A/N: This chapter is extra-long and extra-self-indulgent (it's even got ye olde self-insert near the end! Names changed, of course), but at least I updated quickly this time!

Disclaimer: Daine and Numair were invented by Tamora Pierce; I have merely kidnapped them, displaced them in space and time, and forced them to have silly adventures.

Chapter 11: Lake Louise, Calgary, Toronto, 1–2 August

The call brought Sandy to the Lake Louise Visitors' Centre with all possible speed; when her new friends had failed to return on time, she had begun to worry almost immediately, but it was difficult to convince anyone that two responsible adults, both experienced in woodcraft (though not, admittedly, in the ways of the Rocky Mountains), with good equipment and a perfectly unobjectionable plan on file, should be hunted for by the search-and-rescue less than twenty-four hours after their projected return. Without exactly realizing it, Sandy had been dreading a different kind of call for two days now.

It was them, all right, she found when she arrived – damp and dishevelled, wearing grubby, mismatched clothing and an air of purpose.

"Thank goodness you're all right!" Sandy said. "We thought you were lost. I did try to warn you …"

"We weren't lost," Daine said.

"There were some … unexpected occurrences," added Numair. "Quite a number of them, actually—"

"Is there a place we could talk?" asked Daine. It occurred to Sandy now that her friend looked rather ill at ease.

"You mean other than here?"

"Em … I mean, on our own. Somewhere more private." Now Daine looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Sandy frowned, not liking where the conversation seemed to be going.

"What's up?" she asked. "What kind of 'unexpected occurrences' are we talking about here?"

"Well—"

Whatever Daine was going to say, she didn't say it; at that moment the zippered pocket on top of her backpack rustled, then yawned open to reveal a small, furry, feline face.

Sandy's eyes widened in disbelief.

Then – to make matters worse, if that were possible – the animal opened its mouth and licked Daine's ear with its rough pink tongue. "Stop that, Kit," Daine said, fighting laughter. "It tickles."

"Daine," Sandy said, her mouth dry. This was much more dreadful than she had imagined. "Daine, what did you do?"

The laughter died on Daine's lips, and her heart sank. If Sandy, who knew them, reacted like this, what hope was there that anyone else would understand?

"She's an orphan," she began, helplessly. "We found her mum dead – leg-hold trap – under a rockpile – that is, Kitten was under the rockpile—"

"Sweetheart, let me," Numair murmured, his arm circling her shoulders. He told the tale as briefly and persuasively as Daine could have hoped, skilfully eliding the dodgier bits of their own conduct without actually leaving anything out. "The cub is only a few weeks weaned; we didn't feel we could leave her to fend for herself, especially with poachers about. And she seems to have a … spectacular talent for getting into trouble."

To Daine's relief, Sandy was looking much less terrified now. Her face had tightened at Numair's description of the trapped cougar, and though she still radiated anger, clearly it was no longer directed at them. "Show me this map of yours," she said grimly, and Numair extracted it from its rucksack pocket and obliged.

"We've got pictures as well," Daine offered, wondering where Numair might have packed the camera.

Kitten, hitherto unnervingly silent, squeaked at her meaningly, eyes focused on a particular trouser pocket. "Is it?" Daine said absently. "What an odd place to put it. 'Mair, give us the camera, would you? Left-hand trouser pocket, down by your knee."

He stooped a little to reach the pocket, then straightened again, the camera dwarfed by his hand. Daine took it from him and squinted at the screen, trying to remember which of the numerous cryptic icons meant "display," while he went on explaining to Sandy the notations he had made on the topo map.

The first of the photos caught her off guard – she had been there, she remembered what it had been like, but she hadn't wanted to see it again and certainly hadn't wanted Kitten to see it. She thrust the camera at Sandy, eyes averted: "Here. This one and the next twenty or so. Have a look, and then we'll FTP them all to you from Laurel's."

But Sandy was staring at Kitten, looking thunderstruck and faintly appalled. "Did I just see what I thought I saw?" she asked at last.

"She's picked up a few rather odd tricks," Daine admitted. "It seems to happen sometimes. It'll pass, though, mostly, when I've gone."

Huge blue eyes regarded her accusingly; Daine held the cub close, stroking her downy head. "You knew this was coming," she said softly. "I did explain. I'm so sorry, Kit, I wish I could stay, or take you with me, but your home's here, and mine's very far off, you see …"

She didn't realize that she was crying until she felt Kitten's warm, rough tongue washing the tears from her cheeks.

On the bus back to Calgary – Sandy had tried to insist on finding them a lift, but Numair had kept politely but firmly declining until, at last, she gave way – they sat as far as possible from the rest of the passengers and pored over the camera for nearly the entire trip. Their parting with Kitten had been difficult on all sides. The young cougar manifestly had not understood what was happening, or why, despite Daine's many attempts at explanation; Daine herself had, as predicted, grown entirely too fond of her to bear the separation easily, and Numair found that he, too, regretted the necessity far more than he had expected. Particularly considering what Kitten had put them through over the past twenty-four hours.

"Look at her, all sopping wet and cross," Daine said, laughing through her tears. "She was so angry with that water for being so cold and deep and – and wet – and then she was angry with you for pulling her out—"

"You were rather put out, yourself, I seem to recall." Numair's voice was soft and gently teasing.

"Well, I'd told her and told her the water was cold, and not to go swimming on her own—" she stopped abruptly, realizing how she sounded: like someone's mum. Like my mum.

Her eyes filled again, and she turned her head toward the window. Numair's arm tightened around her shoulders, pulling her against his side, and she turned back to bury her face in his shoulder, fighting the urge to howl her grief aloud to the world.

"'Mair?"

"Yes, vetkin?"

"Is that what it's like, having kids? Rescuing them from themselves every five minutes, and then going all to pieces when they go off to school or something? Because if so …"

"If so …?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

They had been attempting to return their hired camping gear for more than two hours now, long after the Outdoor Program Centre ought to have shut up shop for the day.

The student behind the desk was neither amused nor impressed by Numair's explanation for the missing sleeping-bag. It was not, it must be admitted, a very plausible one; Daine, perched on the suitcase they had retrieved from Sandy's office and striving valiantly not to yawn her head off, wondered whether the simple truth might have met with less disbelief. Finally she heard Numair say, with a certain dreadful patience, "I'm quite willing to pay for the thing; you've already got my credit-card number, and you're welcome to add the cost of it to the sum, if you'll just—"

"I'm sorry, sir," the student said. He sounded very nervous, and looked no more than seventeen. "It's my first week here, and I just don't know—"

"The chap who hired us the kit was called …" Numair paused a moment to recall the name. "Steven, that was it. Is he about? Perhaps he could be of some assistance."

The student shook his head. "He's in Fort McMurray," he said dismally. "Working for Syncrude for the summer, or maybe it's TCPL. And the supervisor's off sick today. There's just me."

Daine glanced at her watch; it was eight o'clock in the evening, and things were going nowhere fast. She levered herself up from the case and wandered over to the counter. "What did you say your name was, lad?" she asked kindly.

"Ryan, ma'am," the student replied, blinking at her. He had reddish hair and a great many freckles that contrasted harshly with his pale face.

"The thing is, Ryan," Daine continued, smiling at him as winningly as she knew how, "we've got to get on an aeroplane tomorrow afternoon, and we'd very much like a few hours to have baths, and sleep, and all that sort of thing. We've brought everything back but that one sleeping-bag, which to be honest" (she lowered her voice conspiratorially) "I'm not sure you'd have wanted back in any case, and we're happy to pay you for it, as we've been so careless as to lose it. All you need do is sign the forms, and we'll leave you our e-mail address so that if there are any questions your supervisor can get in touch with us …"

Five minutes later they were on their way again, Daine looking smug and Numair shaking his head in amused admiration.

Reaching the hotel at the airport was a matter of two trains, a bus, and a mercifully brief wander through the "plus-fifteen" tunnels connecting the airport proper to its peripheral structures. After the gear-returning ordeal the journey seemed positively relaxing; still, by the time they reached the hotel lobby Numair was muttering that they ought to have taken a taxi.

"Don't be silly," Daine said bracingly. "We're here now, and it's only nine-thirty – plenty of time to eat, and have baths, and sleep for ten hours or so."

Numair's heart sank as they approached the reception desk.

The desk clerk, surely a recent school leaver, was chewing gum, reading Cosmopolitan and listening to her iPod. When they leaned over the counter she looked up, snapped her gum at them, and put the magazine down, but did not unplug her earphones. "Welcome to Calgary. How can I help you?" she inquired in tones of utter boredom.

"We'd like a room just for tonight," Daine said.

"Last name?"

"Mine or his?"

"What name is the reservation under?"

Daine blinked. "We haven't got a reservation," she explained. "We've just got here from the mountains, and we just need somewhere to stay until our flight leaves tomorrow."

"Oh." The clerk, whose name badge indicated that she was called "Ashleigh," frowned in puzzlement. "Ummm … what kind of room do you want? Two doubles? Queen? King? Smoking or non-smoking?"

Daine glanced at Numair, who shrugged, much too tired to care. "King, non-smoking," she said at last.

"OK. Ummm … last name?"

"Salmalín," Daine said wearily, and then, seeing Ashleigh's glassy-eyed look, spelled it slowly.

Ashleigh typed the name into her computer, then frowned. "The computer says there's no reservation for you," she said.

"Sweetheart, have you seen my—" Numair, wearing clean trousers but no shirt, stopped in the bathroom doorway with his mouth open. It was nearly eleven o'clock; they had been in possession of their room for less than half an hour, and he half expected some other guest to walk in on them at any moment.

Daine, who was just stepping out of the shower, frowned at him. "What?" she asked, reaching for a towel.

He handed her one, still gazing raptly at her, and as she wrapped it around herself her frown deepened. "Leave off staring, 'Mair, please," she said. "You're making me right nervous."

Numair blinked and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I'm sorry, love," he said. "It's just that you look—" He stopped. How did she look? Clean, of course, for the first time in most of a fortnight; glowing pink from the hotel's generous supply of hot water; but that wasn't it. It wasn't that she had gained weight, or lost it, either; her slender waist, her delicate wrists and strongly muscled legs looked just as they always had. No, he realized, what had knocked him sideways for those few moments was that she looked – there was no other word for it, really – buxom. Not a description he had ever imagined applying to her, and one he thought he had left off being attracted to a decade ago.

"—lovely," he finished lamely, trying not to stare.

But if this half-hearted compliment was inappropriate to the occasion, Daine gave no sign of it. "I clean up better than you expected, you mean," she said, and grinned. "Now" (she shook her tangled, wet curls at him, raining droplets of water on his bare skin) "were you planning to stand there gawking all night, or will you come and help me with this rats' nest on my head?"

"I liked the airport in Calgary better," Daine said. She half expected her voice to echo in the cavernous baggage-claim area. "It was … friendlier, I suppose. This one feels like …"

"Like a barn," Numair offered.

"Very funny. Barns smell much nicer than this." She chose to ignore his raised eyebrow. "More like an aeroplane hangar, I'd say."

"What a peculiar coincidence."

"Oh, for …"

They stood about for what seemed like a tremendous while waiting for some sign of life from the luggage carousel. Finally Daine, with a sigh, sat down on its outer rail and leaned her elbows on her rucksack.

"My mama says dat's dangerous," said a small voice near her left shoulder.

Daine jumped, startled, and turned her head toward the voice; standing a foot or so away from her was a very small girl, surely no more than three, gazing disapprovingly at her and sucking on one index finger. The child had long, straight honey-coloured hair in two untidy plaits; she wore a pink gingham frock, a fleece jumper and grubby sandals, and under one arm she carried a large stuffed monkey.

"Your mama's quite right," said a more familiar voice on Daine's right. Numair had crouched down so that his shoulders, if not quite his face, were level with their new acquaintance. "Sitting on the luggage carousel is very dangerous, and Daine is going to stop doing it immediately, aren't you, Daine."

Daine stood up.

"You're very very tall," said the little girl, studying Numair. "You're even taller dan my Daddy, and he's the tallest in my family." She pronounced this last word carefully, enunciating all three syllables.

"I am very tall," Numair agreed cheerfully. "Watch this."

He unfolded himself to his full height, the better, Daine realized, to look around for anyone who might be missing a small girl.

"I'm Daine," she said, crouching down herself.

"I'm Dina," said that lady. "My name starts wif a D."

"That's very funny, Dina, 'cos mine does, too. How old are you? Are you five?" At any moment, she was thinking, the child would realize she had lost her parents and begin to howl; best to distract her as long as possible.

Dina giggled. "Noooo. I'm free." She held up three damp fingers.

"What about your monkey?" Daine went on. "He looks very soft. May I pat him? Has he got a name?"

Dina offered the toy to be patted; it was, indeed, very soft. "His name is Bid Monkey," she said. "Because he's bidder dan my udder monkey."

Daine grinned. "Very sensible," she said. She cast about for topics of conversation. "Have you got any animals at home? A dog, or a cat, or …?"

"Unh-uh," Dina replied, shaking her head sadly. "My daddy is allergic to cats and doddies and bunny-rabbits, and even mouses."

"That's very sad."

Dina nodded. "Mama says maybe when we det a new 'partment I can have a fish, or a turtle."

"Oh, turtles are lovely. D'you know what I've got at home? In our back garden, we have some hedgehogs. They live under the shrubbery and eat slugs and things. Is your daddy allergic to those?"

"What's hedgehods?" A puzzled frown.

"A hedgehog is—" Daine's description of erinacidae was cut short by a voice, tinged with panic, calling "Dina! Deeeeeena!"

A harassed-looking woman of about Daine's own age, wavy chocolate-coloured hair escaping from a knot low on her neck, approached at a sort of staggering run, hampered by the two rucksacks and the large, plastic-swathed child's carseat she was carrying. Numair, who had been waving at her with both arms, reached quickly to relieve her of the most awkward of these objects, and she dropped to her knees to embrace her offspring.

"Dina, Mummy was so worried! I told you and told you to stay with me so you wouldn't get lost—"

"I wasn't lost, Mama," Dina protested. "I was talkin' to dis lady."

Dina's mother glanced distractedly up at Daine, then at Numair, still standing with his long arms round the carseat, and appeared to decide that they did not look threatening. "Thank you so much," she said. "She keeps getting interested in things and wandering off, and pestering people—it's so hard to keep track of her in a place this size—and it takes so long for the luggage to come off the plane—"

"Not to worry," Daine said. "She was no trouble at all, honestly. We've had a lovely chat. And she's very safety conscious," she added with a grin. "Told me off for sitting on the edge of the carousel, and quite right, too."

While they were speaking this last had finally begun to move, and cases and assorted other objects were trundling rapidly by. "There's our bag—stay still," said Dina's mother sternly, reaching for a small black-leather case with a wide pink ribbon tied to one handle. Numair helped her unwrap the carseat and balance it on top of the suitcase; Daine helped Dina get her small rucksack on, and, after waving away more professions of gratitude, she and Numair watched the two of them amble toward the exit. As they disappeared through the automatic doors, Daine heard that small voice one last time: "Mama, can we have a pet hedgehod?"

"Daine! Numair! We're over here!"

Emerging, suitcase-less, from the baggage-claim area, they looked around for Laurel and spotted her at the edge of the crowd, grinning and waving her arms above her head.

"These are my kids – Ben's ten and Emma's six," Laurel said, when they had made their way through the crush and explained to their sympathetic hostess about the missing case. Ben was a solid, sun-tanned blond nearly as tall as Daine, Emma a lanky urchin with scabby knees, wild blonde curls and a missing front tooth. "Emma, Ben, this is Dr—"

"Daine and Numair," Daine interposed, gently. "Pleased to meet you, Emma and Ben."

The children, instead of returning the greeting, gaped at them, and Emma stood on tiptoe to whisper something to her brother.

"Read a lot of Harry Potter, have they?" Daine inquired. Laurel nodded, looking puzzled.

"I know what you're thinking," Daine went on, this time addressing Ben and Emma: "He looks just like Professor Snape." Ben, who obviously felt he was too old for this sort of thing, went pink and looked at his toes. "Don't worry – Numair's actually a very nice man. He does know lots of magic tricks, though," she added, grinning.

On cue, Numair frowned slightly and leaned down to pull a coin from behind Emma's ear. She giggled, delighted, when he presented it to her, saying sternly, but with twinkling eyes, "You've not made a very good job of washing behind your ears, Miss."

"What kind of money is that?" Ben demanded, inspecting it. "Is it real?"

Daine made a show of examining the artefact from all angles. "Hmm," she said at last. "It's fifty pee. How funny" (here she winked at Ben) "you should have a British coin behind your ear! You can't spend that here, Emma, but it might make a nice souvenir to show your friends. Would you like to keep it, or shall I change it for a loonie?"

"Keep it," Emma said firmly. "I like it. It's heptagonal."

Laurel shook her head with a rueful grin. "You see what I put up with?"