I stared into the darkness above me listening to the soft sound of Dinah's snores in the berth only feet away on the other side of the tiny room. We had been fortunate that the Ferryman had been willing to make a final trip this evening; though not so fortunate that he did not request special compensation for his efforts at a price we preferred not to discuss in front of the Underhills. Tired from the train ride and lulled by the gentle rocking of the waves, Dinah had fallen asleep almost immediately; a feat I dearly wished to accomplish but found I was not equal to the task. My mind (that vile traitor) refused to allow my body to drift off, instead seeking to shift through the events of the past few days. And of those there had been so many! It kept leaping from one to the other in no particular order, only adding to my sense of unease. Finally, certain that sleep and I would remain strangers for the rest of the ferry ride, I decided to get some air on the deck.

As I arose from the depths I saw a short way off toward the port bow, leaning on his elbows against the ship's rail, silhouetted by pale light from above, the trim figure of Lord Roger Norbert. Next to him Quentin stood in the exact same manner; a shorter, more stout mirror image. Both were staring out toward the black horizon with nary a word nor glance passing between the two of them. Though nothing was being said I could not feel I was somehow intruding on something deeply intimate. I turned and made my way to via the starboard route to the stern of the little steamer, watching as the propellers made little bubbling trails in the shifting plane of stars. The glint on the wave crests undulated peacefully. I could still see a speck of light from the great ghostly sentinel of Dover blinking its farewell. Would I ever lay eyes upon it again? Something about this mission had terrified Quentin more than any other had - something so terrible he had refused to let me go without him (or with him, were the truth plainly stated, for if he had possessed the ability to stop me I was certain he would have). On any other case he had only expressed the sincerest trepidation but with a faith that I would be equal to whatever horror might cross me. I heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs to the lower deck.

Strolling to the bow I found Roger still in the same aspect as before. I sidled up to him in silence. We stood, both staring out into the blackness. Through the dark a minuscule spot of light began to announce its presence, so tiny it was easy to think it a trick of the moon on the waves. The Phare de Calais. I had seen it in my younger days, though only in the harsh light of day. A giant black-headed gull bound to land, sights set permanently on the open skies above. It had been a delight to me as a child to imagine such things. Today it was shrouded by darkness, beckoning us. A motion from my left caught my attention. Roger had shifted his gaze to the dark water below.

"It was my case," he said.

"Oh?"

"It was supposed to be a simple investigation of some unusual letters coming from Russia. A common enough thing, to be sure, but with the war going poorly... Paranoia regarding leaks to Russian agents was on the rise. We might see dozens of suspected cases in a week only to find it was someone's grandmother or cousin or something equally mundane. James was on leave from Kenya, his transfer to Belgium had just been approved. A man in his first year of marriage should be close to home. He could have retired then and there but try and suggest such a thing and he would have a fit. He was too young to waste away as a stodgy old Lord in some stuffy estate in the highlands. During his leave it came time for my sister to be delivered. She was two months early. James volunteered to take over my case while I went to tend to her. She delivered twins, a boy and a girl. But the boy was weak. By the time I arrived he had already passed and the girl was fading. It was too early, the doctor said. Of course my sister was overcome with grief. I remember the first time I saw the baby in her pram - such a little poppet, the size of a small puppy. She looked up at me with the brightest eyes, though. I knew from the moment she wrapped her tiny fingers around the tip of my littlest finger she would survive despite the Doctor's warnings. I remained two months at the family estate before I received the letter from the Underhills that James had gone missing. I never told them that the delivery was early or that we lost one." Roger shifted his gaze to the stars.

"Why didn't you? They would have understood."

"They would have been too understanding. They would have told me not to come, to stay with my sister - and that I could never do. James was practically a brother to me and it was on my behalf he had vanished. And when they found out about James's death they were so shattered it seemed easier to let them put some of that pain on myself. To a degree, I felt I deserved it. I suppose Quentin still holds it against me. But then he was particularly close to James. James was the first person to truly recognize his abilities as anything other than the future curate. They held each other's confidence in a way I shall never replace. Even after all these years."

"He never told me."

"He wouldn't."

No, he wouldn't. In truth, it had been the first time Quentin had mentioned James since his death. There had been moments, early on, little things: a particular word, a tool, a date, a turn of phrase, when his sister turned down sugar in her tea or pudding - when a deep sadness seemed to touch him. I had not even considered how James's death had affected him. He would not have wished me to. I had grown to accept that even as his wife there were parts of him I would never be privy to, fathoms I would never be allowed to plumb the depths of. And Dinah was much the same. Between the pair of them there existed a great world into which only they might venture. I stared at the little speck of light growing ever stronger.

"You should get some sleep," Roger finally broke the silence.

"I'm not tired."

"No, you are exhausted. I know your face too well to be fooled by mere words."

"What are we to do with them?" I attempted to change the subject.

"I've been considering a few ideas. If they are going to insist on being part of this we might as well make use of them."

I didn't care for the utilitarian way he spoke of our dearest friends but he was right: they would never consign themselves to a hotel room for the duration of the investigation. If they were not included in the plans they would only become a nuisance. "Anything you would care to share with me?"

"Nothing specific. But perhaps we might be able to use your German heritage."

"How do you know I'm German?"

"I can see it in the set of your jaw."

Almost unconsciously I touched the squared joint below my ear; suddenly very self-conscious about the feature of my mixed heritage I had only just begun to make peace with. It galled me far more than any other part since it's emergence from the soft, round flesh of youthful cheeks for it always called to mind with painful clarity a long buried memory. Princess. I fought the low hiss of the name back down into the abyss. "It would be more useful if I could speak German better."

"I'm not certain that is true. It gives you an unstudied air that makes you seem less suspicious. You'll never pass for German, but perhaps as one visiting the land of their ancestors..."

"Or visiting family," I mused aloud. "It would be reasonable to bring my fiance to meet relatives before the wedding for after travel might not be so easily accomplished. And his sister would be the natural choice to accompany us as a chaperon given my own family cannot accompany us in light of my father's illness."

"And what would my role in this little farce be?"

"You have been living in Austria these past two years so you would be able to readily pass as a fellow countryman; I suppose you could act as my Uncle."

"Uncle?"

"You are what? Thirteen years my senior?"

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen, then." Forty-two. I congratulated myself on having so cleverly obtained his age. It was an insignificant thing, but still a gain on the man who always seemed to know so much about myself yet always played the enigma regarding his own affairs. "Given that, it would be difficult to believe you a cousin."

"Still, an Uncle seems rather old."

"James, I never knew you were one to be given to vanity over sense."

"All men are and it is best you understand that now."

I ignored his protest, venturing on, "Perhaps I will call you Johan..."

He scowled.

I blithely continued as if I were completely oblivious to his clear disdain. "Yes, I quite like the sound of that. Uncle Johan. Very German. Johan... Kepler, I suppose it would be. That being the name of my mother's family. We could say you were named for our distant relative Johannes."

"Suddenly you make a good deal more sense within your family."

I blushed at the unexpected compliment, "Thank you."

"Well, they do say witchcraft tends to pass down through family lines."

"You!" I rounded on him. He managed to dodge a slap intended for his smug face.

"Clearly though, clairvoyance does not. You know, you did not have to take the Devil's first offer. They say he likes to bargain," he teased as he managed to dodge a number of blows. My fist froze mid-swing, impeded by his hand which gripped the wrist tightly. I tried with the other hand, only to have it similarly captured. He raised both my hands above my head as he drew closer until we were almost nose to nose, a mocking grin upon his face.

"Let me go!" I tried to force my hands from his grip but to no avail. He easily had me overpowered.

"Uncle?" He raised his brow.

"Fine! You may be a cousin!"

"Much better," he said, releasing my hands.

"Once removed!" I cried as I made a mad dash for the stairs. He grabbed for me but I managed to spin out from his hand as it brushed against my waist. I was halfway down the stairs before I turned to find him almost where I left him, but for a step or two, looking at me with an expression of bemusement. I managed to suppress a childish urge to stick my tongue out at him and was suddenly extremely relieved there were no other passengers aboard to witness the scene.

"I see you have taken my advice to retire," He called from where he stood. "Good then. Pleasant dreams, Miss Moore."

The landing and subsequent train ride exist in small pieces of hazy memories. I slept more soundly than I had in days, even months, awakening only by the gentle bidding of my fiance and his sister and just as soon falling asleep again. I have only the vaguest recollection of a station as we waited to transfer to another train during which time Quentin bought me a some sort of pastry but I cannot remember what it tasted like or even whether I ate it or not before I fell asleep leaning against his shoulder.

I regained my full faculties sometime later alone in a small room I took to be an inn. The white plaster walls were lit by large golden squares of unencumbered light coming in from a single curtainless window. The frame of the window had once been painted but much of that paint had chipped off leaving a mottled surface of pale brown and white. In the far corner beside the window a short wooden dresser had been embellished with a mirror to form something of a vanity; upon the surface of which sat a large pale yellow bowl with miniature flowers painted around the rim, accompanied by a creamy white water pitcher with a scene, painted in blue, of trees overlooking farmland. Beside my bed stood a small rough-edged endtable of ancient design with a gas lamp, glass encrusted with soot within which a spider seemed content to continue its weaving. As my eyes adjusted I found my bedside companion was not alone for cobwebs littered the corners of the room. "Well, at least I won't want for a bandage if I cut myself," I muttered to no one but the little arachnid blithely spinning away in the old lamp. I slithered from my bed to the floor keeping the quilt wrapped about me, not desiring to leave its warmth for the chill of the late winter air. Looking out the cracked window pane I was surprised to see not a city before me, but a pastoral scene of such bucolic splendor it would have given John Constable reason to weep for joy. The place I was in was not an Inn, but a cottage set on the very edge of a forest that, in the ensuing years since the house was last attended to, now threatened to enfold the little structure into its verdant embrace. In the distance a patchwork of farms covered the landscape separated by long stands of trees, on a low hill I could just make out a man tilling his fields in preparation for the Spring planting.

My senses becoming clearer I became aware of voices from behind the door. Opening it I was overcome by the warmth eminating from the diminutive room that seemed designed to serve as both kitchen and parlour. Dinah and Roger sat at an old table near the brick fireplace sipping on tea and speaking politely. Upon hearing the squeak of the door hinges both turned their attention toward me.

"Oh good, you're finally awake." Roger said, turning back to his tea.

"Pay no attention to him, he only woke up an hour ago." Dinah said, getting up from her seat and divesting me of my blanket.

"Yes, but I was awake for the entire journey."

"Quentin is still in bed," she continued, ignoring Roger. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mina? You can have my seat if you want it. I was about to start preparing an early dinner anyway."

"Thank you, that would be lovely."

She frowned a bit as she poured the black liquid into the cup, "It's some rather old Frisian, I believe it was left by the last occupants of the house so the taste is a bit stale."

"It's alright, any sort of tea would be heaven at this moment," I said, seating myself in the warm wooden chair Dinah had only just vacated. "Just where are we anyway?"

"Coerde, a little less than a mile and a half from Muenster proper. This is an old safe house, but it's been out of use for so long I doubt anyone would recall it to look. Even the vagrants don't give much thought to it," Roger answered, taking a sip of tea.

Dinah placed a cup of unpleasant smelling liquid in front of me. I took a sip and winced from the flavor: something akin to dried out leaves and paper.

"I tried to warn you," she apologized.

"It would not be surprising if that tea were almost as old as you are," Roger said. "Anyhow, this place should do for our purposes. At the very least it will be private."

"The very least." I frowned, surveying the room. "We may want to acquire two more chairs." For the table and two chairs comprised the whole of the furnishings for it but for a large black pot that sat beside the fireplace and a kitchen consisting of an ancient step top stove a counter that more resembled a table with doors a small cupboard that hung from the wall a few feet above the counter and a motley assortment of black iron cookware.

"There's no need to trouble yourself with supper, Dinah," Roger said, as he watched Dinah searching through the cupboards for the basic elements of food. "I was thinking we might go into town to eat, once Quentin has awoken. Would you approve, Miss Moore?"

A shriek came from the kitchen, followed by the clattering of pans falling to the floor. I turned my head just in time to watch a mouse scurry across the countertop and down to a hole near the floor.

Dinah stood laughing with her hand on her heart amidst a sea of black cookware. "Well, that gave me quite a start! Unless you are in the mood for roasted mice, I believe we should take Roger up on his offer."

"It is a Roman delicacy. Quentin might approve," I laughed.

"Approve of what?" Quentin emerged from his room, eyes still bleary, holding a towel against his face. I instantly turned to my tea at the sight of him, my face burning less from the heat of the fire than from the fact he was naked from the waist up, his hair stuck up on one side like a bottle brush. "Is everything alright in here? I thought I heard a scream."

"Mice for dinner," Dinah supplied. "When I was searching the cabinet one decided to make itself known. It gave me quite a scare. Mina tells me it's a Roman delicacy."

"Dormice dear." Quentin came over and bestowed a kiss upon my cheek which only served to make my face redder for his proximity. "Regular mice are far too small. Do we have tea?" he asked, looking at my steaming cup.

"You could call it that. But it's not much for flavor," his sister answered.

He took my cup and sampled the contents, then grimaced, "Pity. Just some warm water for me, then. Something to sip on. I'm going to finish getting ready, if you don't mind?"

"Not at all."

"We'll be going out for dinner, so dress appropriately," Roger added.

"Very good, I'll be out in a few minutes."

I sat mutely through the conversation, staring straight ahead, waiting for the sound of the door announcing Quentin's return to his room.

Roger chuckled. "Miss Moore really now, you look like a strawberry. Can you honestly tell me you have never seen your intended barechested before?"

I was momentarily too flustered to speak which further amused Roger. Finally finding my voice I managed to stammer, "Well, there has never been occasion for me to see him in such state."

"Really, you are such a child!"

"I would think that rather a compliment," Dinah interjected. "It speaks to her virtuous nature."

"I thought you had brothers?"

"I do, but that does not mean they walk about the house half dressed!" Mother would murder them if they even so much as thought of leaving their rooms in so little as their shirtsleeves, which would be merciful compared with what Father would do were they to go about dressed in any manner that was even the least bit indecorous.

"So, where should we go for supper?" Dinah cut in, attempting to change the subject.

I gratefully took up the topic, "Someplace near the center of town would be best, so we can walk around a bit after we've finished. Perhaps by the church."

"It would be rather bold of them to be at the place where their founders still hang," Roger mused.

"Which is precisely why they will be there."

We strolled down the brightly lit roads of Muenster as a light snow fell about the city as people bustled about looking into windows and talking merrily in words I could only partially understand. In the city square a few young men played in a brass quartet while a woman accompanied them on guitar, a hat sat in front of them where the occasional passerby would drop a coin or two. A mime stood in front of a crowd pretending at something I could not wholly guess due to the number watching. Though it was quite past Christmas there was an air of it still in the square.

"It must be a Feast Day." Roger smirked.

"What do you mean?" I asked, perplexed.

"Muenster is a Catholic town and, as you might recall, this past Wednesday marked the beginning of Lent."

This I did not recall at all.

Roger continued, "However, Catholics celebrate a number of Feast Days honoring their saints which allow them to break the Fast. There, look, it's some Franciscan." He pointed to a portrait, rather crudely done, of a man in a brown robe with the most peculiar haircut. He resembled a thinner version of the images of Friar Tuck from my old storybooks.

"So that is where they put the leaders of the rebellion?" I asked, indicating three large metal cages that hung from the imposing edifice of the cathedral.

"Yes," Quentin answered. "As a warning to anyone who might dare try to repeat those mistakes."

"While I can understand the sentiment, it seems a bit barbaric."

"Every culture must indulge a little barbarism from time to time, if only to remind them of how far they have advanced. They have the cages and we have the exhibition of torture chambers in the bowels of the Tower of London."

"There!" Roger pointed at a man standing near the side of the building attempting to hand out pamphlets to passersby. He was handsome, striking even with well defined dark features. He wore no hat upon his black hair which was parted in the middle and pushed back behind the ears though a number of strands had loosed themselves brushing the sides of his cheekbones. No coat covered his shoulders despite the cold, nor was any scarf wrapped around his neck. The only covering he had, a shirt and vest, appeared slightly irregular, as though handspun and loom woven. He was speaking but I could not wholly make out what he was saying, though he seemed to be doing it with a great deal of passion.

"I see him."

"Do you think he's one of them?" Quentin asked.

"He's dressed in the same manner as the man we apprehended in Brighton," Roger supplied. "Miss Moore, you and Dinah get closer, talk to him if you can."

"Why Mina and Dinah?" I caught the protective note in Quentin's voice.

"He'll be less likely to suspect women of surreptitiousness. Particularly an uncommonly beautiful woman such as Miss Underhill. He is still a man, afterall. He'll be more likely to speak openly to her and Mina than you or I."

"We'll be close by, if you need any assistance at all," Quentin offered.

"There's no need to worry so, we'll be fine," I said in an attempt to reassure him, but still he looked wary.

"You are the two most important women in my life - it would be impossible that I should not worry," he said, brushing a warm, gloved hand against my snow encrusted cheek. Whatever pink the snow and exertion had brought to my features I was certain they were now quite red.

"Well, come on then," I said to Dinah, entwining my hand with hers. It shook slightly. The sickness of guilt for allowing her into this plan sunk upon my stomach. She nodded.

"Mina! Let us look at the dresses in that shop!" she cried loudly, pulling me by the hand across the square, just skirting the cathedral so that we came within easy listening distance of the man.

"Wait a moment! Let's listen," I said, stopping in close proximity to the man who seemed to be in the middle of a sermon of which only a few were standing around to observe.

"Only for a moment, Mina. It's too cold when I stop walking!" Dinah whined in a manner that was a bit too convincing. Our farce now completed we set ourselves to listen to the man's speech.

"Today as I walked through the streets of Muenster I saw a child begging for bread. A lowly thing, dirty and shivering in the cold. Her clothes were little more than the scraps of discarded potato sacks sewn together and no warmth did they provide. She wore no shoes and I could see her toes had turned blue. As I watched, men and women walked past her pretending not to hear her cries for mercy. I asked her where were her parents and she told me. And what she told me rent my heart! For her father was in debtors prison and her mother had taken ill from the poisoned air of the factory and was now at the verge of death. I asked her if she had anyone that might take care of her and she told me there was no one who would take her in. That she was shunned for her poor appearance. And she asked if I might spare her a coin or bread that she might give it to her mother that they might eat and die. I knew this to be no ordinary child but an angel of the Lord sent to test the hearts of the people of Muenster. And they were found wanting!" He emphasized this last sentence.

"These pretenders to piety could not even stop, on the very feast day of one of their so-called Saints to help this poor child. Could not even stop a moment during the one season of the year where they are called to sacrifice! For they had allowed their hearts to be hardened in the cold brick buildings of the factories. Allowed their souls to be choked by the poison fumes belching from the breweries. How cold, how insensate! must a man become to ignore the mewling cries of a starving child? What would it cost him to offer her some comfort? A few pfennigs and a moment of his time? I asked the child to take me to her mother and she did. It was just as the girl said, her mother was at the end of her battle with cotton lung. There was nothing to be done for her. I swore to her I would make certain her child was provided for from this very moment. Reaching into my sack I gave the child my lunch and all the coin I had that she might buy food. Then I gave her the stockings from my feet, the scarf from my neck, the hat from my head, and the very coat from my back and told her that I would send another to look after her welfare and then I thanked them both from my heart for allowing me the chance to serve them as Elijah served the widow." He stalled a moment to let the scene he had painted sink in. Whether it were true or not the fact he was without those specific garments lent it terrible credibility.

Taking a deep breath he surveyed the dwindling crowd in that solemn manner of preachers coming to their concluding point, "I do not tell you this tale that you should hear and heap praise onto me for my good works but that you might see the great black sin that covers this city! That you might recognize that which destroys and separates you! It is the love of money that bears this vile fruit! The love of money that kills and exploits those very people Christ called us to serve - the poor! That makes enemy from neighbor. We desired money so we built factories. We desired more so we purchased mechanized looms and if hundreds lost their jobs in the process what was that to the millowners? They had their money! And we hardened our hearts when our neighbors were imprisoned for their debts, when we watched them starve and succumb! We stifled our consciences crying out to charity until they were smothered by our greed and cried no more! And we divorced ourselves from our neighbor, pretended it was his problem alone and not our own. Blamed his misfortune on him. Until we had turned our hearts to stone, sacrificed our souls! Until we had become nothing more than machines for them to use and discard!"

"Dear sir, what do you propose we do then?" Dinah spoke up.

The man regarded her question with a look of delighted surprise, "Repent. Cleanse your soul from the love of the world."

"And how are we to do that, sir?"

"Be baptized and sin no more."

"But I am already baptized - is that not enough?

"You are English are you not?"

Dinah blushed a lovely rose color just kissing the ridge of her cheeks.

"Your German is very good, but there is still a touch of the English lilt to your vowels."

"I do apologize."

"There is nothing to be sorry for. It is quite lovely."

Dinah's cheeks were now entirely crimson. She attempted to cool them with her hands to no avail. I had never known her to be prone to flattery and I suspected she was not in this moment for her cheeks may have been red but her stance remained resolute, untempered by the stirrings of emotion.

"What brings you to our fair city?"

"It is my Grandmother, she is very ill." I answered for Dinah who would yet be unaware of our plans. "I am soon to be married and I wished for my fiance to meet her."

"I am sorry to hear of your Grandmother's illness, is it serious?"

"She would tell you different, but the Doctor tells me it is very bad." I was painfully aware of my lacking in the linguistic skills required to sound like anything more than a child.

"It is cancer." Dinah came to my rescue.

"That is awful, it is good you can be their for her. Were you very close?" He directed the question to me.

"A little, we wrote. I am very sad."

"Sadness is normal in these times for death is not. We were not created for death and when it occurs our souls are rent by the reminder of our rebellion and the pain of separation that it created that means that we will always be strangers either to our God or to the world. At least until He comes again in glory to bridge the divide and bring His domain to our own. Then there will be no more true death and we will once more be reunited with those who we have lost, provided that they put their faith in Him. Is your Grandmother a believer?"

"She is a Catholic, but more than that I do not know."

"Do you believe in Christ?"

His eyes were fixed entirely on me. My gaze darted to Dinah who shook her head almost imperceptibly.

"I think I do," I lied, for certainly I did but I trusted Dinah's judgement in the matter.

"You think you do?"

"There is so much evil and pain in the world it is hard to believe."

"It can be. It can be easy to place the blame on God for such things when the true culprit is our own sinful nature."

"And what about you... forgive me, might I trouble you for your name?"

"It is Dinah."

"A Biblical name."

"An inauspicious one."

"Yet still the name of a woman so beautiful she could convert a nation."

"You flatter me."

"Flattery is false praise, I do not speak falsely if it may be avoided. Do you believe in Christ, Dinah?"

"I do, your words ring true to my heart. For many falsely place blame on God for the results of man's own wickedness."

"Have you heard of the Millennial Kingdom?"

"Only in passing."

"What is the... Millennial Kingdom?" I tried, my tongue struggling to form the Germanic words I had just heard.

"It is where you and your Grandmother can be together forever with Christ."

"I don't quite understand...?"

"If you would like to discuss it further we have a weekly meeting where we read and discuss the Bible. It would be an honor if you would join us Miss..."

"Kepler," I said.

He smiled at this. "Kepler, that is a name we Germans are quite familiar with. Where are you staying Miss Kepler, if I might be so bold to ask?"

"With my Uncle in Coerde."

"Coerde is a very fine place." He redirected his attention to Dinah, "What is your relation, might I ask?"

"She is my future sister," Dinah answered.

"So it is your brother that she is marrying?"

"Yes. She is," a male voice from behind me answered with a hint of protective suspicion in its tone.

"Quentin!" I cried in mock surprise. He was flanked by Roger. "Uncle Johan!" Roger scowled at this pronouncement.

"I was starting to wonder where you and Dinah had gotten off to. And who is this gentleman?" Quentin asked.

"Forgive me for keeping the ladies, I am Heinrich Menning."

"He is a street preacher, he was just telling us about the coming of Christ," Dinah said, innocently.

"Fat lot of nonsense that is!" Roger sneered. "Come on, it's already dark and we have a long walk ahead."

"Yes, Uncle." Roger hooked his arm in mine and began to drag me away. "Goodbye Mr. Menning."

"Perhaps we will meet again, Mr. Menning. Until then." Quentin tipped his hat and turned from the man leaving Dinah unobserved.

"Thank you, Mr. Menning." Dinah curtsied.

"If you and your future sister get the chance you are always welcome," Mr. Menning's voice was soft but not so much that I could not make out the words.

I looked over my shoulder in time to see him slip a pamphlet into Dinah's gloved hand. She nodded.

"Come Dinah," Quentin ordered without so much as glancing back.

"Yes, brother." She favored Mr. Menning with a brief smile and tucked the paper into her sleeve before rushing to catch up with the three of us.