PROMISES

Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, Thursday 1 January 2043

Cassandra decided not to eat dinner in the refectory that night. She was not in the mood to feign polite contentedness while both students and teachers surreptitiously glanced between her and Sensei Mike, clearly wondering how their romance was going.

Cassandra was wondering, too. Before Connor left her office, she gave him his birthday present, wrapped Japanese-style in a colorful cloth. He untied it carefully and then unfolded the gift: a sheath for his karate bo. She'd woven it in cotton-ramie with black warp and weft, so that the pattern was subtle shadings, not immediately seen. The carrying strap was in the kumihimo style, woven in blue and green with accents of red, colors of the MacLeod tartan.

Connor admired the weaving and thanked her warmly, complimented her hair again, and said he'd appreciated the chance to talk. Then he said that he needed some time to think and walked out. Cassandra stood there for a moment, then went to the gym and pedaled a generator bike for sixty-five minutes, producing nearly half a kilowatt-hour. Then she went straight to her room to get clean.

In the bathing room, she stripped and washed then began to work on her hair. She shampooed her scalp, letting the suds flow down her hair, then held the wet rope of it under cool running water to rinse. The water around her feet was dark with excess dye, and the dark earthy scent of henna overcame the crisp lavender of her soap. When the water running down was mostly clear, she squeezed out the extra water from her hair and stepped from the tub.

Still, Cassandra reflected as she briskly rubbed herself dry then gently patted her hair with a towel, Connor's message earlier that day had said he'd "like" to talk. From him, that counted as an apology. He had complimented her hair twice, which meant he definitely liked it, though he hadn't said anything about her new clothes. But he had started to think, so there was hope after all.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? Right before Christmas, when she and Connor had been getting along so well and it seemed as if the long, lonely centuries of waiting were finally over, Cassandra had allowed herself to hope.

Then Connor had said no.

Hope tasted bitter when you had to swallow it back down. So much so that now, when the "no" had turned into a "maybe," she was afraid to hope again. It wasn't at all difficult to follow Amanda's advice and play at being "cool." In fact, it was hard to avoid being cold.

And that, Cassandra knew, would cripple a friendship, destroying the very thing she and Connor had both said they treasured and wanted to keep. If he said no again, Cassandra decided, she would leave, perhaps to spend a term at the boys' school in Scotland or maybe travel to India for a year, until she could accept his rejection with better grace. Then they could be friends again, and she would start looking for a different partner, however long that might take. Yes, that was reasonable. It was civilized and understanding and mature.

It wasn't what she wanted at all.

Cassandra knew very well that wants often went unfilled. She also knew that standing around and feeling sorry for herself was no help at all. She dressed in warm sleeping clothes, white silk leggings and shirt underneath a cashmere pajama set of navy blue. She topped that with a cotton yukata robe, with a pattern of white lilies on light blue, leaving it untied. She pulled on alpaca socks then laid a dry towel across her shoulders like a cape, clipped it together in the front, and spread out her hair on the towel to dry.

She went to her loom in the corner and started to weave. It was an eight-shaft overshot pattern, and the steady rhythm of counting, pressing the foot pedals in the proper order, and switching shuttles with every pass was soothing yet complicated enough to keep her mind busy. She had woven almost a double handspan when she realized she'd skipped a row in the pattern, and the last fifteen or so wefts would need to be undone. So she started unweaving, pulling out thread after thread and rewinding the bobbins, just like Penelope at her loom, waiting twenty years for Odysseus to come home.

Only after Cassandra felt the warm drops on the back of her hands did she realize she was crying. She set down her shuttles, released the tension on the warp, and walked away from the loom. She ended up standing in front of the narrow window, her arms tightly crossed over her body and more tears running down her face as she stared into the darkness of the night outside. "Honestly," she muttered and wiped away the tears on her sleeve then almost immediately had to wipe away more.

Tears, her friend Alex had told her long ago, are healthy. They carry away the chemicals of stress. It had been a stressful week and a very long day. And a very long four hundred years. Cassandra gave up, went to her bed in the alcove and pulled the curtains shut, curled herself around a pillow, and cried.

When she was finished, she felt better. However, her eyes were red and her nose was stuffy and her cheeks were stiff with dried tears. She washed her face and rearranged her hair then made herself a cup of tea and settled down with her reader in a comfortable chair.

She was nearly done with the Phinyx newsletters about the new boys' schools when she felt the approach an immortal. Connor's room was on the other side of the courtyard, and he'd never been to her room before. She'd never been to his, either. They'd both been keeping their distance.

But a quick check of the security monitor in her reader showed Connor coming down the hall. She waited for his knock before she stood and went to the door. She opened it to see Connor, a small container in one hand, his hair tousled enough that it stood straight up in some places. The Venturi effect between the buildings led to strong winds, which was good for their wind turbines but bad for hair.

As usual, his gaze flicked over her, the practiced and automatic evaluation of another immortal, and Cassandra resisted the urge to cross her arms or tighten the belt of her pajama top. When he came back to her face, his eyes held a quizzical look. "You missed dinner," he said, that bald statement saved from being an accusation by the hint of a smile. "I brought you a piece of birthday pie." He lifted the lid of the container so she could see.

Two students, perhaps fourteen years old and wearing blue and bronze scarves, appeared from the stairwell, eagerly taking in the tableau of Sensei Mike standing outside Sister Laina's door. "Happy Birthday, Sensei Mike," they chorused as they approached.

"Thank you, Salet and Zia," Connor said gravely. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," they replied then dissolved into muffled giggles, looking over their shoulders as they went down the hall.

Connor seemed unperturbed. He lifted an eyebrow at Cassandra, and she made herself smile, then stepped back and opened the door. "How was the party?" she asked as he came in.

"No party," he said. "I told Sara not to make a big deal. Alea brought out the pie for our desert, then Sara gave me a bottle of whisky: a twenty-five-year Macallan. About twenty people sang Happy Birthday."

"Any Macallan left?" Cassandra asked, for she could smell the whisky on him.

"About half," he said with a touch of regret. "There was a lot of toasting of the new year." His gaze turned quizzical again. "People asked where you were."

"Recuperating from my trip with Amanda," she said. "We did a lot of toasting too."

"I'm sure." He set the pie down on the small table between the chairs.

"Tea?" Cassandra offered. At his nod she went to the bathing room for water. When she came out, Connor was looking at the loom, examining the joins in the wood and mechanisms of the harnesses and treadles. Cassandra put the heating element in the water and set it to boil. She rinsed her cup, for her tea had long since grown cold, took another cup from the top of the bookshelves, rinsed that one too, then measured the tea leaves. While the water was heating, she finger-combed her hair, spreading out the damp patch that always lingered at the nape of the neck.

Eventually, just as the water boiled, Connor looked at the cloth. "What's this pattern called?"

"Blooming Leaf," Cassandra replied as she poured the water over the tea, though the colors she'd chosen for that cloth—dark blue and gold—made the pattern look more like stars than foliage.

"There's a row missing," he observed.

Cassandra set the lid on the teapot, neatly and quietly, with careful control. "I know."

Connor gave her a swift look then came over and carried the cups to the table, setting them on either side of the pie. Cassandra followed with the teapot, and they sat in the chairs and waited for the tea to brew.

Connor looked around her room, his gaze halting at the intricate mobile made of wire, shells, and feathers that hung above the door. "Is that one of Will's?" he asked, and when Cassandra nodded, Connor asked, "What's he call those? Shandles?"

"Shambles," Cassandra said. She had high hopes for Will; his talent was manifesting early. Alea hadn't shown any, but then psychic ability sometimes skipped a generation. If Alea had children, they might inherit. And there was the Edgerton family, Sara's three half-siblings and their three children and some cousins. Twenty-five other psychics had also been found. Enough to get started.

"Sara said you helped with the pie," Connor said next.

"I washed the dishes," Cassandra clarified, then softened her reply with a smile and added, "Your daughter and your granddaughter made the pie."

His eyebrows lifted as he nodded. Then he said, "They did a good job. Tastes just like the ones Mrs. Steinhoff, Rachel's German teacher, used to make. She gave Rachel the recipe in '53 or so."

Cassandra tried to match his rare sociability. "I assumed you had taught Rachel."

He smiled fondly, his eyes crinkling around the edges. "She taught me." Then he drifted away into memories, his gaze unfocused and his face looking very young.

Cassandra waited in silence for him to return. When he blinked and focused again, she said, "Rachel was a wonderful woman," then poured out the tea. She picked up the container and with a fork cut off a triangle from the piece of pie. She closed her eyes the better to taste, and was rewarded with a melting of meringue on the roof of her mouth and the quiver of cream, soft and heavy on her tongue. A moment more and she could taste the brown richness of caramel and butter, and a delicate crispness from the crust. She swallowed, and the sweetness lingered, leaving her wanting more.

She opened her eyes to find Connor watching her, his tea cup motionless in one hand. "They did do a good job,' Cassandra agreed with a merry smile, determined to be cheerful and friendly. She picked up her tea cup and took a sip, appreciating its astringent heat after the sweetness of pie. When she set her cup down, Connor did the same with his. His gaze was still on her, serious and searching beneath dark brows.

"You are so beautiful when you smile," Connor said.

And at that, Cassandra started to cry. The tears simply welled up, uncontrollable, as they had earlier that evening, and she turned her face away.

Connor was immediately at her side, half kneeling on the floor. "Hey," he said in soft concern, and he put one hand atop her two, which were clenched tightly in her lap. "Should I have brought you oranges instead?" he asked.

Underneath his try for humor, Cassandra recognized an apology, for oranges were their traditional peace offering to each other, along with fresh-baked bread. "What do you want from me, Connor?" she asked looking directly at him, for he had never answered, and she really needed to know.

He nodded slowly, then took both her hands between his. "I want us to be friends," he said, and Cassandra once again tasted the bitterness of unanswered hope. "I treasure that."

"So do I," she said, already planning when and how to leave.

Then Connor added, "And I want us to be lovers," and suddenly Cassandra didn't mind her tears, and hope was sweet again. Her hands opened, reaching for his, and he returned her grip firmly. His hands were warm and strong, and Cassandra held on. He got to his feet and she went with him, so that they stood, facing each other and holding hands. Thus they had stood when promising to be student and teacher. Thus they had stood when promising to be friends.

"I want to watch sunrises with you," he said to her. "I want you to laugh with me when I'm happy, and listen to me when I'm down." He smiled wryly as he added, "And I'd like you to help me with my daughter."

Cassandra blinked through her tears and smiled, too, for Sara was a handful, and that hadn't changed over the years.

He leaned forward, just a little, his head bending toward hers."I want us to sing together," Connor said, his thumb slowly caressing her own. His gaze strayed to her hair, following its unruly waves down to her knees. "I want you to let me comb your hair," he urged softly, "and then for you to let me feel the touch of it against my skin."

She swallowed, remembering the time she had stood before him, clothed only in her hair, as he sat on the edge of the bed and patiently combed out all the tangles. Then she had taken his clothes off, being careful not to touch him. He had sat down again, and when she had turned to face him, he had wound her hair about his hands then slowly pulled her down to him for a kiss. Her hair had fallen around them, strands soft upon shoulder and arm and thigh, and then he'd pulled her closer still.

He'd combed her hair again for her after they were done.

"I want to make love to you Cassandra," Connor said softly, touching his forehead to hers, and Cassandra closed her eyes, the better to hear. His next words were softer still, and she felt the whisper of his breath against her mouth as he murmured, "And I would love for you to make love to me."

It was exactly what she had said to him, and it was exactly what she'd been hoping to hear. Cassandra stepped back, far enough to look into his eyes, yet keeping hold of his hands. "Then shall we be lovers?" she asked him, needing this pledge between them. "From time to time?"

"Lovers," he agreed, with a smile that made him beautiful. "From time to time." He lifted her hands to kiss the back of each one, yet never looked away. The heat from his touch of his lips lingered on her skin.

"And friends," she said, needing this too.

"Always," he affirmed, gathering her hands against his chest.

Underneath the soft wool of his sweater, she could feel the rise and fall of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart. His gaze was steady, too: straightforward, honest, and intent upon her. A trembling of desire flashed like fire along her veins, and her unbidden smile was one of utter joy as she agreed to be friends—and sometimes lovers—with the man she loved: "Always."

Connor spent the night of his birthday alone, which was not at all what he had planned.. He had thought, when he'd gone to Cassandra's room after dinner, that they would "ring in the new year" together. He had hoped—fantasized—that she might have a special "birthday present" for him, and he had given some thought as to what he might do for her the next morning, when they woke up in the same bed.

But right after they agreed to be lovers, when the timing was perfect for a passionate kiss and falling into each other arms, Cassandra sat back down in her chair. She was still smiling up at him and still holding his hand, but Connor recognized the "touch me not" signs of a woman who wanted to talk. He also knew, from decades of married life, that a short time spent listening often resulted in happy bouts of torrid sex, while ignoring those signs meant no sex at all. So Connor sat down, too.

"You are very important to me," Cassandra began, her fingers twined between his, but loosely, just holding hands. Her smile was still brilliant, but a touch of wistfulness had replaced the joy. "So I want this to be right between us."

Connor nodded, for he knew just how horribly wrong it could be.

"I'm not ready for us to go to bed together, not yet," Cassandra said next.

Well, he'd asked for her honesty. And he appreciated not having to guess. Connor knew he couldn't push, even a little; Cassandra had been forced into sex too many times. He had to wait for her to come to him. "OK."

"I'm tired tonight," she began explaining, "and these last two weeks my emotions have been whipsawed back and forth too many times."

Connor hadn't meant to mislead her during those days between solstice and Christmas, nor had he wanted to hurt her by saying no. But he hadn't been ready then. Just as she wasn't ready now. "Cassandra," he said, giving her hand a light squeeze, "it's OK. We'll wait."

At that simple statement, her eyes filled with tears once again. "Thank you," she said, returning the pressure. "I just… need a little time."

That was something both of them had plenty of. Besides, dating could be fun, and Connor had always enjoyed the chase. He knelt in front of her once again, taking her hands in his, like a chivalrous knight of old. "Shall I court you, Cassandra?" he asked.

And once again, Cassandra smiled through tears and said, "Yes."

He brought her breakfast the next morning, orange slices arranged like a flower on a blue porcelain plate and a loaf of fresh-baked bread. She served him tea. That evening they watched the sunset together, and Connor asked her to go with him to the Twelfth Night Ball. She said yes.

On the afternoon after that, he invited her to go riding, and in the meadow of silver grasses, near the spreading oak tree, they walked hand in hand while the horses grazed nearby. "Look," Cassandra said, pointing skyward. "The eagle."

Off to the east, with outstretched wings dark against the blue sky, soared the great bird.

"She's beautiful," Cassandra commented.

Connor had good eyesight, but not that good. "How do you know it's female?"

"I can feel her," Cassandra said. "Her essence."

Connor stared at the bird, trying to connect, but felt nothing. Linking with other creatures was one of the gifts of immortality, but he hadn't done it in years. He hadn't tried scrying, either, and he decided immediately to practice more. As he shook his head in frustration, Cassandra pulled off her glove with her teeth and offered him her bare hand. Connor quickly removed his own glove and clasped hands. He matched his breathing to hers, both watching the bird circle high above, and then suddenly he could sense the great raptor, her hot thin thread of hunger, her savage focus on the hunt. For far below him—- below the bird—a rabbit crept through frozen grass.

Then he was diving, an ever tightening spiral bringing him swiftly down, with his prey at the center of his vision and the cold air beating against his wings. He moved with the wind, shaped it to his purpose with a tilt of a wing and a flaring of the tail, and then he was gliding across the field, talons extended, the furred one running just in front, until he dropped lower, striking it hard and crushing it until it was still. Blood spurted hot and sweet on his tongue, and the gobbets of meat and fur were swallowed whole. Hunger faded, and sun shone warm on his feathers.

Dimly, Connor felt Cassandra pull her hand away, and he blinked and came back to himself, standing next to her near an oak tree while horses grazed nearby. At the far end of the meadow, almost too far to be seen, a golden eagle ate a rabbit.

Connor licked his lips, still tasting blood, then methodically uncurled his fingers from the death grip. Cassandra was doing the same. "I've never connected with a bird before," he said.

"They're not as easy as mammals," she said. "But the great ones are reachable, especially when they're hunting." She looked at him sidelong and added, "Or in a mating flight."

Connor lifted an eyebrow, remembering an autumn week spent with Cassandra at a Scottish inn during the rutting season of the deer. "Ah."

"Ah, indeed," Cassandra agreed. He and Cassandra took each other hands again, still bare skin to bare skin, and began strolling. Eventually, the eagle lifted off from the corner of the field, the half-eaten rabbit dangling below. "Back to her nest," Cassandra said. "Her mate is waiting."

"Ever connected with a person?" Connor asked.

"Never that clearly," she said. "I could get vague impressions from Ramirez and from one of my students, but I think words get in the way. And many immortals don't have the gift at all. Duncan doesn't, does he?"

"No." It has been a sadness to Connor, not to share that with his kinsman. Perhaps, later, he and Cassandra could share it again. Perhaps they might even connect with each other.

Apparently Cassandra was thinking about connection, too, for she suddenly announced, "I don't want secrets in our bed, Connor."

"Good," he replied, knowing that these ancient shards of pain needed burying once and for all. "Neither do I."

"I'd like your encouragement with that," she said. "I'm not in the habit of sharing."

"Me, either," Connor said, trying to soften that habit right now.

"None of us are," she agreed. "But I've always kept secrets, even from my husbands. I did tell them I was immortal, but I hid other things. I never told anyone—not even Ramirez—about the Horsemen. Or about Roland or the Prophecy. Or the Voice."

"You told me," Connor reminded her.

"Yes, but that was later. After." She bit her lip and looked away before admitting, "Except for Methos, I've lied to every single man I've ever been to bed with." She stopped walking and faced him straight on. "Including you."

"I know," he said evenly. "But that was before." His eyes narrowed in warning. "Right?"

"Right," she agreed instantly then said nothing more.

Clearly, she was asking for his encouragement. "So what do you need to tell me before we go to bed?" he asked bluntly.

She smiled wryly. "Thank you."

"Any time."

"You know I have 'baggage'," she began.

"Yeah," he agreed then immediately realized he shouldn't have agreed quite so wholeheartedly, so he added, "I think I remember you mentioning some things. Once or twice, maybe."

"Once or twice," she agreed, and the humor of that colossal understatement was not lost on either of them. "That baggage, a whole trainload of it, is the main reason why I need some time. I need to get… comfortable."

He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain.

"Comfortable with sex," she said then breathed out slowly before confiding, "I haven't been with a man since the Horsemen."

"The Horsemen?" he repeated in surprise. Connor certainly understood her need to get "comfortable" after enduring gang rape, but the Horsemen had been nearly half a century ago. Cassandra had had a string of boyfriends since then. "I thought…," Connor began. "Not with Liam? Or Mark? Or that guy in America you used to talk about with Alex for hours?"

"His name was Miguel," she informed him. "I did go out with a lot of men; I never stayed in."

Connor knew one who had stayed in with her. "Duncan lived in your house for four months, Cassandra."

"So did you, when you were my student."

"I didn't sleep in your bed," Connor pointed out.

"Yes, Duncan and I shared a bed," she admitted, "but all we did was sleep."

Connor ran his hand through his hair then paced back and forth before swinging around to face her. "This is Duncan we're talking about, right?"

"He wasn't himself then, as you know," Cassandra replied. "He was still grieving for Richie."

If true, then Duncan had been hell of a lot more disturbed than Connor had ever realized. But why wouldn't it be true? Cassandra had promised not to lie anymore. And this was an easy thing to check on; all Connor had to do was ask Duncan.

But Connor wouldn't ask. Either he trusted Cassandra or he didn't, and if he didn't, they shouldn't be friends, let alone lovers. "I didn't mean to doubt you, Cassandra," Connor said, taking her hand and starting to walk again. Frozen grasses crunched underfoot. "But…"

Cassandra actually smiled. "It is hard to believe, I know," she said, "Duncan is not usually so restrained."

Connor took four more steps before coming to a halt. "You never sang to him."

"Connor," she said, reaching up to him, laying her palm gently against his cheek in an intimate caress. He could feel the touch of her fingertips just above his beard. In the winter sunshine, the green of her eyes glinted gold, and her hair gleamed like red fire. "In my life, I have sung to five men: Talis, Mah-ten, Gavon, Ramirez, and you."

Connor recognized those names. He put his hand over hers, pressing it closer, and then she turned her palm to his, and once again they stood facing each other, holding hands. "Your four husbands," he said. "And me."

"Yes."

That was flattering. And intimidating. As for not having been with a man since the Horsemen… "Have you been waiting all these years for me?" Connor asked in concern, because that was downright unnerving.

"You have always been in my heart," she said, as she had told him before on another winter day, then added with a touch of tartness, "but don't worry; I have had a life of my own. I dated quite a bit, Maureen and I were lovers, and I did try with Miguel. He was sweet and kind and patient, and we cared for each other, but I hadn't told him about immortality or the Game of any of that. He didn't even know my real name." Her shrug was one of helplessness, not of unconcern. "I couldn't. It didn't feel right. Then I moved to Prague and I was busy, and after that I was traveling a lot. It made it harder to meet people, though I didn't stop looking.

"Then Alex died," Cassandra concluded, "and I started waiting for you."

That was a little unnerving, too. But before you could be honest with other people, Connor reminded himself, you had to be honest with yourself. He had loved Alex, and he had been faithful to his wife in thought, word, and deed for thirty-three years. But he had never forgotten Cassandra, and as his grief had subsided, he had begun thinking about her.

Duncan had known that; he'd said as much on their sea voyage. Sara knew it. Hell, even Alex had known it. She'd left him a letter to be opened ten years after her death, telling him that if he wanted to be with Cassandra, it was all right with her.

Cassandra knew it too. They had no reason to pretend. "Thanks for being patient," Connor said to Cassandra.

"Any time," she said, matching his earlier dry tone.

"I'm not patient," Connor warned her. "Or sweet. Or kind."

"No," she agreed promptly. "You're not. But you're strong, and you care, and you understand me." With a single look from under lowered lashes, she shifted from serious to flirtatious. "And I'm very much looking forward to fulfilling our pledge."

Being honest was important, but this part of dating was a lot more fun. "So am I."

Then Cassandra came to him, stepping closer and tightening the clasp of their hands. He waited, letting her get comfortable, until she smiled up at him and whispered, "Yes." Then slowly, gently, he kissed her forehead, then each cheek, and then the tip of her nose.

"Connor," she said, laughing a little, and then they kissed each other, sweet and warm in the cold winter air.

The students began returning that weekend, and everyone was busy with preparations for the Twelfth Night Ball. The mats and training equipment were removed from the dojo, and it once again became a grand hall, suitable for banquets and balls. A trainload of boys and young men arrived on Tuesday afternoon. That evening, families from nearby towns came to the castle, for the ball had become a community tradition since the school had opened fifteen years before.

Cassandra wore her new green dress and wound silver ribbons through her hair. Connor, like most of the other men, wore the latest retro style for formal wear (made popular by a string of movies from Medea Corporation and Amanda's fashion boutiques): a white velvet doublet with green slashed sleeves atop a white linen shirt, black breeches, and knee-high boots. People complimented him on his accessories: a black cloak, a golden earring, and a sword. His hair was braided into a neat queue and tied with black velvet ribbon. "You look just like a pirate!" Alea exclaimed, and Connor laughed while Sara rolled her eyes. The music and the dancing went on all night.

Just before dawn, Connor and Cassandra climbed one of the towers, and he wrapped his cloak and his arms about her as she leaned back against him and they watched the sun rise. After they ate breakfast together, he invited her out for dinner on Thursday, and then he walked to her room.

"Thank you, Connor, for a wonderful evening. And night, and morning," she said, as they lingered just outside her door.

A smile hovered near the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were intent on hers. "You're welcome."

"And for a wonderful week," she added, laying her hand on his forearm. She couldn't help but smile. "It's exactly what I need."

He nodded and said quietly, "Good."

That single word sent a shiver down her spine. She moved toward him, her hand sliding up his arm and to his shoulder, luxuriating in the softness of velvet along the way, and coming to rest underneath his hair.

His hand came up, the back of his knuckles caressing her cheek as his thumb followed the curve of her jaw, but he waited for her, as he'd been waiting for her all week, sweet and patient and kind. His other hand found hers, and their fingers intertwined.

There were better ways to thank someone than with words. Cassandra pulled him closer and kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, tender and gentle, as all their kisses had been thus far. But this morning, after a night of dancing together and watching the sunrise from the shelter of his arms, Cassandra was ready for more.

She stepped closer, melding her body against his, while her fingertips splayed out along the base of his skull. Immediately, Connor's grip tightened on her other hand, and Cassandra closed her eyes and opened her mouth, tasting the warmth of his lips. He wrapped his arms around her, both hands slipping beneath her hair to slide slowly along her naked skin, traveling from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. With gentle strength and careful eagerness, Connor followed her lead as the kiss deepened from sweetness to desire, and dark spikes of passion flared.

But Cassandra knew, much as she did not want him to leave, she was not ready for him to stay. She placed her hands on his upper arms and regretfully pulled away. Connor breathed out slowly, his forehead touching hers, and when she met his eyes they were molten grey. Cassandra took one of the silver ribbons from her hair then placed it in his hand. "Tomorrow night," she whispered, and with that promise and a smile, she went into her room and shut the door.

After a brief nap to make up for the missed night of sleep, Cassandra spent the rest of the day planning for the new term's classes, reading reports, and answering mail, trying to catch up on work undone. Thursday was more of the same, too much more, and she never did get to the analysis of the immortal killings. But she stopped in the late afternoon anyway; it was time to get ready for Connor.

She tidied her room and went through her closet and decided what to wear: a warm dress of dark blue lambswool. It was long-sleeved, high-necked, down to her knees, and it fit her very well, covering everything and hiding nothing. She braided two plaits of her hair and wound them round her head like a crown, letting the rest hang free. Black boots and silver earrings completed the outfit, and as always, she tucked her priestess necklace with the triple crescent beneath her gown.

At six in the evening precisely, Connor knocked on her door, handsome in a soft beige sweater and brown slacks, with a touch of dashing from his "pirate" earring of gold, though he'd traded his cloak for a coat and hidden his sword in the lining within.

Dinner was perfect, and they talked of books they had read and plays they had seen, laughing over little things. After, Connor once more brought her back to her room. "Come in," she invited, and he followed her then shut the door.

"Tea?" she offered after they took off their shoes, for the walk back had been cold. He nodded, and she served it in the same two cups she had used a week ago, and they sat in the same two chairs. When her fingers were warm enough, she played the harp then sang an ancient Gaelic tune for him, a song of a selkie and the sea and a child returned to its home. Connor listened with his eyes closed.

When the last chords faded, he looked up with a smile and commented, "Haven't heard that in a while."

"I learned it from a seamstress," Cassandra told him, "while I was living in Aberdeen." At the name of that town, dark memory flickered in his eyes, for it was in Aberdeen that she had shredded his trust four centuries ago. Nearly fifty years ago, she had explained and apologized and Connor had forgiven her, but their hearts were tender right now and she wanted no shadows between them.

Cassandra left the harp and went to kneel before him, an ancient pose of penitence. "I am so sorry, Connor," she said, abandoning centuries of training and control so that her voice revealed her anguish and sorrow. "I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't mean—"

"I know," he said, and he leaned forward and took her hands between his. "It's past," he said firmly. "It's done. Right?"

"Yes," she agreed, and she closed her eyes as he placed his lips upon her forehead in a kiss of benediction and forgiveness, giving them both a welcome peace.

When she opened her eyes again, he hadn't moved back, and she lifted his hands to place them against her heart… between her breasts. "Though there is one thing still undone," she told him, looking into his eyes and beginning a slow caress of his hands with her fingertips. "That day, I promised I'd sing to you." His pupils dilated at that, a sure sign of desire, and she leaned toward him to say softly, urgently, "I'd like to keep that promise… tonight."

His smile started in his eyes and spread slowly, until all the world was aglow, like a sunrise at sea. "Tonight," he repeated.

"If, that is, you're not too busy?" Cassandra said, even as she pressed his hands closer to her.

He appeared to consider the matter, while his thumb began a slow circle against her skin . "I think my schedule's open."

"Or too tired?" she asked, all solicitousness.

Connor shook his head and said solemnly. "I took a nap today."

"Good," she said with equally solemn satisfaction. Then she kissed him, and her hands roved up his arms to the solid strength of his shoulders and then to the back of his neck, under the softness of his hair. His hands settled on her shoulders, where the gentleness of his grip belied the tightness of his control, and his kiss was tender… and restrained.

Cassandra pulled back, a question in her eyes. "You're in charge," he told her, with a wryly crooked smile, but his words had been serious and his hands hadn't moved.

"I see," Cassandra said, realizing that Connor was being sweet and patient and kind, giving her the time—and the control—she needed to get comfortable again. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he said, grinning openly now.

"It will be," she promised, tracing the curve of his cheek with her thumb in the way she remembered he enjoyed, and was gratified to see that playful cheerfulness instantly transformed to smoldering intensity.

But she wasn't the only one who remembered. Connor's hand brushed along her shoulder, and suddenly she could feel the beating of her heart, hard against her ribs. He reached out and lifted a lock of her hair, caressing the strands between his thumb and forefinger, while his left hand moved to the nape of her neck. Slowly, his left hand urged her closer while he wound her hair round his right fingers, bringing her mouth to his. "Later," he said, his words a whisper touch against her lips, "the pleasure will be yours."

Desire surged through her, a rush so sudden that if she'd been standing she would have swayed on her feet. She breathed in the taste of him, their lips not quite touching, his beard a soft tickle against her skin. She would have kissed him, had not Connor unwound his hand from her hair and sat back a little, saying with more than a trace of smug satisfaction, "But now, it's my turn."

"Yes," she agreed, taking in a deep breath of air, slowing her pulse, "it is." Her turn had been in Aberdeen, and she owed him, with interest accrued.

"And before that," he said, standing and pulling her to her feet with him, "it's my turn in the WC." With that return to reality, he kissed her cheerfully then padded silently on stocking feet to the lavatory.

Cassandra quickly stripped off her clothes and her jewelry, then pulled on her white silk leggings and shirt. They were easy to move in, not like a dress that would become tangled between legs or stuck under one knee. But the thin fabric clung to her, nearly translucent, sleek and smooth against bare skin, and she wasn't ready to be that exposed, that vulnerable. Cassandra took them off and put on her cashmere pajamas instead. They clung to her, too, voluptuously soft and warm, but revealing mostly by touch, not by eye. Then she pulled on socks, because her feet were already cold, and having someone else's icy toes touch bare skin definitely killed the mood.

If, after she had sung to him, they decided to make love together tonight, she was certain that Connor would not mind taking off her clothes, no matter how many she wore.

She lit the candle on the small shelf in the bed alcove and turned off the electric light, bringing back ancient times. She took the last remaining moments to arrange her hair, repinning her braids and bringing a few tresses forward and letting the rest hang down her back.

When Connor emerged, he nodded in approval, first at the flame and then, more slowly, at her, She stood proud and unmoving under the warmth of his appreciative gaze, and when his eyes met hers, Cassandra went to him and took him by the hand. "Come," she said and led Connor to her bed.

There, by the flickering light of the candle, she set out to learn anew the touch and feel of him, to understand the man he was now. Connor looked the same, of course, for fierce combat and harsh toil left no visible marks, and the decades slid by. Yet his skin, for all it was unscarred and smooth, covered countless wounds, and hurts of the soul went deeper still. Joy and contentment had created different patterns, as did every choice made over the countless years. Since Cassandra had last touched him, Connor had fought in wars, taken heads, and sailed across oceans. He had buried two more wives and a daughter, and he had watched his children being born. The hands that had held a killing blade had also tied the laces of tiny shoes and played peek-a-boo.

All of that made up the man she now held in her arms. As she slowly undressed him, she traced those changes with her fingertips and kissed those places that held pain and those that held joy. She caressed him with her hair and her hands, all the while speaking to him of what she found, marveling at the lean grace of him, the strength in his shoulders and his hands, the suppleness of his limbs and the dusky crescent of his eyelashes on his cheeks. She sang to him of his beauty, of the honey-sweet taste of his skin and the honey-dark silk of his hair, of the subtle curve of hip and thigh, of the power at his core. "Connor," she called to him again and again, for though he'd used many names over the years, Connor was who he remained.

And when finally Cassandra knew the man that he had become, she set out to love him anew. Gentle touches became teasing; tenderness and healing gave way to passion. Her song now was of the strength of his desire, urged on to need by her hands and kisses and murmurs in the darkness, until at last he called her name, half growl and half plea.

"Yes," she answered, and closed her eyes and tasted him, remembering well the shape and feel of his staff along her tongue. As his passion flared she moved with him, matching his rhythm, carried along by his need. Connor's hands were tangled tightly in her hair, and then he called out her name once more. Yes. And yes and yes and yes and yes.

And yes.

"Cassandra," he whispered finally, his limbs now utterly quiescent, and she pulled the covers oven them both as she moved up to the head of the bed. She kissed him fierce and sweet while he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight against his heart, and then they fell asleep in each others' arms.

Connor woke to darkness and a single candle flame, naked in a bed that was not his own, with a woman by his side. Not an unpleasant way to wake up, and not an unfamiliar experience, though it hadn't happened in quite some time.

He hadn't woken in the darkness with Cassandra for centuries. In the autumn it had been, 1599, at that little inn in Dalkeith, next to the quick-running burn. Connor did the math: four hundred forty-four years since she had last sung to him in bed, giving him her complete attention and all her skill, spending hours making him feel appreciated, desired, cherished… loved.

Somehow, he hadn't quite realized that before. He'd remembered the erotic aspects clearly, but he'd never put a name to the emotion. Some things were easier left unsaid.

Often, those were precisely the things that needed to be said.

Cassandra opened her eyes and looked at him across the pillow. "Hey," he said softly, offering her his hand, and she clasped it with her own, saying, "Hey" in return as they smiled at each other.

Connor bent his head to kiss her hand, feeling first the tiny tickles of invisible hairs and then the smoothness of skin against his lips. "Thank you," he said to her. "That was…" He stopped, hunting for the right word. Exhilarating? Incredible? Fan-fucking-tastic?

All of them were true, but none of them was enough. What did Cassandra need him to say? "Thank you," he began again. "You made me feel unbelievably good… and utterly cherished."

Her smile was one of utter joy. "I'm glad," she said. "All these years, I've wanted to share that with you, to let you know how much I—"

In her brief pause, Connor heard what was easier left unsaid.

"—care for you," she finished. "Always."

"Yes," he answered simply, for tonight, the joy and tenderness in her touch had soothed that bitter doubt he'd borne inside him for centuries, healed him as her words alone (however heartfelt and honest) could not. "I believe you," he told her, another thing she needed to hear him say, erasing the legacy of her lies, letting her know he trusted her now.

Though she kept smiling, she was suddenly blinking back tears, so Connor kissed them away, one by one, following the curve of her cheekbone, finding the dampness at her temple, taking care of the drop on the side of her nose. Cassandra lifted her face to his, lips soft and slightly open, and she kissed him, sweet and warm and tender, and as before, Connor kept his hands from moving and tried to keep his passion at bay.

That hadn't been easy all this past week, and it was damn near impossible now, what with lying naked in bed only inches away from her, and her scent in the air, and the touch of her hands and the feel of her lips and her hair still vividly imprinted on his skin and in his mind. He longed to undress her, to slowly reveal the smooth skin that he knew lay beneath the softness of cashmere. He ached to touch her, to feel the length of her pressed firmly against him, legs intertwined, bare skin to bare skin, her breasts warm and full in his hands, while he buried his face in her hair and nuzzled though that living silk to kiss his way from the pulse at the base of her throat to the softness under her chin, and then to taste the sweetness of her lips with his tongue, until she opened her mouth to his, sharing their breath and then moving together as one…

Cassandra let go of his hand and put her palm on his shoulder, holding him there as she moved back slightly on the bed. Connor exhaled slowly, digging his nails into his palm and mentally reciting the table of elements, trying to visualize the orbit of the outer shell of electrons in each one. He was only to fluorine when Cassandra said, "I'm sorry, Connor. I don't meant to tease."

"You're not," he said. "It's just…"

"I see," she said immediately, and he was glad some things didn't need to be said. "Have you been with anyone recently?" she asked next.

A reasonable question, given the circumstances. And honesty needed to go both ways. "About eighteen months ago," he told her.

Cassandra nodded, seeming unsurprised. "When Rachel died. "

"Yeah." Connor would have preferred to have left it there, but he and Cassandra had agreed to try to share. He cleared his throat and volunteered, "Elsa – she was Rachel's nurse— was living with us, and…"

"I see," Cassandra said again. "Rachel suggested it, didn't she?"

Connor had to smile. "Yes, she did." Rachel had always been a matchmaker. She'd told Connor that Elsa was interested in him, and he had no doubt Rachel had told Elsa that Connor was interested in her.

And so, one evening after Rachel had fallen asleep and he and Elsa had almost finished cleaning the kitchen, when he'd seen Elsa staring at him with a dishtowel forgotten in her hands, Connor had walked over and gently taken the towel from her. Then he slowly bent his head to hers, the age-old question in his eyes, until Elsa had answered yes by kissing him; then Connor had led her to his room. Night after night, she'd knocked on his door and they had taken comfort with each other, and neither of them had need for words. Ten days later, Rachel had died. After the funeral, Elsa had bidden him a fond farewell and gone on her way. Connor had gone walk-about for six months then moved to an ancient castle to be with his daughter and granddaughter, and tonight Cassandra had led him to her bed.

He laid his fingers gently atop hers. "When you're ready, Cassandra," he began, making it clear the choice and the timing were completely up to her, "I would love to make love to you."

"I would love that, too," she answered fervently. "And believe me, I will let you know as soon as I'm ready."

Connor's answer was just as fervent. "Good."

"Tonight," she said softly, "I'd like us to make love together, or at least… I'd like to start, but I'm not sure I can finish."

"It's all right," he said, knowing he still had ninety-three elements to go. "I can handle it."

"Or I can," she replied with a saucy grin.

Connor laughed aloud. "Indeed you can." She'd proven that quite well.

"I may not be ready for you to touch me just yet," she said, serious again, while her fingertips slid along his shoulder until her thumb came to rest in the hollow of his throat, so that Connor could feel the steady thrum of his pulse against her skin, "but I am very happy to touch you."

And now each beat was distinct and clear, his blood surging at her words. "Yes," he told her, and she smiled before she kissed him, her body pressed firmly against his, her legs intertwined with his own. Connor buried his face in the living silk of her hair.

Thus he began, trying to heal her hurts as she had healed his, with gentle touch and tender joy. They paused often, simply holding each other or kissing, taking time to talk and making each other laugh. "You're beautiful," he told her, looking only at her eyes, then he murmured words of desire while he kissed each fingertip, the palm of her hand and the softness of her inner wrist, sending tiny shivers all along her arm. She did the same for him while he attended to her other hand.

Then Cassandra guided his hand to her breast, first atop the cashmere and then, sometime later, beneath it. Her breasts were warm and full in his hands, just as he'd imagined, and he and Cassandra kissed leisurely, lying side by side, until she began to move against him and asked him for more.

And so it went, slow and gentle, with Cassandra setting the pace as the candle burned itself away, though occasionally he was the one to call for a break, counting more elements and envisioning the shape of electron shells. He was on iron, number twenty-six, focusing on the different elements that could combine with iron to make steel, when Cassandra told him, "Lie back" and then proceeded to arouse him with such thoroughness and effectiveness that he was at the edge and then over it, feeling as if he'd just sprinted a quarter-mile.

"Wow," he managed, when he could breathe again.

"You seemed tense," she said, and he had been. It was easier to concentrate now. He gave her his full attention and didn't need to think about elements anymore.

In the darkness, to his delight, she allowed him to slowly unveil her beauty, until she was naked in his arms, her skin silken against his, the way he remembered it from long ago. Their hands caressed each other's bodies, and now she met his desire and matched it with her own.

"I want you," she told him, a sweet whisper, and pushed him back against the pillows then knelt above him, her feet close against the outside of his thighs, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest, her lips just above his. Connor caught his breath when she touched him, then held his breath when she guided him to her core, only to pause there, unmoving.

"We can stop," he told her, and he supposed it would have been possible, but he was infinitely glad when she said, "No" and lowered herself with exquisite slowness onto him, joining them in passion and need.

"God," he muttered as desire flooded him, hot and liquid along every limb, while she whispered, "Goddess," at the exact same time. He had to smile, and he heard her laugh before she kissed him, her mouth open to his, and desire flooded him once more.

"I want you, Connor," she said again. "Connor, please."

"Yes," he told her, as she had told him. "Yes, Cassandra. Yes."

Slowly then, they began to move as one, then more urgently, until at last she called out his name in fierce ecstasy and he answered with hers, and so they found each other once again.

In the morning, Cassandra slowly opened her eyes. Daylight was seeping through the curtains, and the clock on the headboard read 7:01. Connor was directly behind her, so that they curled close like two spoons in a drawer, bare skin to bare skin from her head to her toes, a wonderful feeling everywhere. She felt wonderful, too. Last night had been sheer delight— and no small relief. She'd been concerned she might have to stop, but Connor had given her the time and the reassurance she'd needed, and she'd been able to make love with him on the very first night. And this morning, too, she had no doubt. But not just now.

Cassandra shut her eyes and snuggled closer to him, luxuriating in wanton laziness and looking forward to being woken—later—in a much more pleasant way. Connor tightened his arm about her and kissed the back of her neck, and they both dozed off once more.

But at 7:32, the phone buzzed. Connor muttered some curses in Arabic as he leaned half off the bed and groped on the floor for his pants, emerging eventually with his phone in his hand. He flopped back on the pillow and clicked the phone on, reaching for Cassandra with his other hand. She laid her head on his shoulder and listened to the beating of his heart, and he put his arm around her shoulders.

"Good morning, Dad," came Sara's cheerful voice.

Connor cleared his throat. "Good morning, Princess."

"Are you just getting up?" she said, sounding surprised.

"Not much sleep last night," he explained briefly, while his hand made its delightfully slow way down Cassandra's arm.

"OK," Sara said then asked, "Want to go running later? Do the usual hills?"

"Not today, Sara."

"Oh," she said, sounding a bit nonplussed, and then: "Ah." Cassandra could hear an enormous smile in that one small word, and then Sara laughed aloud. "Way to go, Dad! And about time."

"Sara…," Connor warned.

"Tell Cassandra 'Hi' for me," Sara said, still laughing, then clicked off her phone.

Connor shook his head and rolled his eyes then stretched one arm overhead to put his phone on the shelf. "Sara says, 'Hi'," he announced.

"I heard."

His hand had stopped moving, and he asked, "Want to sleep more?"

"Yes," Cassandra said even as she half sat up to kiss him good morning and then kiss him awake, all over and everywhere. "After."

After, they slept. Later that morning Connor woke Cassandra in a much more pleasant way. And after that, he offered to comb her hair. She pulled on her robe for warmth and sat cross-legged on the bed while he stood behind her, untangling the long strands with careful hands and a wooden comb. He was working near her left shoulder when he asked softly, "How are you doing?"

"Wonderfully," Cassandra said, looking up at him with a merry smile. "And I'm having fun. You?"

Connor grinned. "Oh yeah." Then he sat beside her on the bed, and they reached for each other's hands. His eyes searched hers. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," she said and kissed him lightly on the nose. He laughed and so did she, and then she kissed his mouth, serious again. "It's what I've hoped for," Cassandra told him.

For centuries past and for centuries to come.

Next: The students find out who picked the right date and won the bet