TWO OF HEARTS

Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, Sunday 21 December 2042

"And how's Duncan doing on the morning of his four-hundred-fiftieth birthday?" Cassandra asked, looking up from the music chorale displayed on her reader's screen after Connor turned off his phone.

"Planning to celebrate in style, after he sleeps the day away." Connor said, coming back from the narrow arched window to sit in his desk chair. "He's been working that rescue mission in the channel for the last two days, but they finally got everyone off the freighter. Tonight he's going to Paris to meet Methos and see Rossini's La Dame du Lac. Duncan said they'll be wearing the vests you wove for them."

"I hope he sends a picture," Cassandra said. Connor's present was nearly done, and his birthday (the five hundred twenty-fifth) was still eleven days away. Plenty of time to finish.

"Oh, and Colin said the package you sent arrived yesterday," Connor said. "He put the presents are under the tree."

"Good," she said. "How did your talk with him go?"

Connor's eyebrows twitched upward and he shook his head slightly—the silent snort of resignation. "Easier than the talk with Sara this morning."

Cassandra was not surprised. Colin wasn't dealing with a divorce brought about in part because of Connor's immortality. "Is Colin going to tell his wife about you?"

"I hope not," came the fervent reply. "But I told Colin he could, if he thought it was absolutely necessary. He didn't think it would be."

Cassandra wasn't surprised by that, either. Oona had no reason to suspect her husband of having an affair with his distant cousin Mike.

"Did you know Sara and Daniel were having problems?" Connor asked.

"No, she always said they were fine, and I haven't seen much of them these last six years. When I moved here last year, Daniel had already decided to go."

Connor nodded, but he was tapping one finger slowly on the desk. "Did any of your son's wives think you were competition?" he asked finally, then clarified: "As a lover, not as a mother-in-law."

Cassandra shook her head. "Neither. I didn't stay."

He turned to her with surprise. "Never?"

"Once, with a daughter. She was in her thirties when she died, and unmarried. We traveled as sisters. With the others… Some died young." Too many. "Usually by the time they were grown," she continued, "I had to move; we'd been in one place too long. So I would go to another village and leave them behind. Traveling was difficult, and messages were infrequent: no phone and no mail, not snail, e, v, or q. Not that people could read anyway. After a time, I would send word that I had died. Just as you and Duncan have done."

"Only with the in-laws. My children know the truth."

Which meant they had to lie. Lies ate at the heart of a marriage, shredding that all-important bond of trust. "It is difficult for everyone," Cassandra began. "immortals—"

"—can't have families," Connor broke in harshly. "Right?"

She had been the one to tell him that, more than four hundred years ago. She had been the one to teach him—brutally—that immortals could trust no one, and she had been the one to tell him they must always be alone.

"I was wrong," she said evenly. "I was angry and frightened ... and envious. Having families had not worked well for me." She took a slow and even breath, refusing to remember. "But I was wrong," she repeated, looking straight into his eyes. "immortals can have families, Connor. We can love, and we can trust." At her words, he nodded, the harshness in him fading, and the breath she took was of gladness and relief. That, at least, they had dealt with and moved beyond. But this other…

"We can have families," she began again, "but it is not easy."

"Yeah," he muttered. "I know."

He didn't know. He was only beginning to realize. Connor had said farewell to his parents, as most people did, and he had buried three wives. Eighteen months ago, he had buried a daughter, and she had lived a very long time. In the next fifty years—maybe sooner—he would bury three more children. His grandchildren would know him only as a friend from their childhood, not as a grandfather, and then his family would be gone.

Cassandra didn't bother to suggest that he should walk away before that happened, as she had done time and time again. Connor, she knew, was going to stay with his family until the end.

In the late afternoon, Cassandra met Connor as he left the dojo's changing room. His hair was still damp, and tiny tendrils had escaped from the braid. It looked as if he'd dried his beard with a towel and hadn't bothered to comb it afterwards. Cassandra's fingers twitched with the urge to smooth out the rough spots near his jaw. He nodded to her and they fell in step walking down the hall. "Good class?" she asked.

"Not today; their minds are on the holidays. But they're learning. Three of them will test for black belt in January, and I'm recommending Viu for the Guard."

"Good, Evann's been saying we need more people there." The food riots in Berlin and Moscow last winter had been brutal, and the harvests had not been good this summer, either. Adding to the instability and violence were the mass migrations away from low-lying coastlands with the resulting tensions from inevitable culture clashes and squabbles over resources. The stress of an aging population coupled with despair over the sterility plague only added to problems. Keeping their schools secure was a difficult job. Here at this school, students and teachers with their families were encouraged to live inside the castle, for convenience and the sense of community, but not all their schools had such thick stone walls.

"Not your job now; right, Cassandra?" Connor reminded her.

"I did say that," she agreed. "I needed a break." She'd spent thirty years creating and then managing Phinyx; it was good to be simply a teacher again, to have little responsibilities beyond planning classes and grading papers and coordinating the spring chorale. And Phinyx was doing fine without her; the people in charge now were bright, energetic, and committed to creating a better world. "It was past time for me to step back and let others take charge, and to get out of the public eye. But I still read the news."

"Maybe you should stop," he suggested.

"Maybe I will." After all, there were other, much more pleasant, ways to spend her time. Now, finally, the timing might just be right. Cassandra glanced out the lancet windows at the sky and commented, "The sun will set soon."

He checked his watch. "Twenty-four minutes."

"The library faces west, and it has a lovely view." He lifted an eyebrow, not taking that hint, and so she made her invitation more clear: "Would you like to watch the sunset with me?"

A heartbeat's pause, and then another, both felt and heard, so conscious was she of the blood coursing through her veins, of the warmth of him only a step away, and of all the possibilities that might unfold. His grey eyes narrowed as he tilted his head slightly to one side, his gaze direct and searching, his expression serious. Then he smiled, just a little, and Cassandra started to breathe again as he said the word she had been waiting to hear.

"Yes."

The winter solstice sunset was magnificent. They stood side by side in front of the library window, watching as the brilliant orb sank behind a jagged black peak, and layers of pink and gold flared across the sky. Slowly they faded into deep blue, and one by one the stars began to show.

When night had settled on the land, Cassandra turned to him. "Thank you for joining me."

"Thank you for asking." It was a good end to a good day. Connor didn't often see both the sunrise and the sunset anymore. "Dinner?" he suggested, and they went to the refectory to eat.

The next day Cassandra suggested they go horseback riding along the river. They met at the stables at the edge of town and picked out mounts: a sturdy Morgan gelding for him and a grey Arabian mare for her. Snow was falling as they returned, and as he rode behind her on the narrow path he watched the slow gathering of crystal spangles in her hair. Long ago, there had been another winter evening of falling snow. In the sacred spring surrounded by ancient oaks, he had kissed away the snowflakes that sparkled on her naked skin.

"See you tomorrow?" he said after they'd put the horses in their stalls, and Cassandra gave him a brilliant smile and said yes.

On Christmas Eve, they went to the concert in the village church, a stone-walled space filled with music and candlelight. Cassandra was all in green, save for the silver necklace with the triple crescent that she always wore. Alex had given it to her the year the twins were born, and Cassandra had been delighted, for it was the symbol of the ancient sisterhood of priestesses that she had belonged to, long ago.

Connor and Cassandra walked back together, through another night of crystal starlight and soft glow of a nearly full moon, high overhead. As they climbed the steep hill to the castle, Cassandra was singing one of the songs. Connor picked up the harmony, though he didn't know the words. They went through one entire verse before she was laughing too hard to sing. "What is that you're saying?"

"Asparagus," he answered. "It works for everything." He started singing it to the tune of "O, Canada" and then switched to "Carol of the Bells." Cassandra laughed again then joined him, and as they entered the courtyard they stopped walking to finish with a rousing chorus of "spara-spara-spara-gus-gus."

"Thank you," she said, and he was surprised to see the glisten of tears in her eyes. "I've missed singing with you." Her laughter turned to a wistful smile. "I've missed you."

Connor lifted an eyebrow in puzzlement. "I've been living here for almost a year, and we see each other nearly every day."

"We see each other," she agreed. "Sometimes we work together or eat together or go to the dojo together. But until this week, we haven't gone riding together or sung together. I've wanted to." Her eyes were dark in the moonlight, and her smile slipped away. "I've wanted…"

"What do you want from me, Cassandra?" Connor asked. He had asked her that before, sometimes in seething rage, sometimes in utter frustration, and sometimes—like now—out of a simple desire to know where he stood with this woman. He thought he knew, but he'd been wrong before, and he wanted to hear it directly from her. Besides, she owed him the truth.

She answered first with her eyes, a direct and serious gaze, and then she said, "Forty-six years ago, you gave me the chance to be your friend. I have treasured your friendship every day." She tilted her head slightly, still looking at him, eyes glinting from under long lashes. "Now, I want the chance to be more than friends." Slowly, carefully, she laid her fingertips on the back of his hand, barely touching, yet never taking her gaze from his.

"I want to watch sunsets with you," she said. "I want us to go riding together, to read poetry to each other, and to bring each other cups of tea."

Simple enough. He'd done as much with Duncan, though usually they brought each other whisky or beer instead of tea. Small acts of friendship, a regular sharing of each other's lives.

"I want us to sing with each other," Cassandra said.

Her fingertips slid round to his, still barely touching, but there for him to take into his own hand, if he chose. In the long winter evenings in the Highlands, they'd often sung together while Cassandra played the harp. That had been four and a half centuries ago, and Connor still remembered the shimmering play of firelight in her eyes.

"I want the chance to sing to you," she said next, her eyes darkened and her words husky with desire, and now Connor remembered the caresses of her voice, the softness of her lips, and the silken touch of her hair on his bare skin. "I want to make love to you, Connor," Cassandra said, with an honest directness that sent a torrent of lust spiraling through him and left his mouth dry.

He didn't dare respond. The sharing of each other's bodies could be simple— paid for in coin, or offered for comfort or fun with no deeper ties, but Cassandra was talking about sharing both bodies and souls. Connor had done that with only a very few women. He'd loved each of them, and he would never forget them. But they were gone. "Remember me when you need to, or when you want to, Connor," Alex had said to him on the night before she had died. "But don't cling to me forever. Let me go, so you can go on." That had been fifteen years ago, and it was time to go on.

Cassandra smiled up at him, saying softly, "And I would love for you to make love to me."

Then she stepped back, and the ghost touch of her hand went away. "That's what I want from you, Connor," she said, sounding cheerful and forthright. "Let me know what you want from me." Then she was gone.

For a long time, Connor stayed in the courtyard, looking up at the darkness and the stars.

The next day, he sought out Cassandra and found her in the music room, high in the circular southwest tower. The entire building was quiet this Christmas morning, and she was alone. He pulled up a chair next to her. "We should talk."

"Yes," she agreed, setting aside her harp then waiting for him to start.

"What you want from me," he began carefully, "I'm not sure I can give."

"It's the bringing cups of tea to each other, isn't it?" She shook her head sorrowfully. "I knew that was too much to ask."

"No," he said, smiling. "I could do tea."

"It's the poetry then," she guessed next. "You prefer prose?"

"I could do poetry. And prose."

She tilted her head to one side, brows furrowed in concern. "You're not interested in sex?"

"Oh, I'm interested."

That got him a flicker of a smile. "Good," she murmured then settled back and waited for him again, seriously this time.

"I care for you, Cassandra, and I'm glad we're friends," he said. "And I am interested." He'd thought about little else last night, especially after the dream he'd had. Still, honesty was part of a being a friend. "But I don't love you."

"I know," she said calmly. "I didn't ask for love."

He hadn't needed to hear the word. "That doesn't mean you don't want it."

"True," she admitted. "But I won't ask for it. Love must be freely given."

He agreed with that, and before this conversation, he had thought she loved him. But she wasn't saying so, and suddenly, he wasn't that sure. But he couldn't ask, especially after what she'd just said. Connor went back to his original question. "What do you want from me?"

"What I need," she began, laying stress upon that word, "is your honesty and your guidance, to help me find my way."

"Anamchara," he summed up, an old Gaelic term for a confessor.

"Friend of the soul," she agreed. "I'd been lost a long time. You've helped me in so many ways, Connor. You've been a touchstone for me. I still need that."

"We all do."

"Yes," she said, that single word soft and heavy with regret over things done and undone. They shared a brief, thin smile of understanding, and then her face became serious again. "What I want from you," she went on, "is emotional intimacy. I want your affection, your respect, and your friendship. I'd like to laugh with you, and I'd like you to hold me when I cry."

He could do that. He'd been doing that for nearly fifty years.

"And I want physical intimacy," she added next. "I want your tenderness, your passion, and your desire," and her voice went husky, the last word lingering on her tongue.

He had done that long ago, and he was interested now. Connor had to admit that when you added all of those together, it sure sounded like love. Even so, he couldn't say it, not to her.

"Deeds matter more than words," she observed.

Connor nodded slowly, for that was true. But words helped. And when partners weren't well-matched in what they wanted, relationships dissolved into disappointment and resentment, then bred bitterness and rage. He'd seen it happen before. "I don't want us to hurt each other again, Cassandra." They'd damn near destroyed each other—they'd even killed each other—when they'd been lovers, and simply by saying that, he'd made her eyes brim with tears.

"Connor—"

"I treasure our friendship, too," he explained. "I don't want us to lose that by becoming lovers."

Connor did not have a good Christmas. After he'd turned her down, Cassandra had brushed away her tears, nodded to him, then walked with head high out of the room. He wandered the mostly empty halls and castle for a bit, noticing a few surveillance cameras that could use repositioning and a few other things he should talk to the Erika, Tetrarch of the Guard, about, then he went for a long run in the hills. People were singing carols in the common room after dinner, but he went to his own room with a book and a bottle, then went to bed alone.

He dreamed of Cassandra again, of her body half-hidden by the living curtain of her hair as she danced in a meadow, of chasing her beneath the shadows of trees, of lying down on a bed of moss and burying himself in the softness of her, with her legs wrapped about him and her hands tangled in his hair.

When he woke, he cursed his own fine words and his honorable nature. But he'd done the right thing, and they'd both be glad of it in the years to come. She might not want to see him for a while; she might even suggest one of them move. But in time, she'd get over her disappointment, and they could go on being friends. Getting over a failed love affair was much more difficult, probably impossible.

Connor went running and then to the gym to work out, where he also spent the expected thirty minutes on a generator bike, and ended at the dojo to practice. After lunch, he went to his office to review the training schedule and roster assignments for the upcoming year. Early that afternoon, Amanda arrived.

"Connor, darling!" she said with a kiss on the cheek and a swirling cloak of green, gold, and cream decorated with flowers all around the hem, hand-woven by the look of it. She planted herself on his desk, extending one leg to admire its booted elegance, then smiled at him. Her hair was blonde and shorter than his. "Merry Christmas," she said, handing him a small package wrapped in white paper and red ribbons.

He untied each of them, ignoring her exasperated "Oh, get a knife!", then carefully unfolded the paper to find a tin of Scottish shortbread, the kind with the picture of the dog in a tartan. "I thought you might be missing the Highlands," she explained.

"Thanks," he said wryly and offered her one. They sat, munching cookies, and she chattered on about an amusing play she'd seen in London –"As witty as Oscar's!"—and a woman she'd seen in Paris—"Oh my goodness, her hair!"—and the difficulties in getting a reliable supply of gold and platinum and other supplies for her jewelry studios. All the rare-earth metals were rare indeed.

"On your way to Vienna?" he asked, when he could get a word in.

"Yes, I was tired of sitting on the train, passing through all those deserted villages—it reminded me of the plague years—and then this village came along, and it actually has people—"

"That's because of the school," Connor interjected.

"Yes, of course, jobs and children and so forth," Amanda agreed and kept on talking, "so I thought I'd stop off to thank Cassandra for my Christmas present." Amanda stood and twirled, so that the cloak flared about her, then struck a model's pose, one foot forward, hand on her hip, and a sultry, sulky, come-and-get-me look.

"Very nice," Connor said. Cassandra had been weaving a lot this year.

"Do you know where she is?" Amanda asked.

"No." He hadn't seen Cassandra since yesterday morning. Amanda raised an eyebrow at him, so Connor shrugged and suggested, "You can call her, but reception can be lousy in the castle, especially the lower levels. If she doesn't answer, try the music room. Or her suite. Maybe the gym."

"I'll do that," she said, but she went back to sitting on the edge of his desk. "First, though, I'd like your opinion."

"Really," he said, leaning back in his chair. Amanda usually made up her own mind or told other people what she thought.

She pulled out another package, a small rosewood box with inlay of mother-of-pearl, and set it on his desk. "I found this at an estate sale."

"Ah. My professional opinion."

Amanda fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Do tell me how I can repay you, kind sir."

Connor was already examining the box for makers' marks. He looked at the hinges and the joins, then opened it to reveal a gold-embossed locket on a string of black beads. He picked it up carefully and looked it over, noting the original clasp and the replacement cord, knotted neatly between each hand-carved bead. The original silk cord would have rotted away by now. "The necklace is British, most likely from Whitby, mid to late 1800s. After Prince Albert died, Queen Victoria made jet popular. The locket would have held a lock of hair or a miniature of a loved one, probably deceased. The gold medallion adds value, and the seed pearls are all there. A nice piece." He laid it back in the box, carefully arranging the beads.

"And the box?" she asked.

"Nothing special and not original. I've been out of the business for sixty years, but I would have priced the necklace at about seven hundred pounds."

Amanda, amazingly enough, did not seem interested in the money. "Oh, I'm not selling," she said, stroking the smooth curve of the locket before snapping the box lid shut. "I bought it because it reminded me of Rebecca. She had a piece like this. She liked to wear it with a sea-green dress."

"I remember," Connor said. The gown had set off the red-gold of Rebecca's hair, and the jet had emphasized the creamy whiteness of her skin.

"That's right; she was wearing it when we met you and Duncan in Chicago in eighteen-ninety…"

"Eighteen-ninety-three," Connor supplied. He and Duncan had been traveling from San Francisco to Boston, still amazed at the ease of riding in a train compared to walking or riding a horse across a continent. Rebecca and Amanda had been traveling in the opposite direction. The four of them had surprised each other in a restaurant, then stayed together for a few weeks while they toured the World's Fair.

"How many times did you and Rebecca ride in Ferris's wheel?" Amanda asked.

"At least ten. It was wonderful view." Rebecca had been a wonderful woman.

"I was so glad when you two got together," Amanda said.

"Because it meant the four of us could double-date?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Better than having either of you hovering around like chaperones."

Connor snorted in disbelief. "We never even dreamed of trying to chaperone the two of you." When he could, he'd take hotel rooms down the hall to get away from the noise. Amid giggles, Rebecca had told him she'd done the same.

"Well, Rebecca wouldn't travel with us unless you came along." Amanda leaned over and laid her hand on his forearm. "You made her very happy, Connor. She was quite fond of you."

"And I of her," he answered. Rebecca had been a haven for him through the years. She'd always welcomed him and made him feel at home, and she'd never pressed him to stay or tried to say goodbye. It had been simple and straightforward, a time of comfort, sex, and relaxation, neither expecting more. Connor had appreciated that, and treasured her.

"You know what I like about immortal couples?" Amanda said and then answered her own question. "We aren't possessive, the way mortals are."

"Some of us are. Kristen Giles? Carlos Sendaros with Grace?"

Amanda waved that away. "They were crazy, so that proves my point. Most of us come and go in each other's lives, just enjoying the chance to be together. Haven't you found that to be so?"

In two hundred years, he'd never asked Rebecca about her other partners, nor had she asked him. Alex Raven hadn't asked either. Caroline had been a week-long fling during a visit with Voltaire to the country house of Emilie du Chatelet, and Connor had never even seen Caroline again; she'd lost her head to the guillotine in 1804. Though he had spent one special night with Evann, they were friends, not lovers, and they both liked it that way.

Cassandra had actually seemed glad when Connor had found mortal women to love, and he himself had been glad to hear that Rebecca had married in 1979. Amanda and Duncan certainly seemed to enjoy their open relationship, and so did Elena and Duncan, and Ceirdwyn and Duncan, and a few others whose names he forgot.

Connor shrugged. "I suppose. Some of us get married. The de Valincourts. The Galatis."

"That doesn't necessarily mean they're monogamous," Amanda said. "Robert and Gina play all kinds of games."

Connor did not ask for details.

"Do you think that's because we have more time?" Amanda asked. "We're not worried about losing our only chance to be together?"

"Maybe." Time to change the subject. "Have you seen Duncan lately?"

"We spent June in Sweden, just before he took that search-and-rescue job in Caen." Her gaze unfocused with memory, and her smile was brilliant and tender at the same time. "I love that midnight sun!" Amanda stretched luxuriously with toes pointed and fingers extended, like a cat about to go hunting, then came to her feet. "Merry Christmas, Connor," Amanda said with farewell kiss on his cheek. "And happy New Year's Eve, a week early." She kissed his other cheek. Then she smiled impishly, ran her fingers lightly across his beard as she said, "And a very happy early birthday," and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

She exited with a swirl of her new cape and a sharp clicking of her elegant heels.

Connor leaned back in his chair again and turned to look out the window. Amanda was a self-centered thief and an incorrigible flirt who excelled at both cattiness and bitchiness. Ever since they'd met, Amanda had made it abundantly clear that she was available if he was interested. He'd never shown interest.

Amanda could also, when the mood took her, be extremely generous. Since her tour of the Mediterranean with Cassandra back in 2006, Amanda had taken to treating Cassandra as a project, in much need of help with her love-life, her hair, and her clothes.

So with all this talk of immortal couples, was Amanda laying groundwork for Cassandra (and had Cassandra had put her up to it?) or for herself?

In the open courtyard, Amanda called and got an answer. "Amanda! I'm so glad you're here!" Cassandra said. "I'm in the music room; I'll be right down."

"Stay where you are; I'm coming to you," Amanda said and crossed the courtyard and climbed the winding stairs. She was still a floor below when she felt Cassandra's presence, a low humming at the base of her skull, and then she heard the music: rippling arpeggios on a harp, over and over again.

It stopped when she opened to the door to the sun-filled music room, and Cassandra set the harp upright. Her outfit—a well-fitted black and white Nordic sweater and sleek trousers of green, over slouched black suede boots with a very low heel—looked well enough, even if it had clearly been chosen first for warmth and only then for fashion. The intricate silver dangling earrings added a nice touch, like falling snow. Amanda was pleased to see that Cassandra had taken some of her lessons to heart.

"Don't you know any songs?" Amanda asked as she crossed the wide expanse of gray stone.

"Finger exercises," Cassandra replied, coming toward her to share a hug. "You look wonderful! I love the blonde hair. And the cut."

Amanda ruffled her fingers through her short locks. "I had it done while I was in Sweden this summer to keep Duncan's eyes from wandering," she confided. "How long is your hair now?" she asked, for Cassandra had braided her auburn tresses and wound the plaits in intricate ways.

"Down to my knees."

"Goodness. I don't think I'd have the patience."

"It helps to keep me warm," Cassandra said.

And, Amanda was sure, it helped to keep Connor's eyes from wandering. Rebecca had mentioned that Connor liked to brush her hair in the evening before they went to bed.

"Though I am thinking of cutting it," Cassandra added.

"Oh." That did not bode well for the two lovebirds. But first… Amanda spun around so that the cape flared out. "Thank you for my Christmas present; I love it!"

"You're welcome. And thank you for the loom. I've been enjoying it all year."

"I'm glad. Duncan was telling me about a weaving class he took, and I thought: 'I bet Cassandra would like a loom.' He helped me pick it out. And I have an idea for a new line of handwoven clothes at the boutiques; spider-silk has a lovely drape. I'll have some sketches ready soon."

"I'm looking forward to it," Cassandra said, and then they sat on the couch in front of one of the arched windows.

"I just saw Connor," Amanda announced and was not surprised to see that Cassandra did not smile at the mention of his name. Connor hadn't smiled at the mention of Cassandra's name, either. "He seemed a little down," Amanda commented, and Cassandra gave a tiny shrug, as if she didn't care. "What's wrong?" Amanda asked.

Cassandra sighed and said simply, "He said no."

"Oh, sweetie," Amanda said and patted Cassandra's hand. Still, Amanda had learned long ago that no could sometimes mean "not yet", especially where sex was concerned. People tended to be skittish. They needed time. They needed courting. "Was it the 'Absolutely not' or the 'This isn't a good idea' kind of no?"

"It was the 'He doesn't think he would be good for me' kind of no."

"Oh, the chivalrous no." Amanda shuddered. "Honestly, these MacLeods! Sometimes they act as if they were the older ones."

"He's acting as if I were mortal," Cassandra explained. "As if I needed protecting."

"That's what he's used to, isn't it? He's had three mortal wives, and quite a few mortal girlfriends." Amanda tapped her fingers on the couch, thinking. "Besides you and Rebecca, how many immortals has he been with?"

"Connor was with Rebecca?" Cassandra said with blank surprise.

Amanda looked back just as blankly. "I thought you knew."

"He's never mentioned it. Neither have you."

"I'm sorry; I just assumed…"

"It's all right," Cassandra said quickly. "I was simply surprised. When did they meet?"

"About fifty years after Rebecca and I first met Duncan in Italy, so that would have been 1680-something. But they didn't become lovers until two centuries later, in Chicago at the World's Fair."

Cassandra nodded, and a slow smile spread over her face. "I bet the four of you had fun."

"Oh yes! But not… together," Amanda hastened to add. "Duncan and Connor don't…"

"No," Cassandra agreed. After a moment she commented, "Pity."

"Yes," Amanda agreed. It was. She sighed and moved on. Time to get back to the problem at hand. "So who else has Connor been with?"

"I have no idea," Cassandra said. "Except for Evann. But only once with her."

"I don't know her," Amanda said, but that didn't matter. One-night stands simply proved her point. "We know both you and Rebecca let him come and go as he pleased." She peered at Cassandra. "You did, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"Good. He and I talked about Rebecca today, and I pointed out that immortals aren't possessive. That should help."

"Did you do that for my benefit, or for yours?" Cassandra asked.

Amanda gave her a happy smile. "In the long run, it might benefit both of us. Make that all three of us—Connor would certainly benefit, too."

Cassandra did not seem pleased. "Amanda."

"What's the matter, girlfriend?" Amanda teased. "Don't want to share?"

"Wait your turn," was the quick—and rather sharp—response.

"Oh, darling, I'm just trying to help," Amanda protested. "You know I would never poach. Not while you two are actively involved." Immortals weren't that possessive, but they were territorial, and you didn't cut in when someone else was dancing. Not if you wanted to stay friends. And Amanda did. There just weren't that many immortal girlfriends around.

"Connor and I aren't actively involved," Cassandra said next.

"Oh, yes you are," Amanda reassured her. "Even if the action hasn't started yet. It will. He just needs a little time and some encouragement. And you and I," she said, taking Cassandra's hands in her own, "will figure out how."

Continued in Double Jeopardy, in which Methos and Duncan go spelunking