Chapter 12: Mix-and-Matched

Merlin was on his best no-really-I'm-fine behavior the rest of the day, cheerfully cooperating with her plans for shopping and wandering about Bristol.

But by 7:00 that night he was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Freya had been quiet since their early dinner, and it was she who suggested retiring to their separate rooms.

Alone, Merlin collapsed into the chair by the table, idly opening the laptop. It was still 2:00 in the afternoon, still working hours in D.C. He logged into his Camelot account, scanned through various messages from the knights to the Round Table group – Percival had taken Ray and Jason to Philadelphia, where the downed Maine flight had originated, but were coming up against all dead ends. All they could say for sure was that it felt more professional than a date-rape scenario. Leon was healing, Gwaine and Elyan holding down the fort at Camelot headquarters.

He keyed to send a message, only to Arthur, and found it harder to write than he'd anticipated. Dear Arthur. Hey, Arthur. Or just Hey. Been thinking about you – all? You plural? Y'all? Everyone there – you guys.

Hey, he typed. Been doing some thinking. Don't know if I ever actually said I was sorry about giving you a hard time, before I remembered. Or while the memories were scrambled. I know it couldn't have been easy to handle. Want you to know I appreciate it. Be back to work Tuesday latest. Say hi to Gwen and baby. He left it unsigned, knowing that his identifying tag would accompany the message anyway.

He sat back in the chair, elbow on the arm of it and his head in his hand. He was so tired that when he closed his eyes, it felt like the world was revolving slowly around him, tilting like a slow-turning top. It wasn't ten minutes before the computer chimed the incoming message alarm, and Arthur's response was in his inbox.

Friends don't let friends forget. Take care of you and your lady. See you Tues. PS. Andrew says hi. PS. This is me punching your arm and knuckling your head at the same time.

Merlin opened the attachment. Arthur was no artist, but he'd scribbled a passable cartoon of a stick figure with wildly scribbled hair, next to one with large round muscles, a crown on his head, and what appeared to be three arms. And yes, simultaneously punching Merlin's stick arm and rubbing his scribbled hair.

He couldn't help grinning, and wrote back, Now I feel better. Except for the bruises.

Arthur responded immediately. Whiner. Get some sleep.

Merlin closed the laptop. He was glad Arthur hadn't asked about Freya; he had a suspicion his friend had probably figured things hadn't gone well.

He brushed his teeth and changed into the old t-shirt and plaid pajama pants that he slept in. Leaving the blinds open so he could look out at whatever starlight made it through the glow from the city lights, he crawled between the sheets and fell asleep almost immediately.

It felt like the early hours, and a sound sleep interrupted, when his senses alerted him to the door opening. Groggy as he was, he still identified the sound as coming from the door between his room and Freya's, rather than the locked exterior door, and he didn't immediately react.

Moments passed without further sound as his attention focused, drawing him completely out of his slumber, but she was definitely inside his room. He kept himself still, allowing her to decide what she would do without interference, but his pulse hammered with instinctive anticipation.

He had no warning as she crossed the carpet noiselessly, but his startled twitch was covered by the slight jostle of the mattress as she slipped beneath the covers on the other side of the bed. He could tell from her slow, smooth movement that she was trying not to wake him, so he held the attitude of deep slumber.

Another long moment passed. He began to wonder if she wanted him to wake after all, to discover her in his bed, to take the initiative – and then she slid over next to him, shy as a wild creature, almost stealthily positioning her hips behind his, legs bent at the same angle to follow his, her body nestling against his back, her cheek resting on his shoulder blade.

But her arms, instead of sneaking around him to embrace or caress, were instead tucked between them, hugged to her chest. A barrier. She took a deep, quiet breath.

Then Freya began to cry. Almost inaudibly. He sensed deep sorrow under tight control, and wanted to roll over and gather her into his arms, soothe and kiss and comfort.

But something told him, that was not what she wanted. She needed to have her cry out with privacy, but at the same time, she didn't want to be truly alone. She wanted the comfort of his presence, without the disruption of his awareness. She wanted a sleeping shoulder to cry on.

He focused on breathing evenly, though every little shuddering breath she took sending a splinter of commiseration through his chest. She wiped her eyes surreptitiously on the back of his shirt, on the pillowcase she was sharing with him, sniffled quietly. And cried some more.

The clock was on the bedside stand on her side of the bed, which they were both facing away from; he couldn't see the time, but it was quite a long while before Freya exhausted herself and her tears and stilled into slumber.

From the open doorway into Freya's room came the sound of her music, maybe something she'd been listening to, and had fallen asleep without turning it off. I did not believe, because I could not see… though you came to me in the night…

Carefully – it was his turn to try not to wake her – Merlin shifted his position, stuffing one arm under the pillow under his head so he could ease close enough to tuck the other around her. When the dawn seemed forever lost… you showed me your love, in the light of the stars…

He kissed her forehead and inhaled the scent of her hair. Cast your eyes on the ocean… cast your soul to the sea… when the dark night seems endless… please remember me…

Then he fell asleep, too.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

In the morning Merlin woke sprawled on his back, weak sunlight diffusing the darkness of the room. Someone was petting him, combing then smoothing his hair, lightly stroking fingertips over his eyebrow ridge, over his cheekbones, over his jaw-line.

"Mm," he growled, stretching. The hand moved to his chest, pressing flat as if to feel his heartbeat, and he squinted up at Freya, who studied him with a serious expression.

Her elbow had dented the pillow up toward the headboard, and she rested her temple on her fist, her body conforming to his underneath the covers, all the way down to her toes absently rubbing the side of his calf. He pulled his arm out from between them to cover her hand with his atop his chest, and rubbed his eyes with the other.

"Hey," she said finally.

"Hey," he responded, his voice rough from sleep. He cleared his throat before trying again. "You okay?"

"I had more dreams," she said.

He waited, but when she didn't elaborate, he ventured, "About what?"

"About you," she said. "About –" She shivered. "I want you to swear to me, you have done nothing to me. No mind-reading, or, or sending subconscious messages."

Telepathy. He didn't correct her; it was not a talent he'd expected to use in this lifetime, and he never had with her, anyway. "I swear, I've done nothing to you," he said.

"Is it this place, then?" she said. "King Arthur this and King Arthur that – have you been having dreams, too?"

"Tell me," he suggested, finding that his mouth was dry, and it had nothing to do with just waking up.

"I dreamed of you. You were sitting in a dark cave and you looked – tired, and discouraged, and… and grim. Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not," he said, pressing her hand over his heart.

"It was like I was seeing you through a window – like it was raining and I was on the outside, only I was still dry…" She frowned toward the window, then shook her head. "It was like it picked up from my dying dream two nights ago – I was so happy to see you again, because I was dead, and you weren't. And you – I don't think you believed your eyes, at first. You said, is it really you?"

Is it, he thought dazedly, really you? He focused on breathing, focused on how her body felt, next to him in the bed.

"It felt like I had to hurry to talk to you," she went on. "It felt like I'd been given this wonderful gift, to see you again even though I was dead." She made a face. "But I had to rip it right open as fast as I could, or else it would disappear. I knew you needed help, you needed something – desperately, you and… Arthur." Her lips twisted. "Now it seems I'm dreaming of Arthur Drake as – never mind."

"What –" he cleared his throat again. "What did I need?"

She looked at him, at each separate part of his face as if seeing him for the first time. "Why do I get the feeling that you already know?" she said.

He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Do you want me to tell you?" he whispered. He could see it so clearly, the way he'd seen it first, hovering in the air between himself and Kilgarrah – could she, too? A blade forged in the dragon's breath.

"Is insanity catching?" She laughed softly, bitterly. "I dreamed I was in the lake, down below the surface only I wasn't drowning, just floating or swimming, just existing. Waiting. Waiting for you to come for the – I saw the boat, from underneath, saw your face all blurry like that rainy window again – the great hope in your eyes for what I might give you."

He opened his eyes. Tears were shining in hers. He realized that he was clenching a fist's worth of the sheet in his free hand, and released it, smoothing it down.

"I waited," she said. "I waited, and somehow – even though I wanted to see you again, I hoped it would be a long time…"

So did I, he thought tiredly, rubbing away the moisture from his eyes.

"You came again to the lake," she continued, "and then it was a nightmare, the same as two nights ago. You had lost someone, again, someone had died in your arms – again - someone you loved. Your closest friend…" Her voice trailed away. "You still feel it, don't you?" she said. "You know exactly what I'm talking about – and who. Is that what you were – was that what yesterday was about? That – panic attack?"

"Yes," he managed.

Her brown eyes narrowed. "Is it possible that you – passed your dreams on to me?"

"No." He transferred his gaze to the ceiling. "If it was my dreams you were seeing, it would be as if you were me, looking at yourself."

"So I dreamed myself right into your world," she said. "Arthur and Guinevere and the knights of the Round Table? The Grail and Excalibur? And I'm the Lady of the Lake?"

"My lady," he said softly, and she met his eyes, her expression at once guarded and amazed.

"I understand," she said. "If you all had such vivid dreams, why…" She stopped and cocked her head. "But I always thought he was an old man," she said in confusion.

He shifted on the pillow to face her. "Say my name," he told her softly. "You know it. Say it." She used to say it, when she thought it an amusingly appropriate nickname. And now…

She put her lips together, then hesitated, staring into his eyes in apprehensive fascination. "Merlin," she said, and then again. "Merlin?"

"Yes." Once again, he wanted to stretch out his arms and just float away – but this time from sheer satisfied bliss.

She laughed softly. "It's incredible. You know that, don't you."

Incredible. But not impossible, like she'd said before. He wanted to ask, Do you believe me, then? He wanted to ask, Do you still think I'm crazy? But he didn't dare.

"Arthur. And Excalibur," she said. She moved her right hand out from under her head, where she could see her palm, as if she could still feel the gold-wire-wrapped leather hilt.

"It was beautiful, wasn't it?" he said. "The way the light hit the edge –"

She disentangled her other hand from his to lay her fingers over his lips. "No, don't say," she said. "I know you think that sword – the Artorius Blade – is Excalibur. I know you believed that lake we were at yesterday was – the lake, but –"

"Do you want to go back?" he asked, not sure whether that prospect filled him with anticipation or dread.

"No." She shook her head decisively. "I – understand why you believe, but… I need a little time." She leaned a little closer. "You don't mind, do you, Merlin?"

He didn't. She could take as long as she needed, as long as she said his name like that. He couldn't help smiling, and she shook her head at him as if she could now read his mind.

Once again, his ipod hooked into his computer teased music out through the laptop speakers. Do you believe in magic… in a young girl's heart… How the music can free her… whenever it starts

"Merlin," she whispered again. And something else came into her eyes, as her gaze dropped to his mouth. I'll tell you about the magic, and it'll free your soul… She relaxed against him, and he dared lift his free hand to thread his fingers through her long curly hair.

"You're so ridiculous," she said, referring to the 60's song he'd chosen.

"I've been told." He grinned. Just go and listen… it'll start with a smile… It won't wipe off your face no matter how hard you try

She kissed him gently, twice, then a third more lingering. And we'll go dancing, baby, then you'll see… how the magic's in the music… and the music's in me

She laughed against his lips, then scooted lower to tuck her head under his chin, hook one of her legs around his. "Merlin," she said experimentally. Do you believe, like I believe?

"Yes," he said, amused. Do you believe in magic?

"It's so weird." Do you believe, believer?

He laughed right out loud. "Love," he told her, "you have no idea."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur sat on the couch in the living room, his computer balanced on his lap. On the cushion next to him was spread a mint-green receiving blanket with tiny white dots. On the blanket, his infant son, on his belly with his knees tucked under himself and his diaper-padded bottom hiked in the air. His head, covered with soft coffee-colored fuzz, was turned to the side, his eyes shut and his mouth slightly open as he slept. Arthur's left hand, larger than Andrew's back, had been occupied with patting and rubbing the baby to sleep and now his whole arm felt sore.

He stretched the muscles, once again examining his fingers, the pink lines where the flesh had burst open and the shards of bones had torn through, almost fully healed. Gaius himself had taken the out the stitches Merlin's second round of healing magic had rendered unnecessary. There was a spot next to his middle knuckle where he'd lost sensation and it was hard to curl his pinkie finger completely, but other than a stiff tenderness when he typed, there were no other lingering ill effects of his injury. A team of surgeons with multiple surgeries might not be able to do as much as that boy in a matter of minutes.

He remembered Gaius saying, only a few days after he'd met a Merlin who showed no recognition of him, that Merlin couldn't access even a fraction of his power. And now this. All your magic, Merlin, and you can't save my life.

But you sure as hell can save my hand. How do you say thank you for something like that? Just one more thing he'd never be able to repay Merlin for. But that wasn't what friendship was about, keeping track what was owed. It was just that Merlin gave so much, all the time.

Arthur wished, idly, that there was some magic to make Halbyon, its hovering threat and ominous CEO, disappear also. Leave me alone. Leave my friend alone.

He couldn't help thinking, if the training and handling of the department of specially-talented psychics and telepathics and telekinetics was all honest and aboveboard, why hide it so completely? Why distance the department so absolutely from the rest of the company?

His computer screen flickered as the page reset itself, and a new message showed in his inbox, from Agent Gibson Chance.

Your phone is off?

He typed back, smiling, My son is asleep.

Congratulations. New info on Norfolk flight. Three passengers with links to Halbyon – two in current jobs for other companies, and one with a several-years' old referral. No abnormal results for drug tests or ligature marks on these or any bodies examined after the crash. The case file has been officially closed, cause of accident given as equipment failure. Unless your men in Philadelphia uncover something new, the investigation into the Maine flight will be closed also.

Having read Percival's latest update, Arthur figured it wouldn't be long. They'd picked up several leads, all of which had led to nothing. His three men were scheduled to be back in Camelot next week.

Your Denver-Dulles flight is being given only a cursory examination, ascertaining that no one was at fault, ground- or flight-crew, either directly or through negligence, due to the fact that there were no casualties.

I will maintain protective custody for Shane Littlefield. His testimony, while unchanging, is also highly implausible, to anyone not familiar with certain sensitive details. Without corroborating witness or physical evidence, no case can be brought against Halbyon at this time.

Arthur typed a single-word response, Understood.

Chance's reply carried a shift toward a more personal tone in his written word. Arthur, please consider all options when handling threats from this corporation. A public trial could get very messy and prove highly detrimental to the reputations of several of your key employees – your team, in other words. A large part of your effectiveness is your anonymity. Your agency credentials give you some leeway, but only some. I know I can depend on you to be circumspect.

Of course, Arthur typed back. Thank you for your reminder, and your warning. Have you been in contact with Wendy Doran? Perhaps she might be able to give corroborating testimony.

The reply arrived after a long delay, and Arthur suspected the agent had paused after the introductory words I have. He wondered again what relationship there might be between the two.

Earlier today, as a matter of fact. She seemed genuinely surprised and concerned at the news of your flight going down, and at my suggestion of a subsequent investigation aimed at Halbyon's questionable ethics in regard to their department of extra-naturals.

She requested me to convey to you personally her apologies for offending you during lunch three weeks ago. She still believes you to be King Arthur, and she seems to think that her eagerness was the offending factor. She has asked me about the possibility of arranging another meeting.

It was Arthur's turn to delay a response.

Beside him on the couch, Andrew squirmed, rubbing his face against the blanket, before turning in the other direction. And pushing his little legs straight. One of his tiny blue socks was hanging off his heel, but Arthur feared to disturb him by pulling it tight, so he smoothed the wrinkles in the blanket so there were no obstructions by his face, then tucked the tail of the blanket lightly over his son's lower half.

Meet with Wendy Doran. He chewed his lip, considering. She was either naively innocent or deeply cunning. If it was the former, he could possibly gain more information before his meeting next week with various dignitaries controlling the company.

If it was the latter, maybe it was time to take the gloves off. As Merlin had said, taking down a passenger jet with two hundred innocent people aboard was something more than a warning shot.

This was the company, after all, that had provided Mordred to Xander. Wendy had investigated, had been friendly with Jan Steffan and familiar with her 'research'. Now that Arthur would not be taken by surprise, perhaps he could get more information from her on those connections and circumstances.

He messaged back, Meeting with Halbyon Wednesday morning. Can do Monday lunch? offsite.

Andrew squirmed again, working his fist up beside his face, then beginning to suck on his knuckles before subsiding back into sleep for a moment. "Again? Already, buddy?" Arthur questioned him softly, affectionately.

Gwen wandered out from their bedroom, wearing Arthur's sweats, covering a yawn. "Let me take some of my Tylenol-3," she said, "and get a bottle for Andrew. I'll be right there."

Andrew sucked noisily and energetically on his knuckles, his eyes still shut. Arthur closed his laptop, dropped his sock-covered feet from the coffee table to the floor so he could lean forward to set his computer down. Then he inched his hand underneath his waking son's tiny body, under chest and chin, and lifted the baby to his shoulder.

He was so tiny and light. So perfect, smelling of baby lotion. A veritable cherub while he slept, and a demanding fiend when his meal was delayed. Much, Gwen had teased, like his father.

Gwen returned, shaking the bottle to mix the powdered formula into the warm water, and smiled at them. "I did wonder," she said, seating herself on the couch next to Arthur instead of in the rocker/recliner where she usually sat to feed the baby. She maneuvered the throw pillows so one was under the elbow that would cradle Andrew's head, and the other on her lap to protect her still-healing incision scar from the baby's weight and involuntary movement.

Andrew wiggled against Arthur's chest, making little mewling noises. He blinked as Gwen tugged his sock back onto his foot, then Arthur handed him carefully to his mother.

"You wondered what?" Arthur asked.

Gwen propped the bottle between her knees as she fastened the Velcro of a bib around Andrew's unsteady neck. "Your father," she said. "I wondered if you would unconsciously follow the example he set."

"What?"

Gwen cooed at Andrew as she tipped the bottle into his mouth. "I just meant, if you would be one of those new dads who was 'hands-off'. If you'd show your love going overboard with material provision rather than – I think he drooled on your shirt while you were holding him."

Arthur pulled the fabric away from his skin to inspect the wet spot, and grunted agreement and unconcern, both.

"Get much work done?" she asked.

He stretched and let his arms rest along the back of the couch. "A bit."

She leaned forward briefly before settling back. "You'd get more done if you didn't distract yourself doodling," she said in amusement.

"Doodling?" The sheet he'd taken from the scanner in the home office next to the nursery still lay on the coffee table where he'd dropped it. "That was for Merlin." She snickered, and he defended, "His message earlier this afternoon just sounded – down."

"Why?" she said. "I thought – Freya, England, the lake?"

"He was apologizing for not remembering, himself." Arthur grimaced. "I guessed that meant it didn't work – or hasn't yet, or something." He leaned over her to watch Andrew slurp and swallow quietly, his wide eyes going from one parent's face to the other, his little hands trying to clutch at the bib. "Seems so unfair," he murmured, turning his face to kiss Gwen's neck.

She tipped her head to allow it, though her eyes stayed on the baby. "What?"

"That I get so much – and Merlin so little. I wish there was something we could do – something I could do."

"Hm," Gwen said.

He pulled back. "Hm? What does that mean – hm?"

"You practically ordered him to forget about that sword," Gwen said. "It seems more important to him than to you, almost."

"Well – yeah," Arthur said. "Taking a look at it in a public museum is one thing, going begging for a peek to folks who don't bat an eyelash at terrorism is – far different."

"No argument," Gwen said. "But he disagrees with you. He's willing to risk more for her than you are willing to risk letting him."

"Fires and earthquakes?" Arthur said sarcastically, mentioning the more extreme of Merlin's hot-tempered suggestions.

Gwen nudged him without interrupting Andrew's meal. "Are you sure," she hesitated deliberately, her jaw and expression set in that way she had when she wanted to say something she suspected he would not take well. "Are you sure you're not the least bit – well, jealous?"

"Jealous of Merlin?" He barked out a laugh that made Andrew jump, and gave Gwen's glare an apologetic shrug. "I have a beautiful wife who loves me – again – and a strong healthy baby son. Why would I even think about Freya like that?"

"That's not what I meant," Gwen said. She gave him a level, evaluating look from warm brown eyes. "I mean, before… we never even knew about Freya, and after – he never showed any serious interest in a girl. How would you have felt if he'd come to you the year after my coronation, say, and told you, Arthur I've met a girl I want to get married and settle on a farm outside the city."

He frowned at her. He couldn't deny that a certain inexplicable twinge had gone through him at the imagined scenario, but – "I would have been happy for him, of course," he said. "He deserved to be happy, and loved. Of course, he would've made a terrible farmer."

"He was a farmer in Ealdor," Gwen pointed out.

"Ah, but he had the soul of a knight," Arthur said, grinning.

"You would have hated to lose him, and you know it," Gwen claimed.

"But I wouldn't have, would I?" Arthur said triumphantly. "Destiny, remember? King Arthur and Merlin the wizard? Two sides of one coin?"

"You didn't know that, then," she reminded him gently. "I think you were used to him being around, being your servant, fetching and carrying and going and – even when you lost your temper and ordered him away, or when you worried he was injured – always coming back. Magic and destiny, maybe yes. But you never have understood his loyalty, Arthur, and –"

"Has any of us ever understood that?" Arthur said, annoyed.

"It's different for you," Gwen said patiently. "You served the kingdom, and now, the company. Your loyalty to any one person can only go so far, balanced against the greater good of everyone you're responsible for. Arthur, we all understand that, we always have." At that moment, the formula ran out, and Andrew sucked on bubbles and air for a confused moment before Gwen passed the empty bottle to Arthur to position the baby to burp.

"Your knights understand Merlin's loyalty a little better, I think – they have that, too. Any one of them would happily die protecting you – that's always been true. Merlin's different because he doesn't seem like he would fight and die like the others, like he would be able to fight like the others. Merlin's different because instead of choosing to use his power to put himself in a position of authority, he uses it to support yours – and that's highly unusual, in any century."

Arthur let a wry little smile pull sideways at his mouth. It was all true, though he hadn't really thought of it like that. "But what does that have to do with the sword?" he asked.

"This time," Gwen continued, patting Andrew's lower back, while he tried to hold his head up and stare at the back of the couch. "This time, he's not your servant, for you to order his time and attention. This time, he has a woman to dedicate his life and love to – and don't you think you might be just the tiniest bit afraid that the loyalty you don't understand might slip?"

"Are you saying," Arthur pushed himself to his feet, paced across the living room rug, and turned to face her, "that somehow I don't want Freya to remember? How can you think that? I want him to be happy, and since that evidently means being with her-"

"How badly do you want him to be happy?" she asked. "If the lake doesn't do it, the sword –"

"I don't want him to risk his life, his safety, his sanity maybe, just on the off chance she might remember the sword!" Arthur snapped.

"You mean, you don't want to risk your happiness if something happened to him," she said.

He said, "It's not either his happiness or mine. I'm not asking him to sacrifice the love of his life and all future happiness for my peace of mind. I just – I just feel blind where Halbyon is concerned. It's like how they tell you, don't dive into water where you can't see the bottom. It's all murky, and anything at all could be down there." He scowled at the floor. Cautiously, and legally – only, according to Chance, that might not be possible. Not enough evidence to take to court. And what then?

"What if you just asked them?" she said. "It doesn't mean you have to sign anything. Just, find a way to make a deal, on a smaller scale. A trade, a bargain. A private viewing of the sword?"

A private meeting, Wendy Doran. I confess I've always been a fan of the Arthurian legends, it's part of why I work for Halbyon.

It made his instincts itch, like walking into an ambush.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Thank you for agreeing to see me again," Wendy gushed, excited as a kid at Christmas, as she had been before. "I was so worried when I'd heard about your accident."

This time, Arthur had arrived first at the busy little coffee shop, Monday morning, Chance and Wendy a handful of minutes afterward. Together – he knew, because he'd seen them through the shop's window, both stepping out of the agent's Chrysler.

"I apologize," Arthur said neutrally, "for my hasty departure, last time. You caught me off guard, you know." He kept his almost-healed left hand in his lap.

Naively innocent or deeply cunning?

"Yes, I'm sorry," she said. "I got a little carried away with myself. It's not every day you get to meet – well. I understand why you'd want to keep this – knowledge – private."

"Coffee?" Chance suggested. Arthur already had a cup, still steaming, so the agent left the little table to approach the counter.

"I hope I didn't get you in trouble with your boss," Arthur said. "I suppose that meeting did not go as you planned."

"Well," Wendy hesitated, but only for a moment. "I was reprimanded for acting impulsively, of course. I mean, not everyone thinks that Marvin Caroban is – I mean, not everyone believes, you see. But it's hard to deny there is something about him, a little more interesting than our usual prospects. I'm till dying to meet him in person, of course." She giggled like a schoolgirl. "And to see the two of you together would be – extraordinary. Epic."

"To be honest," he said, "I found your relationship with Jan Steffan disturbing."

"Oh, there's no relationship." She waved a hand negligently. "I paid her a visit while I was researching Mer – ah, Marvin, I suppose you prefer. We have very little in common anymore."

"Hm," he said. "And what was your conclusion about the incarcerated hacker calling himself Mordred?"

"Appalling," she said. "It seems a key psychological test had been inappropriately moderated. Dr. Spell merely requested a person with uncommon computer skills, and chose from among half a dozen candidates, himself."

I'll just bet he did, Arthur thought. Her answers were easy and casual; not sounding rehearsed, or as if she was having to scramble to find a believable lie. "Tell me a little more about your department for those skilled in parapsychological phenomena," he said. "I rejected your offer outright, the last time, but now I find myself – intrigued by the process."

Agent Chance, Arthur noted, was finding himself intrigued by the display of baked goods under the well-lit glass display case beside the café's cash register, though he glanced back at them in a watchful manner.

"Well, usually an employee or client comes to us," Wendy said. "Any professional in any field, looking for a specific or better job. Or a potential employer will give us criteria for a new-hire and we provide a number of candidates for their selection. But this department – people don't usually know they have these abilities, you see, that's why the sort of research I showed you on Marvin is necessary. Then one of our representatives approaches the person with an offer – short- or long-term employment, complete with training, and the assignment opportunities absolutely exploding with potential." She beamed.

Arthur cringed, remembering the smell of jet fuel and the frightened screams of passengers and Merlin's hand like a bruising vise around his wrist as every tendon in his friend's body stood out with the terrible effort of saving a thousand-ton jet dead in the sky.

"Does your job entail more than finding these people?" Arthur asked.

"Oh, I've been involved with the proposal process as well," she explained eagerly. "Some people find it hard to accept their potential, much less decide what they want to do with their lives once they know what they're capable of."

"What if the person doesn't believe? Or doesn't want to accept the offer for training and re-employment?" Arthur said. "Or what if you find an under-age young adult?"

"We do have a few we've discovered," Wendy said in an instructive tone. "But we absolutely don't approach until after their birthday of majority. No children. And of course we're disappointed if someone chooses not to explore their potential, but after all, it is a free country."

"What about the other branches of Halbyon?" Arthur said.

"I don't know what you mean?" Chance approached the table with covered coffees for himself and Wendy, and she glanced up to thank him with a bright smile.

"Is the eighteen-year limit across-the-board policy?" Arthur persisted. "What tactics of persuasion might be employed to gain these potential employees?"

"Yes, the age barrier is non-negotiable," she said. "As far as proposing persuasively, it's rather like a salesman on a car lot, or a military recruiter. It doesn't do much good to pressure or lie, you lose the sale."

Pressure or lie or threaten? My own reasons, Shane had told them. But Merlin believed that Eddie's safety might have been questioned. And then there was the girl from the Maine flight…

"Julie Wild," he said.

Wendy grimaced. "That was the poor girl killed in a plane crash in Maine that Gib asked me about, wasn't it? I looked up her file – she signed with us on her eighteenth birthday, and after a year's training was released at her own request to another job – Microsoft, I believe it was."

Julie Wild was believed to have run away from home at age 16. What, Arthur wondered, had been happening to her until that day she turned 18? And why did she not contact her family either, if she'd been working an honest job with an honest company?

"And the accident?" he pressed, though Chance shot him a warning glance.

"Gib and I have been over this," Wendy said. "Could she have caused the wreck? Possibly. I mean… possibly. But why would she?" She shrugged her shoulders, clearly dismissing the likelihood of that consideration.

Motive, Arthur thought. Julie Wild had opportunity and means. If they looked into who might have benefitted from that accident, who would have had the funding necessary to coordinate it… a job for Merlin, maybe.

Merlin. He felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't heard from his friend since Friday afternoon, except a message from Gaius saying that the international flight had landed in Dulles without incident.

"Ms. Doran," he said. "Wendy." She beamed at him. "I have recently become aware that Halbyon owns a remarkable bit of history." Chance's eyes narrowed infinitesimally in calculation – at him or at Wendy, Arthur wasn't sure.

"Yes! you mean the Artorius Blade," she said. "I've seen it only once myself, but – oh! omigosh! it used to be yours, didn't it? I bet you're curious to see it again, right?"

"I was hoping that something along those lines might be arranged," he said. "Rick Hennessy and I have not reached a final decision on the question of the merger, and of course the subject of Marvin's contract requires more consideration – but surely a little matter of assuaging curiosity? Perhaps at the meeting scheduled for Thursday?" He wondered how on earth they'd get Freya into the room, whether she'd need to touch it, whether she'd even cooperate with him, as angry as she'd been at his handling of Merlin's delicate psyche.

Wendy bit her lip. "Mr. Summerall is very possessive of the artifact," she said. "Of course I can ask –"

"Please do?" He gritted his teeth to manage a charming smile. She blushed and Chance rolled his eyes.

"Yes, okay, I'll ask." She was excited at the prospect, now. "And – oh! will Merlin be coming to that meeting, then?"

His spine stiffened in mistrust though he had almost completely concluded that Wendy Dora was innocently naïve. "I believe he is planning to," he said noncommittally. "The final decision is, of course, his to make."

"It is?" She appeared genuinely astonished. "But – you're his boss. His king. Don't you just – command him?"

Arthur laughed so hard he choked. Wendy looked to Chance for explanation and the agent shrugged.

"Never really have," Arthur managed. "And Ms. Doran, you would do well to remember that."

A/N: I haven't written a chapter that included both povs this whole series – part of the reason for the chapter title. But I didn't want to make it two, because we're pushing 20 already. And, fyi, my company is coming later today and staying for a week, so I can't predict when the next update will come… sooner rather than later, hopefully.