Abe's Welcome Home party was in full-swing by the time Liam arrived. The horns and piano riffs of a jazz record he didn't recognize greeted him at the door, with the chatter of light conversation filling in the gaps as he ascended the stairs. A dozen or so people already occupied the apartment at the top, most of whom Liam also didn't recognize. No surprise there that the people welcoming Abe home from his cruise should be his friends.

Liam could only imagine that Henry invited him so there'd be someone at the party Henry knew. They'd probably end up spending the rest of the evening off in a corner, likely with Jo drifting in and out of attendance as she made the social rounds.

First, though, he had an important matter to attend to.

He spotted Abe right away, standing in front of the sideboard and made his way over. Abe had picked up a tan on his trip, one that ended abruptly in a line around the top of forehead where the brim of the hat he'd been smart enough to wear must have rested. The gaudy tourist t-shirt he wore revealed similar tan lines around his upper arms, and Liam suspected that the beige slacks he had on hid swimsuit lines. Not the look one expected from a septuagenarian. Liam grinned, then smoothed it quickly before anyone could catch his reaction.

"Welcome back," he greeted, handing Abe the bottle of wine he'd brought for his gift. A selection of wines and other alcohols already decorated the sideboard, along with some platters of cheeses, meats, and fruits to help keep the guests' stomachs lined.

Abe accepted the bottle and nodded his approval at the details he culled from the label, then turned a puzzled expression on Liam. "I'm sorry, I—" he started.

"—don't believe we've been formally introduced," Liam interjected before Abe had to suffer the embarrassment of fully admitting he didn't know who Liam was. They'd met in passing a time or two, though always in circumstances where Abe's attention would've been on Henry's needs. "Liam Bennett."

"Ah, yes," Abe replied, his relief obvious. He accepted Liam's hand, then clasped his left hand over the joined rights in a grip that was both firm and friendly. "The priest. I've heard a great deal about you. Henry speaks very highly of you, you know."

"I'm certain that if we traded accolades, you'd come out well on top," Liam countered. It wasn't just politeness powering his response, though it certainly would have been rude of him to accept the compliment without returning one of his own. "I don't believe I've ever met a father who is more proud of his son."

Abe started and he glanced furtively at the clusters of people standing nearby.

Liam recognized his transgression right away: He'd spoken too freely. He chided himself for not taking more care—he, of all people.

Fortunately, anyone close enough to have overheard appeared to not be listening.

Rather than changing the topic, Abe drew closer. His intrigue must have overruled even his sense of propriety. "Ever?"

"Not the kind of pride that's well-earned, anyway," Liam answered. "Though I've known one or two with the kind of pride that counts as one of the seven deadly sins."

Abe chuckled, no doubt thinking of a people he'd known who also were unjustly full of themselves. "Well, Henry does think he's a good judge of character. Wouldn't want to give him reason to think otherwise."

"I don't believe you could if you tried," Liam answered honestly. With as much as Henry talked about his son, Liam felt he knew him pretty well. That had been important in his larger decision. For now, he had another goal. Gesturing toward the sideboard, he asked, "May I?"

Abe's already tanned face reddened. "Where are my manners?" He swept his gaze around the room, first identifying where his father was, then establishing that Henry was too far away to have noticed the faux paux. "Pops would never let me live it down if he thought I wasn't performing my host duties properly. Old World Manners, you know? Please, help yourself." He gestured toward the table, then stepped back so Liam could better inspect the contents and create his own assemblage on a—

Liam's brows lifted in question, and Abe laughed some more in immediate understanding of what Liam had noticed. "Henry would also plotz if I deigned to serve our guests on paper plates. You know how he is." His tone deepened and his accent shifted toward mimicry of Henry's own. "We have porcelain plates for a reason, Abraham. They show class and good breeding, and guests should always be shown the best of both."

"Old World Manners," Liam repeated. Abruptly, he recalled the conversation with Henry, Jo, and Richie in which they'd traded examples of things from their youth they didn't miss. As he dished up a plate of snacks, it occurred to him that no one here cared about his class or good breeding—or lack thereof. No one cared—or would, even if they knew—of his being a foundling, or a widower, or a mere parish priest. No one cared that he was Irish, or Catholic. The variety of friends and companions this relaxing of rules had allowed struck him as an incredible blessing.

Perhaps no one cared, though that didn't mean no one was curious. Liam's attention returned to the present and the realization that Abe was studying him with the attention one gives a person who might be one's favorite celebrity.

"Are you really older than Henry is?" Abe asked suddenly. He looked like he wanted to reach over and touch Liam, as if to verify that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. Instead, he handed Liam a glass—crystal, naturally—of wine. Not the one Liam had brought, though; there were other bottles to get through first.

"A wee bit," Liam answered. The breach of that etiquette didn't bother him at all; answering any of Abe's questions felt like preemptive reciprocity. Still, he verified that all the other guests remained out of easy eavesdropping range before adding, "I was just a little younger than you are now when Henry was born," lest Abe think that Liam only meant the five or six years of age that his physical body had over Henry's.

Abe gaped, his eyes growing wider and mouth slacker as he did the math. He fumbled for his own wine and swallowed back a large amount in search of his own composure. "That's—that's incredible."

"It must be strange for you, learning that your father isn't as unique as you'd always believed."

"'Strange' is one word for it," Abe agreed. "It's been good for him, though. It's nice to know he's not as lonely as he was."

Liam nodded, accepting the truth of Abe's comment. He'd seen the blossoming in Henry as well. The man he knew now had a different kind of confidence than the one he'd met on the shore of the East River all those months ago: Healthier, more connected to the world.

"It's been a pleasure for me to make his acquaintance, as well," Liam answered. "And yours."

They stood in peaceable silence for a few breaths until Liam licked his lips and summoned the courage to ask the favor he'd been rehearsing in his head. "On that topic, I have a favor to ask of you, and I don't know if there'll be another opportunity. I apologize upfront for any inappropriateness, given that this is supposed to be a party, and we're all supposed to be in good spirits."

Abe's brows knit together, and he once again visually checked in with where Henry stood regaling Jo and a pair of Abe's friends with some story or another. Gesturing, he led Liam into the hallway, separating him from the crowd. Along with the slightly dimmer light, the volume of chatter dipped, affording at least the illusion of more privacy. "What's up?"

From the inner pocket of his leather jacket, Liam withdrew an envelope and held it out so that Abe could see what it was: a simple white #10 envelope with Henry's name written in a looping Copperplate script on the back. "I had hoped you would put this with your personal papers."

"My personal papers?" Abe repeated, clearly not understanding the direction. "You mean like old love letters and news clippings of my heroic deeds?" He shook his head. "I don't really have personal papers; never been the kind of sentimentalist Henry is. I prefer to keep my memories private." A salacious grin began to tug up the corner of his mouth before he caught it and schooled his expression.

While love letters and news clippings did often end up being the artifacts people left to their descendants, that wasn't what Liam had in mind. The letter had value for only one person. "What about your passport and birth certificate?"

"Oh! That kind of personal papers. Yeah, I keep those in a safe deposit box at the bank—which reminds me, I need to call the bank tomorrow to make an appointment to put my passport back."

Liam wafted the envelope to remind Abe what they were talking about. "Would you add this to it, then? I want to be certain Henry will get it."

"Why not just give it to him now, if it's so important." Abe started to raise his arm to summon Henry's attention, and Liam's hand darted out and caught his wrist.

"It's … not for right now."

Abe regarded him, the weight of his own decades of lived experience slowly pulling him toward understanding. "It's for after I die, isn't it?"

Liam hesitated, deciding how much he wanted to give away. His plans were still raw, unfocused. The only thing absolute in his mind was the overall goal, yet it was the steps like this one that felt the most intractable. At last, he nodded. "Henry's going to need friends then—more than ever. I'd … like him to know how to find me … when he needs to."

Abe regarded him right back, silently assessing and filling in the blanks. Liam had no idea how much of the events of the last weeks Henry had brought Abe up to speed on, though he had to assume they included everything—including how close Liam had come to losing his head. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that the reason you're giving me this now is because you won't be able to later." Abe didn't wait for Liam's unnecessary affirmation before asking, "Have you told him, yet?"

"Not yet. I still have a number of loose ends to tie up." Liam assembled one of the bites of sausage and cheese on his plate and popped it into his mouth. He barely tasted it, and his stomach was so cramped from anxiety that he was surprised the food went down at all. "My actual departure date will be out of my hands."

"How long do you think you'll be gone?"

Liam shook his head. He'd last lived in New York City in the mid-nineteenth century. There was no telling how long it might take him to return to it after this. Maybe he never would. The world was a big place and he'd explored very little of it.

"Only God knows," he answered.

Abe straightened. "Because I don't plan to kick the bucket for at least another twenty years. Thirty, if this ticker keeps cooperating." He patted his chest in emphasis.

Twenty or thirty years was a long time, and Henry would no doubt appreciate every day of it he was granted with his son. But eventually Abe's time would run out, and no one knew if Henry's ever would.

Liam managed to muster a sympathetic smile. "Nevertheless." He once more offered the envelope. "In case I don't make it back soon enough."

Abe hesitated another moment, as if refusing the favor would also dismiss the need for it. Not that Liam could blame him. Facing one's mortality had a way of upending all the other carefully constructed illusions that allowed a man to get from one day to the next.

But Abe was a better man than Liam was. With a definitive nod, he accepted the letter, folded it once in half, and slid it into his pocket. "Then do me a favor: Don't leave without saying goodbye. He's had enough of that."

Before Liam could answer, he heard his name called from across the room. He turned to see Henry bustling over as if trying to beat the clock on some time requirement for greeting guests. "Liam! I'm so sorry; I afraid I didn't see you arrive. Have you been here long?"

Seeing the glass of wine and plate in Liam's hands, Henry opted to welcome Liam with a shoulder pat instead of an embrace, but then stood with arms hanging awkwardly like their programming had been interrupted. Naturally, he was dressed in a suit, and had a shaded blue scarf wrapped under his collar. In his own sweater and slacks, Liam felt under-dressed by comparison.

"Not too long," Liam stated, certain that that had to be true even if it felt much longer. "I've just been taking a moment to get to know your son. Your stories hardly do him justice."

Abe gave a half-cough, but if Henry noticed that or the lie-of-omission buried in the words, he was too caught up in the energy of compliment and Abe's return to comment on it.

"Yes, I hear he had a wonderful trip. I'm certain he will regal us with plenty of anecdotes as the evening goes on." Henry stopped, considering, then amended, "Or, perhaps a few select anecdotes that are carefully edited for our company." As he spoke, he subtly drew Liam and Abe back out in the main room. More people had arrived over the last few minutes, filling the room.

One person's absence, however, caught Liam's attention.

"Where's Richie," he asked. "I don't, uh, see him." He made a point of looking around the apartment more carefully, checking among the other guests for a person he already knew wasn't there.

Henry sighed is disappointment. "I'm afraid he sent his regrets. It seems Richie has a previous obligation lined up … with his sister."

Liam and Abe both started, though perhaps not for the same reason.

"Richie has a sister?" Abe asked, beating Liam to the question. "Hmph. I had the impression that he didn't have any family."

Henry nodded, and he stood a little taller, as if proud of himself for being the one to share this bit of information. "It seems he must."

Liam chose to refrain from pointing out that Richie did not have any family—at least, none that he'd ever mentioned. Something else had to be going on. Was Richie avoiding them? Him?

Had the Quickening left residual effects he didn't want them to know about?

Liam felt a shudder deep inside at the remembered sensation of the last Quickening he'd taken, more than two hundred years before—and hadn't gone a day since without remembering. He took a slow, careful sip of his wine to settle himself.

He didn't taste it, either.

Instead of feeding the gossip, he decided to deflect. "Well, I'm sure the anecdotes will bear repeating." With a teasing grin at Abe, he added, "They might even improve with age."

"Anecodote, schmanecdote," Abe announced. "What I want to know is what happened here while I was gone. Henry's been extra cagey about filling me in."

"Filling you in on what?" Jo asked, appearing from the crowd to join their group.

"What I missed, of course. I helped you bring your suitcase up before I left, and it was gone by the time I got back. You two are obviously still talking to each other." Abe gestured with his own plate at how Henry had recognized Jo's arrival by winding an arm across her back and pulling her close. "So, I want to know if I'm going to be getting a roommate, or losing one?"

Jo and Henry traded a long, meaningful look that only ended when Henry broke away from Jo and cleared his throat. Apparently, he'd been elected to answer. Only, he didn't.

The interval after where he'd taken the conversational floor dragged out, and Liam glanced at Jo for a hint of which direction this announcement would be going—if it ever got there. Her expression was bland, though the tops of cheeks burned redder than her blusher would create.

"Henry." She elbowed him—just hard enough to jolt him out of his stall—and he cleared his throat again.

"Yes, well, I suppose we have finalized a decision sufficiently to share that information with those closest to us. Though we would both appreciate it if you would allow us the privilege of being the ones to share the specifics with others, as well."

Abe's eyes widened, and Liam could see him calculating the odds of whether his welcome home party was about to become an engagement party.

"You have our word," Liam answered. Presumptuous though it was to speak on Abe's behalf, Henry wouldn't follow through on the announcement until someone assured him of his privacy—even if they all knew that any secret wouldn't stay that way long. Based on the number of people in his apartment alone, all of New York City would likely be in the loop before the day ended.

"As it happens," Henry finally continued, "Jo and I have decided that—while we greatly enjoy one another's company—"

Abe leaned close to Liam and muttered, "He means sex."

"—we are in no hurry to formalize our relationship." Henry turned a beatific smile on Jo, leaving no doubt that any hesitation didn't come from lack of love.

"We've decided to take our time—however that happens to work," Jo clarified. "We've given it a lot of thought and decided that neither of us are in a hurry to get married—or permanently cohabitate—again right now."

"That said," Henry continued, before anyone else could jump in, "Abraham, I would request your forgiveness in my presumptuousness here; however, based on the efforts to arrange the opportunity for our relationship to grow, and on that, uh, salacious comment—" Abe bowed his head, chastened, and Henry continued—"it doesn't seem forgiveness is necessary. Jo, I would like you to have this." He opened his hand to reveal a plain, gold-colored key.

The way Jo plucked it from his palm gave away that she was not surprised with the offering, and the wide smile that had overtaken Abe's face made it clear that he did, in fact, approve.

"Thank you, Henry. And here's yours." She handed him one of her business cards, on the back of which Liam saw a series of numbers scrawled.

"What is this? A license plate?" Henry asked. He held the card up to better view the numbers, then flipped it over and back, as if the details on the other side might clarify anything. "You know I don't drive." Frowning, he added, "I thought we agreed on an exchange of keys."

"No, Henry." Jo plucked the card from his fingers and slid it into the front pocket of his vest, settling it into place with a double-pat. "It's the code for the new keypad on my front door. No keys anymore. I figured … you can't lose this."

Abe snorted, and Liam had to cover his mouth to keep his own inappropriate laugh from escaping.

"Now you need to figure out what to do when he loses everything else," Abe commented, "and your neighbors see a naked man trying to break into your house."

A quirk of eyebrow from Henry made it clear that he didn't appreciate that comment; rather than respond, his attention stayed on Jo, and his hand came up to capture Jo's and press it to his pocket. "It's perfect."

"It's wonderful!" Abe exclaimed at the same time as Liam responded, "I'm happy for both of you."

"Even though we're not doing things the 'right' way?" Jo asked, revealing that her own Catholic upbringing hadn't completely faded away. People often believed Liam would be a stickler for tradition and protocol—and he could be, but only when people needed that structure. These two people didn't, and wouldn't appreciate if he tried to impose it on them.

"Every relationship follows its own unique path," Liam commented. Albeit, most didn't have bumps as unique as the ones Henry and Jo would encounter.

Warmth eased that pressing tightness in his stomach. Henry had Jo now—for now. He still had Abe. Liam's departure wouldn't tear all the support from a man he'd come to view as a close friend. And if God saw fit for Liam to keep his head, then the letter he'd left with Abe would provide for he and Henry to meet again—a reunion Liam could look forward to in peace because he knew it wouldn't come to swords.

Raising his glass, he proposed a toast. "To Henry and Jo, and their continued ingenuity. May they find the right path for their happiness."

As the others raised their glasses to touch his, Liam sketched a small cross in the air: a blessing, a promise, an honor.