Hope Remembered I - Friend (section 3)
It is here we must begin.
"Waiting for me, Cassandra?" Roland sounded cheerful, even friendly.
Cassandra opened her eyes the merest crack, trying to adjust her eyes to the light of the candle. It hurt. She had been in the dark a long time. She wasn't sure how long she had been in the cell. Days, certainly, maybe weeks. In the dark, with no sound but the dripping of the water. In the dark, alone. Except for the rats. Of course, she had been waiting for him. What else did she have to do?
"Would you like to come out, Cassandra?" Very polite.
She did not answer, did not move. She had two options. She could stay here until he decided to come and ask her again. It might be another week. Last time it had been ten days. Or she could go with him now. There was also the possibility that Roland might not ask again; he might just drag her out. And then he would be angry.
"Of course, I can leave you here, if you'd prefer." Very considerate.
Not much of a choice. Roland, or rats. Now, or later.
"Whatever you want, Cassandra. Just tell me." The perfect gallant.
She stood slowly and walked toward Roland, and he smiled.
Cassandra woke, alone. No one was touching her. No one was near. She opened her eyes and looked about her hotel room, then got out of bed and began her exercises. The movie this morning was Brigadoon, and there was no new information on Kronos. Nothing at all.
She walked slowly through the rain to Connor's house.
"Been waiting for me, Cassandra?" Connor asked cheerfully, as he came up the steps two at a time. He shifted the bag of groceries he was carrying to take out his keys, but did not hurry. The fine summer rain felt good. It had been an unusually dry and hot summer, and the garden had been starting to suffer.
Cassandra was standing under the small overhang of the roof near his front door, looking, as usual, less than happy. The rain had darkened her hair to flat brown, and her coat was patched with damp. Apparently, she did not share his good humor. "No."
He gave Cassandra a quick glance as he unlocked the front door and said lightly, "Then you were late."
"So were you." She did not even bother to look at him as she walked past him into the house.
Connor watched her as she took off her coat and hung it in the closet. That joke hadn't gone over very well. Maybe she just didn't like rainy Monday mornings. He locked the door from the inside and hung up his own raincoat, then carried the bag into the kitchen.
She was standing near the table and staring out the window at the garden, her arms wrapped around herself. The rain was steady and quiet, and the plants swayed and dipped under the raindrops.
He put the milk and eggs in the refrigerator, humming to himself. He was wide-awake and invigorated, both by his walk in the rain and by the surprise Alex had had for him. She had been evasive and teasing when he had arrived at the farm at lunchtime on Friday, but she had finally told him, right before they ate.
Twins. She was pregnant with twins. Connor still could not quite believe it. After all this time, to have not just one baby, but two. And she was coming to Edinburgh in two weeks to take a class on Celtic archeology at the university. John was coming for a visit, too, before he left for his month-long pony trek across Iceland. Connor wouldn't have to be away from his family anymore. Life was good. Life was great!
"Coffee?" he said to Cassandra. Maybe that would put her in a better mood.
Cassandra sat across from Connor at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee and staring at the table. She was not in a good mood.
"Did you see much of Edinburgh this weekend?" Connor asked.
"Not really," she answered. Except for her morning runs, she had left her hotel room only to visit the library. The weekend - all three days of it, thanks to Connor deciding to take a vacation - had been a complete waste of time. She had thought she had a lead on Kronos, but it had gone nowhere. None of the leads she had been following had gone anywhere. She should not be wasting her time here in Edinburgh; she should be hunting.
"There are some museums here," he suggested. "And the Royal Botanic Garden is good."
"Yes," she answered politely, not really listening. She had promised Connor she would teach him to resist the Voice, and she would keep that promise, even though she did not like teaching him. Even though she wanted to hunt down Kronos and kill him. Even though Connor apparently thought she had nothing better to do than wait around for him on a rainy Monday morning, and wait for him while he spent long weekends in bed with his wife.
Cassandra stood and emptied the rest of her coffee in the sink. "Are you done yet?"
"Not quite."
"Then I'll wait for you." Again. She turned and went into the dining room, then walked between the enormous mahogany table and the massive antique cabinet against the wall. The porcelain dishes shimmered as she moved past, and she paused to look at the delicate painted flowers, the gilt edges, the graceful curves and flowing shapes of the plates and cups and bowls. Polished silver gleamed against the darkness of the wood, and crystal glasses shone. Connor seemed to like beautiful things. He could afford to.
She went to the window and stared out into the street. The occasional pedestrian walked by carrying the requisite black umbrella. The even more occasional car splashed water onto gray stone steps that led to black houses. The sky was gray; the sidewalks were gray; even the dark-green leaves of the bushes outside were shadowed to gray. Her clothes were gray and black, too, she realized suddenly, glancing at her black jeans, feeling the weave of her gray shirt beneath her hands. She hugged her arms more tightly to herself and closed her eyes. She did not want to be here.
She turned suddenly, aware of Connor's presence. He was leaning casually against the doorjamb, his coffee cup in his hand. His relaxed pose did not reassure her, for he was watching her intently, like a wolf examining a potential meal.
"What's wrong, Cassandra?"
He should know what was wrong! How blind could he be? But that was not fair of her, was it? She had agreed to teach him; she owed him this. He was even helping her with her sword fighting. She had no right to be angry with him.
"I'm sorry," she said, taking a calming breath, forcing the anger down, letting her hands fall to her sides. "I haven't had much luck finding Kronos, and I'm getting impatient." She tried to smile at him. "I shouldn't take it out on you."
"It is hard to wait," he agreed, uncoiling from the doorway and pulling out one of the twelve chairs from underneath the table. "How are you looking for him?"
"I have some detective agencies looking," she said, taking the chair across from him. "One in England, two in America, one in Hong Kong, one in Cairo. And I've been looking through old newspapers at the library, and doing some searching on the Internet."
"It's only been two weeks," he said. "It might take some time."
"Yes," she agreed shortly. She wasn't stupid; she knew that. She did not want to talk about Kronos; she wanted to kill him. And to do that, she needed to finish teaching Connor and get out of Edinburgh. "Shall we begin?"
He nodded, then said, "Oh, Alex and John are coming to Edinburgh in two weeks."
"How nice." She smiled at him and kept her voice pleasant. "For the weekend?" Of course, they were coming. He would not want to be away from his wife for very long.
"John will be here for a few days before he leaves for Iceland. Alex will be here for six weeks."
Wonderful. With Connor's wife here, they would get even less work done. It wouldn't be easy to do any training with her around.
"Alex will be busy during the day mostly, so we can still train here," he added, obviously sensing her reservations.
Mostly. He certainly didn't seem to be taking the training seriously, for all he had seemed so interested before. "Fine," she said, eager to get today's lesson over with. "Shall we begin?" she repeated. "We'll work on pronunciation this morning."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Let's get started."
"Say it again, Connor. This way." She repeated the sound, the syllables precisely enunciated, carefully phrased and pitched. "Ar-awn-tha."
Connor said carefully, "Ar-awn-tha."
"Almost," she encouraged. "Again, and slower. Try for a slightly higher pitch on the last syllable."
"Ar-awn-tha."
"Good," she said. "The rhythm is off, and the tone could be a bit crisper, but it's good. You've gotten much better this morning."
"It would be easier if I knew what it meant," Connor said.
"It doesn't mean anything. It's just a word, so you can work on controlling your voice. The voice, any voice, is a very complex sound. It has tone, rhythm, harmonics, frequencies. All of those elements are combined in a specific way to make the Voice, so you need to know how to control all of those elements. You're learning how."
"There are a lot of elements, and a lot of sounds," he commented dryly.
"Yes," she agreed, then said encouragingly, "You have a head start on it. You have a good ear and you sing, so you already know how to listen and how to control your breathing and produce different tones. Musical people do much better at the Voice."
"Have you ever done a frequency analysis of the Voice?" Connor asked. "With sound equipment and computers?"
"No," she said slowly, struck by the possibilities. That could be very interesting. Or very dangerous. Making a mechanical device capable of controlling people was not a good idea. The technology was not yet capable of reproducing voices that well, but it would be someday. Still, a computer analysis of the sound would give valuable feedback for the student. A color display might work best. Cassandra shook her head. She would not need that. She was not going to teach anyone the Voice.
She said to Connor, "We'll spend the next few weeks learning how to produce the different sounds. After you learn how to say them, you'll be able to focus on the individual sounds in the Voice, instead of hearing all of it at once."
"Like a trained musician can hear the individual musical instruments in an orchestra, and the different nuances, instead of just listening to the music," Connor said.
"Yes!" Cassandra agreed. "That's it exactly. When you can hear the Voice that way, when you can break it down into its pieces, it's not powerful enough to affect you." She smiled at him ruefully. "I should have started this way, instead of using the Voice on you first."
Connor's answering grunt was equally rueful. He shook his head. "I don't see how we can finish this in a month or two. You said it took ten years to learn to use the Voice."
"To use it, yes," she conceded, "but not to listen to it. Making the sounds isn't hard; it's knowing which sound to use that takes time." She returned to the music analogy. "Most people can learn to make a few tolerable noises on a violin. Only after a year or two can a violinist put the notes and the phrasing and the bow technique together and play a tune. And only a maestro can make music that haunts the soul."
He gave another grunt, more sarcastic than rueful. "That's one way to describe it."
"Yes," Cassandra said, regretting her choice of words. The Voice haunted the soul, too, and she knew Connor would always remember and resent what she had done to him with it. Last month at his farm, he had not believed her when she had told him about the Voice, so she had demonstrated it for him. Or rather, on him. She had forced him to his knees and held his own sword to his neck, then she had made him lean into the blade. He had believed her then.
She continued, hoping to distract him, "The Voice is even more difficult than music, because each person responds to a different kind of influence." She did not want to use the word control. "We spent years learning to register people, observing them, learning about their cultures and their languages. You don't need to learn that, so it won't take nearly as long. You just need to learn the basics."
Connor nodded, but pushed his chair back from the table and stretched his arms impatiently.
She hid her smile. He did not like being a beginner at anything. "Do you remember the first time you picked up a sword?"
One eyebrow lifted. "I was three. The damn thing was taller than I was, and nearly half as heavy."
Now she did smile. "Yes, of course." He had been raised as a warrior from the time he could walk. "How about the first time you drove a car? It seemed awkward; you had to think about each step, each lever, each pedal. Now, it's easy."
This time he grunted in agreement. He certainly knew how to produce the different nuances in that sound. "Does using the Voice ever get easy?" Connor asked.
"No." And that was a good thing. "No more than using a sword becomes easy. But it does become easier. With time, and practice."
"And just how do you practice?" he asked, suspicion evident in his voice and his eyes.
"I don't. When I was learning it, we practiced on each other in the Temple, under the elder priestesses' supervision, but I almost never use it now."
"Almost." The stare of the wolf was back.
"It's a weapon, Connor," she said sharply. "One of the few I have." She stared back defiantly. "I use it to defend myself."
"The American Department of Defense used to be called the Department of War," Connor said, still intent on his prey. "It was a much more honest name."
"Defense takes many forms," she admitted. She had promised never to lie to him again, and he was going to hold her to that. She was trying to hold herself to that.
"And sometimes the best defense is a good offense," Connor suggested. "Like hunting Kronos."
"Yes," she agreed. Hunting Kronos was defending herself, and she would use the Voice as often as necessary, and on as many people as necessary, until she had killed him. But she couldn't go after Kronos until she was done with Connor, and the sooner the training was over, the better.
"Try it again, Connor," she said. "Ar-awn-tha."
The next two weeks passed smoothly, but not quickly. Connor was impatient for Alex and John to arrive. He went home on the weekend, but only for two days, not three. At least he didn't dread the daily sessions with Cassandra anymore; learning how to pronounce words was a great deal easier than trying to resist the Voice. He and Cassandra settled into a comfortable routine. In the morning, they practiced the Voice, then they went running, sometimes together, more often separately. After the run, they would eat lunch, practice the Voice again, then spar. Connor was very careful to be polite to her while sparring. She was equally polite back.
In a way, the time reminded him of their days in Donan Woods, when he had been the student, and she had been the teacher. Those had been good times between them. She was still often distracted and usually silent, but she was spending most of her free time searching for Kronos, and he knew how absorbing hunting could be. At least she smiled more now, and showed occasional flashes of humor and spirit.
Late in the second week, when they were sitting in the parlor, drinking tea and relaxing after a vigorous sparring session, Connor suggested, "There's a concert tonight, at the Carlton Hotel. It's traditional Scottish music, if you want to go."
"Perhaps." She was very polite, very disinterested.
Connor suddenly realized that he had never heard her sing at all since she had arrived in Edinburgh. She used to sing all the time when she cooked, or cleaned, or gardened, or just as she moved around the house. They had sometimes cooked lunch and washed dishes together during these last two weeks, and she had never once sang a note. Connor wanted to know why. "Did you ever learn to play the piano?" he asked.
"What?" she asked, looking up.
Connor glanced at the piano against the wall and then raised his eyebrows.
"Oh." She shook her head. "No. I haven't kept up with music lately."
Lately. The piano had become a common musical instrument over two centuries ago. "But you still play the harp," he said, remembering long firelit hours of music in Donan Woods.
Her cup clinked gently as she set it down on its saucer. "No." She stood and walked into the kitchen, carrying her tea with her.
Connor followed her at a distance, then watched as she poured the tea down the sink and rinsed out her cup. She stared out the window above the sink, her back straight and stiff, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold. No, that wasn't it. Connor looked at her more closely. Her hands were lying loosely on her upper arms, and her face was calm and her breathing regular. But he saw the faint line of tension between her shoulders, the hint of rigidity in the way she held her head. Connor suddenly recognized that stance. He had seen it before, in a man dying of cancer, though in Cassandra the signs were very subtle. It was the stance of someone who was holding himself in control, someone who was forcing his body to obey. It was a person who was breathing slowly and evenly through pain.
How could music bring back a bad memory for her? He had opened his mouth to ask when the rough sound of car wheels on gravel interrupted him, and Alex's car drove from the alley into the carriage house. John was waving excitedly from the front seat.
"They're early!" Connor exclaimed happily, heading for the door. He hadn't expected them today; John's last football game of the season had been scheduled for tomorrow. "We'll be right in!" he called to Cassandra , then he went into the garden to welcome his family home.
Cassandra watched from the kitchen window as Connor disappeared into the carriage house at the far end of the garden, then she fetched her bag from the hallway and placed it on a kitchen chair. She needed to leave.
Connor reemerged from the carriage house with a suitcase on one arm and a beautiful blonde on the other. The bright sunshine glinted off his hair and dusted it with gold. John was on Connor's other side, carrying a suitcase and a duffel bag, looking up at him and laughing. Connor was laughing, too, and Cassandra knew she had never seen him look so happy, except when he had been with Heather, all those years ago.
It was good that Connor was happy. He had been alone for a long time, and the Immortal life was a hard one. He deserved to have this time with his family. Cassandra walked from the sink to the center of the room and waited, knowing how territorial women were about their kitchens. It would have been better if she had been outside, but they were almost to the door, and she didn't want it to seem as though she were welcoming Alex into her own house. She took a deep breath and waited.
John came in first, banging his duffel bag against the door on his way through. He was tall and leggy, with the awkward coltish grace of an early adolescent, dark hair curling around the ears and the nape of the neck. He looked to be thirteen or so.
"Hello," Cassandra said softly, and smiled at him as his head jerked in surprise. She was careful not to let her smile broaden as his gaze moved over her and his dark eyes widened. Thirteen was a very fragile age. "My name is Cassandra." She had said those words before to another thirteen-year-old boy, in another place and time, to another boy with dark hair and eyes, another boy named MacLeod. At least this boy would not ask her if she were a witch.
"Hi." The word came out high and breathless, then he stood straighter and added, his voice dropping an octave, "I'm John."
"Yes," Cassandra said, still smiling, "we spoke on the phone a few weeks ago when I called your father. I recognize your voice."
"You do?" he asked, his voice coming high again, the curse of the young male. At least the curse of the male disappeared in a year or so, unlike the curse of the female.
His father's deeper tones came from the doorway. "Cassandra is good with voices." Connor looked at her sharply, then spoke to his son. "Keep walking, John. And take the bags upstairs."
John turned to Connor in confusion, then said, "Oh! Sorry." He smiled once more at Cassandra, then lugged the duffel bag and the suitcase into the hall and went thumping up the stairs.
Connor held the door for his wife, and Alex walked into her kitchen. Connor set down the suitcase he was carrying and followed close behind. Alex did not wait for Connor to introduce them, but went straight to Cassandra, holding out her hand. "Cassandra," she said pleasantly, smiling slightly, "it's good to meet you. I'm Alex MacLeod."
"Alex," Cassandra said in turn, just as politely, taking the other woman's hand in her own. "It's good to meet you, too." She squeezed Alex's hand slightly and let go.
Alex was strikingly beautiful, with delicate features and alabaster skin. She was slim and graceful, a little shorter than Cassandra. Her pregnancy was barely noticeable, save for a certain look about the eyes, but then she was only four months along. Pale-gold hair fell loose to her shoulders, fine and straight as the heavy silk fringe on an Indian shawl. Arching eyebrows of a darker hue lent a questioning look to her face, and the steady, even stare of dark-blue eyes over high cheekbones made it clear she would demand answers to those questions. The set of her mouth was stubborn, too, for all its softness and gentle curves.
Cassandra had seen thousands of beautiful women over the centuries, and she knew what men responded to. A great many men would respond to Alex. Connor certainly had. Alex had that alluring combination of beauty and aloofness that made men wonder if they dared to approach, wonder if they could be the one to breach that elegantly cool exterior and find the passionate warmth that was hinted at in her smile. Cassandra was curious to know if Connor had approached Alex first, or if Alex had approached him.
Connor was standing close to his wife, a little behind and a little beside. It was the traditional male protective stance, the standard possessive position. Alex was his woman; she bore his child and his name. He would kill to protect her.
Cassandra smiled and inclined her head slightly, to let Connor know she understood. "Well," she said cheerfully, "I'll be leaving now. Should I come by on Monday as usual, Connor?" It was only Thursday, but she doubted Connor would want to do any training tomorrow with his family here.
He nodded, but Alex protested, "You needn't leave so soon, Cassandra."
Cassandra smiled again, the polite cheerful smile. She knew full well that Connor wanted to be alone with his family, with his wife. "I know you must be tired from the drive, Alex."
Alex looked at her sharply, and Cassandra added, "Connor told me that you were pregnant."
"Yes," Alex said, and her hand went almost unconsciously to her abdomen, while her smile became the smile of happy pregnant women everywhere - satisfied, amazed, tender. The look on Connor's face was the same, overlaid with fierce protectiveness.
Cassandra had seen that look on many women's faces down through the ages, and that look on some of the men's faces as well. The child was a lucky one. Cassandra kept smiling and said, "We'll have another time to talk."
"How about Saturday?" Alex suggested promptly. "You can come over for dinner. John's going to spend the night at a friend's house, so it will just be us three. At seven?"
Cassandra immediately glanced at Connor. His face was carefully blank; it was the look he adopted when he was surprised or uncertain how to respond. Then she looked more closely at Alex. The other woman was still friendly, and she was sincere, but the look of cool calculation in her eyes told Cassandra that Alex had been planning just such an invitation, and had deliberately not said anything to Connor about it. Alex also looked very determined, and Cassandra wondered how Alex would have dealt with Connor's objections if he had known about the invitation beforehand. Cassandra was certain that Alex would definitely have dealt with them.
Cassandra smiled suddenly, and this time it was a real smile. Perhaps Connor had met his match in stubbornness. It would be good for him. Cassandra did not bother to look to Connor for permission again. "I'd like that," she said, meaning it. She wanted to get to know this woman better. "At seven.
"But for now, I really do need to be going." Cassandra picked up her bag from the chair and nodded to them both. "I'll go out the kitchen door, so you needn't bother to unlock the front door for me."
Connor was quick to follow her. He walked by her side through the garden along the gravel path, heading for the carriage house. "I didn't expect them today," he said. "John's last football game of the season was won by a forfeit, so they came early."
"That worked out well, didn't it?" she asked, not slowing as they reached the carriage house. His only answer was a grin.
"See you Saturday, and have a good weekend, Cassandra!" Connor called as he opened the trunk to get the rest of the luggage.
She waved, but did not bother to tell him the same. She did not need to.
"What do you do, Cassandra?" Alex asked, leaning forward to set her iced apple juice on the table in front of the sofa.
Connor put his arm around his wife as she sat back, his fingers lingering on the softness of her skin. Alex was wearing a sleeveless white gown that set off the tan she had acquired during her vacation with John last month, and she looked beautiful, even more beautiful than usual. He had seen other women glow with pregnancy, but he had never thought to see his own wife look that way. His pregnant wife. And he was the father, in every real way that mattered, just as he was John's father. True fatherhood was in love, not genes.
Connor tightened his arm about Alex, then listened intently for Cassandra's answer. Just what had she been doing since she had been a witch in the forest?
Cassandra was taking her time about answering, setting down her glass of wine on the small table next to the wingback chair, rearranging the folds of her long maroon skirt. It was the first time Connor had seen her in a skirt since she had come to Edinburgh; she had always worn black or gray jeans before. She was even wearing make-up, and her hair was loose about her shoulders. She moved differently, too, more like the Cassandra he remembered. Instead of one of her usual simple shirts, she was wearing a flowing cream-colored tunic with a belt of intricate silver links, and elaborate silver earrings. Maybe she had bought new clothes for the dinner. It was odd how women dressed to impress each other.
Cassandra smiled politely across the parlor at Alex. "I've been traveling a lot lately, so I haven't really done much of anything."
Lately, thought Connor. She used that word a lot. But to her it meant sometime within the last few centuries. And by traveling she probably meant running, and hiding. Roland had been nothing if not persistent. What a way to spend your life.
Cassandra said in return, "What kind of work do you do, Alex?"
"Didn't Connor tell you?" Alex asked in some surprise, darting a quick glance at him. "I'm an archeologist."
There was a small fixed smile on Cassandra's face. Connor recognized the smile and the look. It was her polite mask. She had never shown the slightest interest in his family since she had arrived in Edinburgh, and he had not been about to discuss them with her. But he knew Alex would want to know why he had said nothing to Cassandra, and he was not looking forward to explaining his silence.
"Oh," Cassandra said, still polite, still smiling. "Are you working at a museum now?"
"I used to work at the Museum of Ancient History in New York, but now I'm on their consulting staff. They call me every once in a while, and I went on one of their digs last summer in Norway. I've been busy, though, doing archeology on a ... more personal basis. We did a lot of work on the farmhouse when we first moved in two years ago, and I certainly learned a lot from that. There were several old middens at the farm, full of all sorts of things. And Connor taught me and John how to build a rock wall with no mortar," Alex said. "That's a technique you don't see much anymore."
Connor shrugged. "Everybody used to know how to do it. We had to do something with the rocks."
"It's getting to be a lost art now," Alex said. "Like so many things." She glanced at him sidelong, then said to Cassandra, "It's very convenient to have Connor around as a resource."
Connor tightened his arm around her again and moved his fingertips very slightly against her arm, enjoying the shivers that ran over her skin at his touch. He would show her later just how much of a resource he could be. And how convenient.
Alex very briefly laid her hand on his thigh as she leaned forward to pick up her drink, and Connor enjoyed the shivers from that, too.
"Is being an archeologist anything like Indiana Jones?" Cassandra asked.
"Not usually." Alex smiled back with a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Though there was one particularly exciting find." She turned in the circle of Connor's arm and smiled at him. "It took some digging, though." Now the hint of mischief softened to warmth, and love.
Connor smiled back, remembering how Alex had tracked him down in New York City, then followed him all the way to Scotland, even after he had told her to stay away from him. Alex did not take no for an answer. "Are you saying I'm a fossil?" he challenged her.
"Paleontologists find fossils," she informed him. "I find artifacts." She looked him up and down appreciatively. "And treasures."
Connor grinned. "At least I didn't need spraying with that fixative stuff."
"No," Alex agreed. "You were uncommonly well-preserved." She turned to Cassandra. "I still can't quite believe it, you know. This whole Immortality thing."
"Yes," Cassandra said. "It is ... incredible." She drank some of her wine, then held the glass loosely between her hands. "And Connor isn't even that old. He was very young when I met him." She smiled at him, but it was not a totally polite smile anymore. "Weren't you, Connor?"
Connor nodded back slowly, not really appreciating the reminder. He had been very young, and very foolish. No more. "Should we eat?" he suggested, standing and offering his hand to Alex to help her up.
They went to the kitchen to get the food, then carried it into the dining room. The late afternoon sunshine came through the windows on either side of the fireplace, and it danced on the table, polishing the silver to a soft gleam, and accenting the muted colors of the Derby porcelain, cream and cranberry against the darkness of mahogany. The sunlight and shadow highlighted the intricate details of the plaster molding on the cream-colored walls. The shutters on the four windows of the room were painted the same deep red as the flowers on the dishes.
He had not actually spent much time in this house. Two revolutions on two different continents and the Napoleonic wars had kept him away a lot during the half century or so he had lived here. But he had some good memories of more elegant, more gracious times, and he enjoyed eating in the dining room.
"It looks lovely, Alex," Cassandra said, placing a basket of rolls on the table.
"The dishes came with the house," Alex said as she lit the candles. "Kind of a package deal. You'll have to ask Connor about them."
"Do you know a lot about porcelain, Connor?" Cassandra asked, sounding surprised.
He regarded her levelly for a moment before answering, "I was an antique dealer for quite some time." As if she didn't know. She had been spying on him for centuries. He turned to his wife. "Alex?" he asked, pulling her chair out for her. She smiled at him and sat down.
"Were you?" Cassandra asked him innocently, seating herself across from Alex. "I didn't know that."
Connor helped Alex get comfortable, then moved to his own chair at the head of the table and sat down. He recognized this game. Cassandra was pushing him tonight, assuming he wouldn't react in front of Alex. She was wrong. "No?" he said to Cassandra. "But you do remember our last conversation about Japanese porcelain?" He had broken every piece she owned.
"Oh, yes," she said brightly. "I do remember that." She placed her napkin on her lap. "Is this Japanese porcelain, too?"
Both women were watching him now, and Connor put on his best antique-dealer persona, polite but not obsequious, informed but never pompous, even - if he said so himself -charming. "It's English, actually, from Derbyshire. Though, of course," he said, with a nod to Cassandra, "the English learned much about porcelain from the Orient." Never tell customers they are wrong.
Connor carefully lifted the plate and held it so that they could see the delicate hand-painted flowers. "The set is over two hundred years old." Always mention age. "The flowers are handpainted, and are the work of the well-known artist William Billingsley, who later set up a factory of his own." Nothing impresses like success. Connor set the plate down and put salad on top of it, then stabbed a mouthful of greens and ate it.
Alex was smiling slightly. She had her own professorial lecture mode, and she recognized it in him.
Cassandra had a smile on her face as well. "Connor MacLeod, dish expert." She shook her head. "You surprise me, Connor."
He saw no need to answer that.
"Is it valuable?" Alex asked, serving herself some salad.
"Not so much each piece," Connor said. "I saw a similar cup and saucer selling for about two hundred dollars a few years ago."
"One cup and one saucer for two hundred dollars?" Alex repeated in surprise.
"Yeah." Connor grinned at her. "But this is a complete original set, with place settings for twenty-four and all the serving dishes and their covers. That makes it more valuable, since usually some pieces get broken over the years."
"You're washing the dishes tonight, Connor," Alex said firmly.
"Too bad we didn't keep the scullery maids along with the dishes," Connor said.
"Porcelain is very fragile," Cassandra commented, as she helped herself to the casserole.
"Yes," Connor answered, looking straight at her. "It is."
Cassandra apparently saw no need to answer him. "Chicken, Alex?" she asked, holding out the dish.
They busied themselves with passing the food around, then settled down to eating. He was pleased to see Alex's appetite had returned; she needed to be especially careful about her diet since she was eating for three. Twins. Connor smiled to himself again and lifted his glass to himself in a silent and unobtrusive toast.
Her initial hunger satisfied, Alex started asking questions. "I know you said you hadn't had a job lately, Cassandra, but you must have done many different things over the years."
"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "But these last few centuries have been the times of the greatest change. Many of the jobs I have done no longer exist."
"Such as?" Alex asked.
Connor smiled to himself again, this time in amusement. He knew how persistent Alex could be, especially about things related to her work.
Cassandra took a roll from a basket and tore it in half. "Most of the hand-crafts: chandler, tanner, potter, cooper, weaver, cobbler, basket-maker, seamstress." She reached for the butter. "Butter-maker."
"People still do those types of things."
"Yes, but not as a typical job, they're more for artisans. Back then, every village had at least one of all of those. Some jobs have changed: ostlers have become bellboys; coachmen have become chauffeurs. Other jobs are simply gone, at least in the industrialized parts of the world. Lantern-lighter, rag-picker, street cleaner."
"Water carrier," Connor offered, as he filled Alex's glass for her.
Alex turned to him immediately. "Water carrier?"
He nodded. "No running water. The bigger houses and inns would hire someone to haul water for them if they didn't have any young lads about." He shrugged, flexing his shoulders. "Of course, the water would always be at the bottom of the hill, so you'd carry the full buckets up the hill, and the empty buckets back down." He flexed his shoulders again. "It was a good workout."
"You were a water carrier, Connor?" Alex asked. At his nod, she continued, "How long did you do that?"
"Three years," he answered, letting his gaze wander between the two women on either side of him. He wanted to see Cassandra's reactions. "After that I worked as a horse trainer for a Highland nobleman who had a house here in Edinburgh. He was the only one willing to take a chance on me. Until his horses started winning races." Connor gave a satisfied grin. Alex returned it; Cassandra did not. That was hardly surprising.
"Three years carrying water?" Alex said. "It doesn't sound very ... personally fulfilling."
"Better than shoveling out privies and carrying those buckets. That was my other option."
"Another job that's not common now," Alex noted. "What other jobs have disappeared?" She looked at both of them.
Cassandra glanced at Connor, then spoke first. "As you said, Alex, most of the jobs still exist in some fashion, but they used to be much more common. Every medium-sized village used to have a bell-ringer."
"And a blacksmith," Connor said, exchanging glances with Alex. When she had followed him to Scotland, she had stood by him and watched him reforge his sword.
"Tinker," Cassandra added.
Connor was not to be outdone. "Tailor."
Alex laughed. "We still have soldiers and sailors. What else?"
Cassandra shrugged and picked up her wineglass again.
Connor leaned back in his chair and thought of another job, a job that would certainly get a reaction from Cassandra. "Witch."
"Witch?" Alex looked at him, but he continued to watch Cassandra. "You were a witch?" she asked Cassandra incredulously.
Cassandra glanced at Connor sourly, then explained, "I was a healer. The local people called me a witch, but that was mostly because I lived by myself."
"The Witch of Donan Woods," Connor supplied helpfully, in his best Highlands accent.
"You were a witch in the Highlands?" Alex asked her. "In the forest?"
"Hard to believe in this day and age, isn't it?" Cassandra said, lightly. "In another time I would have been called a priestess, but, by then, women were not allowed to have anything to do with the sacred. Women were considered unclean, and rather less than human, not being made in the male God's image. There was some discussion as to whether women even had souls." She picked up her fork and very carefully speared the last piece of chicken on her plate. "They certainly had no rights."
She smiled at Alex a little. "That's one thing that has changed for the better this last century. You're very lucky to live now." Her smile disappeared. "Very lucky." She placed the morsel of meat in her mouth.
Connor heard the bitterness in her voice and in her words, saw it in the preciseness of her actions. She might have preferred to eat a tough old rooster instead of a tender capon. No, he thought judiciously, as he watched her masticate the meat, in her present mood, Cassandra would probably have enjoyed castrating the rooster herself, then plucking it and roasting it alive over a slow fire, all the while basting it in its own juices. She might even sing while she was at it.
Connor snorted almost inaudibly and turned to his own dinner. He had wanted a reaction, and he had gotten one.
He was getting a reaction from Alex, too. She was watching both him and Cassandra with that determined, speculative gaze he had seen before. Alex was going to have a lot of questions for him, probably before Cassandra was even off the front step, and he wasn't looking forward to answering them. He wished he had stopped this dinner from happening, but then Alex would have wanted to know exactly why he didn't want her talking to Cassandra. That conversation would have been even worse.
Connor had sometimes imagined being between two women, but this was for certain not how he had thought it would be, caught between an ex-lover and a pregnant wife.
Thunder sounded nearby. The sunshine had disappeared, and the room was dim now with only the candles burning. "We're supposed to have quite a rainstorm tonight," Alex said, as the raindrops spattered against the windows.
"Good," Connor said, glad to change the subject. "It's been dry all summer."
"I see you've decided you like mushrooms, Connor," Cassandra commented, motioning to the chicken and mushroom casserole and smiling politely again. "This is a delicious recipe."
"It's an old one," Connor said.
"I'm sure it is," Cassandra murmured.
They finished the meal with talk of life in Scotland and archeology, of Highland whisky and football, of horses and babies. They cleared the dishes off the table, then Alex brought a spice cake into the dining room.
"I made it this afternoon," she said to Cassandra. "It's Connor's favorite."
"Is it?" Cassandra said, with absolutely no inflection in her voice.
Connor turned to look at her, but she was still wearing her polite mask, still smiling across the table at his wife. There was nothing in her face or voice to suggest anything other than simple agreement, but he knew better. Cassandra had made a spice cake for him once. Alex was watching him again, and Connor asked quickly, "Tea? Coffee?"
"Coffee, please," Cassandra said, as she accepted a piece of cake. Then she smiled at Connor.
He did not smile back. "Decaf, right, Alex?" Connor asked, then walked into the kitchen to make the coffee. The soft rise and fall of the two women's voices in the other room mingled with the sound of the rain.
He knew this dinner had not been a good idea.
Cassandra was glad now that she had come. She liked Alex. The woman was sharp and observant, and obviously very much in love with Connor. When Cassandra had seen the house Connor owned in Edinburgh and realized how wealthy he was, she had wondered about Alex's reasons for marrying him. Cassandra knew that Connor was not foolish enough to marry a gold-digger, but she also knew how vulnerable he was in his desire for a family. Even smart men could be stupid, and to be used in that way by a woman would devastate him. But Alex hadn't married Connor for his money; she loved him, and she made him happy. And she was going to have his child.
"When is the baby due, Alex?" Cassandra asked, trying to imagine Connor as the father of an infant. It was difficult, almost as difficult as imagining him as antique dealer. She had been tracking Connor these last few hundred years, but she had not known what he had been doing. It had been a surprise to hear he knew so much about porcelain, but it had not been a surprise when he had deliberately reminded her of their argument in Aberdeen. It had hurt, but it had not been a surprise. Being hurt by Connor was never a surprise.
"Actually," Alex said, looking very pleased with herself, "it's not one baby. It's two."
Cassandra blinked. "Twins?"
"Yes." Alex's smile grew broader. "We found out about three weeks ago. That's why I asked Connor to come home early that weekend; I wanted to tell him."
"Congratulations!" Cassandra said sincerely. No wonder Connor had been so happy when he had come back from his trip to the Highlands. She looked more closely at Alex, reassured by the young woman's obvious good health. Alex was indeed lucky to be living here and now. Giving birth had often been an extremely hazardous event, but very few women died in childbirth now in industrialized countries, and twins had a much better survival rate than they had had before. "So, when are the babies due?"
"The official due date is mid-January, but they'll probably come earlier. My mother is going to come out right after Christmas to help. I hear I'll need it."
"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "I've heard that, too." She looked up as Connor came in carrying the coffee and said to him, "Congratulations, Connor." He looked at her blankly as he set down the tray of cups and coffee. "Alex just told me about the twins," she explained. "You must be very excited."
"Yeah," he said, nodding, that same tender and amazed expression coming over his face again as he smiled with Alex. "We are."
"Have you ever raised a child, Cassandra?" Alex asked.
"Yes." Cassandra swallowed carefully and added, "But not lately." She did not look at Connor. "Would you please pass the cream, Alex?"
There was more talk then, talk of birth classes and names for children and the traffic in Edinburgh, talk of movies and history and food. They went back to the parlor, where Cassandra had another glass of wine, Connor a shot of whisky, and Alex sipped more apple juice.
"How old are you, Cassandra?" Alex asked, sitting in her former place, next to Connor on the sofa.
"I'm not exactly sure," Cassandra replied from her chair, very aware of Connor's sudden interest. He had asked her that question once, a long time ago, and she had not answered him. But he had a good idea of the answer now, anyway. "I was over two hundred when Troy fell, so somewhere around thirty-three hundred."
"Thirty-three -?" Alex blinked. "Oh." She looked back and forth between Connor and Cassandra. "Are there many Immortals that old?"
"It's hard to tell," Cassandra replied. "It's not a question that is usually asked. It's considered..."
"Rude?" Alex finished.
Dangerous, thought Cassandra, but she smiled slightly and said, "Personal." She glanced over at Connor; he lifted one eyebrow in sardonic amusement, then quickly resumed his normal reserved expression.
Alex had lifted both eyebrows, but her look was one of simple amusement. "I suppose asking people their age is always a personal question, no matter how old they are. Did you live in Troy, Cassandra?"
"Off and on, for about a century before it fell."
"Did it really happen, the way the Iliad and the Odyssey say?"
"Close enough," Cassandra said. "Stories always get changed. Homer focused on the battles." And the men, of course. "He left out a lot. Euripides did a better job of describing what it was really like." Cassandra did not look at Connor now. She shrugged. "It wasn't very different from the sacking of a lot of other cities: Carthage, Rome, Baghdad, Constantinople, Shanghai... It wasn't all that special."
Connor spoke up from his corner of the sofa. "Troy just had better publicity."
Cassandra somehow did not find that amusing.
"Did you live in all those cities?" Alex asked.
"Yes," she said smoothly. She had died in all those cities, too.
"Where else have you lived?"
"Many places. Not North America or Antarctica, but all the other continents." She looked over at Connor, who was leaning back on the sofa and watching her, as he had been watching her all night. "Connor traveled quite a bit, too," she said to Alex. "I'm sure he'd be happy to talk to you about what he's seen. Wouldn't you, Connor?" she asked cheerily.
Connor narrowed his eyes at her, but sat up a little and looked at Alex inquiringly.
"I know he's lived in New York City, and I already know he's been to Japan," Alex said. She smiled at Connor, a quiet lovely smile of shared memories.
Cassandra watched as Connor smiled back at his wife. It was a smile that reached his eyes and wiped out all traces of sullenness or coldness, a smile that softened his face with love. She remembered that smile.
Alex asked, "How old was Nakano, Connor?"
Connor shrugged. "I never asked. Didn't want to get 'personal.' At least as old as Ramirez, though."
"Where else have you been, besides Japan?"
"I've lived in London, here in Edinburgh, Africa, France, the United States. I've visited other places, but didn't stay for long."
Alex looked back at Cassandra and included her in the conversation again. "And, of course, you were both in the Highlands of Scotland."
"The end of the earth," said Cassandra, remembering the peaceful century she had spent in Donan Woods. It had been a good life for her. "Although the title 'the end of the earth' really belonged to the west coast of Ireland."
"Were you ever in Ireland?"
"Yes, I lived there during the fifth century," Cassandra answered. "About the same time as St. Patrick."
"This is wonderful!" Alex exclaimed. "An archeologist's dream. Connor must have told you that I'm here for a class on Celtic history at the University."
Connor had mentioned no such thing, but Cassandra smiled politely. Alex's next words surprised her.
"Cassandra, would you come with me to the Museum of Antiquities tomorrow afternoon? They have an exhibit on Celtic art right now."
She glanced at Connor, but his face was expressionless. She turned back to Alex. "But, surely, you and Connor have plans. I don't-"
"John and Connor are going to a football game tomorrow. And I've seen football games before," Alex added, with a rueful grin. "Please come, Cassandra," Alex entreated her. "I'd like to hear what you think of the objects."
Cassandra glanced at Connor again, and he inclined his head ever so slightly, giving her permission. She turned back to Alex. "All right, Alex."
"Good! It opens at two. Why don't we meet here about one-thirty and then walk over?"
"At one-thirty," she agreed, then noticed the clock over the mantel chiming ten. "It's late," Cassandra exclaimed. "I need to be going. Thank you for a wonderful meal, both of you, and a very interesting evening. I've really enjoyed myself, and I'm glad I got a chance to meet you, Alex."
"Cassandra, why don't you let Connor drive you back to the hotel?" Alex suggested.
Cassandra stood. "Oh, I'll be fine, Alex."
Alex stood, and then Connor stood, too. Alex said, "But, Cassandra, the rain is really heavy right now. Connor?"
"I'll go get the car," Connor said, heading for the door.
"Connor," Cassandra said hastily, and he stopped. Cassandra did not need Connor to take her to the hotel. "Alex, it isn't even really dark yet, and I've walked in the rain before." Alex started to protest again, and Cassandra added, "Many times," reminding her of just how old she was. She smiled at Alex gently to soften her refusal. "Please don't worry about me." She knew Connor certainly wouldn't. "I like the rain," she added, hoping that would convince them to leave her alone.
Connor was still watching her closely, but he nodded and did not insist.
"Tomorrow at one-thirty, Cassandra," Alex reminded her, as they all walked into the hall.
"I'm looking forward to it, Alex," Cassandra said, as she put on her jacket and Connor unlocked the front door. That wasn't a lie, was it? She was not quite sure. She smiled again, then escaped into the rain.
Connor and Alex watched as Cassandra stepped off the front step, then Connor shut the door and locked it. He was very aware of Alex's steady stare on his back. He braced himself before he turned around. Here it came.
"What happened between you and Cassandra?" Alex asked.
"This week?" He turned his back on her again to put the key in its drawer in the table. "Normal training." When he turned around again, she was still staring at him.
"No." Alex's voice was patient. "Not this week. Three and a half centuries ago, when you broke up."
"We were never together enough to 'break up.'"
Alex folded her arms across her chest and waited.
He shrugged and admitted, "We didn't exactly part on the best of terms." That was a bit of an understatement. He had told Cassandra he would kill her if she ever came near him again. Then he had told her he would take her head. He had meant every word.
"And now?"
He shrugged again. "We're on better terms." He didn't want to kill Cassandra on sight now-just occasionally. "It was a misunderstanding."
"So, does that mean you understand each other better now?"
How the hell was he supposed to answer that? Connor sighed. It was going to be a long night.
Continued...