"So, Kassandra," said Jack, "would you care to explain to me what happened the other night? Just as your inhibitors went on the fritz, I felt like, just for a moment, everything stopped around me. Then I felt sick. And this seems like just the sort of thing you'd do."
"Well, I admit I owe you at least an explanation and my apologies Jack," said Kassandra, over the telephone. "But the instant I could see it, I had to act. I traced a very subtle thought articulating exactly how I felt. And well, you ever felt so out of character that you wonder if your feelings or thoughts are even your own?"
"As a matter of fact…" said Jack.
"You were under telepathic influence to deliver a speech so depressing that you'd incite violence without even trying. I had to break it. Of course, this same person was trying to manipulate me, too. Would you believe I almost felt like hurting myself?"
"Well…"
"Okay, that was a bad way of putting it. No, I actually do not have a death wish. That's why we will appeal this, nicht wahr?"
"All right, but you couldn't resist pulling that other stunt?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's already all over the gossip columns and the tabloids. 'Kassandra's Cop Car Canoodle.' 'A Dimensional Dalliance?' And that's just the stuff I can stand to quote back to you. You mother apparently saw some of it; stuff about you emerging from that teleport partially clothed and with your hair messed up, and called me up, livid. She's saying we should add them to your already burgeoning list of libel suits. What I want to know is do you think we have a case, or is she in denial over something?"
Kassandra could see this coming. Still, she blushed furiously. "I had sparks flying all over my hair and jacket. Of course I'd look a bit disheveled! And it's amazing how I can't even kiss someone goodbye, outside of time, when no one could even see us anyway, without people jumping to conclusions. The- the very idea that I could be so… that Kurt would…"
"Right. I get your point," said Jack. "Anyway, you should then reassure your mother that you haven't completely lost all good sense. And can I trust you to behave until I get back from Vancouver?"
"Absolutely!" said Kassandra. "I've got a surprise for the sentencing hearing that I wouldn't want to spoil, anyway."
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Kurt had had a terrible night's sleep. It wasn't that his dreams were that bad. He had just been up late helping the Altheims sort through the few things Kassandra had left behind.
"Hier, Kurt," Lucy said, handing him a plain box with her right hand, her left hand under the forearm. "Kassandra wanted you to have this."
It was a simple framed eight by ten picture.
"Mein Lieber Kurt," said the note that came with it. "I never actually needed to get close enough to the Inner Circle to have to wear this in the Hellfire Club, but I knew you'd like to see it. As for the regular membership dress code, would you believe they thought the beadwork isidwaba I've worn to the Reed Festival was immodest? This from girls who got plastic surgery so they could look better, running around in their underwear!"
And while she was quite thoroughly covered, she was by no means dressed like a proper eighteenth century lady. Rather her loose canvas shirt and petticoat breeches, the bandana holding back her wild curls, the high sea boots, the sword belt, the bandoliers heavy with flintlocks and dagger, and most of all her bearing made her look like she'd have been quite at home serving on the deck of an eighteenth century privateer. And in one leather gloved fist, she wielded that beautiful adamantium sabre, the one engraved with "Hebräer 4:12."
Logan returned from wherever he was sometime that night. "Heard the verdict, Elf. You gonna keep brooding or drown your sorrows with me?"
And over their beer, little was said, except when Logan asked, "Missin' her already, again?"
Again? That's right. Except for the few years Kurt and Kassandra were both at the Institute, a steady stream of emails, long-distance phone calls, and chatty, affectionate letters in blue airmail envelopes characterized most of the time they'd known each other. Punctuated by visits that never came often enough, and all too rarely seemed to last longer than a couple bouts of fencing and an Errol Flynn movie marathon. Auf Wiedersehens accompanied by long and, until recently, entirely platonic, though strangely no less loving, embraces. But this time things were different, nicht wahr? "Ja," said Kurt.
"They ain't gonna kill her, Elf," said Logan, "if that's what's buggin' you."
"I know," said Kurt. "But that is not what's bothering either of us." He had put his great, thick, blue finger right on it. There were worse things that could happen to a mutant than death. He had seen it himself at X-Corps headquarters in Paris. While he was grateful for Logan's support, no amount of alcohol could dull his apprehension. And when he finally did turn in, his dreams turned to Kassandra and what she said when she held him, the two of them both caught up outside of time. To not waste the moment. In one of the letters of hers that he kept, she stressed the importance of remembering. And the way she always signed her letters. How was it? Dein' immer? What exactly did she mean with that?
A call from Warren, who had already returned to New York, awakened Kurt far too early the next morning. There was trouble with Husk's family back in Kentucky, and it looked like the Guthries could use all the help they could get.
