The next morning, Morgan professed a desire to swim again, though this time she slipped down the back fire escape stairs more cautiously to the swimming pool. Acknowledging that the exercise was beneficial for her, yet reluctant to approach the water, Martin sat on a park bench in the hotel grounds near the fitness suite fire exit, where he had agreed to meet his student prior to beginning her training. He was sipping from a takeaway cup and idly watching the squirrels squabbling over a hidden cache of nuts when he felt the presence of another Immortal burning inside his mind.

"You know, you could subscribe to National Geographic and get the same view without the chill".

"And I could read the National Enquirer for my regular dose of useless gossip in the comfort of my own lounge, yet I choose to come out and socialise with you."

"Touche" Farrell sat down beside him. "So what's new?"

"I know what you're after William. Out with it!"

Farrell looked at him as though Martin's words had struck a mortal wound. "I have no idea what you're talking about".

"The Hell you don't! Why do you see every female as a challenge to be conquered? Leave her alone."

"And why do you see every woman as a poor wench who needs some chap in shining armour and riding a white steed to come rescue them?"

"I can't help what I am…. And I'll tell you something else. For a Roundhead, you have a very cavalier attitude!"

"And I cannot help what I am. As for the cavalier comment; coming from you, I'll treat that as a compliment."

"You also have a remarkable capacity for changing the subject. You know what I'm talking about, you know who I'm talking about. Keep your distance!"

"You really do care for the young and innocent ones, don't you?"

Penwarden nodded curtly. "Remember that Farrell. She IS innocent. I have seen the way you looked at her. She has already suffered at the hands of one predator, the last thing she needs is the attentions of another. If you touch one hair on her head, I swear I'll kill you"!

"I wouldn't expect anything less from a teacher... or a friend... or even a student".

Understanding passed between them.

"Well, you could attempt to kill me at least" Farrell grinned at his old friend

"You're joking right, this is a new jacket!" This last comment came over Martin's shoulder as he turned to toss his empty paper cup into the trash.

Half an hour later, Morgan's Quickening touched both men's consciousnesses. "I'd better go" Farrell remarked softly as he stood up. "Good luck". Without waiting for a reply he was gone, walking swiftly down the path in the opposite direction, deeper into the crowds on the street.

Days went by and Penwarden was gratified to discover that his student was not entirely without grace, balance and the other skills that conjoined to create a promising swordswoman. However, that her heart was troubled was obvious. One afternoon after sparring together they sat in a Baskin Robbins ice cream shop. Morgan ate slowly and methodically, barely fast enough to consume the dessert without it melting. Martin watched her quietly. She looked sick. He heard her moving around sleeplessly most nights. If she was tired, she couldn't fight; if she couldn't fight she would lose her head – literally. It was that simple. The waitress cracked a joke and Morgan nodded politely, a vague non-smile on her face. Martin realised, with a painful sensation in his gut, that he had only once heard her laugh. Silently he vowed that he would somehow put a smile back on her lips and make it the norm, not the rarity.

"Penwarden I am not a clown!" Farrell looked affronted and Martin burst into hearty laughter.

"Oh come on Roundhead" he grinned. "It's for a good cause. You like good causes."

"This is hardly on a par with donating a few pennies into a street tin. You asked me here for a spar… you dishonest…!"

"Takes one to know one. She'll be here any second, will you aide me or not?"

"Alright… alright" Farrell grumbled but his eyes twinkled faintly. "Who am I to refuse to humiliate myself for a Lady?"

"Good man!" Martin clapped his friend on the back. "Hush now, that feels like her". Through a filthy, cracked window he saw the dark haired woman crossing the empty forecourt in front of the warehouse. She hesitated a moment, hands thrust deep in her pockets as she; looked around her, getting a feel for her surroundings. Martin thought it prudent to go out and meet her before she panicked and took flight.

As she saw him step from the darkness, Morgan took her hands out of her pockets; however she remained at a slight distance from the building until Martin approached.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming"

She shrugged. "Not one of my usual haunts".

"No I thought not. However, it's the perfect spot to begin some more advanced exercises. No one will disturb us."

Morgan nodded then frowned and almost flinched. "Is someone else here?" She asked.

"There's no need to worry" Penwarden reassured. "It's just Farrell. He's agreed to participate in a demonstration dual… to help you see what you need to learn".

"I… I see"

"Don't worry, if he tries to 'hit on' you I promise he'll regret it. Come on in".

She followed him silently; her steps slow and measured yet soft enough that they barely whispered in the dust. When they entered the warehouse, Farrell hopped down from the crate he had been seated on and made a courtly bow to Doyle. "A pleasure to see you again, Fair Lady".

A faint scowl creased her features but she managed a curt nod. Farrell raised an eyebrow in Penwarden's direction. The Cornishman simply shook his head, indicating that Farrell should not push it any further.

The Parliamentarian stepped back and drew his blade with a flourish. "En garde you Cur!" he grinned.

Martin brought his own blade up in salute, accompanied by his own wolfish grin and attacked. The two duelled back and forth for some minutes in a seemingly serious fight. Then, Martin winked at William and the pattern changed somewhat. Casually turning his attention from his opponent, Farrell picked up a water bottle with a sports style cap and began to drink. All the while, the two swords flashed and met with the song of steel on steel. With the swordplay becoming horseplay, Morgan watched in mild bemusement yet her face maintained its' blank façade. No smile tugged the corners of her mouth; no light glittered in the hazel and sapphire pools of her eyes. She could not afford to let herself be drawn off guard, especially not in the presence of Farrell, whom she barely trusted. Just then, Martin started a sequence of moves that totally mystified her. He was, in fact, endeavouring to tap dance and in doing so, fell against Farrell sending them both crashing to the floor.

To her surprise and the surprise and pleasure of the two men, Morgan found herself laughing. Farrell and Penwarden disentangled themselves and stood up, dusting themselves down, each mocking affronted dignity. Martin watched with concealed approval as Morgan leant forward, elbows on her knees, breathless with the effort of her laughter. "Right…. William… I think that's a satisfactory demonstration, don't you?"

"Oh absolutely, Martin, absolutely". His answer might have been slightly too obvious to be believable, but Morgan didn't seem to mind. Martin's plan had come to pass perfectly. William made his excuses, shook his friend's hand, bowed to Morgan and went on his way leaving teacher and student alone together in the warehouse.

"What was that in aid of?" she asked.

"Not all lessons come from the outside. Today you remembered how to laugh – a valuable gift".

A month passed in which Morgan made great progress in her sword handling technique but little in her interpersonal skills. She and Martin moved from the Sheraton and into a more reasonably priced vacation apartment. Martin attended several probate auctions on Morgan's behalf and managed to rescue quite a number of her most precious possessions as the state sold them on behalf of the treasury. For this service he refused to take payment. It was enough for him to see the light in her face when he handed over her precious autographed Vancouver Canucks Ice Hockey stick. It was almost joyous. He was still worried though. Friday afternoon had almost become a ritual. Penwarden would wait while Morgan spent time alone in the park, praying or meditating, or whatever it was she did to commune with her Gods. Then he would escort her to 'Tequila's' a local Mexican restaurant and buy her dinner, which he would then make sure she ate. He was troubled at the looming prospect of his inevitable return to England and being forced to leave Morgan alone. He doubted she was ready to do without his support. Martin ruminated on this as he entered the park and approached the well concealed ring of bushes near the stream where Morgan liked to spend her moments of spiritual solitude. It was so quiet, it was unnerving. Not even the birds sang nor did the insects rustle. Several seconds passed before he realised he felt no Quickening.

"Morgan!" If he disturbed her meditations, he would just have to make it up to her later. He listened, but an answer never came. "Morgan!" he tried again, with the same result as he began to beat through the undergrowth. A couple of minutes were all it took Penwarden to search the area. Morgan was not there but her bag was neatly nestled up against the foot of an oak tree. Nearby, on a protruding root lay a smashed statuette; the torso and head of a naked man with the antlers of a stag. The immortal man frowned. He recognised it vaguely as something Morgan had displayed in her store. Now there was blood on it!

William Farrell poked at his plate of fries and scowled to himself. He had tried and failed to convince himself that the ache in his chest was heartburn. He knew full well that it was the fire of an unquenched thirst for vengeance. It had been so long and he was starting to believe that he would never find the monster he sought. He couldn't just give up. What good would it do? Who would avenge her if he did not? Penwarden had not bothered to ask why his friend had come to Canada. William suspected that he just assumed Farrell was on one of his many womanising wanders. He had not known her; never known that his former mentor had settled down and been happy for that brief blink of an eye. His ruminations were interrupted by the intrusion of the Quickening of another, followed mere seconds afterwards by an agitated fist that pounded on the door so hard that it shook. "Alright, alright" he grumbled to himself as he got up. "Who is it?" he demanded of the door; although the familiar sensation gave him a pretty good idea.

"It's me! Open the damn door Farrell!" Penwarden sounded as agitated as his Quickening felt. Unease spread through Farrell's nerves as he opened the door and his friend charged into the hotel room like a hurricane.

"What the hell is going on?"

"She's gone!"

"Huh?"

"Morgan's gone! I found her bag and I found blood... no other sign of her... apart from this. Tell me I'm not imagining it. It isn't fresh?" he proffered the broken statue as evidence.

"This stain is months old..." Farrell confirmed grimly. but... I thought this stalker or whoever was a figment of her paranoid imagination".

"Evidently she did have a reason to be afraid. William… I think she's in big trouble… I need your help. We have to find her!"

"You only had to ask old friend. Where do we start?"

For once, Penwarden looked lost.

"Perhaps…" a cold fist took hold of Farrell's heart and squeezed as he glanced at the bloodied statuette. "Does this belong to her?"

"I think... I saw it in her shop... before she died, could it be... "

This is your chance! You can avenge her! William told himself and then realised that his former student had spoken."Did you say something Martin?"

Martin hesitated and regarded his old friend warily. "No… What's wrong, William? I've never seen you this het up"

William's jaw flexed and he avoided Martin's steady gaze. "I've… seen this before. A disappearance... a personal object left in their place..." he mumbled then looked at Penwarden with a burning fury in his eyes. "Whoever took her is going to make her suffer. I failed to stop it once… I won't fail again! You say this thing came from her shop... then the shop is where we start!"

Penwarden was quite taken aback. However, he knew that the questions could wait until later. "My car's outside" he said quietly.

The street where Morgan had once traded was almost an hour's drive away through the rush hour traffic. The two immortals did not speak; each one tense with anticipation and, though they would not admit it, fear. The building was dark and deserted, windows and door boarded up and guarded by tattered crime scene tape. They had hardly expected to find it otherwise. Penwarden glanced at Farrell and shook his head questioningly. Farrell shook his in return. Neither of them could sense Morgan's Quickening and that was very bad. Working their way around the building they found an open door to the rear and entered, every sense on alert for any indication of danger in the darkness and silence. The gloom was punctuated here and there by the soft green glow of emergency lighting, indicating that the power grid was still connected.

"Someone's been paying the electric bill" Farrell remarked, his flippancy effectively covering his worry as his feet crunched in broken glass. "I don't sense her"

"Neither do I" Martin frowned. "Damn".

"Let's try the storeroom"

"I think that would be the basement".

"And this would be the basement door" Farrell agreed, pulling it open. To their surprise, the lights were on, illuminating the stairway.

"Bingo!" muttered Penwarden. "Let's get a move on" he drew his sword and cautiously stepped onto the first tread. It was blisteringly hot, almost like stepping down into the bowels of hell. He shuddered.

"Yeah..." Farrell answered softly. "Me too".

It was a small, two room basement. One room was for storage and the other which held the utilities for the building; furnace, circuit breakers and meters. The first room was pretty empty. It contained a few cardboard boxes, but these had been divested of their contents. It was not until they reached the entrance to the next room that both men stopped dead.

"You feel that?" Martin demanded as a weak Presence fluttered in the back of his mind.

Farrell nodded. "Morgan?" he asked.

"I think so".

Quietly, the Roundhead turned the door handle, using the reflection in the blade of his sword to see around the corner. Seeing no obvious danger he pushed the door wider. They were in the furnace room. It looked like the thing had been stoked right up and had been burning at full power for hours. The weak presence suddenly fluttered again and faded. Penwarden hit the light switch and the room was bathed in the dim glow of a single low wattage bulb. The feeble light shone upon horror.

1649

Farrell gazed up at the Gallows and frowned as he watched the Executioner preparing the nooses. He mounted the steps and approached the hooded man. "That rope is too short." he pointed out. "The prisoner will strangle!"

The Executioner shrugged. "It's as much as these treasonous Cavaliers deserve" he growled. "Get out of the way!"

Wordlessly William surrendered and stepped back as the line of bound prisoners were hauled up the wooden steps. One by one they were lined up and the nooses tightened about their necks. The Executioner then began his grisly task; taking inordinate pleasure in the suffering he was inflicting. Farrell watched in horror as two prisoners with ropes that were too long lost their heads under the sudden pressure of the nooses and the third started to slowly strangle. Hideous gurgling sounds issued from his lips and a thick red line started to form on his throat. The Immortal let out a roar of fury and leapt forward. He grabbed the unfortunate man's legs and pulled hard. The prisoner's sickening struggles ended instantly as his neck broke.

Ignoring the executioner's outraged tirade, he let go and staggered blindly away. As soon as he was alone, William Farrell slumped to his knees and began to sob. For the first time he knew that the cruelty the Royalists were accused of applied equally to his own side.

Vancouver, 21st Century

At some point in its' history, the building had housed a butcher's shop. Morgan's body hung in handcuffs from one of a row of meat hooks set into the concrete ceiling. She had been strangled with a great deal of force. The narrow wire of a lariat necklace was embedded so deeply in the flesh of her throat that blood had spilled down onto her shirt. The crimson gash beneath her jaw made it look as though her throat had been slit. Where her skin of her face was not ashen it was black with bruising or red with burns. There were countless contusions and she was as cold as ice. Many of the contusions bore a distinctive emblematic shape. It was almost like the woman had been branded. Her jaw was broken and hung slack, grotesquely distorting the throat wound that was now filled and surrounded with the same congealed crimson mess that trailed across the floor to an old drain. Martin couldn't tell if she were 'alive' or 'dead'.

William surged forward, shoving past his friend. Without waiting to see if the young Immortal was conscious or even 'alive' he pulled off his coat and laid it on the concrete floor before reaching up to the hook and lifting her down. Penwarden knelt beside him and touched her wrist, seeking a pulse.

"Sick fucking bastard…" The look Farrell fixed on Martin was cold and dangerous. "You'll have to pick the cuffs. I'm going after this freak! Take care of the kid."

"William, just hold on a damn second! We can't go in blindly."

"Listen to me Royalist! This ends now! I won't let another woman suffer that way, the way Miranda did… the way she is!" he gestured at Morgan's broken body.

"Who the hell is Miranda?"

"She was my wife! She was murdered! This..." He gently traced the emblem seared into the flesh over Morgan's collarbone "this mark was burned into her, just like this! The... THING who did this dies tonight!"

The outburst stunned Penwarden. He hadn't even realised his Mentor had been married. "Your wife wouldn't have wanted you to throw your life away! Use caution, Morgan won't be helped by you heading blindly into danger".

Reflexively, both men looked down only to see that her eyes had opened a slit. A faint gurgle came from her destroyed throat. "Hush" Penwarden soothed. "Stay still, don't try to talk"

Farrell crouched silently and stroked her hair "It's going to be alright, child" he whispered. "The Cavalry's here and we're gonna find the ass wipe that did this to you!"

Struggling to formulate the word, blood trickled from Morgan's mouth "T…t…..r….a...ap" she gasped.

"Don't worry… try and stay calm, you'll be ok!"

"Tr….tra...p! G'r'out!"

A Quickening flared in the minds of Farrell and Penwarden. Farrell whirled, bringing his sword up even as a gunshot cracked out like thunder in the enclosed space. Farrell fell back, hissing in pain, his sword arm going limp as blood pumped from the bullet wound in his shoulder. As he slid to the ground, he caught himself on the meter cabinet and managed to lash out a fortunately placed kick. Their foe dropped his firearm with a snarl and it skidded away into the shadowy recesses of the room.

Behind him, Penwarden snarled in fury, bringing his blade up, ready. Farrell rolled, managing to get close enough that he could shield Morgan's body with his. Ziegler's eyes widened in rage. He had not counted on two of the Demons to protect the Witch. Martin attacked and the insane villain dodged nimbly back, out of the way. Silently he gloated, congratulating himself on his own genius as he led the Demon closer to the furnace and the prepared blade waiting there. He could not win against two of them, but he could incapacitate this one and escape! One step more and he was close enough. On his right hand he wore an industrial heat proof glove. Using it, he snatched up the blade that had lain in the heat, now glowing white hot. Penwarden made another attack and Ziegler countered wildly. The white hot blade showered sparks and Ziegler smelled blood. The next thing any of them heard was the screams of the two men. Ziegler dropped his weapon and fled, clutching his eye, blinded by the molten metal even as Penwarden fell, his face ripped open, burnt and bleeding. Somehow, the Cornishman, through sheer grit managed to keep his sword up for a few more seconds before collapsing as the Quickening of Morgan's attacker faded from the senses of all three of them.

Farrell hurriedly started to wrap his coat around Morgan's battered body. The lariat he quickly deduced he could not pull free without causing severe damage so he elected to leave it in place for now, until they had light and tools to separate the wire from flesh. He wrapped the younger woman warmly, doing his best not to cause any more pain. By the time he was finished, and turned to check on his friend, Penwarden had won his battle with the pain and, although pale, was more or less back on his feet. His wound was now a livid red scar across his right cheek and temple. William scowled to himself. It didn't look like the blow had been that serious. "We've got to get her out of here" his voice brooked no discussion.

"Back to the hotel?"

"No... Somewhere safer, Holy Ground. There's a Convent not far from here, St Catherine's".

"Are you INSANE? We can't take her to a Convent! Imagine the questions they'll ask!"

"It's alright. The Mother Superior at St Catherine's is an old friend of mine. She and I had a...thing... before she joined the Order".

"A thing?"

"Yep".

"I don't think I want to know. Alright, let's get moving". Morgan groaned as Martin lifted her up. "It's okay, I've got you" he soothed. However as her head lolled against his arm and her Quickening fluttered again, he doubted that she had heard, let alone understood him. Farrell helped them into the back seat of the car and then got behind the wheel. Driving like the Fury through the city, they acquired several traffic tickets but they were soon at the gate of the Convent. The next step of the procedure was much less efficient. It took Farrell and Penwarden almost five minutes five minutes of urgent insistence before the Sister at the door withdrew and went to fetch the Mother Superior.

"William, dear!" the old woman was clearly delighted to see him. "This is such a surprise, but why on Earth are you calling so late?

"I need help, Sister Ruth" he glanced back and Martin stepped forward a little, clutching Morgan's body almost convulsively in his arms.

The Reverand Mother crossed herself quickly. "Of course, of course... Bring her inside at once. When is the child due?"

"No... it's not like that... there's no baby". William almost spluttered, blushing. "She's hurt; she needs help and we need to hide her"

"On Holy Ground!" Penwarden added.

"On Holy Ground..." the Nun repeated, nodding in understanding. "There's a room upstairs; we'll do our best".

"She's like me... so is Martin. She'll heal, die and revive if needs be, but she needs to be cared for".

Sister Ruth nodded "This way" she directed, ushering them along the hallway and up a flight of stairs. "Angelica!"

A novice darted up to her as though conjured up by magic. "Yes, Reverend Mother?"

"Show these gentlemen to my office and find a room for the young lady. I'll come along in a few minutes".

"Yes, Reverend Mother".

The next thing Morgan was aware of was quiet and warmth. She was in pain but it was not the searing agony she had experienced up until now. She lay upon something soft and comfortable and clean smelling. There was movement close by and a hoarse whisper escaped her lips. Even that slight effort was painful, as though her throat were full of razorblades. "Where am I?"

"Oh, you're awake are you?" It was a woman's voice; elderly and gentle but unfamiliar.

A face swam before her as she opened her dry, sore eyes and she frowned in confusion, briefly wondering if her teacher or his oldest friend had undergone sex reassignment surgery and taken Holy Orders.

"It's alright child, you're safe…" the old nun smiled kindly down at her "I'm Sister Ruth, Reverend Mother of St Catherine's Convent. Your friends brought you here and we're taking care of you.

"Penwarden… Farrell…?"

"Are resting downstairs in the guest quarters. Men aren't allowed upstairs here".

"How... long?"

"You've been unconscious or more almost twenty hours, child. You were badly injured and needed help before you started to heal by yourself. Don't try to move yet, you're still not well. Do you want some water?" Morgan nodded and Sister Ruth brought a cup to her lips; she swallowed with difficulty and the cool liquid quenched the fire in her throat. Her head fell back against the pillow and she blinked dazedly. "There now, take it easy".

Martin looked up from his seat on the sagging old couch in Sister Ruth's private sitting room as she entered and took a seat opposite Farrell at the table. "Well?!" Farrell demanded as he looked at her expectantly.

"She's alright… physically at least… or she will be. She woke up a little while ago but it will be some time before she's fit to travel."

"What about… not physically?"

"Only time will tell on that front, God willing. She's still in shock right now and, as you know William, your healing powers can't touch that".

"She shouldn't be alone when she wakes" he muttered. "She might panic".

"I know. I sat with her through the night. I didn't dare leave it to the infirmary sister in case..." she trailed off, unwilling to voice what she had feared; in case Morgan had died during the night as she healed. "Two of the novices are with her now".

"One of us should be up there. I know you have rules Reverend Mother, but these are special circumstances" offered Martin.

"I'll see what I can do". Sister Ruth poured a cup of tea from the pot on the table as her guests pondered their next move.

Suddenly Farrell looked up and glared at his former student "I still can't believe you let that Fucker escape, Penwarden!" he accused, ignoring or not noticing his elderly friend's shock at his language.

"You know, blaming me isn't going to change anything" the Cornishman retorted gently.

"Yeah, but I feel a hell of a lot better for it!"

Martin sighed and leaned back in his seat. The lamplight fell on his face. Farrell followed the illumination automatically and felt a stab of guilt as he caught a glimpse of the angry red scar that slashed across his former student's face. The edges of the wound had cauterised before healing had begun, the scar was permanent. "He burned you... I thought I imagined that… you've got guts Royalist… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you."

"Believe me Roundhead, he won't be so lucky next time!" The side of Martin's face was tight and even trying to make the flesh move made him shudder with phobic reaction.

Farrell nodded curtly, rose and left the room. His feet thudded on the wooden parquet floor and he was gone.

Early the next morning, Morgan opened her eyes again. This time the pain was gone and her head was clearer. Rubbing her face she pushed herself upright and looked around. The first rays of sunlight were spilling through the gap in the curtains and the gentle warmth on her face was welcome. She touched a hand to her throat and her heart fluttered as she realised the wound was gone. In its' place was a rough scar. A sudden loud snore startled her and she yelped as her head whipped around in that direction, before she sighed in faint relief seeing Farrell asleep in the chair beside the bed. A faint, hazy memory nudged its' way into her consciousness and she saw him with his sweater soaked in blood, his arm limp. Tentatively she reached out to touch the shoulder that had been wounded; it was warm and the muscles firm and whole. A swift hand snaked up and grasped her forearm; not tightly but firmly enough that she couldn't move it. Farrell's eyes flickered open and as he saw whose hand it was he smiled apologetically and gently let go. "Sorry… reflex."

"S'ok"

He leaned forward and folded his hands together, leaning his forearms on his knees "How are you feeling?"

"Better… I think. You… you saved me?"

"Your mentor did the saving. I have to admit, the Royalist has guts. All I did was cut you free."

"Thank you" she murmured as she leaned her head back against the headboard.

"Now, come on. There's a bathroom just through there and Sister Angelica is as I speak running the hot bath I bet you're just desperate to take". He half turned back to her as he opened the door and tipped a parting wink.

Martin Penwarden looked up over the rim of his teacup as his friend entered the kitchen of the Convent. "Well?" he asked.

"She's taking a bath. Says she feels better but I think you're going to have your work cut out for you Martin."

"I thought as much and I've been considering something that I want to run past you".

"Oh?" William sat and poured a cup of tea of his own.

"Morgan is in no state to be left to fend for herself and I can't stay in Canada forever. I was thinking of asking her to come back to England with me… make a fresh start with her life somewhere that Monster won't be able to find her, but whether she'll agree or not..."

"Only one way to find out" Farrell shrugged.

"How the hell do I broach the subject without spooking her?"

"She's an Immortal, Martin! You can't wrap her in cotton wool for the next thousand years!"

"She's also been through hell and back more than once. She needs to be protected until she can protect herself."

The debate was cut short as the kitchen door opened a crack and Sister Ruth ushered Morgan into the room. William got up and pulled a chair out. "Sit down child. You hungry?"

"A little, I think I could use some dry toast."

"Sure that's all you want? No butter or cereal or anything?"

"No thank you" Morgan shook her head, keeping her eyes lowered.

Martin smiled reassuringly and pushed the coffeepot across to her, followed by the sugar and milk. Without looking at him, she poured it and took a long swallow. William half turned and grinned at his friend who tipped him a secretive wink. Morgan was oblivious to this exchange as she nursed the mug between her hands. The vicious scar on her throat peeked out from her collar. She had been marked forever by Ziegler's torture. It had taken both Farrell and Penwarden a good three hours to get the wire out of her throat and in doing so; they had torn away a good deal of flesh.

"Well you need feeding up. You're too damned skinny" William said firmly as he placed a round of buttered toast in front of her.

"I can't" Morgan protested. "There's too much!"

"No such thing as can't. You need to eat, so tuck in and… I'll let you have your coffee back" he neatly swiped the mug out of her reach.

She sighed and picked up the uppermost slice and started to nibble it.

Martin grinned. "Alright Will, be nice. Let her have the black stuff."

"You spoil all my fun" the Parliamentarian grumbled good-naturedly.

For a few minutes, Morgan picked at the toast with Farrell 'confiscating' the coffee pot every time she looked like giving up. Once she was finished he patted her shoulder and poured a fresh cup for her. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it? Well done."

The next couple of days passed with some semblance of routine. Morgan grew physically stronger, but remained relatively insular. Martin regarded her healing with silent satisfaction but he was still troubled by his student's emotional fragility. She had become terribly shy and avoided the Monsignor who ministered to the Nuns and the monks from the nearby Monastery school who visited from time to time.

On the third day, Penwarden had made up his mind. He went out to the garden, where Morgan had taken to spending her waking hours. The Quickening guided him and eventually he found her sitting on the massive stump of an old tree. Before he could announce himself, she lifted her head. "What do you want, Martin?"

"My God! What have I done! I've created a monster!"

"What... does that mean?"

"You used to be such a reclusive little thing. There was a time you wouldn't have dared speak to me so flippantly."

Morgan hesitated as the words died in her throat, then she flushed and seemed visibly to shrink back into herself.

"No… don't" Martin seated himself beside her. "You're getting better. Be proud of it.

Now… tell me how you're feeling. Don't stop to think about it. Just tell me."

"Apprehensive… Guilty." The answer was immediate

"Why?"

"About what's to come… what will happen now? And… your face...; doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. That Ziegler creature did it didn't he?"

"Your observation skills were never lacking".

Morgan shrugged and scuffed her foot in the dirt.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know… I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of what's going to happen now… of history repeating itself. If he finds me again…"

"Funny… that's more or less what I wanted to talk to you about".

"What do you mean?"

"Well… to put it bluntly: Have you ever thought of visiting England?"

"Not specifically" her tone became cautious and suspicious. "Why?"

"Okay I'll rephrase. Would you like to start anew? It would do you good"

"I….I don't know."

"You could set up your business afresh on line or I'm sure we could find a premises for you. Leave the past behind and expand."

"But… Europe? I mean… it's so far from everything I know."

"I believe it's for the best. Morgan, the great benefit of Immortality is that we can start again whenever we want to. Besides, you can always come back."

She was quiet for several minutes as she stared thoughtfully at the shrine to St Catherine nearby. "He's still out there isn't he?" she asked

"Would my answer affect your decision?"

"Maybe, maybe not"

"He is still at large but I'd die before I let him harm you again, Morgan. You must trust me on that."

After another moment's silence, she nodded thoughtfully. "Will you help me, make the move I mean?"

"Of course I will."

"I guess I've kinda always wanted to see England".

Martin smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "Just let me know when you're ready and I'll start making arrangements." He was rewarded with one of Morgan's tentative rare smiles.

Farrell was seated by the kitchen window, reading the paper. At least, he was pretending to read the paper. From where he sat he could see the backs of the two generations of younger Immortals. When he saw Martin touch Morgan's shoulder and she did not flinch he was surprised to feel a pang of jealousy. Martin saw himself as a father figure to her but he himself saw her as a younger sister. The problem was that every time he looked at Morgan and saw the wariness in her eyes he was reminded of what put it there and, consequently he was reminded of Miranda. At the same time, something deep inside him argued angrily that it did not wish to be a brother. It protested passionately for something deeper, something more.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

William had been so deep in his reverie that he had not seen Morgan walk up the garden and come back through the kitchen door. "Hey kiddo" he forced his expression to become its usual good natured grin. "How you doing? You ok?"

"I guess… but you changed the subject. How about that Penny?"

"Damn, you're too quick for me, Fair Lady".

A faint flush of pink crept along her cheekbones and William was encouraged by the indication of pleasure. "How are the nightmares?" he asked tentatively. "Are you still getting them?"

The pleasure faded instantly. "I don't... want to talk about it!" she muttered tensely, looking away from him, refusing to let him make eye contact.

Farrell raised his hands. "Take it easy Spitfire" he replied mildly. "I understand".

"No you don't! How could you! How could you possibly understand how I feel!"

"You'd be surprised".

Morgan snorted in derision.

William Farrell lost his temper and rounded on her. "Alright, sit down and shut up!" he snarled. His eyes blazed furiously, burning with emotion and Morgan stumbled back into a chair, shaking slightly as William paced back and forth. The man's taut muscles betrayed the fury pumping through his veins. "I do know what you're going through Angel Morgan Doyle. The pain and grief… I'm telling you something now that I haven't told anyone, not even Martin! I'm telling you that I understand. The Bastard that hurt you hurt me as well. He hurt me when he murdered my wife! I came to Canada to find him. It was pure coincidence that I ran into you and the Royalist. Miranda didn't get a second chance. You have!" His tone became gentle again. "And through you, perhaps now I get mine. You're saving me Morgan... because you continue to live... and you remind me that I can continue too".

She swallowed and licked her lips nervously. "I… I didn't mean to offend you."

"Listen to me kid. I know what you're going through and if you ever feel you can't talk to that overstuffed Peacock then come find me, I have a very broad shoulder and you can cry on it anytime you need, ok?"

"Ok"

"Good. Now, how are you feeling? You look better".

With difficulty, William ignored the black rage that simmered deep in his belly, rage over the cruel blow that life had dealt the woman he now thought of as his little sister. Pushing the feelings back, he focused on Morgan's answer. "The world isn't such a terrible place to be in now and then" he remarked." Why don't you give us another chance?"

Morgan nodded quietly and William smiled again. "You'll be fine, Morgs". He was rewarded by a brief, low chuckle.