Chapter Eight:

A Royal Command – Step Into My Office – People, Power and Problems – The Country Affair – A Proposal – Tea and Swords – On Thin Ice – A Long Way from la Rive Gauche.

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About to walk out of Mycroft's front door to the waiting car, her eye was caught by something in a small pile of correspondence on the hall-table. Reversing her steps, Cate picked them up, looking for the … ah. Long, white, windowed envelope, with a crest. Reading the frank, she made out the words 'Cabinet Office'. The envelope was marked urgent and personal.

"Might this be important?" She waved it at Mycroft coming down the hallway behind her. "Did you want to take it with you to the office?"

He looked long-suffering. "It's another invitation to accept a knighthood, I expect," Mycroft dropped the envelope back on the table. "They keep sending me these damn things without any consideration of what it is I actually do." He looked at Cate's widened eyes and raised brows.

"What?"

"The Queen wants to give you a knighthood?"

"It would seem so."

"And you declined the nomination?"

"Several times."

"Oh," Cate shrugged and walked to the Jaguar.

Thinking, Mycroft got in beside her. "Although I likely will accept one day," he said offhandedly. "It will make Her happy."

"Her?"

Tipping his head, Mycroft raised both eyebrows and said nothing.

"Oh."

"Then I'd be Sir Mycroft, and my wife," he added with a soft cough, "if I had one, would be Lady Holmes." His face was carefully devoid of expression.

"I know how the system works, Mycroft," Cate rummaged in a capacious briefcase, its worn black leather billowing as she pulled its contents around. "Blast," she muttered. "I was sure I had a memory stick in here I was going to give you with an analysis of your Petronovka situation.

"An analysis?"

"Yes – did it in my spare time during last week. Thought it might add some local colour to the metadiscourse compiled, no doubt, by your own people."

"You've written a political analysis?"

Cate turned to face him, mildly peeved. "Just because I teach Literature does not render me incompetent in other fields of inquiry," she said. "I thought your situation was intriguing, so I researched some productive sources and transcribed the findings. There is no compulsion to read it." Frowning, "It's moot anyway as I seem to have left it at my office."

"I can swing by and collect it, if that's convenient?"

"What, this morning? You want to read it?"

Mycroft nodded. "Besides," he said. "I haven't seen your office."

"It's nothing special," Cate wrinkled her nose thus telling Mycroft everything. Really, he would have to advise her about that little give-away. One day. Perhaps.

Directing his driver to the campus in Gower Street, they parked outside the main administrative building and walked through to the large Humanities block behind it.

The campus was eerily quiet. "Break week," Cate nodded. "I get all my paperwork done this week if I can."

Taking an industrial-sized lift to the fifth-floor, Cate slid a pass card through an electronic lock on an unassuming grey door Professor Catherine Adin: Comparative Literatures.

Again, Mycroft's skin prickled as he stepped, for the first time, into another private part of Cate's life.

A fairly spacious office with long windows looking towards Tavistock Square. The two main walls were invisible behind books, piled journals and art, with the wall around the entrance smothered in postcards and photographs – mostly of students in various locations around the world. A large L-shaped desk was unexpectedly clear of detritus, home to only a standard HP desktop and printer.

Cate saw Mycroft's look at the tidy desk and laughed. "I have to keep some sanity and organisation in this place," she gestured around. "My home from home," she smiled.

It had taken Mycroft less than three seconds to take it all in. This space was, despite its superficial air of confusion and clutter, remarkably systematic.

"Where is your copy of The Tempest?" he asked, testing his theory.

"Behind you, third shelf from the floor, two sections in, next to the Hello Kitty doll," she said, pulling open a desk-drawer and hunting for the USB.

"And Jeanette Winterson?"

"Two shelves higher, between DeLillo and Ackroyd," she muttered, still searching. "Ah, finally." Leaning down, Cate plucked a small black memory stick and waved it. "Shakespeare and Postmodernist authors?" she asked, curious.

"Merely testing an hypothesis," he smiled.

Walking over, Cate handed him the USB. "It's only a few pages," she said, "but there may be something in there that can jog an idea in someone else."

Suddenly reluctant to leave her, Mycroft stalled.

"Do you have any major plans for the weekend," he asked casually.

"This being break week, I am unlikely to have problem students at my door, and I don't think I have any scheduled meetings, hang on …" Pulling out an old-style A4 desk diary, Cate flipped through a couple of pages, scrawled with notes, names and numbers. "Nothing I am committed to attend," she looked up, smiling. "Why?"

"I wondered if you might like to come and stay at my place in Surrey."

Cate stared at him. "You have a house in Surrey?"

"Yes. Deepdene. A small house on a few acres," he nodded.

"You have a country home?"

Mycroft looked puzzled. "Problem?"

Shaking her head, Cate grinned. "I've never known landed gentry before," she laughed. "Makes me feel ennobled."

"Will you come?"

"Of course, I'd love to."

"Good," he nodded. "We can drive down on Friday if that's acceptable."

Feeling marginally happier about leaving Cate's company, Mycroft turned towards the door, suddenly noticing a series of small geometric paintings mounted vertically on the wall down the length the door. Each one, no more than six-inches square, had been carefully produced and exquisitely framed. Though simple, they were beautiful.

"What," Mycroft asked, intrigued, "are these?"

Peering around him, Cate grinned. "Those," she acknowledged, "are my pin-numbers and passwords."

Looking at the drawings more intently, Mycroft initially saw only concentric squares, triangles, circles of various dimension and dots. One or two heptagons and larger polygons …

Cate pointed. "I told you I have no math," she said, "well, it's a little more than that. I have a problem remembering anything numeric – numbers refuse to behave for me – so I translate all my numeric codes into visual cues."

And then Mycroft saw. Starting from the outside shape and moving to the centre, he counted the points of each, producing a sequence of digits. Original, if hardly secure. He smiled.

"You," he said, lightly touching her face, "are unique."

Cate wrinkled her nose.

Mycroft left for his office, a contented man.

###

He sat at home; single malt in one hand, print-out of Cate's analysis in the other. He realised he hadn't actually read any of her work yet, so this might be interesting in more ways than one.

In her preamble, Cate wrote of the strategic location of the village, of the historical enmities and alliances between the hill people of the area; of the ancient hatred of these Ukrainian tribes for their first imperialist, then Communist, overlords; and of the growth of social and political tension upon the discovery of massive mineral deposits in the area. So far, this was nothing new, although he approved of her writing style which was terse, lacking adjectives and entirely relevant. Should Cate ever become disenchanted with academic life, he could find her any one of fifty different posts in government service. Mycroft deliberated the idea for a moment. She might end up working for him. The ghost of a smile crossed his face. Perhaps not the most far-sighted of notions.

Following the introduction, Cate had broken her analysis into three key areas: people, power and problems. In each of these areas, she identified and discussed the major players, issues and outcomes. Again, Mycroft had seen most of this in briefs prepared by his own people, but then he read something which made him stop and re-read.

Rumours persist that several survivors from the massacre were removed, with unspecified local assistance, from the immediate environs before additional Soviet forces isolated and cordoned an area of several square kilometres. One name in particular is associated with these alleged individuals – the Michelenko Family – is said to have listed three family survivors: an adult and two young children, who were later reported as missing. While this may be nothing more than conjecture, the stories are remarkably detailed, consistent and contiguous with comprehensive personal accounts of engaged Soviet personnel and external apocryphon.

This information alone made the analysis valuable. Silently thanking her, Mycroft picked up his Blackberry and called Sherlock. Another piece of the puzzle had just become visible.

###

The man from MI5 gestured to the worn photograph on Mycroft's desk. It depicted an extended family group: Grandparents; Father; Mother, elder children and a very small infant. From the clothes and the house behind them, they appeared eastern European.

"He was born where?!" Mycroft was appalled. "How was this fact in any way suppressed from either his original recruitment or any of the subsequent security checks?" Staring out of the window, Mycroft's mind was spinning with new information.

Michael Stenton had been born in the tiny village of Petronovka in the Ukraine. A very young child, one of only a few to survive the massacre of more than thirty years before, he had been smuggled into the West and adopted by the Stentons. Mycroft had seen the adoption certificate himself, but the child's origin was stated as being rural England. How had an infant been smuggled from the Russian border to a remote farm in South shields? More to the point, how had all this taken place without tripping off any of the usual red flags? Protocols maintained precisely to spot this kind of movement?

"This is the connection between Stenton's disappearance and Operation Bradshaw," Mycroft felt some ease knowing that, at last, the pieces were becoming clear. "I must speak with my brother," he announced, advising the MI5 operative to leave.

"Stenton was born in the Ukraine," Mycroft's words were clipped. "I need proof of any connection between his disappearance and the compromised escape road. If you have to travel, my office will make all necessary arrangements."

Placing his phone on the desk, Mycroft looked very thoughtful. If Stenton was Ukrainian, a survivor of the Petronovka killings, then he might, for obvious reasons, feel some vested interest in upsetting the Russian applecart. If it appeared that the Russians were responsible for compromising and shutting down Bradshaw, they would be harshly dealt with by not only Britain and Western Europe, but the US as well. How far would someone like Stenton go to achieve his ends – whatever they were? What would he do to secure revenge, if that was his motivation? What would it be worth to have one half of the European bloc at the collective throats of the other?

And who was Michael Stenton?

Picking up his Blackberry, Mycroft phoned Russia.

###

Heading towards Dorking, the drive down to Westhumble had been swift and uneventful. The Jaguar once again hosted a couple of raincoats who would, it seemed, be spending the weekend with them. Cate hadn't been overly enthused about this until Mycroft explained that they would be quartered in a guest cottage a little way from the main house.

Pulling into the sweeping drive and forecourt, Cate was lost for the appropriate superlative. Superlatives. The place was perfect.

An Edwardian construct, Cate marvelled at Mycroft's description of a 'small' house. The place was enormous. And beautiful. Standing and staring at the lovingly-arched stone porch, and the splendid mullioned windows in the setting sun, she was struck silent.

"Shall we go in?" Mycroft gestured to the main entrance.

"Not sure I want to," Cate answered. He raised an eyebrow.

"It's so beautiful from out here, I think anything else will have to be an anti-climax."

Mycroft smiled and took her hand. "Come," he pulled her in with him.

If anything, the interior was even more gorgeous than the outside. A house of enormous character, with a wealth of preserved period features; an expansive reception hall; gothic style wrought iron, and an impressive carved staircase and galleried landing.

"I think I'm in heaven," Cate whispered, trying to absorb everything simultaneously. "This is unbelievable."

Mycroft stood watching her. Cate's unfettered delight in his house made him feel unaccustomedly buoyant. Deepdene was a pretty house.

"Built by General, Sir Julius Tarquin Holmes, my great-grandfather, shortly after the death of Queen Victoria," he announced. "Something of a forward-thinker for his day," he added. "Internal plumbing abounds."

Taking her hand again, Mycroft drew Cate through the ground floor: the massive drawing room, lined with books, portraiture and quality furnishings; the dining room, a long imposing space with those stunning windows, crests everywhere; a dining table that could easily host a re-enactment of the Siege of Khartoum; the kitchen and all the usual offices associated with ground-floor existence. The kitchen was another dream: this one had clearly been renovated in the last few years and Cate found herself wishing it were Christmas so she'd have an excuse to cook a goose and do the whole seasonal thing. This place simply begged for it to be done. She imagined a tree and a fireplace and … Cate mentally shook herself. Foolish. It was only a house.

"This is a wonderful house," she sighed, putting her arms around Mycroft's middle. "It's divine. Thank you for bringing me here."

"I rarely get the opportunity these days to come down," he said. "I was even thinking of selling."

Cate drew back, outraged. "You can't think of selling Deepdene," she was appalled. "Unless you really need the money."

"It's not the money," Mycroft looked around. "I simply do not use the place enough to warrant its keep."

"That's a terrible justification," Cate remonstrated. "I'd be down here every single weekend I could get away from town," she murmured, looking up at the intricate gilding on the ceiling. "It's fabulous."

Mycroft couldn't help but smile. Cate's instant admiration of the house added to his own enjoyment.

"Come and see upstairs," he suggested.

Following Mycroft up the broad coil of staircase, Cate walked in and through several substantial bedrooms and bathrooms until she came to the master suite.

"Holy wow," she whistled.

A substantial space; the ubiquitous four-poster bed; floor-to-ceiling windows; some serious curtaining; great big thick carpets and an open fireplace, with, yes: a fur rug. Cate snorted: the room was channeling Barbara Cartland. It was unusual for her to covet anything, but this, well, this was special. She scrutinised the four-poster.

"Is that thing comfortable?" she asked sceptically.

"Very much so," Mycroft sounded so neutral that Cate was immediately suspicious.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" she demanded.

"Nothing. It's perfectly acceptable," he added.

"Not that I'm calling you a liar, you understand," she said, "but I suspect you of lying."

"There's one way to prove I'm telling the truth," Mycroft said, candidly.

"We arrived only thirty minutes ago," Cate shook her head, scandalised, but laughing.

"Then we should waste no more time," with a disreputable smile Mycroft pulled her into his arms, kissing her to the edge of indecency.

Cate's knees trembled. "You have an unfair advantage," she breathed.

"And what is that?" Mycroft was fascinated by the pulse at the base of Cate's throat. It was enticingly erratic.

"I have no idea, but whatever it is, it's not fair," she whispered, succumbing to his touch and closing her eyes.

Mycroft felt two tidal waves wash over him. The first: a surge of heat and desire and lust over which, at this time and in this place, he wanted little control. The second, an impossible flood of emotion for the woman in his arms.

In the moment before his higher reasoning shut down, Mycroft knew he wanted Cate Adin with him for more than the weekend: for more, even, than the foreseeable future. In the second before instinct overpowered thought, Mycroft Holmes realised he was in love. And the knowledge crucified him.

###

Cate knew something was wrong. He was far too remote.

After sex, they would normally share soft kisses and even softer words until sleep drifted in, but this time, though Mycroft had followed her over the brink of passion into the soaring ascent of orgasm, there was a sense of strangeness, as if more was involved here than pleasure. And instead of brushing her lips with his own and whispering gentle words of delight, he had wrapped her tightly and silently in his arms, his face buried in the curve of her neck. Was he upset? Angry? Cate knew if Mycroft wanted to talk, he would. If he didn't, prompting would be unlikely to provoke such action.

Something was wrong, and she didn't know what to do about it. She held him close and waited for dawn.

###

"Will you walk with me?" Mycroft was still uncomfortably tense. She had hardly eaten a thing at breakfast: ashes in her mouth

"Of course." Cate blinked slowly. She knew what was going to happen next. For some reason, he was going to announce their relationship had run its path and, though he would always think of her fondly, it was time for a parting of the ways. She felt ice inside. Let this be over and done with.

Taking her hand, Mycroft led Cate through the kitchen garden; out beyond an Italian landscape where classical ideals of beauty and order held sway, into a wilder place of rough grass and apple trees.

A stone bench beneath an imposing oak.

"Please," Mycroft gestured for her to sit. Cate couldn't take any more.

"Mycroft, if you want me to leave, then just say so without any theatricalities," she said bleakly. "I've had this conversation before and neither of us need to draw it out to a gory conclusion."

Looking at her, mystified. "What conversation?"

Cate sighed. "Where you tell me it's been fun but you realise you can't devote the necessary time to any relationship and we should call an end to this," she waved a hand in the air, "whatever this is."

Mycroft stood, hands-in-pockets, frowning deeply. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he said.

Cate turned to walk back to the house. "Never mind, Mycroft," she spoke low. "I don't want to be hurt, or be told to go." Cate's voice wobbled. "Goodbye."

"For an intelligent and insightful woman, you are incredibly dense at times," Mycroft sighed as his hand caught her arm. "Come back and sit down," he ushered her to the bench. "Please."

Sitting, more because her knees were shaky than because he wanted her to sit, Cate waited in unhappy silence.

"Forgive me if I've made you uncomfortable," he said. "There is an issue I must discuss," Mycroft continued, "but which, I confess, is beyond my usual metier." Cate closed her eyes.

"Last night, I realised something that should have been obvious to me for a long time," Mycroft hesitated, "though it appears I am as fallible as the next man in this area," he smiled uncertainly. Cate stared at the grass by her feet.

Mycroft sat beside her, his fingers stroking down the side of her face until she looked up. He waited until her eyes focused on his own. He smiled, almost hopelessly.

"I love you," he said.

Cate stared.

"Marry me," he said.

Cate stared. Her eyes widened. She sucked in a breath.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows, a faint twist of his lips. He waited.

"You love me?" Cate could hardly shape the words.

"Yes."

"This is a proposal."

"Yes," Mycroft's mouth twitched harder. "People do this, you know."

Cate's heart did a double-back flip. With pike and twist. Then reality leaped in front of her. A reality of stone and steel and the hard things of life.

"Mycroft," she husked, "I'm sorry, but no."

Being honest with himself, Mycroft admitted he had expected Cate to accept him.

"May I ask why not?" His voice was as gentle as Cate had ever heard.

"You are an amazing man," she said. "I admire you immensely, I feel very close to you … but … I don't love you," she looked at him then back at the grass, her words barely audible.

"You care for me," he stated. "I know you do."

"Yes, of course I do," Cate could barely speak. "But that's not enough to marry someone."

"It could be," he said slowly.

"Not for me," she was whispering now, her chest tight and a burning behind her eyes.

"Ah," he sighed shortly, disappointed. "Well. Worth a try."

Cate said nothing, but sat, rigid and desolate. Mycroft sought her hand. "Tea is called for, I think."

Unmoving, Cate shuddered, a sob catching her breath. A warm hand lifted her face as tears she had stemmed broke through.

"I'm so sorry, Mycroft," Cate couldn't see through blurred eyes. But she could feel. Two arms wrapped around her, pulling her up and against his chest, holding her there, rocked her gently. Resting her face against the tweed of his waistcoat, Cate stood and wept for the answer she was unable to give him.

"Darling Cate," Mycroft spoke into her hair. "Don't cry; it's not a problem."

She cried harder, shudders racking her body.

"Darling?" she stammered.

"Yes, do you object to the term?"

Cate shook her head, wiping her eyes. "It sounds lovely," she exhaled.

Really, if the situation weren't quite so fraught, Mycroft would have smiled. As it was, he felt far from unhappy. For Cate to be so upset argued that she cared a great deal more for him than she was ready to admit. And he was a master of the long game. This situation had been premature, brought about by his impetuosity. He wouldn't make the same mistake next time he asked her. Sooner or later, Catherine Adin was going to be his wife. The urge to have her constantly in his life, to be with her every day, was becoming an imperative.

When her emotions calmed, Mycroft led her back to Deepdene's warmth, his arm around her shoulders. Oddly, Cate being so troubled made him feel even more strongly towards her: a paradoxical and possibly Quixotic response to her refusal. So this was what love for Cate felt like. Mycroft hugged her to his side as they walked back into the house.

After insisting she sit and have tea, Mycroft distracted her with a tour of the rest of the house, including the attics. Recovering her normal lightness of being, at least externally, Cate took more of an interest in things. In one of the long attic-rooms was a basket of swords.

"Mycroft, these are real swords," she said, lifting one out.

"Yes, be careful," he extracted another. "They may still be sharp."

Cate balanced a foil cautiously across her hand. "I like the feel of this," she murmured, taking hold of the hilt and whisking the blade up in the air. Mycroft had chosen a sabre and was holding it in a pronate position, staring down the long blade. It had probably belonged to Sir Julius.

"Did you fence?" Cate was watching him closely.

"Had lessons, as did Sherlock," he stepped to a point-in-line. "Long time ago."

"I've always wanted to learn," she mused, throwing Mycroft a passable salute.

"Then you first need to know how to grip the weapon." Mycroft replaced his sabre and stood behind Cate, showing her how to straighten her arm with the palm up, keeping her wrist flexible. The contact with her warmth, the touch of her skin, the fragrance of her, and fencing was no longer the focus of his thoughts.

"Whether you love me or not," he said, his arms bringing her close to his chest, "is unimportant, as long as you are happy to be with me."

For the first time since last night, Cate began to relax. "I am happy," she said. "But you can always make me happier," she slid her arms around his neck.

Mycroft complied. Wife, he thought. Soon.

###

Upon returning to London following the mixed experience of Deepdene, Cate decided she needed time alone to adjust to her relationship with Mycroft. Things had changed and she felt as if the ice beneath her feet was suddenly very thin. Wanting to establish a new level horizon, Cate made it clear to him that she wasn't running away, but rather, marshalling her forces.

"It will only be for a few days," she murmured as he held her. "I need to rebalance my understanding of things, and I can't do that when I'm always thinking about you."

Not terribly pleased with the idea, yet Mycroft felt he couldn't actually ask her not to do this.

"What will you do?"

Cate laughed at him. "The same things I was doing before we met, probably."

"Will you be at your apartment?"

"Of course," Cate was puzzled. "Where else would I be?"

Mycroft relaxed a little. Cate's announcement that she needed time by herself was initially disquieting, a sign of how far this relationship had come. He was unwilling to push too hard as he had seen her reaction to this treatment several times.

"I'll see you at the weekend?"

Running her arms tight around this man who was suddenly very important in her life, Cate rested her head against him, wishing she could say the words he wanted to hear.

"I think I might look into a fencing class," she muttered against the cloth of his suit, "now that neither you nor that doctor chap think I should risk life and limb, I need something fun to do."

"I could …" Mycroft began. Cate lifted her head and raised her eyebrows. "Or perhaps not," a faint smile.

"Perhaps not," Cate agreed. "Until the weekend?"

###

Seeking clarity of mind and emotion, Cate knew the best thing she could do was to focus on something else entirely. She needed distance and perspective. True to her word, Cate quickly located the closest fencing school to her apartment and went to have a look. Reluctantly following Dr Lanier's advice, she had cut out the more forceful elements of her dance sessions, and although Cate maintained a few hours each week to get her heart beating fast, they lacked the satisfaction of having to stretch to one's limit. She needed something new and exciting, and fencing was an old, old fantasy, ironically, re-awakened by the weekend at Deepdene.

The Ecole d'escrime de Laurant occupied the entire first floor of a converted warehouse. A large space, it held eight strips that she could see, with plenty of room around each one for officials and whoever else needed to be there. It was light and airy and smelled of wood and machine oil and electricity. An intriguing combination.

Walking around the perimeter of the room, Cate was fascinated by everything: the posters on the wall; the sounds, the kit, and, of course, the fencing itself. Everyone looked incredibly fit and energetic. It augured well.

Dressed all in white, a dark-haired man walked over; somewhere in his mid-thirties, with his mask beneath one arm, long white gloves in the opposite hand, he was consciously handsome.

"Allo," he said. "I am Emile Laurant," he gestured around. "This is my school. May I help you?" Pure seventh arrondissment; his accent screamed le Faubourg. What on earth was he doing running a fencing school in London?

"You're a long way from la Rive Gauche, Monsieur Laurant," Cate smiled and shook his outstretched hand.

Looking at her more carefully, "Do we know each other?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," Cate laughed. "I have an ear for accents, and yours is unmistakable."

Laurant looked mildly sceptical but shrugged. "And you are here because ..?"

"I am thinking of taking up fencing and wanted to get a clearer picture of what was involved before I did."

"This is good sense," he nodded approval. "There is much to see," he beckoned. "Come, come."

Taking her through key aspects of the school, Emile Laurant made it clear that a significant commitment was required from participants – he usually asked people to sign up for at least a year.

"That seems a lot to ask of people who may not enjoy it," Cate demurred.

Laurant shrugged again. "It is their choice, but my time," he said "It teaches people to consider carefully before they commit to something."

A small voice inside her agreed.

"Do I have to buy all the equipment from the beginning or may I hire it?" she wanted to know.

"Better to buy; but convenient to hire until you are certain," he suggested.

Cate smiled. This was sounding pretty good.

"When would it be convenient for me to begin?" she asked.

"Right now?" Laurant directed her towards a rack of white clothing and masks. "Find a jacket, breeches and a mask and meet me back here in ten minutes."

Dressing in the oddly-shaped clothing took longer than it might, but once she had worked out the velcro and the zips, it made sense. Finding a mask that fitted comfortably took seconds. Catching a view of herself in a full-length mirror, Cate grinned. At least she looked the part.

Walking out with the mask under her arm, Emile Laurant was waiting. He handed her a pair of long gloves. "Compliments of the academy," he said, leading her towards a long rack of swords.

"And now we choose your weapon," he looked at her carefully. "Are you agile and strong?" he asked.

Smiling a little, Cate nodded. "I believe I am."

"Good. We will begin with a dry foil French grip."

Lifting Cate's arm straight, he assessed her reach. "Et, voilà," he said, handing her a lighter-than-expected blade. "We will try from here."

Directing her to an unoccupied strip, Emile explained the first stance, and why footwork was so terribly important. "When I was learning," he said. "It was months before they would even let me hold a blade!"

He showed her how to place her feet. "First I will show you how to protect your heart," he said.

For a second, Cate wondered if the man was psychic.

"We call this the Parry Quarte, or parry four, which enables you to prevent an attack on the upper left quadrant of your body." Assuming a stance, Laurant demonstrated the response he was seeking from her.

"Ready?"

Cate nodded.

"En garde," he said, and lunged. The bent tip of his own foil pinged neatly off the padding of her jacket.

"My God," she exclaimed. "That was so fast."

"Encore."

Again, they took their places. "En garde."

This time, Cate was at least able to move back and flick the end of her foil just in time to bat Laurant's out of the way, though it was a pretty feeble response. But he seemed pleased.

"Good, that is good," he smiled. "You learn quickly." Replacing his mask. "Again," he said.

After nearly thirty minutes of nothing else but parrying a single thrust, Cate felt exhausted: her wrist and leg aching. This was no sport for softies. About to ask for a break, Laurant paused before surprising her with an unexpected lunge which she parried without thought; her hand and body moving naturally into position.

"Brava," he nodded. "See you on Friday, Madame."

Cate grinned mightily. This could be fun.

###

Mycroft was restless. Abandoning his dinner after a few bites, everything in the newspaper was tedious, he wasn't in any mood to listen to his favourite pieces, and forget the television – for the fourth night in a row, he might as well return to his office and spend the evening working, as fritter it away. He felt strangely disconnected from his life: nothing seemed to fit in anymore. He wondered what Cate was doing. Four days apart and everything felt wrong. Mycroft sighed. No doubt about it, then: he had to change her mind. Her surveillance report had her entering a fencing studio a tube-ride from her home. Naturally, he had the place vetted to ensure its legitimacy. Owned and managed by the scion of Parisian blue-bloods, she was in the school for well over an hour before exiting and returning home. Apparently, she was due to return there in the morning. Mycroft wanted to see her; to feel the warmth of her. And Friday was almost the weekend. He poured himself a large scotch.

###

Dressed once again in the white garb of the fencer, Cate joined the beginners' class, learning the 'en garde' position and several basic stances. Moving across to the pistes, Cate expected to be in another group to practice, but was greeted by Le Patron himself.

"Ici," he beckoned. "I will show you the next parry, and after that, we will have coffee, yes?"

Cate looked amused. "Is drinking coffee part of your teaching?" she asked.

"Only for the brightest of pupils," he winked. Cate wasn't sure what to say. The man was younger than her by several years, and although quite striking in a flamboyant way, he really wasn't the sort she'd consider. Besides, her thoughts had already focused on another face: quiet, austere, a serious face with a wayward lock of hair and a slightly cruel mouth. She shivered.