Author notes: I'm indebted to Barb, who once again came through as the bestest Charmed-beta in the world! Thanks also go to the nice folks over at McMahoniacs . net for their kind words and encouragement.

In my Charmed-verse, Cole has survived Centennial Charmed (if you want to know how, read my story Prisoner's Key, otherwise you'll have to take my word for it :-)) and sets off to seek redemption for his evil past. I originally envisioned this fic to be the first of a spin-off series, but I fear I no longer have the stamina to write Charmed.

Since I have rarely seen a show so inconsistent about its own mythology and laws of nature, I decided to ignore anything that has been established after Centennial Charmed. So, no School of Magic, no pacifist-Leo-turned-ruthless-fighter, no... Well, you get the picture. Oh, and just so you know: if you are looking for a story that features the sisters prominently, this is not the fic for you. It features Cole (obviously), several OC's, and cameos by Phoebe, Darryl and even my wonderful beta Barb.

CONFESSIONAL

Chapter 1

"Central, this is three-David-eleven"

"Three-David-eleven, go ahead."

"I've got a 2, possible 7. 10-32."

Kit Watson bolted upright in the right hand car seat. Mark DeWitt, slumped behind the wheel, opened one eye at the sudden movement of his passenger.

"What's--" he began, suppressing a yawn.

"Shh!" Kit hissed. He reached with one hand for the volume knob, his head cocked to hear better.

Despite his misgivings about the propriety of the journalistic methods his partner deployed, Mark found his interest piqued and he tuned his ears to the scanner that was spitting out numbers and code words in terse male voices.

"10-4, three-David-eleven. 2, possible 7. What's your 10-20?"

"8th and 19th."

"10-4."

None of it made sense to Mark, but Kit seemed to absorb every word easily. "So? What is it?" he demanded when the radio went silent for several seconds.

"That was a police unit reporting a civilian victim. They asked for an ambulance," Kit said. "Start the car. We have to check it out. If we're lucky, we got a murder on our hands." He reached for the back seat to grab his Nikon, its case scratched with wear, and checked the film.

"Okay," Mark said. "Care to tell me where?"

"Ybor City, corner of 8th and 19th. That's Centennial Park."

"Ybor City?" Mark exclaimed. His hand rested on the ignition key but didn't turn it. "Kit, it's Friday, it's after midnight. And you're telling me we should go investigate a report about a body found in Ybor City? I bet you ten bucks, before we get halfway there, that cop'll be back on radio to call off that ambulance. Just wait, your murder victim will turn out to be a fallen-down drunk kid!"

Kit rolled his eyes, the whites reflecting the light of the streetlamps. "What are you? Stupid? Didn't you hear the tone of that cop's voice? He didn't say it out loud, but there's something going on. I can feel it in my gut. And trust me, kid, my gut's never wrong."

Mark sighed as he started the engine. He turned on the headlights and carefully wove his way into traffic.

This was not how he had envisioned his journalistic career to be when he received his Master's at USF. Scanning police radio frequencies and chasing an ambulance through Tampa in the middle of the night was a far cry from his fantasies. Like so many eager hopefuls, he dreamed about scoops and Pulitzers. But there were far more wannabe journalists than there were openings at the respectable newspapers. And one had to eat. So, when a position for junior reporter at The Bay Enquirer opened up, Mark had applied -- and gotten the job.

They had partnered him with Kit Watson, the grumpy black man with a round belly, a bald head and a trusted old camera who was their star photographer. "Listen to Kit, kid," Antony Santano, the editor-in-chief, had said, and laughed at his own wordplay. "He will teach you all you need to know about chasing the news."

Although it was after midnight, traffic was crowded on the Nuccio Parkway, and it took them a good twenty minutes to reach Centennial Park. Blue and red lights flashed, illuminating a crowd of spectators being held back by harried uniformed police officers. Paramedics hovered near their ambulance, one of them lighting up a cigarette.

"See?" Mark said, gesturing at the ambulance crew. "Nothing happening."

"Ha!" Kit snorted. "And what would you call that?" He directed Mark's gaze to the left. A long, black car inched slowly through the crowds, waved forward by the police. "Someone died, my boy. Told you something was going on."

Mark was not prepared to admit Kit was right. "Okay, so, we have a dead person. People die in Florida all the time. I still don't see how that makes a story worth more than three lines in the police report columns."

"Didn't they teach you anything in that fancy school of yours? Get out there, kid. Investigate. Listen to the cops. Talk to the paramedics, talk to the crowd. Find out what you can. And maybe, if you're as good as you think you are, you'll discover the story. If it doesn't turn around and bite you in the ass first!"

Grumbling to himself about lazy punks still wet behind their ears, Kit clambered from the old, sun-bleached Impala and wandered over to the policemen that were holding the crowd back. Mark watched him wave to one of the officers before he got out of the car himself.

He worked his way through the spectators, listening to the conversations around him but not really expecting to hear anything worthwhile. The onlookers were drawn to the scene by the arrival of the ambulance and what he overheard was mostly useless speculation.

"... heart attack..."

"... three dead people..."

"... drug overdose..."

"... ran him over..."

Mark was about to go back to the car and wait for Kit to return with the pictures when he noticed a plain clothes police officer talking to a uniformed cop. They were near the end of the taped-off area, beside the ambulance. The paramedics were climbing back into their cabin as it was obvious nobody needed them. Mark knew it was a matter of minutes before the ambulance would leave, destroying his opportunity to overhear the two policemen talking.

He snuck closer, hiding behind the ambulance.

A part of him was horrified at the sneaky way he was trying to gather information. It was not what they taught him in college, where entire classes were dedicated to the ethics and conduct of the serious journalist. But another part of him, the bigger part, was too eager to let the opportunity go to waste.

"... victim is an elderly woman," the uniformed officer was saying. "She carried a driver's license in the name of Gillian James. Here." He put a small card in the other's hand and waited expectantly.

Plainclothes looked at the license. His eyes widened and his gaze shifted from the plastic card to the black bag that someone from the coroner's office was zipping closed. "This belongs to a young woman!"

Uniform grinned. "My thought exactly. Her way of dress fits the license, but not the looks. Tight black skirt, high heels. You know how the kids walk around here at night."

"Uh hum," Plainclothes said. They were both middle-aged men, watching the crowd of onlookers, who were mainly youngsters dressed to dance the night away.

"Did you move her? Touch anything?"

The ambulance's engine started and Mark had to exert himself to hear the rest of the conversation.

"No sir, nothing, except to turn her over to see if she was still breathing. I called it in and requested an ambulance as soon as I found her, but it turns out she was already dead. Think she stole the license somewhere?" Uniform sniggered. "Maybe she was reliving her youth, prob'bly dropped dead with a heart attack or something."

Plainclothes gave him a stare and Uniform flustered. "I'm sorry, Detective Morris. I'm just saying that it's odd!"

"I suppose you're right at that," the detective admitted with a grunt.

Mark backed away. He had heard enough for his budding journalistic instinct to rear its head and start paying attention. He made a mental note about the name; he'd have to look for information on this Gillian James later.

The tall woman ignored the heads that swiveled in her direction as she strode through the arrivals' terminal at San Francisco International Airport. She was used to being stared at and ignored the gawkers without effort. It wasn't just her height that drew the stares, she knew. She was well aware that she was also both beautiful and imposing, and always took meticulous care of her appearance.

Her high heels clicked across the tiles and the leather of her black dress caressed her skin as she walked. It felt nice. And it was good to have both feet on the ground again. She didn't like flying; never had. But it was the only way to get from one place to another fast.

She cast a look over her shoulder at the small man who trailed after her. He was straining to push a heavy luggage cart loaded with three large suitcases and an assortment of smaller bags. His balding head pearled with moisture and his breath came in short gasps. She chuckled at the sight but slowed down so he could catch up with her. It wouldn't do to have him drop dead of a heart attack; she wasn't quite ready to lose him just yet. It was hard to find good minions and Theo had been around for many years. Most of them didn't last this long in her employ. But he was anxious enough of what she might do to him to not try and cross her yet still showed the occasional initiative on her behalf. So far, he had never been wrong either; his instincts were good.

When he finally caught up with her, she smiled. "So, Theo, what have you arranged for me?"

"A limousine is waiting outside, Mistress Birgit," he gasped, still trying to catch his breath. "And I have booked the Mendocino suite for you at the Prescott Hotel."

"Very good, Theo," she murmured and patted his shoulder. He stiffened beneath her touch and she chuckled again.

The sliding doors opened upon their approach and Birgit marched out, leaving it to Theo to maneuver the large cart through the doors. It was as he had promised: a limousine was waiting, a uniformed driver -- she was pleased to see it was a pretty young woman -- standing beside it. When she noticed Birgit and Theo, the girl leaned into the car, pressed a button and a moment later the trunk opened. The driver walked around to open the back seat door for Birgit. "Welcome to San Francisco, Ms. Freda," she said with a pleasant smile. "My name is Cassie. I'm your driver for the day."

Birgit studied the driver's face beneath her uniform cap. Seen close up, the girl was more than pretty, with the kind of innocent face and unblemished skin that Birgit was always keeping an eye out for. She would have to remember this girl; she might want to offer her a job with the modeling agency later. Birgit tapped a finger against the young woman's cheek. "Thank you, child."

Theo was busy trying to cram the suitcases and bags into the limo's trunk and Cassie went to help him. Birgit looked around and watched the bustle that was characteristic to any large airport. She squinted in spite of her dark-tinted sunglasses and the large-brimmed hat that covered her short, blond hair. She despised the sun. It was too bright, too happy. San Francisco was infamous for its fog. Why couldn't it have been gray and misty when she arrived?

She drummed her fingers on the roof of the car. "Are you almost done, Theo?" she asked. "I do have other plans today."

"Yes, Mistress." His voice sounded muffled because he was leaning forward deep into the trunk. Birgit had a sudden vision of making him sit out the ride to the hotel there and she chortled. Too bad it would draw too much attention.

She decided she had had enough of the glare of the sun and seated herself inside the car. She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. It was too damn early! Normally she wasn't up at this outrageous hour; she preferred to stay in bed until noon and work till late at night. A useful predilection too, in her line of work. Thus, it had been a great annoyance when every plane from Tampa to San Francisco appeared to be fully booked this Saturday morning, except for the early morning flight.

Theo and Cassie finished cramming all the suitcases into the trunk and Cassie climbed behind the wheel. Theo stuck his head in the back of the car and Birgit gave him a withering glare. He swallowed and went to sit beside Cassie in the front.

She would have to keep an eye on Theo. He was getting a tad presumptuous, it seemed. Maybe she should have stuffed him into the trunk after all.

"Ania informs me that you threatened to return to San Francisco." Rhiannon fixed Cole with the piercing look she reserved for those who displeased her. Behind her, Ania hovered, her gaze shifting between Cole and the redheaded Elder.

Cole didn't flinch from her glare, like so many whitelighters or mortals had done over time, but he did have the sense to look sheepish. "I'm getting bored. You said you wanted me to work with you, that's why you saved my life, right? So, how much longer do you plan to keep me here in Pineville, Nowhere, USA?"

"Wisconsin," Rhiannon corrected him absently. She studied him for a moment. He did look better than he had when she had Ania book him into the motel room in the smallest rural town she could find. How long ago was it? She did a quick mental count and was shocked to learn it was nearly three months ago that she conspired with the Cult of Avatars to rescue Cole from instant obliteration. No wonder he was getting edgy. But the time alone had done him good. His cheeks, though unshaven, had lost their gauntness. The eyes, which could turn from ice cold to warm blue in an instant, no longer held the haunted look. There was still a sadness in Cole but his shoulders were squared and he stood straight; he no longer looked like the beaten little puppy that returned to its master time and again in search for a scrap of affection that never came.

"You know San Francisco is the last place on Earth you should go to, right?"

He gave her a sudden, impish grin that she didn't expect. "Got your attention though, didn't it?"

She blinked, taken aback. Then she began to laugh. "Okay. Fair enough. Perhaps I have been neglecting you a bit. But I know you needed the time. Time to mourn, to adjust, and to learn about those powers you collected from the Wastelands. So, you think you're ready to face the world again?"

The grin faded and Cole's expression turned serious, almost sullen. "I know all about my powers there is to know. And it doesn't get any better. I still miss Phoebe. Every thinking moment of every day. She haunts my dreams. Sometimes, I think that you should've let me get vanquished."

"I know."

"No, you don't know! You have no idea what it is like to feel such emptiness. It's like there's a black hole inside me, where Phoebe's love used to be. And now there's nothing. How could you know what that's like? You're a damn Elder!"

His angry outburst was sudden, and Ania uttered a startled yelp. She reached for Rhiannon, ready to orb the Elder away at the first sign of danger. Rhiannon gave her an assuring wave before she placed a hand on Cole's arm. His muscles were quivering with tension beneath her touch.

"I do understand, Cole," she said in a low, calm voice. "I haven't always been an Elder. Once upon a time I was Rhiannon Gruffudd, of Rhylyfnwyd." The Welsh words tasted strange on her tongue; it had been decades since she uttered those names. She gestured for Cole to sit and he sank down on the edge of the bed. Rhiannon settled herself in the single easy chair in the room.

"I was born in Wales, in 1631," she added. She stared off, her eyes going out of focus as her mind traveled back in time. "Rhylyfnwyd was a village by the sea. One of those places small enough for everyone to know everyone else and their business. The people lived off the land. They raised sheep or were fishermen. My father was a mariner, a sea-faring man; he was away months at a time. When I was five, he went out on what was supposed to be a six-month journey. He never returned. It took me almost a year to accept that he was never going to come walking up the road again, a large burlap sack strung over his shoulder."

"Do you remember much of him?" Cole asked. "I don't recall much of my father except blurry images of a stern man with a high collar."

Rhiannon smiled. "I have some memories. I guess I was a little older when he disappeared than you were when your mother took you away. He was a big man; I always believed he was so tall that he must be able to touch the moon. I inherited his height, I suppose. I have his hair color too, although in his case he wore it in a thick scraggy beard, while his skull was nearly bald. I remember he laughed a lot and how much he loved my mother. Every time he came home from a journey, he whirled her around in his arms until her skirts flared and she squealed he should put her down. And there were always presents. Dolls, or a necklace made of wood beads for me. Sometimes a bolt of cloth or a bale of wool for my mother.

"Mam never remarried after he died. He had left her a few savings, some coppers and pennies, and she managed to make a living by selling herbs she grew on a little patch of land, and potions and salves she made herself."

"Was she a witch?" Cole interrupted. He was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

"No, not in the sense you mean," Rhiannon said. "Her skills weren't magical. They were based in extensive knowledge, passed down from mother to daughter for generations. She could cure just about anything: boils, fevers, gout. She helped people with migraines and she sold potions and salves to prevent infections. You must remember it was the 17th century. Modern medicine was in its infancy. Physicians were a rare breed who often did more harm than good, and only the rich folks could afford the services of one to begin with. The nearest town that had a doctor was eight miles away. A long walk if you had to do it on foot and in a fever.

"So, most folks depended on women like my mother. Herb women they called them. And my mother was one of the best. Rhylyfnwyd should count itself a lucky town. Over the years, she must have saved dozens of lives. If not hundreds." A hint of resentment crawled into her voice. "She died in 1648, when I was seventeen. She contracted diphteria from Rhys ap Evan, father to a family of fourteen. Ap Evan lived, but my mother did not."

Rhiannon's eyes were closed. On the inside of her eyelids, the memories were projected, flickering like a tiny slideshow. Her mother's feverish brow. The brown hair plastered to her skin. Her green eyes, so like Rhiannon's own, filled with pain. Her breathing ragged and labored. There was nothing Rhiannon could do. No potion or salve she could prepare that would cure her mother. By the time she admitted to being sick, the illness was too widespread. Her mother's struggle didn't last long.

A soft noise, a low grumble, broke through her memories. Her eyes snapped open. She realized that the sun had set outside while she told her tale. The room was shrouded in darkness. The glare of streetlamps outside cast a reddish glow over the non-descript furniture. Cole's eyes were gleaming in the darkness. Rhiannon noted that some time during her storytelling Ania had disappeared. Quite possibly one of her charges -- she had been assigned two budding witches after her recent graduation from what Rhiannon secretly called Whitelighter School -- had needed her help or guidance.

The low rumble was repeated and Cole grimaced in embarrassment.

It dawned on Rhiannon what she was hearing. She chuckled. "Maybe we should get dinner first, before I tell you the rest, eh?"

"Lunch happened hours ago," Cole murmured, a little defensive. He got up. "This town you dumped me in isn't much, but I did discover it has a restaurant that serves quite fine Italian cuisine.

Cole's Italian restaurant turned out to be a small mom-and-pop place less than half a mile down the road from the Striped Badger Motel. It didn't take long before they were seated and plates laden with steaming pasta were placed before them.

Cole poured her a glass of red wine. "It's not Italian," he commented after reading the label, "but it's a pretty good one."

Rhiannon took a bite of pasta. Cole had been right, the food was delicious. And it wasn't often that she got to indulge in Earthly pleasures.

"So, there I was," she picked up her narration. "Seventeen years old and all alone. There had been an aunt once, but she passed away the year before my mother died."

"Pretty young to be left to your own devices," Cole commented. He took a sip from his glass.

"These days it would be," Rhiannon agreed. "But those were different times. Most girls were married by fifteen, and had a baby by the time they turned sixteen."

"Why weren't you? You're a good-looking woman, you must have been a pretty girl. Or should I say 'lass'?" He smiled.

"That's not a Welsh word," Rhiannon murmured. She wondered if he were flirting with her, and observed him through her lashes. Unselfconsciously, he was enjoying his meal. No, she decided, Cole was merely displaying his innate charm. The wounds over losing Phoebe were too raw; it'd be years before he'd flirt with another woman.

"I'd been too busy to find a husband, helping my mother, learning her skills. And the villagers weren't too keen on us. They didn't really understand that our skills were based in knowledge, not dark magic, so they avoided us mostly. Except when they were sick, of course. Besides, even then I had this crazy notion about true love." She chuckled, self-consciously. "Guess you could say I'm a hopeless romantic. And the boys of the neighborhood -- they smelled of manure and sheep and old sweat; they had these thick, stubby fingers with dirty nails and callused hands. They'd've lost their teeth by twenty-five. Mam ingrained in me the importance of personal hygiene when I was still a little girl. She was centuries ahead of her time. And I swore to myself that I would rather die a spinster than let any of those unwashed local men lay a hand on me.

"In any case, I may have been young, but I wasn't completely without means. Mam left me the one-room shack we lived in, a single cow and half a dozen chickens. She also left me her knowledge and skills. I took over her work without missing a beat. And although the villagers avoided me as much as they had my mother, it wasn't a bad life."

Rhiannon grew silent and concentrated on her meal. She ate several bites of her pasta in silence, chewing and swallowing with care.

"Until?" Cole prodded, when she let silence linger too long.

Rhiannon swallowed the last bite, put down her fork and knife together on her plate in the European way to signal that she was done, and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

"Yes, until," she said. "Until I fell in love." She reached for the wineglass and took a large gulp.

"His name was Jeremy Ockley. He was everything the local young men weren't. He didn't stink of sheep. He was handsome, with white teeth and graceful, clean fingers. He was educated; he spoke English instead of Welsh. And he didn't treat me like an indispensable yet regrettable necessity, someone best shunned. Jeremy swept me of my feet with his charm. He read me Shakespeare's sonnets. He let me ride his horse. I loved to ride, loved to race through the fields at high speed, the cataclop of horse hooves beating a rhythm on the ground while the wind whipped my hair about my face. Jeremy owned this big stallion, with a pelt so deep gray that it appeared to be black. I don't remember what his name was, but I called him Hwyrddydd. That's Welsh for dusk, because the color reminded me of the evening sky.

"Jeremy's family was not from Wales. His grandfather was a merchant who made a fortune in the wool trade. And Jeremy's mother desired for her son to be created a baronet. That was her ambition in life: for her family to ascend on the social ladder to nobility. She would let nothing stand in her way to achieving this goal, as I was to find out.

"The Ockleys lived in this big manor, on the top of a hill. Jeremy's grandfather had built it. The house overlooked the green meadows that rolled all the way down to the cliffs at the Irish Sea. Compared to my little cottage near the edge of the forest, that house resembled a palace."

She chuckled wryly. "I sometimes fantasized myself living there."

She took the last sip of her wine and held out the glass. Cole refilled it without a word, and she put it down before she continued. "I should have known better, of course. But like I said, I was a hopeless romantic. Still am, I suppose. And Jeremy made me so happy. He made me feel like I could fly, like nothing could hurt me anymore.

"Until one spring day, in 1661, when it all fell apart.

"It was one of those rare days in May, when the sun beats down from a clear blue sky unmarred by clouds but summer hasn't progressed far enough to turn the air humid and stuffy. No, the air was crisp and clean as we rode Hwyrddydd across the fields and into the forest. There was a clearing beside a small brook, which was our secret place. We often went there. To talk, to make love, to enjoy each other's company undisturbed."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For a moment, her nostrils filled with the scent of pasta and red wine, and then the memories came.

"I can still smell the air. It was sweet and clean, filled with the scent of spring flowers and fresh greenery, with just a hint of salt carried in by the breeze coming in from the sea.

"Jeremy had urged the horse into a wild ride; he knew how much I enjoyed the speed and power of a horse in full gallop. Hwyrddydd was panting and quivering, his coat glistening with perspiration. I was busy rubbing him down with a tuft of grass I had plucked when Jeremy called my name. From the tone of his voice I knew whatever he wanted to say couldn't be good.

"'Isn't it a wonderful day?' I asked without turning around. Even as I said it, I knew I was being silly, trying to prevent him from speaking the words by changing the subject. Of course, it wasn't that easy.

"'Rhiannon, please look at me. I have to tell you something. And it's hard enough to do without speaking to your back.'

"I slowly turned, and gasped when I met his eyes. Something in them frightened me deeply and I desperately wanted him to stop talking, to not say what he was about to tell me.

"'I love you,' Jeremy told me. 'Nothing will ever change that. You know that, right?' I nodded, afraid my voice would desert me if I tried to speak. Jeremy continued. 'But I cannot see you any more. I'm leaving on Sunday. I'm going to London, to get married. Edith Patterson is the daughter of a low-ranking nobleman who has done business with my father and--'

"'Do you love her?' I interrupted him. I was amazed at how calm my voice sounded, there in that clearing with the birds singing and sunlight dappling the ground with molten gold, while my heart shattered in a thousand pieces and my knees threatened to give way.

"'No!' Jeremy shook his head in vehement denial. 'I told you, I love you, nobody else.'

"'Then why are you marrying this girl? Why not marry me?'

"'Because I cannot,' Jeremy whispered. 'Mother would never--' His voice broke, and it sent me off on another whirl of emotion until I felt like screaming.

"'Let's leave here!' I cried. 'We can go to Rhyl. Or we could go to Liverpool and find passage on a boat to the New World. We could be together there.'"

"What did he answer?" Cole asked. Rhiannon blinked. She had forgotten her listener, so vividly did she relive her memories in her mind. She waited until the waitress cleared away their plates before she continued.

"He was tempted. I know he was; I could see the spark in his eyes while he considered my suggestion. But then the spark died and his eyes turned back to a dull hazel.

"'We can't, Rhiannon dear,' he sighed. 'How would we live?'

"I tried to tell him it didn't matter, that we would find a way, that we were both young and healthy but I knew it was hopeless, that I'd lost him. And in a way, I wasn't surprised. Deep below the romantic fantasies, I'd always known it wouldn't last. It couldn't; we came from such different worlds, worlds that could never mix."

"Is that why you took an interest in me and Phoebe?" Cole asked. "Because we came from different worlds?"

Rhiannon offered him a soft smile. "I suppose so," she said. "I have always had a soft spot for star-crossed love affairs. Piper and Leo. You and Phoebe. You had the courage to do what Jeremy failed to do: you stood up to the expectations of others, refused to be what the world wanted you to be. I'm sorry Phoebe didn't dare see it that way."

"Me too," Cole murmured. He didn't meet her eye but busied himself pouring the last of the wine from the bottle. She noticed that, although he sounded sad, there was a resignation and acceptance in his voice that had not been there three months ago. She was pleased to find he was moving on, learning to accept the inevitable.

"So, this Jeremy went off and got married and that's the end of it?" Cole asked.

"Oh no," Rhiannon said. "There's more.

"The ride back to the cottage passed in silence. Neither of us had anything left to say, and I had a lot to think about. When we entered the yard in front of my little home, Jeremy stiffened in my arms. I looked up and over his shoulder I saw a black carriage with two dappled horses. Next to the carriage were two men. I recognized one of them; he was Ieuan Barnatt, the constable in Rhylyfnwyd. I assumed the other was a constable too. He had that same self-important air about him.

"I had no idea what was happening. The carriage belonged to Jeremy's mother. But what purpose could she have to visit me, along with two policemen?

"I didn't need to wait long.

"The second constable approached me as Jeremy helped me off Hwyrddydd's back. 'Miss Gruffudd? You are to be arrested and stand trial for witchcraft,' he said pompously. 'You are accused of the felony of exercising the invocation, or conjuration of evil and wicked spirits with the intent of bewitching and charming the heart of Mr. Jeremy Ockley.'

"They thought you had cursed him?" Cole blurted out in surprise. "But you said you and your mother weren't witches!"

"We weren't," Rhiannon said. "But the truth didn't matter much in such cases. And although the situation in Britain was never as extreme as for example in Germany, where nearly 100,000 women were burned or hanged in the span of two centuries, it was not unheard of for people to be convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to death." She toyed with her napkin for several seconds before she continued.

"Anyway, I was too shocked to speak. Jeremy was the first to find his voice again. 'I'll handle this,' he said and strode over to the carriage. 'Mother, what is this nonsense? I love Rhiannon, and you know that has nothing to do with witchcraft. That's just a silly superstition.'

"Mrs. Ockley never even bothered to get out of her carriage. But I could hear her voice, cold and emotionless. 'You just proved my point, Jeremy. Please get in, and let the constables do their work.'

"'But--' Jeremy began, throwing a bewildered look over his shoulder in my direction. The two constables had grabbed my arms and were dragging me to their prisoner's cart.

"'That woman is a devil's spawn and I will no longer allow her to keep her claws hooked into you. Come Sunday, you will go to London, and this matter will be forgotten and never spoken of. Now, be a good boy, and get in.' She never even raised her voice.

"The last thing I saw before the constables put me in the cart was Jeremy's face. He mouthed, 'I love you,' but his eyes spoke volumes. He wasn't going to help me."

"Blasted coward," Cole muttered. "What happened to him?"

"He married Ms. Patterson, as his mother desired. She gave him two children, both girls, before she died in childbirth with the third, a boy. Jeremy and his children outlived the Plague that raged through London in 1665, but died in the big fire in 1666."

"Serves him right."

Rhiannon shook her head. "Don't be so harsh. It took me a while to see it this way, but he had the rough end of the deal. He was the one who made the choices; he was the one who had to live with his conscience. I had no choice but to accept what was. Just like you have to."

"But you had to stand trial as a witch. And you're an Elder now--" Cole's voice trailed off and his eyes widened. "Does that mean... Did they find you guilty? I mean, are you dead?"

Rhiannon chuckled. "For an ex-demon you know remarkably little about how our side works. Elders are often humans, people who are elevated to a higher plane. Remember that boy, Kevin? The one with the magical drawings?"

"Oh yes." A tiny smile curled around Cole's lips. "How could I forget him? He turned Phoebe and her sisters into superwitches."

"Exactly. He's an Elder now. Quite a smart one too, I must say."

"So, what happened to you?"

"They convicted me," Rhiannon continued. "That was rare with accusations of witchcraft; most women managed to clear their name with the help of their neighbors, but Jeremy's family had some influence and the magistrate court found me guilty. It didn't help that my family had a history of herb women. But in a way, I guess I was lucky. They didn't need my confession. Unlike some of the women that shared my fate, and who were tortured until they were ready to confess whatever the courts wanted them to.

"The end wasn't very spectacular. Or perhaps that depends on your perspective." She chuckled at a private memory. "On the night before my execution, two whitelighters came into my cell. Scared the wits out of me, when they suddenly appeared. They took me away. I always wondered what the goalers must have thought when they found this witch's cell empty, and the door locked tight."

Cole chortled along with her. "Must have frightened the living daylights out of them."

"Yes." She was silent for a long minute, lost in thought. At last she looked up. "So, you see, Cole, I do understand how hard it is to let go of Phoebe, how difficult it is to accept her choices. All I can tell you, is that it will get better with time. And you never know what the future holds."

Cole made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed snort. "Whoever said that it is better to have loved and lost, than never loved at all, has to be the biggest fool that ever lived." His tone was wry, lined with a hint of bitterness.

"Tennyson," Rhiannon said.

"What?" Cole stared at her.

"Alfred Tennyson said that. The poet."

"Oh." Cole was quiet for a moment. "It's still a fool thing to say."

"That it is," Rhiannon agreed.

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, each engrossed in their own memories.

"Tampa," she broke the silence at last.

Cole gave a start, having been deep in thought. "What?"

"I want you to go to Tampa, Florida. That city is a major hub for evil, and I have a sense your talents are needed there pretty soon."

"What am I supposed to do in Tampa?" He appeared a little alarmed at the thought that she was actually going to send him out of Wisconsin. He gave a helpless shrug.

"What you do best," Rhiannon said. "Develop a cover, blend in, and keep your eyes and ears open. You'll know when the time comes. Don't worry, you'll do fine. Just remember, don't use--"

"--my powers when I don't need to," Cole finished for her. "Yes, Elder Rhiannon, I did get that particular message. Don't worry, I won't. I don't like the way using them makes me feel."

She smiled warmly. "I knew I made the right choice when I decided to help you. Now, if you don't mind," she got to her feet, "I have to get Ania to take me back. Work for the Council never ceases."

To Be Continued...