The man who had been Control hung onto the black iron bars so tightly that his knuckles ached white. He leaned close, his face nearly pressed to the high fence, and looked through. Beyond, through a thin screen of brush and across a vast span of immaculate green lawn, stood a tall, elegant manor house. Somewhere in its vast halls walked his heart's greatest desire.

He hoped.

He was nearly frantic with his longing to go to her: To cross the lawn, storm the house and seek her out. But his fear was so real it was almost physical, and it kept him rooted where he was. It had been so long and so far. What if she wasn't here? What if she'd been followed? What if she'd been caught or killed? What if she'd lost the baby, when he couldn't be there to comfort her, when he couldn't share the loss? What if she'd come to regret her decision in the time they'd been apart? What if she'd grown tired of waiting for him? What if she'd fallen for Dyson, in the months she'd lived under his roof?

What if she didn't love him any more?

It was an insane notion. Of course she still loved him. Of all his many doubts, that was the most unfair. He could doubt the plan, doubt its success. But to doubt Lily was unthinkable.

Yet the idea stayed with him.

There was, too, a more practical side to his fear: What if he'd been followed?

It was unlikely. He'd been very careful. He'd traveled to five continents, by every mode of transportation available. He had traveled fast, and he had dallied. Barely touched down in some ports, lingered days in others. He had changed his identity countless times. Changed his appearance repeatedly. He had broken every pattern he had, every habit. Most of all, he had watched. Every trick, skill, experience, and instinct he possessed had gone into being sure he had not been followed.

If they had followed him to Rio, it was only a matter of time before they found Dyson – and Lily. All the caution in the world wouldn't help now if they had trailed him here. There was no reason to wait like this, hanging on the tall fence that kept him separate from his love – his wife.

And still he hung on the bars and still he waited. He no longer knew what he was waiting for. He only knew that he waited.

Across the vast green lawn, at the rear of the house, a French door opened onto the terrace. Two dogs raced out, mastiffs, huge and fierce-looking. The man who had been Control watched them closely, ready to retreat if they showed any interest in him. But the dogs stopped near the door and pranced about, waiting.

Lily Romanov walked out after them.

The man who had been Control felt the breath leave him, and he barely cared if he ever inhaled again.

She wore a gauzy white dress, loose and blowing in the light breeze. A shift in the air let him see clearly that she was indeed still pregnant. Her belly rounded out now as far as her newly-lush breasts. She walked to the edge of the terrace and picked up a Frisbee from a low table. He could see changes in the way Lily moved – heavier, slower, but also more fluid, more graceful. Her feet were bare, and she seemed to dance out onto the grass.

There was a flash of green, sunlight glinting off the emerald that hung at her throat.

Lily flipped the disk, and the guard dogs romped after it with undignified enthusiasm.

The man who had been Control gripped the bars even more tightly, letting the fence hold him up now. He finally remembered to breathe.

"You know," a voice rumbled at his elbow, "I usually shoot trespassers on sight."

Andrew didn't turn his head, though he was sure he'd look down the barrel of a gun. "Hello, Richard."

"Andrew. About time you got here."

"I came as soon as I could." He finally managed to look away from the woman. His old friend was indeed putting a gun away. "How is she?"

"She's pining," Dyson answered. "I didn't think young women knew how to do that any more, but she pines remarkably well. Barely sleeps, barely eats, cries when she thinks no one's looking."

He nodded, looking back toward the woman.

"She is a lovely woman, for all that," Richard continued. "You might have told me she was pregnant."

"Would it have made a difference?"

"I wouldn't have made as big a play for her."

Andrew frowned. "You hit on my wife, Richard?"

Dyson shrugged. "Can you blame me? Not that it did me any good. But I do think, if you hadn't shown up, I might have had a chance. In four or five years."

Andrew studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You might, at that," he conceded. He turned back to the fence. "The baby's all right?"

"The doctor thinks she's a bit small. He'd like it if the mother stopped pining. But otherwise healthy, yes."

"Good." Andrew tried, but could not release his iron grip on the fence. "Good."

The dogs woofed and romped, in a manner quite unbecoming of guard dogs, fetching the Frisbee and fighting over who got to return it, panting joyously over a pat and a kind word from the temporary mistress of the house.

"Well," Dyson finally said, "are you going to stand there all day, or are we going in?"

With great effort, Andrew unwrapped his fingers one at a time, and turned. "I want …" His voice caught; he cleared his throat and began again, "I want to see her."

Dyson nodded, gestured back toward the road. "Right this way."

They walked out of the woods in amiable silence. Both paused at the edge of the curving drive, looking both ways at the emptiness. "I trust precautions have been taken," Dyson ventured mildly.

"Everything I could think of." They walked shoulder-to-shoulder up to the house.

"The beard is a nice touch," Dyson commented.

Andrew touched his face reflexively. He'd started the beard as soon as he'd left New York, and it had been through a number of incarnations in his travels. Rough and shaggy. Dyed improbably dark. Trimmed into an utterly pretentious goatee. Currently, it was close-trimmed, neat. It had served his purpose; it had disguised his rather distinguished jaw line from casual observation. He'd thought about shaving it off before he left his hotel, but decided to keep it. It would amuse Lily, at least momentarily, and then he'd take it off. At least, he'd thought it would amuse her. Now he had second thoughts about it.

Dyson led him up the steps, across a wide stone porch and in through the front door. It was, Andrew was sure, a magnificent house. Probably stuffed with tasteful displays of Dyson's many priceless collections, all immaculately kept. He couldn't, just now, see any of it.

All he could see were Dyson's broad shoulders, leading him. To his new life. To his wife and his child. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He was hot and then cold; he couldn't wait, couldn't take one more step.

He followed Dyson.

They came to the back of the house, to the open door that led to the veranda, and the yard, and Lily.

The man who had been Control stopped at the threshold. Richard paused on the veranda, looked back. "You all right?"

She was thirty yards away. If she turned now, she could see him. His hand came up to his beard again. He should have shaved, he was sure of that now. He should have worn a nice suit, a new suit. Should have thought to bring flowers, a truckload of flowers, or a single perfect rose, a tea rose, she liked tea roses …

"Andrew?" Dyson prompted quietly.

He shook his head, tried to clear it. He could hear her voice, encouraging the dogs' play. He'd forgotten her voice, how it wrapped around him, how its warmth carried, how hearing it in the hallway made a day trapped in the office bearable … no. That was over now. He would never go back to the office.

It took every ounce of courage he had to step over the threshold.

Dyson had moved to the edge of the veranda. Andrew followed, stopped beside him. The dogs noticed him then. They stopped playing, glanced at each other, then charged at the stranger in deadly silence.

Richard gestured and the dogs stopped their attack and sat, watchful and obedient.

Andrew had seen the dogs charge, but he did not see them stop, and he did not care. Lily had turned and seen him and nothing else mattered at all.

He was vaguely aware that Dyson called the dogs to him, that he took them into the house and closed the door. They were alone.

Lily did not move. Neither did Andrew. They just stood and stared across an endless chasm of grass.

The breeze blew, ruffled her hair, her dress. Sunlight flickered across her face and she blinked, raised one hand to brush her hair back. It was as long now as it had even been, before she'd hacked it all off in grief, and it was straight and shiny and soft-looking. The emerald glimmered again at her throat.

Andrew took a step onto the grass. Another. Wondered why she didn't move. Wished she would. It was too far to walk on his own. He had circled the earth to be with her. Why were these last steps so damn hard?

Her expression never changed. He could see how shallow her breathing was. His was the same, tiny sips of barely enough oxygen. He wished they could take a deep breath, either of them.

She took a step when he did, a second, a third, cutting the distance between them in half. Then she stopped, faltered, and sank very slowly to her knees.

If he'd been closer, the man who had been Control thought, he could have caught her. That thought let him shake off his paralysis, let him cover the last distance in strides. She looked down and away as he approached. Confused, he sank to his own knees in the soft grass in front of her.

"Lily," he managed to whisper.

She shook her head emphatically. "I know how this dream works," she said quietly, sadly. "As long as I don't look at you, as long as I don't try to touch you, you won't disappear."

Andrew smiled gently. He put his hand out where she could see it. "Lily," he said more certainly, "I'm real. I'm here."

She shook her head, still refusing to look at him.

"Try," he urged. "Take my hand. I won't vanish."

She still refused to move.

"Lily, trust me."

Lily did glance up at him then, the old wry humor creeping into her eyes. Through an overwhelming haze of emotion, she suddenly seemed to recognize him. She looked back at his hand, at the simple gold band that glittered on this third finger. With aching slowness, she raised her own hand. She held it an inch from his, glanced at his face again. "Promise?"

"Promise."

He wanted to grab her, but just this once he managed to make himself wait, let her come to him. It seemed to take longer than crossing the grass had, though it was probably no more than a heartbeat or two. Then she snapped her hand out and grabbed his hard, as if she could move fast enough to keep the illusion from disappearing.

Andrew stayed still. Her other hand came up and touched his opposite arm. It slid upward, to his shoulder, then his face. She rested her fingers on his chin, exploring the unfamiliar beard by touch. Her face lit with wonder, with joy. "Oh," she said softly, in surprised recognition. "Oh."

He put his hand over hers, drew her fingers to his lips. "I'm here, Lily."

She sighed softly, and the old mischief came into her smile. "What took you so long?"

Andrew leaned to kiss her. Their lips barely touched, but lingered lightly. She was whispering, or he was, no words, there were no words or too many words. It didn't matter. The kiss deepened, their arms moved, they drew closer, tighter. It was the same as it had always been – and not. There was, it became undeniably clear, something keeping them apart.

He let his hand drop to her round, firm belly. "He's all right?"

"She," Lily corrected softly, "she's fine."

That tidbit of information passed almost unnoticed. "And you? How are you?"

"Better now," she purred. She nestled against his shoulder, rubbed her forehead against his rough jaw. "Oh, better now. And you?"

Andrew shrugged in her embrace. "I could use a shave."

Lily drew back just enough to study his face. "I kinda like it." Her eyes stayed on his, suddenly serious. "Regrets?"

"Not a damn one. You?"

"No." She nestled closed again. "Not now, no." She kissed his chin, his neck, and then, at the point where his neck became shoulder, her tongue flicked out to taste his skin.

It was a tiny thing, the smallest gesture – and it brought back everything. What had been numb relief became electrifying joy. Andrew found her lips again, and this time there was no hesitation, precious little tenderness. Their mouths crushed together in reclamation. The time and distance between them began to dissolve.

It wasn't enough.

"Kedves …"

"Lily … I want …"

" … I know …"

They untangled enough to stand. Then, still half-embraced, they made their way inside. The house was cool and silent; Dyson, the dogs, and whatever staff there might have been stayed considerately out of sight. They climbed the broad staircase slowly. It was a magnificent thing, and Andrew wondered vaguely how he'd missed it on his way in.

"Your leg still bothers you," Lily said softly.

He nodded. It barely showed now, but the steps gave him away. "It will pass."

Lily crowded against him, gave a wordless murmur of sympathy and love. They climbed on, walked past the masterpieces that hung in the upper hall, to a guest suite as vast and tasteful as the rest of the house.

There, beside her bed, the man who had been Control hesitated. "If we shouldn't …" he began, "if we can't, it doesn't …"

"Shhhh," Lily whispered against his mouth. "We can, we should, it's fine."

But then, stepping out of her dress, she seemed suddenly aware of his eyes on her, suddenly deeply self-conscious. "God," she said, her hands on her belly, "I must look enormous."

He studied her newly configured body with undisguised interest. Her rounded belly was the most obvious change, but there were others differences as well. Her breasts were markedly fuller, as were her hips; even her shoulders seemed softer, rounder. But beyond her torso, she was thinner – her arms, her legs, even her face were noticeably too thin. Pining, Dyson had said, and Andrew could see the evidence of it. But it didn't matter. That was over now. "You look perfect," he said sincerely. "You look as if this is always how you were meant to look. As if you're finally … whole."

They made love slowly, tenderly – badly. The physical obstacles, her advancing pregnancy, his faint left-side weakness, were trivial. The greater problem was the time and distance that lingered between them. They had been lovers and confidants for years on years, but they had been apart for the most crucial months of their lives. They were in many ways strangers, lost in frustration at their inability to reconnect. The physical aspects only made it worse. The hesitant gentleness they tried to show each other was almost insurmountable.

Abruptly, Lily began to laugh.

"What is so damn funny?" Andrew demanded, angry, aggravated, hurt.

"Us," Lily answered. "We once managed snow cones in a five-star shower, and here we are like a couple of clumsy virgins at the drive-in."

He huffed, his anger relenting into humor. "I'll have you know I was never this clumsy at the drive-in."

"Now even the first time?"

"I read a lot." He chuckled, relaxed several notches. This was the Lily he knew. "And I pretended extremely well."

"I bet you did. What was her name?"

"Marguerite."

Lily giggled in surprise. "A French girl?"

"No, just one with pretentious parents."

She laughed out loud again, and Andrew with her. It was enough to work the kinks out; they relaxed into themselves, into each other, and the lovemaking turned as good as it had ever been, though markedly different.

They settled, after, like spoons in a drawer, her back to his chest, his arm draped protectively over her belly. Lily drifted to sleep almost immediately. Andrew could almost feel the weariness draining out of her. He lay awake, content, musing. There were so many things to think about, so many emotions to feel, so much to talk about, but there was no rush. They could talk when she woke, and after dinner, and in bed tonight. They could talk tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day …

For the first time, he felt the full impact of what had happened. They'd done it. They'd gotten out, they were safe – as safe as they would ever be – they were together, their child was safe, and they had all the rest of their lives together …

Unexpectedly, the baby jumped beneath his hand. Badly startled, he took a sharp breath. Then he grinned to himself, relaxing. Lily's breathing didn't change. The two of them hadn't woken her.

He wondered what had startled the baby. A girl, he remembered with surprise. Lily'd said it was a girl. He'd studied up during his travels; he knew the unborn baby could be startled by sudden loud noises or bright lights. But there was none of that here. Only quiet and afternoon light filtered through heavy sheers. Curious.

The baby jumped again. It was just one quick movement, then nothing. As if she was having a seizure, a single convulsion …

Ah, God, he thought desperately, no, please … doctors and books be damned, they should not have made love, they'd done something wrong, they'd hurt the baby …

He lay perfectly still and hoped it wouldn't happen again. It did.

He did a frantic mental review. The baby was nearing twenty-eight weeks. On the brittle edge of survival, if she was delivered now, and with the odds against her even without whatever was causing her to convulse this way …

What had they done to her?

A fourth jump.

With deep dread and grief, he whispered, "Lily, wake up."

She woke instantly; he could feel her coil with awareness, but she did not move. "What's wrong?" she whispered back.

She thought, he knew, that there was some outside threat. He wished there was. "There's something wrong with the baby." As he spoke, the baby jumped again. "There. That."

He expected Lily to be alarmed. Instead, she chuckled. "She has the hiccups."

"She … what?"

"She has the hiccups."

The baby jerked again, and Andrew realized his wife was right. Relief washed through every muscle in his body. "She scared me to half to death," he breathed. He was shaking; he took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

Lily rolled onto her back. He spread his long fingers wide over her belly, all but covering the baby. "It scared me the first time," she soothed him. She ran her fingers through his beard, scratching gently, calming his fears. "It took a while to figure out what it was."

The hiccups continued, causing both parents to giggle with every small jump. In apparent annoyance, the baby rolled. Lily guided Andrew's hand to an egg-sized lump which moved casually from her right side to her left. He grinned in fascination. "What is that?" he asked.

"Probably a knee. Maybe an elbow." Lily shrugged. "Maybe her butt. Hard to tell for sure."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. It's just sort of peculiar. Like I swallowed a live monkey."

Andrew laughed out loud, and the sudden noise caused the baby to jump again. He patted her in apology. "A girl."

"The ultrasound was pretty convincing. I have print-outs, I'll show you."

"Later." His hand glided across her belly, eager to feel the child move again. "A girl."

Lily grew serious. "Are you disappointed?"

"No. I'm … what's the word, I know there's a word for it … ah, I know, I'm terrified."

"Why, kedves?"

Andrew shook his head. "Your daughter, Lily? She'll have me wrapped around her little finger before she's a day old. I'll never be able to tell her no about anything." Lily laughed. "I'm suddenly seeing a yard full of ponies and kittens and baby ducks and anything else she takes it into her head to ask for …"

"You'll manage."

"No, I think I'm well and truly doomed." The baby seemed to quiet and he patted her again. "When did she start moving?"

"I think the day I got here. But it was so tiny, at first, just butterflies, I wasn't sure. Then it kept happening, got stronger. It's been very gradual, a tiny bit more every day – and then all the sudden there were elbows and knees and butts."

"I'm sorry I missed all of that. I won't miss it with the next one."

The baby rolled back the other way. Andrew watched with fascination. When she settled, when he looked up again, Lily had tears running down her face. "I'm sorry," he said at once, "that was an incredibly thoughtless thing to say to a woman in your condition."

Lily shook her head. "No, it isn't. It's just … that there can be a next child. That we can have as many children as we want."

"You sound surprised. That was always the plan, wasn't it?"

She cried harder. "It was the plan if you got out alive."

"Ah," he said, suddenly understanding. "And you didn't think I would?"

"I … I … wanted to, but I couldn't …"

He gathered her closer. "Oh, Lily, Lily, stop. I'm here now. We did it, love. I'm here, we're safe, and whatever happens, we're together for the duration. I won't ever leave you again."

It didn't quiet her any, she cried even harder, but he understood now that she was crying for joy. She must have been so frightened. She hadn't even allowed herself to hope, to believe that he'd get out safely. He could have been offended, he reflected, but he understood why she'd done it. She had to, so she could protect herself from greater hurt. She did what she had to do to live.

But that was over now. "Tonight we're going to sleep together in this bed. And tomorrow when you wake up, I'll still be here. And tomorrow night, and the next morning. And always, Lily. Always. For as long as I live, from now on, I'm going to be with you. Understand?"

She nodded, still weeping, and wriggled from his arms. "I have something for you," she sniffed, rolling heavily out of the bed.

Andrew watched her curiously. She crossed the room to a heavy antique bureau and pushed it. He sat up quickly, about to rush to help her, but the huge piece of furniture slid without effort, silent. Behind it was a wall safe. He nodded. Leave it to Dyson to have a safe in the guest suite. Lily dialed the combination and opened the safe, withdrew a small jeweler's box and came back to the bed.

"You bought me jewelry?" he asked, mildly surprised.

"I bought us jewelry," she answered. She opened the box and showed him. Within were matching wedding bands. They were platinum, the man's set with a large emerald, longways in the band and recessed, so that the top of the ring was nearly smooth. Hers also held emeralds, three smaller ones, set the same way. He recognized the stones as being from the collection he'd sent out of the country with her.

They were infinitely more appropriate than the cheap gold bands they had actually been married with. They were beautiful.

Andrew drew off his original ring and tossed it over his shoulder. He took the man's ring out of the box, almost put it on his finger, then stopped, handed it to Lily instead. "They're perfect," he said.

She took the ring in one hand, his left hand in the other. She had stopped crying, mostly, but her hands still trembled. She slid the ring onto his finger. "I feel like I ought to say something, but I don't know what."

Andrew nodded. "Say that you'll be with me always."

"I'll be with you always."

"And make your home with me, and your family."

She smiled, small tears coming again. "And make my home with you, and my family."

"And love me."

"And love you," she repeated simply. She leaned and kissed him.

He took her ring out of the box and took her hand, threw the old ring away and slid the new one onto her finger. "And I will be with you always, and make my home with you, and my family, and love you, always." His breath caught on the last word. "I love you, Lily, God, I love you." There were suddenly tears in his own eyes. Lily caught them with her fingertips, and then her lips. She was crying again, too, but it didn't matter. They were laughing, too. Wrapped in each other, newly married again, they fell back onto the bed.