Machiavelli didn't plug his cell phone in until the next morning. Turning it on, he was only slightly surprised to find that he had four messages waiting for him. Scrolling to his voicemail, he hit play.

Billy sounded worried in the first call, increasingly upset in the second and third, and almost a little angry by the third. Machiavelli sighed, holding his phone in his hand. He thought about calling the American back, but glancing at the clock, decided instead to not. He knew that Billy would have wanted him to call, regardless of the hour, but he couldn't explain himself to the American immortal.

He dropped the phone back on the side table. Rubbing his eyes with his fist he tried to move past the current situation to a place that wasn't so lonely. Scatty might know what to do, he thought suddenly. Or at least she might be sympathetic, knowing what she did. Glancing at his watch, he was frustrated to find that it was still fairly early to call the Shadow either. He wasn't so much worried that he would wake her, whom he doubted was actually sleeping, but rather was afraid that he'd wake the Flamels who worked a regular schedule and probably didn't need to be woken up in the middle of the night.

"Get something done," he mumbled to himself. Booting up the computer, he set about to finding a place in Philadelphia that would fix Billy's record player. He couldn't say what his intentions were exactly, but he felt that this would be the right thing to do. Finding a place at last, he retrieved his phone and set up an appointment to drop off the player for the next day.

Feeling slightly better about himself, he finally got dressed.

Knowing that he'd have to drive the record player in, he felt that he'd better practice driving again. He felt a little queasy at the thought of it; he'd never driven the car without Billy and the fact that he had the American's permission didn't make him feel any more confident that he wouldn't crash Billy's baby to bits and pieces. He decided that if he was going to practice, it wasn't going to be on the busy city streets of Philly, but rather, out in the open country where he would at least not have to worry about pedestrians.

He felt an uncomfortable swoop in his stomach, navigating the car out of the garage and after closing the garage door, he searched his GPS for the nearest pathway out of the city. He wondered if Billy got this claustrophobic feeling, living in the city when he was meant for wide open spaces. He was surprised to find that he felt that way- he'd lived in major cities for hundreds of years now and had never had a problem before. He pushed away the nagging feeling that it wasn't the city itself that was making him uncomfortable, pushed away the unwanted insight that there might be something inside of him that wasn't happy with the situation he found himself in, and pulled out onto the road, letting his phone tell him where to go until he reached the city limits, where he turned it off again.

Turning on the radio, he realized one of the reasons he missed Billy the most was the absence of noise. Months of Billy's near constant chattering made the silence of the brownstone almost deafening. He left the station unchanged from what it had been programmed on and was pleased to find that he vaguely recognized the artist singing, previous trips with the outlaw giving him experience. The familiarity made him feel like the American could be sitting next to him, if he just chose to look next to him.

Gradually, the road condensed down to just one lane. Exhaling, he felt increasingly better as the city slipped away behind him. Philadelphia had made him think far too much about the past and the future and where he fit in with each, but here, with clusters of trees increasingly zipping past him, he felt his mind clear and his mood lift. Even though the day was fairly cool, he unrolled his window, letting the wind whip by him.

Feeling adventurous, he began to stray from the main road a little more, cutting through several small neighboring towns and eventually found himself in the little town of Bristol. He would have probably continued through this town in a similar fashion, but for a tiny library he found by the river. Bordered on both sides by a well-manicured little garden, he pulled off the road and got out to investigate it more closely.

He couldn't say exactly what had drawn him to this little athenaeum in a nowhere town, when he had his choice of libraries, book stores, and private collections back in Philadelphia, but he felt significantly calmer out here. Glancing behind him, he pulled his bag out of the backseat, locked all the doors to the car and casually strolled into the main branch.

Looking around, he estimated that the entire library was maybe the square footage of two of the floors in their brownstone, but he liked the room immediately. There was one library at the desk in the middle and she was engrossed in her own book; he moved towards the back of the building and sat at a table by bay windows which overlooked the river. The Italian immortal smiled as he pulled out his journal and began to chronicle his summer adventures; the respite reminded him almost of his years spent in exile. That had been both a stressful time and a joyous one too. Perhaps I like a little conflict in my life, he thought idly.

He produced an envelope full of the pictures that Billy had taken of him and the others during their summer months and, flicking through the stack, came across the one he wanted to write about- a picture Scatty had taken of them swimming in the lake. Holding it carefully by the edges of the picture, he studied the image, a small grin tugging at his features. He remembered that day- it was the day he'd lost the bet to Billy and somehow won it as well. When the time came, he could ask Billy any question in the world and the American would have to answer it truthfully. Hmm…

Gazing out at the water, he realized he was getting distracted by the light reflecting off the breaks and bluffs of the waterway. He set the picture down and began to write. 'I thought I was winning the race, right up until I ran into Billy, sitting on the raft with that damn Cheshire grin on his face and…'

After the race story, he wrote about the night that Billy had sat up eating ice cream with him and reading books, and after that, the time Scatty had rode horseback with him, and after that, some of the bad stories, when he'd fought with Billy, letting the entire summer spill out before him. He felt the remainder of last night's tension slip away as he wrote. The girl behind the circulation desk didn't seem very interested in him, something he was grateful for, instead helping out a mother and her young son, reshelving books at one point, writing something of her own at another, but never once asking him if needed a book or what he was doing or hurrying him in any way. Getting up to stretch his legs at last, he decided he'd like to do something nice for her.

Pulling, his checkbook out of his breast pocket, he filled out the majority of the information beforehand, leaving only the amount unwritten. He gathered his possessions together, stuffing the notebook in his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Gracefully, he loped over to where she was working.

"Hello," she said, looking up at him with a smile. "Done for the day?"

Machiavelli had to admit she was rather beautiful once he was standing before her. "Yes," he agreed shyly. "I wanted to thank you for letting me use your library. It was a very nice day."

She beamed. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Are you new in the area?"

He smiled, embarrassed by the attention. "You might say that. A friend of mine and I, we just moved to Philadelphia, but it's such a big city…"

"It's nicer to be in smaller setting," she finished for him. "More wide open spaces," she added. She brushed her short hair out of her face. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Ah. Well, I had such a pleasant afternoon, I wanted to ask if the library had any projects that need a donation." He turned slightly pink and hitched the bag up further on his shoulder.

"Well that would be very nice." She got out of her seat and stretched backwards to grab a binder. "You want to donate to a project? We've got one that we're focused on right now, our children's section was recently damaged by some flooding… we're looking to buy back some new books, perhaps you'd like to buy one…"

"How much does the whole project cost?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual sounding.

"Altogether?" He nodded. She looked at the ceiling, seeming to perform some calculations in her head. "Altogether, the project is going to cost about $3,000. We've raised over $300 already- that's a lot- and we're going to do some more fundraising next month, which will be our 296th anniversary as a town. People here have been really good about buying a book or two; every little bit helps."

Machiavelli fished his checkbook out again. "I'll write you a check," he said. "I trust you to pick out the books better than me…" He grinned slightly, scrawled down the full amount needed and carefully pulled the check out along the perforations. "Here you go. Have a nice day." And he turned to go.

She must have glanced down at the check cause he'd only half made it to the door before he heard her shout in surprise. "Wait," she said, hurrying around out of the desk. "I don't even know your name," she said, coming to stand in front of him.

"Oh, call me Niccolo," he said, again embarrassed by all of her attention on him. "It's nothing really."

"It's everything. It's the full amount."

He rested a hand gently on her shoulder. Truly, she looked nothing like either of his daughters, so why then did she make him think about them? "Well, like I said, I had a lovely afternoon. I might come back sometime, bring my friend. I have a feeling he'd like it here." He moved his hand, afraid that he'd invaded her space too much, too quickly. Vaguely, he remembered that Americans were big on personal space and he didn't wish to offend her. "Really, it's nothing. I think you have a wonderful library." After a few more interchanges, he managed to make his retreat.

Exiting the library, he was surprised to find the sun so much lower in the sky. He checked his watch- half past five. The sun would be going down in another hour and he felt glad that he'd decided to leave now, rather than wait for it to get completely dark. He shoved his bag in through the window and then, climbing in himself, rolled up the window completely and turned the heater on just slightly, a chill hanging on the air now.

He felt a small moment of panic, trying to figure out how to get back before he remembered that he had the GPS app on his phone, had used it that morning. He rummaged through his bag for the phone and finding it, turned it on. Feeling a little silly, he punched in the address for their Rittenhouse apartment and pulled back onto the road. He laughed at his momentary panic and reasoned that technology had been a later addition to his life; though he greatly enjoyed the modern conveniences of the world, it still wasn't always his first instinct.

Getting back to the city was much easier than he thought it would be, and he was forced to admit that he hadn't gone near as far on his "adventure" as he thought he had.

Almost back, he decided that while he was out, he might as well buy food for dinner. Stopping at a roadside market, he snagged an eggplant, a couple of ears of corn, and some tomatoes. Moving down the market, he bought some spices and herbs, seriously doubting that the outlaw had parsley at home.

Moving away from the market, he found a small bakery, almost a hole in the wall, which he ducked into. He breathed in the fresh scent of bread and bought a small loaf of Italian bread with a small tin of garlic butter thrown in on top. The woman behind the counter was kind, but reticent to talk overly much and really, he was ready to be home again, so the Italian immortal kept moving. With the groceries weighing him down, he decided to head back to Billy's brownstone at last.

He coasted back into the city just as the sun had finished dropping below the horizon. He made a mental note as he got the car into the garage that if they were to spend any long period of time here in the city, he'd prefer it if they fixed the door to the garage so that it went up without them having to get out. Pulling the door shut behind him, he secured the locking system and edged his way through the cramped room to the kitchen, where he breathed much easier.

He dropped the bag of groceries on the counter and tossed his bag in the corner. Flicking on the overhead light, he had to admit he felt better, having spent some time away from the city. Driving around had been more relaxing than he'd thought it would be; the only bad thing was the general sense of guilt he felt when he considered Billy. Without the American immortal's help, he wouldn't have known how to drive at all.

Sitting at the island, he fished his cell phone out and turned it on. Scrolling through the initial screens, he typed out a short message to the American and pressed send. Minutes later, he got a 'hey' back. Wanting to do the right thing and not knowing what it was, he typed 'Sorry about the other day' and began to get dinner ready. Hearing it buzz, he flipped the phone up to look at it. Billy had wrote four words that made his heart beat fast. 'I'd like to talk."

His fingers hesitated over the screen, but he knew that really, he owed the American immortal that much in return. 'Sure,' he wrote back.