The two men faced each other with perfect cordiality. The small table was set for tea, and although each had stirred his cup appropriately anti-clockwise and sipped it politely throughout the discussion, the trays of scones and tiny sweets had not been touched. Their conversation was casual, but an atmosphere of repressed formality had settled across the patio.
"You see my difficulty," said one, setting down his teacup. He was smiling handsomely, but the tanned face was not as relaxed as it might have been, and there was the faintest furrow between the dark brows. His intense blue eyes were fixed on the man across the table, expectant but not demanding.
The other man did not answer, but sipped his tea slowly. Finally, he tilted the honey-colored bangs out of his own blue eyes and returned the gaze. "What you're asking is a little out of the ordinary," he answered. "It's not often that we interfere so conspicuously, even for our own purposes."
The first man nodded. "I'm aware of your reluctance to become involved," he said, "and it is not an unfounded concern. But I also know that I'm not proposing anything that's out of your power. The poor chap has died twice now, not to mention spending half a lifetime as a ghost, and it seems he ought to have a chance at a regular life.
"Besides that," he added, an adventurous gleam in his eyes, "I thought it seemed rather like something you might enjoy. I regret that I can't go myself; it could be quite diverting – tampering with Fate, and all that." He smiled mischievously.
The lighter-haired man returned the smile and leaned forward, examining the tray of sweets before him. He selected a dainty chocolate and nibbled a corner thoughtfully. "I think I will have a chat with the Norns," he said at last. "After all, this fellow has already been dead long enough, I think. I'll see what can be done for him." He fingered the serviette beside his plate. Each napkin was detailed with a little stick-figure in the corner – an odd monogram, but distinctive.
The light-haired man rose from his chair. "But you probably shouldn't expect that sort of thing on a regular basis. We're always changing our minds, you know." He tipped his head and winked, picture perfect. "May I take this, as a souvenir?" he asked, indicating the napkin.
His host stood as well, clearly pleased. "By all means. Take as many as you like."
"Thank you. The tea was delicious," the guest added, and left the patio.
---
The horse's hooves padded a dusty rhythm on the dry road. Just ahead, the man who had introduced himself as his cousin Bart whistled a cheery tune as he swayed with the horse's gait. They had been riding for… he couldn't remember how long, but he was already counting the minutes until they arrived in town and could find a decent saloon. He pushed back the wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand through his thick moss-colored hair. It was damp with sweat, and the humidity was making it fluff up more than usual. Or maybe it was always fluffy; he couldn't seem to remember. How long had he been riding, anyway?
Cousin Bart turned in his saddle. "We'll reach the town of Snakeshoot in another couple of miles," he said. "I know you're not used to riding much, but try to hold out a little longer. We'll meet up with everyone in town and stay the night there."
Half an hour later, they tied their horses at the post outside Snakeshoot's one decent-looking hotel. Bart ushered him inside, and when they reached the sitting room he was immediately steered toward a group of men playing poker around a table. Bart greeted them enthusiastically.
"Brother Bret, brother Brent, cousin Beau, cousin Ben, I'd like you to meet cousin Brad. He's just arrived from the east, and Pappy's asked us to educate him in the gentlemanly art of playing cards. Cousin Brad, let me introduce you – this is my brother Bret Maverick, my younger brother Brent Maverick, our cousin Beau Maverick – don't let the accent fool you; he just grew up in England – and his son Ben Maverick. Young Ben will be leaving for Harvard in a few days."
Cousin Brad shifted a little uncomfortably in his boots as everyone greeted him. He couldn't remember ever wanting to make a career out of playing poker, but that seemed to be the honorable family tradition – and from the look of the men before him, it was quite a profitable pursuit. Maybe the life of a professional card player was nicer than it sounded.
He and cousin Bart drew up chairs, and cousin Bret dealt them in for the next game.
---
Doujima and Priss turned away from the monitor as the man formerly called Spike lay down a royal flush. Mireille was standing a short distance behind them.
"Are you sure you don't want to go with him?" Doujima asked softly. "We can still find a place for you in that world, if you want to go."
Mireille shook her head, her long blonde hair partially obscuring her face. "I don't remember much of our past together," she said, "but what I do remember was anything but peaceful. His last life was full of so much violence and stress… I think he needs some time to recover from that." She didn't say more, but Doujima and Priss exchanged knowing glances. Mireille had confided her nightmarish memories of death to them, and they knew that she, more than Spike, needed the time to forget. Spike, at least, had the advantage of starting over with a blank memory.
"Well," Priss volunteered suddenly, breaking the gloomy silence that had settled over the group, "it's been a long, hectic day. I think I'm going to hit the bar on the way home. Anyone want to come along for a little cool-down?"
Mireille smiled faintly and shook her head. "I'm not in much of a mood to drink right now," she murmured. Priss glanced at Doujima and shrugged, asking for another suggestion. Neither wanted to leave Mireille alone when she was this depressed.
"Then you and I will have coffee," Doujima announced, taking Mireille by the arm. "And maybe a slab of fudge cake to go with it. Should we split it two or three ways?"
Priss took Mireille's other elbow and steered her toward the door. "Three ways, if you're willing to share. Can we get whipped cream on top?"
Mirelle let herself be led down the hallway, and finally gave in to their efforts to cheer her up. "All right," she laughed, "but the maraschino cherry is mine, Yurika!"
Doujima began a halfhearted protest, and the trio left headquarters behind them.