a distance this time, yet again; he took one more step and emerged into a clearing. This time the insufferable Sam was holding three playing cards in her hand that he couldn't see. She looked up at him.

"Let me know when you get tired."

Steed decided to try a new tactic. He took four steps backward, turned left and took two steps forward. He emerged once again in the clearing with Sam. She didn't bother to look up this time. He tried several other directions, but the result was the same. He didn't know how they were doing it, but it was obvious there was no way out at this point. He sat down and poured himself a drink. "What's this all about?" he asked.

"As I was saying, I'm your TSM and I'm afraid your time stream has gotten so far off track that it became necessary to meet. It's my responsibility to try and show you the error of your ways."

"That could take some time, but what does Mrs. Peel have to do with it?" he asked, although he was quite sure she would explain even if he hadn't.

"That's when your time stream shot off somewhere into the nether land, the day you abandoned Emma Peel."

Steed set his glass down with a little more force that he had intended. "I beg your pardon?" He felt heat rising under his collar. "If you know so much about me then you know that isn't true."

Sam looked at him with surprise. "Really?"

"Yes," he stated, plainly and simply.

"Well I'm always willing to listen, up to a point. If you didn't leave her flapping in the breeze, what would you call it?"

It was time to try a diversion. "All right," he started, "assuming I buy this hoax. If you're truly who you say you are, why would my, . . . um, TSM be an American and why a girl of, what age?"

"Yeah, about that. I have to admit that I was hoping for something along the lines of a Raquel Welch. I thought it might have more impact on you, but unfortunately the higher echelons have a sense of humor and you have to take what you can get. AS for the nationality, I am American or I was. Now can we return to Emma Peel?"

The pounding behind his eyes intensified and he rubbed at them to try and clear his mind. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. He didn't even want to remember that day let a lone revisit it. So why not say nothing at all? There was no reason he had to answer questions.

"You're right, you don't have to answer any questions, but it would make things more pleasant." She slid a small bottle across the table.

Damn, he thought. How was she doing that and where did the bottle of Aspirin come from. He pushed the bottle back not prepared to trust the pills inside.

Sam rolled her eyes again. "Suit yourself," she said. "Now, you were saying? Excuse me, I mean, you were thinking?"

What the hell, he thought. Let's just get this over with. "Mrs. Peel left of her own volition. Her husband had just been found alive after two years in the jungle. She was smiling. She was happy. It's what she wanted." He almost spit the last words. His anger spilled over before he realized. He took another swallow of the Brandy and let its warmth sooth the rough edges. It was a moment before he could speak again, but his voice was low, sad, "It was as though those two years hadn't existed. She went back . . . back to her life . . . without a second glance." When he could, he raised his eyes to her, resolve set in the gray shades.

"Is that it?" Sam asked patiently.

"That's enough, isn't it?" Steed challenged.

"Perhaps, but let's just examine the facts for a moment. You knew Emma Peel for most of the two years prior to her husband's return, true?" He nodded. "Your relationship was a very close one, again true?"

"We were . . . close friends."

Sam's smile broadened. "Yeeess, I just love euphemisms. Being so close I assume that you were familiar with her various moods. You knew when she was happy? You'd seen how she acted, how she looked?"

Yes, he was aware. When Emma was happy her face would light up brighter than the sun. A thousand stars shown in her eyes, her smile warmed his soul like a forest fire and her laughter was a chorus of angels singing . . . and . . . and she was . . . gone. "What's your point?" he asked.

"My point is that I don't think you were seeing things as they were."

Steed watched as she waved her hand and suddenly the scene came alive before him. Everything was just as it had been all those yeas ago. His old flat at Stable Mews, he saw himself reading the paper that had announced Peter Peel's miraculous recovery and return to England with the words, `Wife Emma Waits'. He felt the tightening of his stomach just as he had that day. He saw the pained expression on the face of his `then' self and didn't need a mirror to know that his `current' self reflected the same. He was so caught up in the spectacle that he didn't stop to wonder how this was being done.

He watched as Emma entered and felt his heart drop. He didn't want to watch, didn't want to hear the words again. "I think I heard all I need to," he said, but he was powerless to stop it, just as he had been then. "You've seen the papers," he heard her say, and his head swam. "Yes." There was no sound after that. The blood in his head was rushing so fast that it drowned out everything else. He didn't need to hear. Those words were indelibly itched on his memory, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Emma. She was so beautiful. He watched as the scene played on, as she stopped, barely any space between them, as she leaned in to kiss him good-bye. He could still feel her warm lips on his cheek. He stopped his hand from rising to the spot. She moved to leave. He called to her and she turned. He knew what he had done, what he had said. He called her, not Mrs. Peel, as he always had before, but Emma. And then, he had uttered the most inane thing in the world, "Thanks." That was it. That was all he could say. The last time he would ever see her, the last time he would speak with her, the last time for everything and all he could say was, "Thanks."! He blinked as he noticed that the scene had frozen on Emma's smile just before she walked out the door.

"What do you see?" Sam was asking.

The darkest day of my life, he wanted to say, but he couldn't. "Mrs. Peel," was all he could get out.

"Yes," Sam agreed, "it was a dark day wasn't it?"

Steed's eyes darted to this strange person. The furrow on his forehead deepened.

"Is that all that you see?"

He examined the image again. What was it he was supposed to see? What was the answer to this dammed game that he just wanted to end? "I see the entrance to what used to be my apartment," he finally told her.

Sam sighed deeply and shook her head. She waved her hand and the images started moving again. He watched Emma climb into the passenger seat of Peter Peel's vehicle, watched Peter get in on the other side and start off down the street. Emma stared back at him just as she had long ago. Once again the scene stopped. This time before Emma completely disappeared form view. When he could tare his eyes from the image he looked over at Sam who was obviously preoccupied.

"I'll see your raise and bump you twenty," he heard her say under her breath. He cleared his throat.

"Oh right." She glanced at the scene and back to him. "Now what do you see?" Sam asked again.

Steed had really tired of this painful journey. "Why don't you just tell me what I'm supposed to be looking at and put an end to this," he said rubbing at his temples. He was really tempted by that aspirin at this point.

"Sometimes I really despair of people. That's why I find this job to be a real pain most of the time," she said. "None-the-less, we'll press on if you don't mind. Churchill had a pair of queens showing and I don't trust him. He uses that cigar smoke as camouflage to hide a multitude of sins, I think. The man has the luck of the Irish, he really does, but I think I've finally got him this time."

"I thought gambling was a sin," Steed said still staring at the frozen image of Emma Peel.

"Let's don't get carried away," Sam responded. "But, back to the subject. As I said before, you knew Emma Peel very well during the time you were together and yet you see nothing unusual in this image." The view changed back to Emma's smiling good-by. "Do you see the sparkle in her eyes?" she asked him.

"Yes, as I said, she was happy. Why are you dwelling on this?" His frustration level was exceeding its limit.

Sam threw her head back and actually groaned. "Perhaps we can go at this from a different angle. It really would be better if you saw these things for yourself. During this time that you worked together, you had an old car that was in various stages of refurbishing, correct?" She didn't wait for an answer. "At one point the paint was dull, faded and suffering from oxidation, but what happened when it rained?"

"It got wet," he sighed. She simply looked at him obviously expecting more. He thought back, pictured the Bentley. "It looked as though the color deepened, it shown, it spar . . . " He looked at Emma again. Her eyes sparkled. Were there unshed tears? "So what," he challenged. "It was a sad time. We had been good friends, you know. Saying good-bye is never easy."

"But just a few minutes ago you said she was happy."

"She was happy to be returning to her husband." He clarified.

"Was she?"

Steed stood and paced the small confines of the clearing. He couldn't bring himself to look at the image any more. Something strange was going on inside his stomach. He was beginning to feel nauseous. He looked at Sam but she seemed distracted by something only she could see.

"Damn! Patton's got three deuces. It'd be just like him to have another stuck in those ham sized hands of his." She saw him watching, shook herself and came back to the point. "Here we have a woman that hadn't seen her husband, the man she was supposed to be in love with, in two years, but instead of looking at him, instead of focusing on the love of her life and dreaming of the future, she spends every last moment looking back at another man until he's completely out of sight. Why do you think she did that? What do you think she was hoping to see?"

"She . . . he was . . ." he fumbled. The image changed again to Emma's last ride down Stable Mews. "She didn't say . . ."

"What?" Sam pressed, "What was she supposed to say? Steed I don't want to go. Help me. I'm not sure this is a good thing. Do you love me? Do you care enough about our relationship to not let it die? Can you give me something to hang onto, some reason to stop this?"

"Emma didn't need a reason," he fired back. "She was one of the strongest woman I've ever met. If she didn't want to do something, she didn't need someone else to tell her not to."

"Physically strong, yes. Mentally strong, granted, but emotionally, not so. For instance, she never told you how much your openly flirting with other women hurt. She made jokes, teased you about it."

Steed looked at Sam and nodded his head as if to agree and therefore provide proof of his point and then stopped, confused about which point he was confirming.

"You never thought to consider that it might have been a defense mechanism? You know, the same way you change the subject whenever someone brings up her name. Think about it. Here was a young woman who had just lost her husband. She meets a man who tries everything he can to charm her, to seduce her into his mixed up world. She succumbs, makes the change and finds that he not only supports her interests, although he may not always understand them, but encourages her to be everything that she can be. He trusts her, relies on her, shares his life with her. And then at the height of this new found happiness, she's suddenly jerked back in time by a string everyone, including her our government, told her was cut a long time ago. So what happens? She turns to the man that had become the most important person in her life only to find him ordering a replacement with no more concern that when he's ordering a new suit."

Steed stopped in his tracts as the scene of him speaking to Mother, telling him he would need a replacement, flashed into life. "Emma wasn't present for that conversation," he stated.

"She didn't have to be. She had remarkable hearing."

The documentary suddenly changed angle and Steed watched as Emma paused, her hand in mid knock outside the door of his flat. She appeared to be listening. He saw her slowly and gently place her hand against the door. She rested her head on her hand. Her eyes were closed and after a moment she drew a deep breath, straightened and pushed the door open.

Steed sank into the chair holding his head in his hands. "I didn't know. When Mother called I . . . I was caught off guard . . . I didn't . . . I couldn't . . ."

"You couldn't lower your pride long enough to tell him that your world had just shattered. So you did what you always do. You made him, and consequently her, believe that it was no big deal. Just the cost of doing business."

Silence.

"She stayed with Peter," was all he could think to say after he found his voice.

"Yes. To divorce him wouldn't have been right. There was no reason, no one to object, so she decided to see if they could recapture what they had once had. You know now that it didn't work. They were simply two different people by then."

Steed poured another Brandy and watched the amber liquid swirl in the glass. "As we are now," he finally said.

Sam chuckled. "You're forgetting the Time Stream. No," she told him, "you're exactly who you were then. A few more experiences under your belt, perhaps, but for the most part, the same. And so is she. You see, she came into herself back then. The person that married Peter Peel was not the person she was destined to become. You helped her with that. You freed her, let her soar. Unfortunately, you also let her fly away."

"But I . . ."

". . . phoned her six months ago," she finished for him. "Yes, I know and I had high hopes for that, but there's one more thing that's the same as it was back then. You're both just as stubborn. You both have a miss guided idea that the past should remain in the past, but neither one of you lived up to that idea. You have never been able to forget about her and she should have left Peter in the past. Of course if she had, you wouldn't be getting this visit from my incomparable self."

Steed was about to say something, but Sam suddenly jumped out of her chair. "Ha! I've got you now, Churchill," she shouted. "I call."

Steed was tired. In fact, he'd never felt so tired in his life. "So what am I supposed to do now?" he asked. Sam was still looking off into the distance somewhere. "Excuse me?" No response. "Hello?"

"Oh, sorry. Things are coming to a head and it's time for me to leave. That means its time for you to get back to where you belong," she said.

"Just like that?" he asked. "Wham, bam, thank you Sam?"

"You still love her, don't you?" Again, she didn't wait for his answer. "Then you know what you have to do."

As he watched, she began to fade into the fog or maybe it was engulfing her, he didn't know.

"Stop listening to your head and just do what your heart tells you. You'll be fine."

"Wait! What cards are you holding?" he asked. He didn't know why, but it seemed important.

"Why, aces over eights," she told him.

"That's a dead man's hand," he said.

"Exactly," she replied with a wink. "Don't forget, Steed. Steed? Steed?