All That Was Me Is Gone

by Baroness Emma

The year is 2279. World War IV ended just six months ago. During the past eight years, Claire Beauchamp has lost nearly everything. All she has left is a dream, and a vague longing for something other than the rusty metal streets of Skycity 15. When she is granted a visit to Cold Island 12, what she finds there will not only change her life, it will change history itself.

32. Sing Me A Song

Sing Me A Song

There is quite a stir in the Great Hall, even after the applause dies down. The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversations continue, though both are more subdued. Half the audience must turn around if they want to sit comfortably while watching the stage, and the rustle and shuffle of clothes and shoes sound almost loud now that people are only speaking in whispers.

Slowly, three men climb the shallow steps, and enter the spotlight.

The one in front is a tall, handsome man with long brown hair and a kindly expression. He's dressed in a flowing tunic of raw linen, unlaced halfway down his chest, and tucked into his matte black leather trousers. He holds an instrument the like of which I've never seen before - a stringed, hollow thing, made of pale gold wood, with two mismatched necks. It looks almost as if a guitar and a harp were somehow merged.

The two men behind him are in full Highland regalia - kilts, boots and caps all showing a maroon and gold tartan, elegant and striking. One of them holds a gleaming violin, and the other a small silver flute.

The whispering intensifies as the lead man - who I assume is Gwyllyn Pritchard - silently looks out and around. His gaze touches all of us, somehow bringing every person in the room under his personal care and protection. Suddenly, I remember something I've wondered about for days. I lean over and whisper to Jamie,

"I keep forgetting to ask - why are they called The Cuckoos In The Grove?"

"Because tha's the name of the first Scottish folk song Gwyllyn learned tae play," he murmurs back, "Now he always opens his first set with a version of the Sk-"

"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone. . ."

Gwyllyn's deep, rich voice vibrates in a cappella perfection, bringing all the whispers in the room to an abrupt halt.

"Say, could that lad, be I? . . ."

As the notes swing into the lower registers, my breath catches in my throat.

"Merry of soul, he sailed on a day. . ."

There is something about this music. . . something familiar. . .

"Over the sea. . .
To Skye. . ."

My jaw drops. What on earth?

"Mull was astern. . ."

The violinist begins to play, dipping into the melody with one full, piercing note. . .

"Rùm on the port. . ."

It cuts across Gwyllyn's exquisite treble, and draws out my soul. . .

"Eigg on the starboard bow. . ."

The rest of the room falls away, and I dive into the music, body, blood, and spirit.

"Glory of youth, glowed in his soul,
Where is that glory now?"

I close my eyes, entranced, mystified, and completely, utterly lost. . .

"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad, be I?
Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,
Over the sea, to Skye."

The flute pipes up behind both words and violin, a thin, sweet thread of silver that sparkles as it twists and weaves through the music, binding it, making it whole. . .

"Give me again all that was there,
Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the lad that's gone!"

Tears start up in my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to will them away.

It's me.

It's my story.

Somehow, somehow, Gwyllyn has learned my story, and has turned it into a thing of enchanting, glorious magic. . .

"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad, be I?"

I've never felt such power in music. . . except for that fateful dawn on Craigh na Dun a fortnight ago. My hands curl into fists, and my feet twitch. I want to bolt, to hide. To run. . .

But then the drums begin.

"Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,
Over the sea, to Skye."

Two spotlights illuminate two new members of the band, one on either side of the room, marching as they drum, moving towards the dais. . .

"Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun,
All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was me is gone."

I can hardly breathe. . .

How?

How?

And then the bagpipes begin.

Two more spotlighted band members are now marching down the corner staircases that lead down from the balcony, their measured steps directed towards the stage, but they are mere colourful blurs to me, my eyes are so clouded with tears.

How does he know?

Can he know?

Does it matter if he can or not?

At last, his fingers strike the strings of his harp, and rolling, sweet music, impossibly clear, calls forth all the power of earth and sun and stone. . .

If Fate has a sound, it is this.

"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad, be I?
Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,
Over the sea. . . to Skye!"

The last word crashes like a cannon firing, and the drums and pipes rise to fill void left behind, the violin and flute keening behind them, the harp lending them power, as though the five instruments together might rend a gap in the very cloth of the universe.

Or like they already have. . .

My heart is beating so fast, I fear it may burst from my body.

All seven members of the band are now standing side by side on the stage, playing the last triumphant notes, utterly unaware of the lone time traveller in their midst, who is currently trying rather desperately to compose herself. . .

There's no way he knows. . .

It's just a song.

Just music.

Right?

While everyone else applauds, I take up my napkin, and dab at my eyes, hoping the low light will conceal any traces of my indiscretion. I take a long sip of whisky, trying to steady myself.

"Ye all right, Claire?" says Jamie, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder, "Ye'ev gone pale. Ye havenae seen a ghost?"

I force a smile, and murmur, "No. But. . . I think, there for a minute. . . I. . . " I swallow, ". . . I might have become one." I turn, and meet his concerned eyes that are now also slightly confused.

Angus leans over Jamie's shoulder and gives me a dubious look, "Ach, ye'er a strange one, Sassenach."

Oh, Angus. Thank you. Mystical, magical feelings haven't the slightest chance with you around. . .

I roll my eyes, "Yes, Angus, I'm strange. That's why you love me."

He purses his lips for a moment, then nods, "Aye. 'Tis true."

I meet Jamie's eyes again, briefly, and we both laugh a little.

"'N thank yoo all far the very warm welcome back!" says Gwyllyn, smiling into the tiny microphone that somehow appeared in front of him at some point, "We alwhys feel at home heer at Leoch." He and the rest of the band bow, formally, to someone off to their left.

It is then that I notice Colum and Letitia, and the rest of their close household, sitting in a little group of the more comfortable chairs of the under-balcony. It's the first time I've been in the same room with Colum when his entrance wasn't announced. I didn't even notice when they arrived. Given all I've been dealing with tonight, I'd nearly forgotten he would be here.

And by 'he', I do not mean Colum. . .

"Thess uz home far so many of yoo heer tanight," continues Gwyllyn, re-focusing on the main audience of us, "Soo I'd like ta throw open the dance flor - " There is a good deal of groaning at this, "Ah, yes, I knoo a lot of yoo're still eating, but I encorage at least some of yoo ta bee up heer far thess next song. . ." He smiles, and leans in close to his mic, "'Scotland The Brave'."

There are cheers, and a great deal of scattered applause as a goodly number of couples rise to go over to the dance floor.

The only pair I notice particularly are Dougal, who bows extremely formally, and offers his hand to Letitia. She prims up her mouth, and looks demurely downward as she takes his hand, but she also blushes, as delicately and as beautifully as a schoolgirl.

I hold back a snort. I had been very careful how I responded when Dougal told me that, despite everything, the relationship between him and his brother's wife was a strictly honourable one. It looks as if I was right to be skeptical.

'Only tying to give Colum a child' my pale, Skycity-born arse!

Perhaps that's where it started, but there is a great deal more than that going on now.

I sigh a bit. Sometimes I wish I couldn't read people so well.

They take their places in the middle of the dance floor, all the other couples ranging themselves around them.

I shake my head, trying to clear it, and that is when I notice the long black construct now hanging about three meters above the dais. Microphones are dangling from it by almost invisible threads, tiny spotlights are mounted on it, and unless I'm mistaken, there are speakers embedded in it as well.

Intersections of old and new. Ancient and modern. History and technology.

Legends and science. . .

The bagpipes start up in a long keening tune I recognize instantly. More than one Township from several Skycities have used this exact music as their theme during the Worldwide Inter-City Games. It's clear why - it automatically makes you want to move. Perfect for sporting events.

Also, apparently, perfect for dancing.

And then, Gwyllyn begins to sing.

Huh. I never knew this song had words. . .

"Hark when the night is falling
Hear! Hear the pipes are calling,
Loudly and proudly calling,
Down thro' the glen!"

I smile. There is something impossibly charming about Gwyllyn's voice. I understand now why Colum is so proud of him.

"Ye dinnae meentae dance then, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Harold, as most of the table stands up.

"Not these first few dances, no," I raise my whisky glass, indicating I intend to savour it, "Perhaps in a while."

"Aye," he nods, claps Leo on the shoulder, and they both disappear into the milling crowd that has now gathered around the dance floor.

In seconds, Willie, Gilbert, Jamie, and myself are the only ones left sitting at our table. Jamie is still eating heartily, and Gil and Willie are having a companionable dram, talking about tomorrow's planned shinty match, and who is likely to win it. I hunch over my whisky, taking occasional sips, but most of my mind is still somewhere far away, wrapped up in strange, haunting words, sung in Gwyllyn's voice. . .

"Towering in gallant fame,
Scotland my mountain hame,
High may your proud standards gloriously wave!"

Jamie finishes his supper with a satisfied sigh, then sits back and pours himself a comfortable portion of the Lallybroch whisky. I raise my glass to him, and he cheerfully clinks his glass to mine.

"Jamie?" I ask, thoughtfully,"What was that first song? He didn't announce the title."

"The Skye Boat Song?" he shrugs, "Aye, Gwyllyn allus sings it first thing. Reckon he's worn out the title by now."

The. . . sky. . . . boat. . .

Or sky city?

I shudder a tiny bit. Everything about that song was far too apt for me to be comfortable thinking of it yet. "Always the same song?"

"Weel, there's several versions of the lyrics. He always sings one or the other of 'em. I havenae heard them do exactly that arrangement before. But the music is always 'The Cuckoo In The Grove', regardless."

"I see." I look up at the people gathered around the dance floor, clapping loudly and joyously as the dancers go through their moves.

Dancers. . . moving to energizing, powerful music.

Just like the Druids on Craigh na Dun. . .

"Land of my high endeavour,
Land of the shining rivers,
Land of my heart for ever,
Scotland the brave."

"Is there somethin' wrong, mo nighean?" he asks, softly brushing the back of my hand with his knuckles.

"No. No, not really."

Not wrong, just unspeakably strange, my lad. . .

Whatever is happening in my mind feels dangerously close to dissociation. But, I'm in public. I can't fall apart, not now. I take a deep breath, marshaling all my strength, all my sanity, determined to get through the night.

"Just. . . keep me near you, please?"

Jamie nods, shifts in his seat a little, and looks very much like he wants to say something, but he doesn't, not for a very long minute.

"Land of my heart for ever. . .
Scotland, the brave!"

He claps politely as the song ends, then gestures towards the dance floor, and offers me his arm.

"Shall we go watch them, then?"

"You. . . don't want to dance either?"

"Oh aye, I will. But a slow one first, an' only after a proper drink!" He drains his glass, and pours himself another.

I laugh a little, glancing over at the mildly raucous melee surrounding the dance floor, as the residents of Leoch good-naturedly chaff and shove each other while they sort out who will dance with who next, "Will they let us sit idly by?"

He points at my still reasonably-supplied glass, and hefts his own, "We can probably get out of it for another dance oor two, aye."

"Right then, my lad."

I take his arm, and let him lead me across the room. I have to admit - it is highly comforting to be tucked this close to him.

A small, distant voice inside my mind is screaming at me, trying to get me to admit the next thing too - that I wouldn't complain overmuch if he were by my side like this for always, not just tonight.

No, don't go there right now, Beauchamp. Focus. Let his calm ground you. Just sit next to him, enjoy the music, and let everything else go by. . .

The band members shift their places. The man holding the small silver flute comes to the front to lead the next song.

Jamie finds us a spot at a table near a corner of the dance floor where we can sit and still see reasonably well. The next dance is a dizzyingly brisk thing, almost too fast for me to follow, all feet and skirts and kilts and tartan whirling and blending together with the music. I find it exciting, but the music is so headlong, so wild and alive that my brain has serious trouble keeping up with my senses.

Thankfully, it is relatively brief. So are the next three.

By then, though, Jamie has finished his drink, and I am nearing the end of mine.

"Slooing ut down a bit now," says Gwyllyn, taking the front position again, "with 'Wild Mountain Thyme'."

Jamie smiles, and holds out his hand, "This is one of my favourites, mo Sorcha. Will ye?"

I quickly finish my drink, and take his hand, "Of course. But go easy on me. It's been quite a while. . ."

I haven't gone dancing since Frank and I were dating. Before the war. Before. . . well, everything.

"S'alright, mo nighean," Jamie grins, lightly squeezing my fingers, "I ken how tae lead."

We find a place near one edge of the dance floor, not too far from our new seats. One of his hands settles on my lower back, and the other gently grips my hand, flexing his wrist a little in each direction to show me his lead-tells. Then the music begins, and with a deep breath, we're off.

"O the summer time has come,
And the trees are sweetly bloomin'.
And the wild mountain thyme,
Grows around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"

Jamie's eyes meet mine as we navigate the dance floor - slowly, but not too badly, if I do say so myself - and he smiles at me, so sweetly I hardly know what to make of him. . .

"Nae mattar how long it's been for ye, ye'er doin' grand, mo nighean."

I feel a blush come up on my face and neck - why I have no idea - and I can't help but smile back, "It's not the dancing, it's the partner, I assure you."

His smile widens. "Aye. 'Tis."

"And we'll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"

"They'll be layin' out the dessert trays soon, mo chridhe."

I look up from simultaneously counting my steps and trying to follow his tells, "Oh, will they?"

"Aye. An' Colum always has a box of those fancy French kind of chocolates sent tae his table. Filled wi' hazelnuts an' things, ye ken. Would ye like it if I went and asked for some from him?" His eyes are sparkling, but still, his voice has hardened a bit.

"You haven't let go of that yet, have you? That you're the first one to send me chocolates?"

"Et's only that I cannae believe it, y'see. . ."

"I will build my love a bower,
By yon cool crystal fountain.
And round it I will pile,
All the wild flowers o' the mountain.
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"

"Would you like to know the first thing Frank ever bought me? The only thing I've lost recently that I actually miss, and am sorry can't be replaced?"

"Aye. I would. Verrah much."

He steers us to a more open space on the dance floor.

"And we'll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"

"It was a little knotted bracelet of plain black cords."

"Just that?"

"Yes. Just that. Well, I called it a bracelet, but it went around my wrist twice - I used it as a necklace sometimes, and often tied up my hair with it. It barely cost anything for Frank to buy, and I loved it. It was useful, beautiful, sturdy. . . and a thoughtful gift, which was the best thing of all about it."

"I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glen sae dreary,
And return wi' their spoils,
Tae the bower o' my dearie.
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"

"Sae what ye'er sayin' is. . ."

"I'm saying - the truffles are lovely, delicious, and special. Perfect, really. But they aren't required. I've never required such tributes, Jamie, not from anyone." I lean in closer, so he's sure to be the only one to hear, "Much as I appreciate them from you, don't get me wrong - but it's the thoughtfulness of them that counts." I meet his eyes, briefly, "I'll remember your note long after the chocolates have been forgotten."

He gives me a long look, and a beautiful half-smile that makes me wish we weren't in public.

By all the gods that may or may not exist, I want to kiss him. . .

"And we'll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"

He pulls me into a slightly more complicated set of steps. Despite the fact that it's been almost ten years since I was last on any kind of dance floor, I've fallen into a rhythm with Jaime, with an ease that shocks me. Sometime in the last few minutes, following his lead has become almost second nature. . .

"Oh my true love she has come,
An' I shall never have another,
Who'll pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather.
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"

"Everyune far the last chourous!" calls Gwyllyn, and the nearly the whole room joins in,

"And we'll all go together!
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go?
Lassie,
Go?"

As the song ends, Jamie embraces me tighter for a second, before dropping his hands and lightly applauding Gwyllyn and his men. I do so as well, then take his arm as we make our way back to our nearby seats.

The man with the silver flute comes forward again. A long line of couples begin to take their places for another set of fast, complicated dances.

I glance over at the Laird's group, and see that Dougal has left his place by Colum's side. I quickly scan the room, looking for my main opponent. I must keep track of him, more than any other person here tonight. . .

I find him a few tables away, asking one of the women sitting there to dance with him. I recognize her - she's Lily Bara, head shepherd. She nods, smiles, and takes Dougal's hand. The Cuckoos very pointedly do not begin the next song until he and she have taken their place at the head of the dancers.

I turn away, unable to watch this time. My mind is more crowded than the dance floor, more packed with whirling, twisting thoughts, and emotions that leap and twirl like living things. So much is happening, it ought to be overwhelming. I know the only reason it isn't is the fact that I'm currently so very, very happy. . .

I clutch onto Jamie's arm, letting his presence continue to ground me. I scoot just a little closer too, letting his warmth soothe away my tensions. Or, at least as many of them as it can, given our current situation. Although, for some reason, I feel sure this man is worth the effort it is taking to be out in public like this. . .

"Weel, laddie?" a familiar voice grumbles behind us, "Are ye evar goin' tae introduce me tae the lassie oor are ye goin' tae have me standin' heer like a dunderheid fer th'rest o' the night?"

"Murtagh!" says Jamie, rising and embracing his godfather, "Are ye and Claire no' introduced then? I thowt ye were. . ."

"Weel, no' officially. Nae'un's towld her my last name, ye ken. . ."

What? Yes they have. Well. . . I've heard it, at least. Haven't I? He's a Fraser, just like Jamie. I must have heard that somewhere, but. . . where? And when? I scramble to remember. Yes, I've definitely heard it. Only the once, true, back at that garage with the Rover, and then I was half asleep and in a different room, but still. . .

A highly significant look passes between the two men.

"Ah. I see," says Jamie. He bows and gestures formally, "Murtagh Fitzgibbons, may I present Mrs. Claire Beauchamp?"

Ah, indeed. Now, I also see. Murtagh is here under an assumed name, just like Jamie is. My Central-trained sense of propriety highly appreciates this superbly clever method of letting me know that without saying it straight-out.

Being literal doesn't mean you must be clumsy, or unsophisticated. We value wits in Central, very much indeed. I put out my hand to him, as coolly as if this is truly our first meeting. "Delighted, sir."

Murtagh takes my outstretched hand, and bows over it, formally. "A pleasure, Mistress Beauchamp."

I smile, slightly bemused. I'm entirely certain Murtagh is the only man here - no, the only man in the world - who could ever, in any context, get away with calling me 'mistress'.

I nod at him, "We've spoken a few times before, Mr. Fitzgibbons, but always out of necessity."

A tiny bit of background tension relaxes at my use of his assumed name, "Aye, that's so."

"I understand you're master of the horses here at Leoch?" I gesture at the place across from me, inviting him to sit. Jamie nods at us both, then makes his way casually over to the buffet tables, stopping to have several pleasant chats with people along the way. Murtagh's sudden appearance forced me to let go of him, but I'm glad of that, now. Let Jamie have fun with his friends. I am not the only person in his world - a fact for which I am extremely grateful.

"Aye," says Murtagh, "It's work enough, an' good work too, bu' my team is more than equal tae it."

"I'd never dream of thinking otherwise, Mr. Fitzgibbons."

"Meanin'. . ." he pauses, significantly, "I'm no' essential tae the runnin' o' this place. Leoch can do jus' as well wi'out me. Tha' means I can, an' doo, follow my own agenda, ye ken." He glances in Jamie's direction, "Where he goes, I go. Be that ower mountain, oor sea, oor sand, through storm oor drought, inta prison, death, oor Hell itself - where he goes, I go. Ye ken?" He says the words slowly, deliberately, his voice light, but his eyes are narrowed at me, intently watching my reaction.

Murtagh has baffled me a little, ever since he roared down that hillside and wrenched me away from Black Jack's men, but now, suddenly, completely, I understand him. I have his whole measure, in one stunning, blinding flash. How, how did I not see it before? He is almost as much of an anachronism as I am, only in the opposite direction. Behind that thick, black beard, and gruff, blunt voice, sits one of this world's last truly noble knights. A man who loves, hates, laughs, fights and thinks with such pure, instinctive chivalry as would have set him apart, even in ages long past, but it goes to make him utterly unique nowadays.

A rare gem of a man. . .

I suddenly understand Jamie a little better too. With such a prince for a godfather, how could he help but be princely himself?

"Do you know, I think I do 'ken'?" I say, with quiet awe.

Murtagh leans back, and regards me thoughtfully.

"Hmphm. Mebbe ye doo," he peers closely at my face for a minute, "Aye, I c'n see it - ye wear yer understandin' 'round yer eyes, like most lasses." He crosses his arms, "That bein' t'case, I'll doo ye the courtesy of askin' ye - no' warnin' ye, like I planned tae." He sets his jaw, and looks briefly over at Jamie again, "Dinnae break his heart, lassie. Please. He's already had heartache enough foor a man twice his age - dinnae add tae it."

I look down at my hands and smile as much as I can. "I'm not in the habit of breaking hearts, Murtagh."

"I ken ye'er a fine quality lassie - an' nae doot yer first pick will have come from a greater an' better set o' lads than we can present ye heer - what can the Highlands offer ye in tha' way tha' ye'ev no' seen far tae often befoor, after all? But I'm an auld hen wi' jus' one chick, aye?" His nose wrinkles into a lordly sneer, "It scarce mattars tae me that ye'ev all tae lose and he's all tae gain - if ye cannae make him happy, it's all nowt."

"I've had more than my share of tragedies too, you know," I say, quietly, "I assure you, the gains and losses are quite the other way around - for the simple fact that I have nothing left to lose." His brow furrows at me, not quite believing it. "Everything, everything has been taken away from me, Murtagh. Suddenly, violently - and mostly irrevocably. That day you rescued me, I was literally clawing to keep the one and only thing I have left." I look him square in the eyes, "And I'd have lost my life if it weren't for you. So believe me, I'm not looking to inflict any more tragedy - on anyone. And certainly not on a man both of us respect and care deeply about."

He nods minutely, more going on behind his eyes than I can read, even with my new understanding of him.

"I'm glad ye didnae deny there was aught between ye," he says, finally, "I saw how he looked at ye while ye were dancin'. The lad's smitten. Bewitched. If ye cannae feel the same as he does. . . weel. A'least dinnae. . . spurn him. Be easy on his heart. Hurt him as little as ye can. Aye?"

I smile, remembering everything Jamie and I did while walking around the fields, "It may surprise you to learn that he and I have already had a great deal of this conversation, Murtagh."

"Hev ye now?"

"Yes. And we. . . well, we've promised to both honour and never lie to each other."

His eyes widen a bit at that.

"And we've also decided that we're definitely in a relationship - this is our second official date."

"This is?"

I nod, "Yes. This concert. If he hadn't asked me to be here, I wouldn't have come."

He leans forward, "So ye. . . doo feel as he does?"

"No." I sigh, "Not yet. And maybe never. He knows that, and he's accepted it." I roll my empty whisky glass between my palms, "We both know what we're risking. We've decided to move forward anyway."

Murtagh shakes his head, "Fools, the pair of ye."

"Yes."

I manage to pack a great deal of meaning into that one syllable. Murtagh hears it, and understands. Exactly how much he understands is anybody's guess, but the heavy disapproval that has been radiating from him suddenly lessens sharply.

"Weel. There's nae help fer it, I suppo-"

"'N our next song uz 'Sunshine on Leith'," Gwyllyn's announcement and the ensuing applause interrupts whatever Murtagh was going to say.

He doesn't seem annoyed, however, only lifting an eyebrow, and extending a hand to me, "Would ye care tae dance, Mistress Beauchamp?"

"I believe I would, Mr. Fitzgibbons."

He leads me to a place in the middle of the dance floor. I see Dougal a few couples over, this time with a woman I recognize from my first supper here. I don't know her name, but she was seated at the main table, very close to the High Table. She was one of the many who were listening intently while Colum and Dougal interrogated me.

"My heart was broken, my heart was broken,
Sorrow, Sorrow, Sorrow, Sorrow!"

A great deal of the rest of the room sings along with Gwyllyn, and there are several other shouts of city and place names from people who are not singing along. I look at Murtagh, baffled.

"Agh, it's jus' erryun's football clubs, dinnae fash," he says, leading me slowly but surely through a very simple set of steps, "There havenae been this many people livin' at Leoch foor centuries. What wi' the Clan Restoration Act, there's MacKenzies and other relatives heer from all over the whorld, let alone Scotland."

"Oh. I see," I say, trying desperately to remember what 'football' is, "So that's why they all have different taste in sports teams?"

"Aye. Ye can take the football fan out o' his home club, but ye cannae take the home club out o' the football fan, ye ken?"

"My tears are drying, my tears are drying,
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!"

There are a few more shouts of place names, and Murtagh smiles ruefully, "Et's jus' the lot o' them tryin' tae learn tae live taegether."

"I did notice a drastic change in the field history manuals about ten years ago. . ."

"Aye, tha's when the first big influx was. There's been folk livin' heer all along, mind, but not dozens and dozens like this - hundreds, really. Nearly two hundred now the Cuckoos are heer." He nods in Gwyllyn's direction as we swing closer to the stage for a moment, "An' a couple dozen moor day-workers whoo also eat an' sleep heer sometimes. . ."

"It's a lot to organize and deal with."

"Aye, 'tis."

"In that same vein, I have good news."

"Do ye? Praise be!"

He deftly steers us away from Dougal, into a little open space near one corner of the dance floor.

"Yes, I'm almost done walking the plots. One more day out in the fields should do it. The chem tests and biome-mapping will take another couple of days after that, but I should have at least a tentative crop plan by Wednesday."

"Agch, that's good tae hear, lassie," he says, smiling so warmly I want to stop dancing and hug him.

"While I'm worth my room on this earth,
I will be with you. . ."

"So. . ." I say instead, "Manager's meeting on Thursday? Say, one P.M.? Right after lunch?"

"Et's a plan."

"While the Chief, puts Sunshine On Leith,
I'll thank him for his work,
And your birth and my birth.
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!"

The music lasts a long time after the lyrics are over, Murtagh slowly navigating us back and forth across the flagstones, very carefully aiming to miss Dougal every time he manages to get anywhere near us.

I can't help but smile at Murtagh each time it happens. My rescuer. . .

It appears I do indeed have some formidable allies.

At last the song ends. While we are all still applauding, a man in kitchen livery comes up to the stage, and whispers a few words to Gwyllyn.

"I ha' the pleaseur ta announce that dessert uz being searved," he says, "So, we'll take thus opportunity ta play 'The Gael'."

There is a lot of applause at this, whether for dessert or for the music I am unsure, but the dance floor empties a great deal faster then I thought it would.

The lights come up in the main room, but remain dark over the stage, save for a single spotlight, now occupied by a lone bagpiper.

Apparently, whatever song he's about to play, no one wants to dance to it. Odd. Very odd. . .

"They usually play 'The Gael' between sets, ye ken," says Murtagh, seeing my plain confusion. "They mus' be doin' sae now sae they can get the modern instruments onstage while we'er still eatin'."

"Oh."

"Foor their second set, ye ken."

"No, I didn't. But it makes good sense."

Recorded music begins to play, full of sound effects and vocals unlike anything I've heard so far tonight. The six other members of the band, along with several people dressed in solid black, begin to move around the stage, setting up what I can soon see are an electric piano and a drum set, with all the attendant equipment.

The spotlighted bagpiper ignores them entirely, and after a minute, adds his own wailing, booming music to the recorded sounds.

It's a moving song, big, almost too big for even the Great Hall. It's an outdoor kind of song. I've never been mountain climbing, but I imagine this sort of music would be the kind that would play in my head if I ever did.

Murtagh offers me his arm, and walks with me back to Jamie's regular table.

I smile when I see what he and the boys have been up to. There are two large trays of deep-fried chicken wings on the table, surrounded by bowls of sauces, heaps of used napkins, and scattered piles of discarded bones. I shake my head a little as I sit next to Jamie. I've never cared for chicken wings. Not that I've ever refused them when offered, only that I find them far too messy and labourious for their unremarkable payoff. But I know I'm usually in the minority on that. Clearly I am so here. Murtagh sits on my other side, and unhesitatingly serves himself up a plateful of them.

I take the last clean glass from the tray Tory brought, and pour myself a bit of the Irish whiskey. One sip, and I decide that Edan wasn't far wrong. It's smooth, and decidedly warming in the mouth, but far too delicately flavoured for my taste. After all the strongly smoky whiskies I've been having tonight, this one is like drinking alcoholic water. For a brief second, I feel just as Scottish as everyone else at the table. What utter shite!

I pull myself up short. Don't go painting every Township with the same anti-rust coat, Beauchamp! I'm sure there are hundreds of other Irish whiskeys that aren't like this. . . And also, who am I to say what is a quality drink or not? I like tea and Jamie doesn't. He likes coffee and I don't. Tastes differ. I nod at Leo and raise my glass to him. If this is what he likes to drink, then I'm not going to rag on him for it.

"Ye dinnae like wings?" asks Jamie, noticing I'm not eating - rather a rarity for me, I suddenly realize.

"I've never been much of a fan."

"Weel, ye'ev nevar tried Mrs. Fitz's buffalo sauce." He pushes a bowl of almost neon-orange dip in my direction.

Ah. Then these must be mysterious 'buffalo wings' he mentioned. I have to admit - after the beautiful discovery that was the pizza, I was expecting more from these. I shrug, spoon some sauce over one, and take a small bite.

"Eh," I put the rest of it on Jamie's plate, "It is what it is." I grab a pre-dampened napkin from one of the several containers of them on the table, "And they're so messy."

Gerald bursts out laughing, "An' ye, a mechanic!"

Several others laugh too.

I roll my eyes and smirk, "I don't eat engine grease, Gerald. I eat lightning and crap thunder!"

"Now why doesnae that surprise me?"

I cheerfully join in with the laughter this time.

By the time the boys are finishing up the wings, Gwyllyn and his team have succeeded in transforming the stage, and have redistributed themselves around it. The two drummers are now sitting behind the piano and the drum set, the two bagpipers are now holding a base guitar and what I am almost sure is a clarinet, and both the violinist and Gwyllyn have exchanged the acoustic instruments they've been playing for glossy, moss-green electric versions.

They're in the middle of what I assume is a sound check when four women in kitchen livery descend on our table, two removing all empty bottles, trays and glasses, all the dirty plates and napkins, and quickly wiping down the boards. Then, the other pair deliver us two large trays full of a wide variety of desserts on single-portion plates.

"An' there's make-it-yerself ice cream sanwiches an' sundaes ovar on the buffet now," says one of the women, "Enjoy!"

The four of them disappear back into the kitchens momentarily, only to re-emerge to perform the same service for the next table over. I look around, and there are several teams of kitchen staff doing the same thing all over the Hall.

A line quickly forms over by the buffet tables again. Jamie and most of the rest of the table get up to join them. He nudges my shoulder gently,

"Anything I can get ye, mo nighean?"

I shrug, "Ohh. . . coconut ice cream if they have it."

"Tha's all? No cookies? No fruit, no toppings?"

"Well. . . whatever you think I'd like," I smile up at him, "I won't complain."

As he nods and goes, the lights dim down again, and there are spotlights on the stage once more.

"'N wee'r back!" says Gwyllyn, hefting his electric harp-guitar, "Ta thank yoo all far your patience, we'll throw open the dance flor agan, and play ye 'Flower of Scotland'." He smiles at the applause, even though there's less of it this time, since so many people are still at the buffet.

For the same reason, it takes a little while for the dancers to assemble. One of the first to do so is Dougal, this time with a little brown-haired woman I've noticed sitting not too far away from us, in the under-balcony section. She has stood out to me not for her looks, or her actions, but because so few people have approached her all night. There are at least two empty places on either side of where she's been sitting, and I've not seen anyone say two words to her, not even the kitchen staff.

If there's anyone in the room who can say they've felt lonely in crowd tonight, I can bet it's her. A sympathetic part of me is very glad Dougal is at least doing her the courtesy of dancing with her.

Murtagh looks where I'm looking, and harrumphs.

"Daft numpty," he shakes his head, "I hoop he likes havin' his future told. . ."

I chuckle, "On the dance floor? That seems improbable, Murtagh."

"Weel, tha's Iona MacTavish. They say she has the Sight," he shrugs and looks slightly uncomfortable, "Et's about all she has, poor dear, an' nae doot she cannae help it, but shee's always tellin' folk their futures, whether they ask fer them oor no'. It makes mos' people avoid her, ye ken?"

I smile at what is surely a harmless eccentricity, "But is she ever right? That seems the main thing to me."

"Weel. . . et's odd. Shee's often right, aye, but tha's no' much of a surprise when som'un has the Sight. Nae, et's what shee's right about. Odd things. Private things. Infinitesimal things. Things that a person might no' hardly notice, an' forget about once over, were they no' paying attention. Things sae small ye would'nae think even the Sight could tell any'un about them. An' then. . ."

"Yes?"

Murtagh's lip twists, "Shee's been known tae offer tae. . . weel. Change things about people. Impossible things. Eye colour. Place o' birth. Their grandparent's first names."

A tingle goes up my spine. A woman who knows intricate details about the future, and has offered to change strange things about the past? This sounds like a woman I want to know. . . "And. . . has she?"

"Nae'un rightly kens. Some people say they've accepted her offers, but no one's ever noticed a change save the one who accepted it. Et's odd, since most o' the ones who mention it are the steady uns - ye wouldnae think they'd be lyin' oor daft. Like auld Alain Cook who has Hill Farm down Cranesmuir way - he says he asked her tae change his eyes from brown tae green, and tha' they did change. But he's always had green eyes, sae nae'un kens what he's on about."

"Weird."

"Aye," Murtagh grabs two plates from the dessert trays, and pushes one at me, "Heer, try this'un. All I c'n say is, et's a right good thing we dinnae burn witches annymoor, an' that's a fact."

"Amen to that." The plate he handed me has a small square of creamy light brown stuff on it. I take a nibble from the corner. Whatever it is, it's incredibly sweet, with an almost caramel-like flavour. It's too much on its own - it needs a cup of tea, or a handful of roasted peanuts or something to go along with it. . .

At this moment, a tall, slender man, wearing a fine grey vest and a kilt of the MacKenzie tartan, comes up to our table, and with a few murmured words, offers his arm to Tory. He takes it, grinning bashfully, and they make their way to the dance floor.

Ahh, that clears that up, I think. Perhaps here, 'gay' means homm? I certainly hope it does. . . I'll be happy just so long as it does not mean what it means in 2279, but this meaning would make a lot of sense, in context with what Tory was saying when he first used the word. Now that I have an info-screen again, I make a mental note to look the word up tomorrow, just to make sure. . .

"A coconut ice cream sandwich, made wi' white-chocolate an' macadamia nut cookies - an' a strawberry daiquiri - fer the lady," says Jamie, putting a glass and small plate in front of me, "An' two scoops o' plain vanilla wi' shortbread an' raspberries on the side fer the auld man." He grins, and hands Murtagh a small bowl.

"Agch. Ya disrespectful wee plague," Murtagh grumbles, an affectionate twinkle in his eye, "Wheer did ye learn tae be sitch a weapon?"

Jamie bellows a laugh and punches him in the shoulder, "Weer d'ye suppose, mo goistidh?" He goes back to the buffet line once again, this time to get his own dessert, I assume.

One by one, the boys come back to the table, each laden with their dessert, and one or two with a fresh bottle of whisky from the bar.

At last, enough dancers have assembled, and Gwyllyn starts up the music. After the first few measures, I realize that I've heard this song before as well, if only very occasionally.

"O Flower of Scotland,
When will we see,
Your like again. . ."

I try the 'ice cream sandwich' - which, I must say, is an invention like I've never imagined, but that I find quite brilliant - and it turns out I was right to trust Jamie's intuition in this matter. The combination is sweet, but not too sweet, and the tangy fruitiness of the drink cuts right through the heavy richness of the cookies and coconut cream. Experimentally, I take another bite of the caramel stuff, and take a sip of the daiquiri. Mixed together, they're more than palatable. . .

"Sae I see ye'ev finally tasted the tablet, then," says a voice I recognize.

"Geillis!" shouts half the table, and she sits down between Peter and Gerald, greeting them just as cheerfully.

"Sorrae I'm sae late - I had things tae doo a' th'office, an' then I hadtae make Arthur his supper, and then. . ." she sighs, in one great gust of breath, "Weel. I'm heer now." She eagerly grabs three different plates of desserts from the trays, "Wha' ha' I missed?"

"No' much, Mrs. Duncan," says Jamie, returning to sit next to me, and nodding politely at Geillis, "An' bettar late than nevar, aye?" He sets down a large glass tureen of sliced fruit, topped with four scoops of variously coloured ice cream - different flavours, I assume - covered with all manner of toppings and sauces, and finished with a huge dollop of whipped cream.

It's generous and uninhibited, just like Jamie, and I can't help smiling at him over it.

"The Hills are bare now,
And Autumn leaves,
Lie thick and still. . ."

"Aye, I was jus' saying' tae Mrs. Beauchamp heer," Geillis looks at me, mischevously, "Tha' t'is good when ye'ev finally tride th'sweet sumthin' ye'ev been waitin' on, isnae tha' right?"

"I'm sorry you're here alone, Mrs. Duncan," I say, formally, trying to head this subject off, "I was looking forward to meeting your husband tonight."

"Those days are past now,
And in the past,
They must remain. . ."

"Arthur? He hates these sorts o' things, puir lamb."

She pointedly takes a bite of what looks to me like bread pudding.

Then, thankfully, she gets into a discussion with Peter about inoculating this season's 'calves', whatever those are, and I can focus on enjoying my dessert.

"But we can still rise now,
And be the nation again,
That stood against him. . ."

"Everyune now!" calls Gwyllyn, and nearly the entire room joins in -

"Proud Edward's army,
And sent him homeward,
To think again!"

As the music fades, everyone raises their glasses in salute.

"Alba gu Bràth!"

It echoes around the table and around the hall - "Alba gu Bràth! . . . Alba gu Bràth! . . . Alba gu Bràth! . . ."

I raise my glass, but say nothing.

I know what that phrase means.

Scotland Forever.

I know what it means for the same reason I know what a kilt is, and why I've heard some of the music from tonight before. The same reason I know the first thing about either battle of Culloden.

Cold Island 12 is an important place.

That's the only reason I know anything about Scotland. That's the only reason I was taught anything about Scotland. A country that doesn't exist anymore. And what exists in its place is nothing but a poor, plastic facsimile of what I see before me here and now.

Bits and pieces of this culture survive nuclear Armageddon - just like parts of most cultures do. But in two hundred years, that's all that will be left. A tattered remnant of what was once so sure, so real. . . so free.

I know - better than anyone else here - Scotland is not Forever.

"Ye wilnae try tae say this salute then, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Peter, mockingly.

I shake my head, trying to banish my fateful thoughts.

"Oh?" drawls Leo, "Why no'?"

I shrug, "Well, I'd only mangle it." I take a slow sip of my daiquiri, "And as far as I'm concerned, the phrase 'Scotland Forever' should never be taken as a joke."

I say it casually enough, but for the first time since the beginning of the concert, there is complete silence around our table. It only lasts a few seconds, but in that time, I think I see a tiny amount of reluctant respect appear in the faces around me. Certainly Murtagh's expression relaxes slightly, and Arnold deigns to look at me, for the first time all night.

For a few seconds, I'm one of them - not just The Sassenach.

Perhaps it is this that prompts Harold to do what he does next. Perhaps it isn't.

He's sitting at the other end of the table this time, across from Gil. He gets up and comes around, stopping close behind Murtagh, where it's easy for me to turn to see him.

"Would ye care tae dance, Mrs. Beauchamp?" he asks, bowing politely.

I look at him closely for a few seconds before answering. I have no idea where this is coming from. He doesn't appear to be taunting me, nor is anyone else holding back laughter, as though there is some joke involved here. No, his request appears genuine.

"Very well, Mr. Mackenzie." I nod and stand.

I've barely cleared the bench before Jamie's hand is on my back, running up and down my spine in a gesture far more intimate than its innocence suggests.

"Would ye like me tae save ye some more of the tablet?" he asks, with such artless affection I can't help but smile.

He's clearly establishing his territory, the arrogant, possessive, ridiculous man.

Well then. Two can play at that game.

Besides, it's probably high time to admit I am, in fact, 'Jamie's Girl'.

I run my hand across his shoulders in an equally innocent and unmistakably intimate gesture, "Of course, my lad. And some of that bread pudding too?" He nods. I lean down and press my lips briefly to his temple.

All the conversations around the table stop, and everyone who wasn't already staring turns to look at us, shocked expressions on their faces.

I particularly enjoy Geillis's look of stunned uncertainty.

"You're all acting like you've never seen a woman kiss her boyfriend before!" I grin, and look saucily at Jamie. The glint in his eyes tells me he's more than pleased at this development.

"Ye'er. . . astonishin', Sassenach," says Gil, shaking his head.

Jamie inclines his head towards Gil, then smirks up at me, "Weel, he may be an arse and an eejit, but in this case he happens tae be right, mo nighean."

I grin fondly, shake my head, and briefly kiss him again, this time on the lips. "We'll be back in a bit, my lad."

"Mmphm, have fun," he grunts, with seeming indifference.

But as I turn to take Harold's arm, Jamie reaches back, and slaps me smartly on the arse.

In full view of everyone.

While suggestively smirking at me.

I blink, stunned for a second, as is everyone else. Of all the ways he'd first touch me there, this is the very last way I expected. . . and with an audience, too!

Of course, the audience is why he did it at all. . .

It takes me a second to decide not to be angry.

Much. . .

I whirl back to him, and grab him by the tie, dragging his mouth to mine as I hiss, "You. . . beast! I always have fun."

The kiss I give him then is one I'd much rather not have had an audience for, but the cheering and wolf whistles almost make up for it.

I take that back. The look of utter disbelief on Geillis's face totally makes up for it.

Territory established indeed.

I stand, turn, very deliberately loop my arm through Harold's, and start walking us towards the stage.

"So. A dance, you said?" I say, cheerfully.

"Is. . . is et. . . alright?" He looks uncomfortably back at the table.

I know he's worried about Jamie.

More specifically, he's worried about touching Jamie's property.

Inwardly, I sigh. We'd better nip that idea right in the bud. . .

I shake my head at him, "We're dating, Harold - not colonizing each other. He doesn't own me, and he certainly doesn't make my decisions for me. I can dance with whoever I want to, and so can he. Unless you're planning on feeling me up, or something else disgusting he'd want to protect me from?"

He looks adorably appalled, "What? Noo, a'coorse no'. . ."

"Well then. No harm, no foul."

"Next up uz our good host's own favaroute, 'Loch Lomund'!" calls Gwyllyn, cheerfully.

When Harold and I reach the dance floor, he is charmingly clumsy about not wanting to touch me - on my hip, or my back, or anywhere. Eventually, we compromise, and take each other by the forearms, like some sort of pitiful, on-the-floor-trapeze act.

I can't help but smile at the poor fellow.

"O whither away my bonnie May,
Sae late an' sae far in the gloamin'?. . ."

It takes an uncomfortably long time for us to settle into the dance. We finally reach a sort of rhythm just as Gwyllyn charges into the famous chorus -

"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,
I'll be in Scotland afore ye. . ."

At that, Harold looks directly at me, clearly extremely determined to say something, and have it over, "I'm. . . sorrae fer how things began taenight, Mrs. Beauchamp."

I blink rapidly for a few seconds. Of all the things I hoped might result from tonight's efforts, this one never even made the list. A genuine 'I'm sorry' from one of the main instigators of the verbal duel? That almost never happens.

Live and learn indeed!

"Are you really? That's impressive. I don't often get an apology." I nod, solemnly, "Accepted, Mr. Mackenzie. Just so long as no one is forcing you to do so?"

He looks instantly confused and abashed, "Noo, nae'un did. . . an' et's Harry tae my friends."

"Harry," I say, smiling.

"Ye said. . . often? Ye'ev been greeted that way afore?"

"More times than I find pleasant to recall."

"I. . . I didnae. . . I mean, we. . ." he sets his jaw, with a beautiful blend of embarrassment and stubbornness, "We ought tae have done bettar by ye."

"Yes. You ought to have," I say, practically.

He makes a round Scottish noise mixed with a laugh, "Murtagh said ye kent yer business, but I didnae knoo yer business was properly tongue-lashin' Scots!"

A-ha! So that must be why I got so few questions about being Farm Manager. Murtagh has been talking me up. But he must have done so particularly cleverly, if these men accepted my professionalism without question, but still found it necessary to be ugly at me for being an outlander and a woman.

Meaning he found some way of talking me up that would still let me establish myself with them, in my own way, in my own time.

My estimation of Murtagh, already high, increases by several points.

My appreciation for Jamie almost doubles. He was willing to give me a chance without needing any of that. . .

I smile at Harry, "Oh, only one of you has earned a proper tongue lashing, let me tell you. And even he hasn't quite earned such a reward yet. . ." I glance back at our table, just in time to see Jamie throw his head back in a gigantic laugh.

Harry's hands tighten on my arms as he desperately tries not to blush. He can't quite manage it. "Ef. . . ef I'd knoon. . ."

I chuckle at him, "If you'd known I was dating Jamie, we'd never have had any of this out, and the lot of you would have sat around the stables all day, festering about the damn Sassenach who bewitched your friend and stole him from you. You'd hate me, and you might even get close to hating him, too. Now, wouldn't you?"

Ruefully, he nods.

"Well, I'll gladly endure an ugly reception or two if it prevents that. Particularly given the apology - that covers a multitude of sins, very much so." I pause, and decide to address the elephant in the room, "Besides, I'm sure it must be nice to have an English person around you can snipe at without. . . well, without fear of reprisals."

His eyes go wide, "We didnae-"

"Oh, come on," I interrupt, "Put the demands of hospitality aside, and let's be honest for a second. It's my accent that really offends you, isn't it?"

"Weel. . . aye. . . but-"

"And with good reason, as far as I can see. You have very little motivation to love people who sound like I do. But I can't help where I was born. Just like you can't."

He smiles a bit, and I pat his elbow, indicating he should move us to a new place on the dance floor. Slowly, he does.

"Now then," I continue, "I might indeed 'know my business', but I've got an awful lot to learn about this job in particular - and I can't do it alone. So, you manage the stables whenever Murtagh and Jamie are away, right?"

"Aye. How did. . .?" he asks, mouth agape.

"Oh, that was obvious." I shrug, "You're were one of the two ringleaders there at the table - Gil was the other. I assume he's Marc's main assistant?"

Harry nods, transfixed.

"Well, both of you bent immediately to Jamie, but you're the only one who mentioned Murtagh. So I assumed you worked in the stables and Gil was more among the barns and coops and such. You'd both work with Jamie almost every day that way, but only you would see Murtagh regularly."

"Ach. Ye'er an observant wee thing," he pulls himself up at that, startled and embarrassed by his sudden familiarity with me, "Uhhm. Mrs. Beauchamp."

I smile, "Claire is fine. I also don't mind 'lassie', for when you're teasing me."

He blinks, clearly unprepared to have been forgiven so thoroughly and readily, "Ye. . . ye dinnae mind some teasin'?"

"Of course not. It's what friends do. I'm hardly perfect at everything, and even if I was, that wouldn't put me above a good-natured ribbing. But a friendly jibe is a totally different creature than a barbed attack - and I can tell the difference a mile away." I raise an eyebrow, "Ye ken?"

"Och, I ken," he grins, still shamefaced, "I've still got the bruises from yer last counter-attack."

"Well, I only do that when necessary, I promise. I actually rather like it here."

"Doo ye now?"

"Yes. Oxford is far from the ugliest place in the world, but it can't hold a candle to the Highlands of Scotland, and that's a fact."

"I dinnae imagine there's anywhere that could, ever."

Oh, you have no idea, laddie. Thanks to Safnet screens, this is still the most beautiful place for thousands of kilometers, especially in the hellscape that is 2279. . .

"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,
I'll be in Scotland afore ye,
For me and my true love will never meet again. . ."

"Bu' still, I wouldnae blame ye ef ye found a place wi' all yer friends and connections in it moor appealin'. Seein' as et's yer hoom, ye ken."

". . .By the bonnie bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."

I smile sadly, "I have no connections left in Oxford, Harold. None worth speaking of, at any rate. And I have no idea where my home is, at the moment."

"Ye dinnae?"

"No."

His eyes light up, "An' heer I thowt ye were slummin' et! Tha' makes all the difference, ye ken. Ye want tae be heer."

Huh. Murtagh didn't know that either. Nor that I had no resources beyond Colum's grace. Nowhere to run to, even. It appears that, whatever else he may be, Dougal is not a gossip. But after his opening move of attempting to isolate me, putting about humiliating or damaging stories about me would have been such an easy follow-up attack. Given what he knows about my history, I'm incredibly surprised he hasn't used my past to his advantage. . .

I wonder what he's planning. It must be something. He can't have just abruptly ended our war - he's not the type. And even if he were, I haven't gone on the offensive yet. He has no reason to end it.

Yet.

"I have to be here. I have nowhere else to be." I whisper. And I say it so quietly, so bitterly, even Harold understands that it's not an insult, but the plain, painful truth. I raise my chin, defiantly, "But yes. I want to be here, too."

"Tha's incredibly good tae ken," he sighs a bit, and finally realizes the implications of what he's saying, "No' tha' I'm sae glad tae heer et, mind! I mean. . ."

I laugh to cut him off, "I get it, Harry. I'd have been offended long before now if I was taking it that way." I pat his elbow again, this time in reassurance, "Anyway - when Murtagh and Jamie are away, then, I expect you are the acting Manager for the horse's stables and grazing lands?"

"Aye. That I am."

"Well then. I'll expect you to attend the Manager's meeting in Davie Beaton's old office this Thursday, after lunch. You and Gil. And whoever is main assistant to Lily Bara, as well."

"Aye. I'll tell them."

"Excellent."

"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,
I'll be in Scotland afore ye. . ."

He takes a deep, bracing breath, "May. . . may I invite ye tae the shinty match taemorrow? Et's only that ye seemed sae interested, an' we-"

I laugh, "I'd love to. I don't think Jamie would let me miss it anyway. . ." I look up for a second, and see the man himself, waiting for us at one edge of the dance floor. Harry sees him too, and begins navigating us that way.

". . . For me and my true love will never meet again. . ."

"Och, aye. It'll be modern kilts versus belted-plaids, sae ye'll need tae ken who tae cheer fer."

"I'll. . . endeavour to tell the difference."

We both laugh heartily.

"Agch, I nevar thowt I might laugh with a Sassenach. Thankee, Claire."

"No, thank you. I am the outlander. I have everything to learn."

". . . By the bonnie bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."

"Ach, ye'er a lucky bastard, Jam," he clouts Jamie hard on the shoulder as he hands me over to him, "Mek shure ye deserve 'er, aye?"

"I intend tae," he murmurs, so low I'm sure Harry can't hear him, especially through the surrounding applause. It scarcely matters, though. He's off to the dessert buffet tables without a backward glance at either of us.

Jamie throws one arm around my shoulders, "Now tha' was one encounter I wasnae predictin'."

"Neither was I."

"How did it go?"

"He apologized, and we talked. He was really quite pleasant."

Jamie grins and says, jokingly, "Should I be jealous?"

I elbow him lightly in the ribs, "No, you should be glad I duel with words. Because if it was pistols at twenty paces, at least three of your friends would have bullet holes in them by now, and besides being the last thing I want to do to them, that sort of duel is far more difficult to just forgive and forget."

"Ye reached forgiveness, then?"

"Yes, and beyond. We're tentatively friends at the moment. We'll see how things go at the Manager's meeting on Thursday."

He raises one eyebrow, "Och, an' why have I no' heard of this meetin'?"

"Haven't had a chance to tell you, my lad. I only decided it would be on Thursday this afternoon, and I only told Murtagh the details half an hour ago."

He looks teasingly affronted, "Sae ye towld Murtagh befoor me?

I snort a laugh, "Oh, you're invited too, don't worry. I could hardly leave my boyfriend out, now could I?" I wrap an arm around him and pull him tight to my side.

"I. . . hehm. . . I'm sorrae if I overstepped back there. . ." he glances back at our table, and pats my shoulder in a discreet mime of his slap on the arse.

I give him a faint smile, "What make you think you did?"

"Weel, for a second ye looked like ye were goin' tae be mad, an'-"

"Well, for a second,I was mad. But I get why you did it, and you're not likely to ever need to do it again." I slip my hand into the far pocket of his jacket, "Which is a warning to never do it again, just so we're clear. At least in public." I grin a bit, and feel a blush come up on my cheeks, "But uhm. . . you see, I've been wanting to kiss you like that all night. You just gave me an excuse. . ." I lean lightly against his chest, and he slowly lowers his hand from my shoulder until it is resting quite comfortably on my hip.

"Och, weel, in that case, the night isnae over yet, mo Sorcha."

The violinist comes forward to lead the next dance. Jamie gestures at the couples taking their places, "Now that ye'ev seen a few, would ye like tae try yer hand at a reel?"

"Oh, I don't know, Jamie. . ."

"C'mon. They always finish up the set wi' a simple one."

"Well. . . If I barrel into someone and break their arm, just you make sure they know who to blame, okay?"

He shouts a laugh, and pulls me onto the dance floor, "Fair enough, mo nighean."

We take our places, and then the violinist begins to play. . .

If I thought the music was dizzyingly untamed before, being in the middle of it amplifies everything tenfold. Jamie is right - the steps are fairly simple, and it only takes me a few seconds to catch onto the rhythm of it. But holding onto the rhythm is another matter. It's so fast, so whirling and breathless that my world narrows to just this one thing, this one place, and time has no meaning at all. There are skips and leaps, spins and twirls, Jamie's hands and strangers' hands in quick succession, a vortex of light and sound and colour, and I am bright flash of red and autumn-brown, glimpsed between the trees of a forest rendered mute by the pounding of drums, speeding forth to the ends of the earth, galloping over moss and grass and stone. . .

I'm not sure how I coalesce back into myself, but when the music stops, I find I am in Jamie's arms, rather frantically trying to catch my breath.

He grins down at me, "Sae ye allus have fun, d'ye?"

"Yes," I say, still gasping between words, "Lots. Of fun."

"We'll be takin' our set break now," calls Gwyllyn, "'N when we come back, we'll be takin' audaence requests!" He waves down the applause and gestures at the small info-screen he's placed on the drum set, "Please mak your requests en the next half-hour, 'n we'll see yoo then."

He bows, and leaves the stage, as do the rest the band.

"Be ri' back, mo Sorcha, I ha' a request tae make. . ." Jamie says, leaving me standing near the drinks tables.

I go over and grab another glass of ice water, and down almost the entire thing in one go.

Whatever that dance was, it was a great deal more than I was expecting.

Recorded music is playing out of the speakers again, though the overhead lights have not come up this time, lending the subdued flickering from the scattered large pillar candles an almost campfire quality. The warm murmur of voices and the cool play of shadows emphasize just how large this room truly is, and just how many people are currently in it.

Even without a wild, breathless dance with Jamie, tonight would have felt like an adventure.

Which is good, because I was born on Skycity 15, a hundred and seventy years in the future, and I am currently living and working with people long dead, in a country that no longer exists.

Every single bit of this ought to feel like an adventure. . .

Through the aimless milling crowd of people still happily eating and drinking, I see Colum and his retinue rise from their seats, as if preparing to leave.

Jamie reappears next to me.

"Are they going already?" I ask, indicating the Laird's group with a nod.

"Aye, Colum doesnae usually stay for the request set. Dougal probably will, though."

"Oh, really?" I say, not knowing exactly how to feel about that.

I pick up another glass of water and start walking back to our table. Gently, Jamie takes my arm.

"Mmm. Now there is an encounter I am expectin'. Aye?"

I grunt a half-mocking laugh, "More like dreading."

He tones his voice down to a murmur so low I have to strain to hear it, "Would ye like me an' Murtagh tae run interference for ye?"

"You mean prevent him getting near me?"

"Aye."

"No, that would be counterproductive. He'd just find another way, when you two weren't around. And I don't think I want to provoke him like that. I would appreciate it if you both stood for guard duty, though."

"Gladly," he says, running a hand across his chin, "Meanin'?"

"Meaning, keep an eye on me. If he tries to corner or confront me, don't stop him, but don't let him get me out of sight either. And don't swoop in unless things get really bad, or you see me trying to make direct eye contact with you. Which will mean things have gotten really bad. Alright?"

He looks a bit sour about it, but things have gone very well so far tonight, so I think he's starting to trust my judgement about what I say I can do, and what help I say I need.

"Alright. We'll do that." He smiles and seats me next to Murtagh, while he goes off to retrieve something from the bar.

Murtagh is deep into a slightly strange story about an escaped horse he once found in a 'swimming pool' - whatever that may be - when Jamie returns with a tray full of empty shot glasses, and two very strange bottles of alcohol. The first one is filled with a clear, bright blue-green liquid, and the second is full of an opaque something that is so violently pink, it appears to glow, even in the low light.

"Strawberries an' Cream vodka!" squeals Geillis, grabbing the bottle of pink stuff, "Jammie, ye'er a saint!" She takes two of the shot glasses, and rapidly fills them, sliding one insistently over to me. "Ye'el love this stuff, pet, trust me. . ."

I smile a bit bemusedly as I take a sip. I'm not certain I trust Geillis about anything just yet. . .

But the vodka is well flavoured, despite its poisonous colouring, and surprisingly, not overpoweringly sweet.

Smirking a bit, I confidently down the shot.

Much as I do love whisky, vodka is far more in my township.

Province.

Whatever. . .

I slide the empty glass back over to Geillis, "So, what flavour is the teal?"

She picks the bottle up and turns it to look, "Vanilla coconut. Mmm. No' as good, bu' still verrah nice." She fills both our glasses, and this time I take the shot without hesitation.

"I think I prefer that one."

"D'ye really?"

"Yeah - it doesn't taste quite as artificial."

She pours herself another shot of the strawberry and sips it contemplatively. "Maybe no', bu' tha's most like because ye havenae had this'un wi' Mrs. Fitz's strawberry shortcake! Divine, pet, simply divine!"

I smile, and sip my water. When we can manage to stay out of innuendo territory, I'm finding myself liking Geillis more and more. I'm unsure why, exactly, but I don't let it bother me at the moment. I pull a piece of ice into my mouth and let it dissolve slowly on my tongue. I love ice, and I so rarely get to have it nowadays, seeing as it's even more expensive than hot tea. . .

Jamie pours two shots of the teal vodka, and hands one to Gil.

"Over the lips. . ." says Gil.

"Past the gums. . ." replies Jamie.

"Look out stomach here it comes!" they both say together, and take the shots.

I smile and laugh a bit at them, not just because I find what they are doing funny, but because a tiny nugget of calming, homelike ease has made its way into my heart from somewhere. Here I am, surrounded by strangers, in a strange place, and a strange time, but still, there are constants. Men and women, and music, and food and drink haven't changed so much in the past two hundred years - nowhere near so much that I cannot relate to what I see, hear, smell and feel all around me.

For a brief moment, I can almost imagine myself staying here. Finding a job, finding a home. Making a life. Being repaid in full for everything that Fate owes me. A house. A family. A future.

But to what end?

The actual future comes back to me with such force it completely wipes the smile off my face. I pour myself another shot of the coconut vodka, and down it with a determination I've never felt before.

I am here. In the past. The power to change things rests in my hands.

If the world owes me a future, then I owe the world one too.

Perhaps that is Fate as well. . .

A long peal of drums and guitar music roll out from the still-darkened stage. I can just see the outlines of the band members against the great tapestry covering the wall behind them. A spotlight illuminates Gwyllyn the moment he starts to sing.

"Guess who just got back today?"
Them wild-eyed boys that had been away.
Haven't changed that much to say,
But man, I still think them cats are crazy!

They were askin' if you were around,
How you was, where you could be found.
Told 'em you were livin' downtown,
Drivin' all the old men crazy."

Lights come up on the rest of the band -

"The boys are back in town,
The boys are back in town!"

Every member of the band is now wearing a half-unlaced linen tunic tucked into varying colours of leather trousers. The violinist is wearing green, the drummer red, the bassist purple. . .

"You know that chick that used to dance a lot,
Every night she'd be on the floor, shakin' what she got.
When I say she was cool she was red hot,
I mean, she was steamin'. . ."

Jamie surreptitiously nudges his boot up against my foot.

I'm about to nudge him back when I pause.

That was just a bit too apt, wasn't it?

After that Sky Boat song, I'm suspicious of suspiciously too-apt things.

Or maybe it's just the vodka taking effect. . .

"The boys are back in town,
The boys are back in town!"

Just to make sure, I lean over and whisper to him, "This isn't your request, is it?"

He smiles at me fondly, but with more than a little bit of mischief in his eyes, "Nae, this is Gwyllyn's usual opening song for his second set."

I raise a suspicious eyebrow, "Really?"

"I promise," he nods.

But there is still a sly sort of look about him. . .

"So, what is your request?"

"Ye'll ken when ye hear it."

I roll my eyes, "Ugh! I hate surprises."

"My experiences wi' ye tells me otherwise. . ."

I grumble at him, "Fine - I hate surprises I have to wait for."

"T'will be worth it, mo ghràidh."

"Is that a promise too?"

"Aye. 'Tis."

"That jukebox in the corner blastin' out my favorite song!
The nights are getting warmer, it won't be long,
Won't be long till the summer comes,
Now that the boys are here again.

The boys are back in town,
The boys are back in town. . ."

By the end of the song, Jamie's leg is pressed very firmly to mine.

I find I don't mind. . .

"'N now far our first request - 'Throw The 'R' Away'," says Gwyllyn, grinning through the hoots and cheers, "Thus'un goes out ta any Sassenachs that may be en the audaence."

There are a goodly number of glances and chuckles around our table.

I find I don't mind them, either. . .

"Uvbin soh sahd,
Sence yeu said my accen' t'was bahd.
Hee's worn a frauwn,
Thass Caledoughnian cloown."

I instantly start laughing. Gwyllyn's over-exaggerated Scottish accent is hilarious. It's clearly meant to be funny, because everyone around me is grinning and laughing at him too.

"E'm jus' goin' tae hav'tae leahrn tae hesitate,
Tae mek shure my whords on yer Saxon ears don' ghrate,
Bu' I wouldnae't knoo a single whord tae say,
Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey."

This is emphatically not the time or place to have a realization, but it still happens. . .

"Saxon!" I shout at Jamie over the noise, "That's where the word 'Sassenach' comes from, isn't it?"

"Aye! Well spotted!"

He's laughing too, at me or the song I have no clue.

Maybe it's both.

Regardless, my 'Saxon ears' haven't heard anything so delightful in a long time. The audience starts clapping along, and I happily join in.

"Yeu saeigh tha' ef I wanna get aheed,
The languwage I use shoul' be left foer deid,
Et doesnae't pleese yer eaar.
An' though yeu tell et lik' ah leg pull,
Et seems ye'er stell full o' John Bull,
Yeu jus' refuuse tae heer.

Oh what c'n I doo,
Tae bee undearstood by yeu?

Perhaps fer some money,
I coul' talk like a bee drippin' honey!

E'm jus' goin' tae hav'tae leahrn tae hesitate,
Tae mek shure my whords on yer Saxon ears don' ghrate,
Bu' I wouldnae't knoo a single whord tae say,
Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey.

Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey.

Flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo. . . the 'R'. . . awhey!"

Gwyllyn crows into his mic, and the applause is much louder and longer than usual.

I find I thoroughly agree.

Once we've all settled down again, I gesture to take in the entire table.

"Whoever requested that - thank you. I haven't had such a good laugh for ages."

"A Sassenach wi' a sense of humour aboot et!" grunts Edan, with such a shocked voice I'm fairly certain he was the one who requested it, "Nevar thowt I'd see the day. . ."

"Oh, come on. We aren't all joyless brutes."

There are a lot of shrugs and a couple murmurs of "Could've fooled me!".

I just smile.

"I'm sure the lot of you know as well as I do - jokes are like drinking with friends. And sometimes, the round's on you. That's just the way of things," I take a bite of the bread pudding Jamie saved for me, and shrug, "Might as well take a laugh when you can, I say."

"'N the dance flor uz open agan with our next request, 'Clocks'," says Gwyllyn, so soberly that it's clear it will be a slow one this time.

Half the table, including Geillis, Harry and Murtagh, get up to find a partner. The rest settle into the pleasant lethargy that usually follows a good long laugh. Jamie is deep into a discussion with Gil about some pregnant cows they're dealing with. It all sounds highly technical to me, but it's probably no more than the basics anyone can pick up when they work on a farm around here.

On the ground, that is. With soil farms. And cows.

It is strange to think of now, but just two weeks ago, I had forgotten that cows even existed. . .

The piano and harp guitar begin to play, rolling and melding and wavering into a melody I instinctively fall into. . .

"The lights go out and I can't be saved,
Tides that I tried to swim against,
Have brought me down upon my knees,
Oh I beg, I beg and plead, singing. . ."

My mind spreads thin on the surface of the music, swirling back into memories so close, so vital, and still so far, far from me now. . .

"You are, you are,
You are, you are. . ."

Frank, and his good-morning smile under his untidy, sleep-touseled hair. The joy of sharing a small pot of tea so hot it made the steel teacups almost unbearable to hold. The sharp, acid cold of the morning air that slanted its way into our small apartment when he opened the door to leave for work. The bracing posture I always adopted when I would follow a few minutes later. The noise and motion and routine of my farming station. A caf for lunch, sometimes with Frank, if his sanitation rounds brought him close enough to that township at the right time of day. Hours and hours in the lab, coaxing nutrition from tired gene pools, forcing life back into failing strains of plants. A water distribution station for tea. On the main farming floor, a crop regulator in pieces all around me, as I search for the broken part deep inside its metal shell. Home, for a supper of bean and carrot stew, and dense, flat corn bread spread with tasteless, oily margarine.

A kiss from my husband for dessert. . .

"Confusion that never stops,
The closing walls and the ticking clocks, gonna,
Come back and take you home,
I could not stop, that you now know, singing,

Come out upon my seas,
Cursed missed opportunities, am I,
A part of the cure,
Or am I part of the disease, singing. . ."

My hands ache to run through short, straight brown hair, my eyes long to look into steady, hazel depths, my heart wants the normal, ordinary life of my town, my work, my family.

Even in the midst of a dying world, stranded on a metal island floating in the middle of a toxic ocean, while all around it raged in yet another World War, it was. . .

It is home.

He is. . .

"You are, you are. . ."

He was. . .

"And nothing else compares. . ."

For the first time since leaving Skycity 15, my heart is full of Frank.

No, that's not true. . .

My heart was never full after he died. No matter how much I mourned, no matter how long I waited, I was still an exoskeleton, scoured empty by the same nuclear blast that had dissolved him into atoms.

Now, for the first time since he died, I am full, replete. . . satisfied. The memories are sad, but I am not. He is so near to me at this moment, somehow, so real, so true, so sweet and kind and good. . .

"You are, you are,
Home, home, where I wanted to go. . ."

I open my hand, and look at the lines on my palm. The indirect light from the stage picks out every tiny crisscrossing ridge, every shape and angle, wrinkle and branch. . .

Two husbands, and maybe three. . .

With a gentle, sighing drop, Frank falls into the warm, enclosing aether of time, and grief slips through my fingers. . .

"Home, home, where I wanted to go,
You are, you are. . ."

The music slowly fades into the responding applause, as simply and as naturally as a leaf-stem joins a twig.

Very, very gradually, I come back to myself.

When I'm aware of my surroundings again, Tory and his dance partner are sitting next to me, telling some sort of funny story to Leo, who is sitting across from them.

Gwyllyn is in the middle of a much different song, more thudding and electric -

". . .Thank God the week is done,
I feel like a zombie goin' back to life,
Back, back to life.

Hands up, and suddenly,
We all got our hands up,
No control of my body,
Ain't I seen you before?
I think I remember those
Eyes, eyes, eyes,
Eyes, eyes, eyes. . ."

I don't much like this one, though I'm unsure why. Perhaps I would like it if I were fifteen years younger, but for whatever reason, this particular music doesn't do much for me.

I smile at Tory's dance partner, searching for something to say.

"So. . . was this your request?"

Oh, that was brilliant, Beauchamp. Maybe you should ask him about his dental hygiene next. . .

"Och, nae," he waves his hands and makes a bit of a grimace, "This is'nae sae much my style."

"Oh thank heaven," I slouch in real relief that I try to pass off as a joke, "I thought I was the only one!"

"Nae, ye'er no'," he looks at me slightly dubiously for a second, then shrugs and says, conspiratorially, "T'was mos' like one o' the Campbell's moved up heer from down Glesgae way - no' a born Highlander."

"Hm, that's who probably requested it, huh?" I reply, grinning, "Just you watch, it'll be Murtagh or someone, just to spite us both."

"Agch! Haud yer wheesht! Et bettar no' be!" He bellows a great, rolling laugh, and elbows me companionably in the forearm.

"Jam!" calls Tory, "Share the bounty?" When Jamie turns, Tory gestures at the bottles, and Jamie nods, quickly pouring four shot glasses full of the strawberry vodka. One he hands to Gil, one he keeps, and two he slides over to me.

"Would ye give these tae Ollie?" he asks, casually.

"Ollie?" With Tory's voice still in my ears, it takes me a second to register the name Jamie said. I don't know that name. . . but then it's clear who he means, "Oh, right!"

I hand the drinks off with a smile.

But when I turn back, there is a completely inexplicable expression on Jamie's face.

"Oliver!" says, Jamie, sharply.

The man sitting next to me looks up, "Aye?"

Jamie gives him several prompting looks, coupled with glances at me.

Ollie only looks baffled - but not half as baffled as I feel.

Finally Jamie's lip twists, and he takes his shot of vodka with a grimace I'm certain has nothing to do with the alcohol. Then, suddenly, he is standing, bowing to me with his hand outstretched,

"Will ye doo me the honour of dancin' wi' me, Mrs. Beauchamp?"

Wait. . . what?

". . . now? It's the middle of a s-"

"Aye. Now," he says, his eyes steel-grey in the low light, their expression veiled, but sharp and bright nevertheless.

I suddenly realize I've never seen Jamie angry yet.

This may very well be it.

But I haven't the slightest idea why. . .

I put my hand in his, and he all but drags me to the dance floor, holding my fingers with the sort of cold, relentless grip I never expected he would use on me.

"Yeah, baby tonight, the D-J got us fallin' in love again. . ."

"Jamie?" I whisper urgently, "What. . . ?"

He silences me with a look, then wraps his other arm around me without letting go of my hand. He doesn't lead us into any sort of dance, only stands there, holding me, rocking us back and forth a little, red fury boiling in his eyes, and icy disgust bleeding onto me from everywhere we touch.

"Jamie!" I hiss, "What the hell-

"I dinnae ken what it's like in Oxford," he bursts out with a vicious whisper, "Bu' in the Highlands, a woman doesnae speak tae some'un shee's no' been introduced tae - particularly no' a man - an' especially no' all friendly an' laughin' like ye were wi' Ollie - ye ken?"

"So dance, dance, like it's the last, last night of your life, life,
Gonna get you right. . ."

I'm gaping at him, completely unable to speak for several excruciatingly long heartbeats. Then, my voice catches up with me, and my own anger flares, hot and growling.

"Says the man who didn't introduce himself to me until he was lying down in a horse trailer, demanding I lie down next to him, and I insisted on knowing his name first! I insisted, Jamie! You didn't offer!" I hiss the words at him, going completely still in his grasp.

"Tha' was an emergency, an' well ye ken it!"

I snap back at him, "Eating tea together that day wasn't! And sitting near each other in the van that evening wasn't either!"

"An' d'ye think I didnae regret neglecting my duty both o' those times? Tha' I still regret no doin' it? Why d'ye think I told ye my real name when ye asked? By then, I owed it tae ye!"

I blink, heart racing. What is he saying?

"O-owed?"

"Aye!"

"Well, if I'm owed an introduction, then why didn't you just introduce me to Ollie?"

He growls in the back of his throat, and his grip tightens on me, like he's desperately trying not to hit something. Or someone.

"Because I've already promised ye honour, an' if Oliver Mackenzie cannae do ye the simple courtesy of introducing himself tae ye, then he doesnae deserve yer presence, let alone yer smiles and laughter!"

My eyes frantically rove all over his face. What. . . ? Is he. . . ? Have I misread him again?

"Then. . . then why aren't you angry at him?"

"I am angry at him," he sighs, harshly, "But it's ye I care about."

My anger dies, and I melt against him in relief. I have misread him.

No, not entirely. He's also not communicating as well as he ought to be. . .

"Well then, next time you want to show me you care, try not taking your frustrations with someone else out on me, okay?" I nod at where is hand is still gripping mine, "My fingers are going numb, Jamie."

He stares at our hands for a second before relaxing his hold, "A-aye. . . sorry. . ."

While we've been talking, the previous song finished, and another is underway. The dance floor didn't clear between songs, so our presence for both has not drawn any notice. He shifts into a dance posture, holding me close to him again, this time with a cradling pressure against my upper back.

"I saw your eyes,
And they touched my mind,
Though it took a while,
I was falling in love. . ."

We find our rhythm again, not as quickly as last time, but more smoothly."You know Jamie, you ought to have phrased yourself better, really you ought. I mean, 'A woman doesn't talk to man she hasn't been introduced to' makes it sound like you're angry with me."

His cheeks go a bit red - though if it is from embarrassment or residual fury, I don't know - "For a moment, I was, at that. Tae see ye doin' all just as ye should, makin' all the motions of friendship, and he treating them as his due. . . an' then realizing he was doin' so wi'out even the barest gesture of respect for ye. . . Ye'er above that, Claire."

"I was falling in love. . ."

I shake my head, "Above it? Above what, my lad? I'm just a woman on a date with my boyfriend, and he's only a man at the same party we're at. We're all here to relax, have a drink, and good time - to get away from the world for a little while. Probably he just forgot."

His lips twist somewhat petulantly, "Weel, tha's is'no an excuse."

"Oh, no? And what about your reaction? Making me think you were furious at me? Am I above that, too?"

"I did warn ye I had the de'il's oon temper. . ."

"And I suppose you think that is an excuse?"

He goes quiet for several long seconds.

"Falling in love. . ."

Finally, he smiles, slightly shamefaced, "Nae, but I did also say I didnae always think wi' my head. . ."

I snort lightly, "Well, I could make quite a court case out of that, but I won't." The music fades out, and we all stop dancing to applaud, "Let's just say you owe me a drink, and leave it at that, okay?"

"A generous offer, if ever I heard one, mo Sorcha," he says, laying an arm lightly across my shoulders as we leave the dance floor, "Would ye like to try a cider float?"

"I've. . . never heard of such a thing."

"Tha's no surprise. As far as I ken, Letitia invented it. It's made from Leoch's homemade hard pear-cider, mulled wi' spices, then chilled. Then she put two frozen pear slices in it, an' a scoop of vanilla ice cream. We'er famous for them now. It's been one of the mos' popular orders in the Cranesmuir pubs for almost a decade."

"It sounds amazing."

"Right. I'll get us a pair of 'em."

He leaves me near where Colum and his people sat for the first set, and goes to get our drinks.

I lean up against one of the columns holding up the balcony. I giggle a bit to myself. Now, there is a pun. Colum - column.

Stunningly brilliant, Beauchamp!

The momentary disagreement with Jamie briefly forced me to sharpen my wits, but I might as well admit it - after all the whisky and vodka, coupled with much more sugar than I'm used to, and who knows what was in the daiquiri, I'm right on the edge of being quite pleasantly tipsy. I'm nowhere near drunk yet, but after this cider float, it might be time to switch to water for a while. . .

"Ta the smartarse who tride ta request 'Jump Around'. . ." Gwyllyn takes a deliberately extended pause, and smirks as most of the room boos and hisses, ". . . anyway, heer's 'Wonderwall'."

Everyone in the Great Hall laughs. I don't get what's funny, but by now it's easy to laugh along with them.

A hand appears in front of me, palm up, "May I have the honour of this dance, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Dougal, bowing formally.

All at once, I am ice-cold sober. There's no time to look around for Jamie or any other support. My opponent has timed his approach well - this is him, versus me, just like we agreed. I pull myself upright, and look him directly in the eyes.

There is the usual calculating ambition in his expression, and more than a little arrogance, but I can detect no overt hatred or violent intent.

Very well then. . .

With a delicate, cautious gesture that I hope still manages to convey some grace and nobility, I put my hand in his.

"Whatever honours may or may not be mine to bestow, Mr. Mackenzie, I would have guessed that you, of all people, had no interest in them."

He smiles tightly, "And ye would have guessed correctly, Mrs. Beauchamp."

I raise one eyebrow, silently questioning his motives.

He straightens to his full height, and places one hand formally on my waist. It is a detached touch, not in the least intrusive, "I have found there are few places in the world nearly so private as an active dance floor, Mrs. Beauchamp."

The other couples are ranged around us, and a moment later, the music starts.

"Today, is gonna be the day
That they're gonna throw it back to you. . ."

Privacy? Huh. I haven't thought about it that way before, but perhaps he's right. Haven't I discovered something similar myself tonight, several times already? But the presence of so many others in the same room does put quite a hamper on what you can do, and how loud you can speak. . .

Or how much support you can muster.

There isn't just privacy on the dance floor, there can be isolation. Sudden, disorienting isolation. . .

And then I know. This is what he's been planning. Maybe not this exact thing specifically, but something like it, is what he's been aiming for all along. To get me in public, to defeat me in front of everyone, to tear down all of what I've spent the last two weeks building. For a moment, my heart gives a frantic flutter, like a faulty Safnet screen, overwhelmed with stress.

"By now, you should've somehow
Realized what you gotta do."

And then, I see them. Jamie and Murtagh, each positioned at a corner of the dance floor, in easy reach of my glance if ever I should need them.

That is enough to calm my nerves.

It would even be reassuring, if there wasn't the entire length of the dance floor open between them. Room enough for Dougal to slip though the crowd with me, get me in private, and then who knows what. . .

And then I see Gil. And Harry. And Leo, Arnold, Tory, Ollie, Edan, Alain, Peter, Gerald and Willie, all lined up along the long edge of the dance floor, each one with their arms crossed, and a decidedly non-festive look on their faces. I have no idea what any of them plan to do if I ever make eye contact with them, but they are there. Surrounding me. Supporting me.

Me. Not Dougal.

It is, perhaps, the smallest and most unremarkable handful of allies, but to me, it is as good as having an army at my back.

My Central blood rises in my veins, and I look Dougal defiantly in the face, "Well, privacy achieved, Mr. Mackenzie."

But not isolation. Nor disorientation. Thanks be to god, Jamie and Murtagh. I don't know what they told the boys, but thanks be to them, too.

"I don't believe that anybody,
Feels the way I do, about you now. . ."

Dougal glances around, instantly noticing my men. He half smiles, almost generously, even as his nostrils flare in frustration, "I see ye've been. . . fortifying your position."

"Yes. And laying in supplies."

"Oh? Are ye expecting a siege?"

I raise my eyebrows. He is the one insisting on a war. And now, he's going to get one.

"I am expecting a prolonged offensive. Whether or not it will include a siege is neither here nor there when it comes to needing supplies."

"Backbeat, the word was on the street,
That the fire in your heart is out.
I'm sure you've heard it all before,
But you never really had a doubt."

He tries to lead me into a more complicated set of steps, using everything he has to try and get me off-kilter again, but it is too late. I refuse his lead-tells four times before he relents, and falls back into the simple rhythm we've already established.

"Ah yes, quite right," he nods, eyes narrowing slightly at being so neatly thwarted twice in the space of seconds, "But there are ways of avoiding offensives altogether, ye ken."

Avoiding them? That's quite a change of gears. So far, everything about this dance has been confrontation. Is he calling for a truce now? Why?

"I am aware of that."

"Aye. But are ye amenable to it?"

"Amenable to what? Be clear, Dougal," I smile so sweetly at him it's obviously a sneer, "You don't need politician's double-talk with me, after all."

His hand tightens on my back, almost infinitesimally. I would think it an unconscious twitch, if not for the dangerous look in his eyes, "Would ye care tae discuss a possible prisoner exchange?"

A parley then. Not a truce.

I don't know whether to be encouraged or disappointed. We don't have much grounds for parley yet. At this stage, we don't have any prisoners. Hardly any battle prizes at all, really. . .

"I don't believe that anybody,
Feels the way I do, about you now."

"Prisoner exchange? I was unaware our opening skirmish went so far as to provide hostages."

"Were ye indeed? Odd, considering they were your main bargaining point last time."

"What? No they weren't."

The only thing I have that might, possibly, at a stretch, be considered a hostage, is my knowledge of Hamish's parentage. And Dougal brought that up last time, not me. I hardly wormed it out of him, so there's no possible way the knowledge can be considered a legitimate battle prize.

And besides, why on earth would he bargain with me for his son?

"Oh indeed? Then what am I tae make of yer. . . what shall I call them? Brass. . . baws? Oor should I say, cubes?"

The spy cameras. He's opening hostage negotiations for the spy cameras? Inanimate objects are not, and cannot, be hostages. Such things are spoils of war, and may be exchanged for other spoils, but not for prisoners. Of course, items with intrinsic value may be traded for hostages, but that is a ransom, not direct prisoner exchange.

What the bloody hell is he on about?

"And all the roads we have to walk are winding.
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding. . ."

"Those are not prisoners, Dougal, you know that as well as I do."

"But they are all ye have tae set against my prisoner."

"Your pris. . . wait, you're equating the value of intrinsically worthless inanimate objects with. . . people?"

With. . . his son?

I'm breathless with the sheer, disgusting, unadulterated gall. I might as well have asked him to trade Hamish for a new info-screen. . .

"No' people. Person. You have. . . the brass. I have the. . . copper." He looks over the crowd surrounding the dance floor, his gaze settling on. . . Jamie.

Not Hamish. Jamie. A complete bystander in my war with Dougal. Well, not so much any more, but he certainly was the last time Dougal and I had a battle.

And he's still trying to treat Jamie like a battle prize.

I don't think I've ever been angrier than I am at this moment. For a second I can do nothing but tremble with the force of it.

"There are many things that I,
Would like to say to you, but I don't know how."

I have to admit, I didn't think he'd stoop this low. I was driven to blackmail, as a last resort to try and find some kind of peace and security here. He is choosing it, as an opening tactic in what is clearly a complete battle plan. Cold-bloodedly, he has chosen purposeful, deliberate, unnecessary dishonour.

Whatever long lines of Humanity have gone into making me, and whatever heritage I can claim from them, no matter how noble, no matter how base, it is deeply, intensely offended. I was promised noble warfare, and he has offered me this? I clench my jaw so tight I'm afraid I might break teeth. The fool. The cowardly, self-entitled, incompetent. . . asshat. He has no idea what he's doing, not a clue who he's dealing with, and not the least care for the inevitable fallout of his suggestion. . .

I could cheerfully strangle the man, right here, now, in full view of everyone. With my bare hands.

But that would be ten-thousand steps beyond counterproductive. . .

"James Fraser is neither yours to give nor mine to take, Dougal Mackenzie," I hiss, deliberately using Jamie's real name, "And you ought to be ashamed you ever gave a single thought to it."

He raises an eyebrow, still secure in his stated position, unaware that I've already got him in a corner. . . "Is tha' soo? Weel, a'least consider it before ye dismiss the idea. Ye ken I can make his life a bitter, bitter hell-"

"I know that, you idiot!" I interrupt with a vicious snap, "But while I'm thinking about you committing war crimes, why don't you pull your head out of your small intestine for a minute and consider exactly what your stupid suggestion just gave me permission to do. Alright? I'll even explain it to you - and I'll speak slowly, so do try to keep up."

He blinks, shocked into silence.

Normally I don't venture into personal insult territory like this. No matter how bad things got with Jamie's friends, I'd been very careful to decry their actions, but never their persons. I never called Gil or Harry stupid - not to their face, anyway.

I take hold of my emotions, and forcefully attempt to rein myself in.

Dougal has no idea how close I am to literally tearing his face off. . .

"Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,
And after all. . . you're my wonderwall. . ."

"First, you confirm to me that you consider me your enemy. Fine, that's mutual. And then you open parley for hostages. Still with me?"

He sneers, and does not reply.

"Well, putting aside the fact that ransom for a person must either be a person or persons to make equality of rank, or, after suitable negotiation, good coin of the realm - and so demanding what you are in exchange is against the rules anyway - you go on to identify the ally of mine you have in hold. Well, not you, exactly, you've just cast yourself as the capturing general. Which you aren't. But I'll go along with pretending you are, because therein lies the point. Now, think for longer than two seconds about what being the capturing general means in a case of privately negotiated ransom you jaw-dropping moron."

His mouth works for a while, but he says nothing, and I finally see the wheels start to turn in his head.

"Today was gonna be the day,
But they'll never throw it back to you.
By now you should've somehow
Realized what you're not to do."

In noble warfare, there are three avenues an opponent may take to release a prisoner taken in battle. Which Jamie absolutely is not, active murder warrent be damned. That warrent wasn't issued by Dougal, and I highly doubt he's forcing Jamie to stay at Leoch, for any reason. He might have something else over him, but I can't think what it could be. . .

And if he did, most likely Dougal would be suggesting the first way to reclaim prisoners - open ransom for a publicly agreed upon price. It's good he didn't suggest this, because it would be beyond stupid at this stage of things, and entirely backwards to the actual situation. If anything, in the open, public view, I am the one holding Jamie, and all Dougal has is his grandiose posturing. Dougal can no more give me Jamie than I could give Dougal Letitia.

And as for his making Jamie's life hell. . . I wasn't joking him about that being a war crime. I'd have so much over him if he did that, I highly doubt he meant it seriously.

The second way to do this, now that battle prizes have been identified in parley, would be for me to lead an assault to free any hostages Dougal might have taken. Open, frontal attack, or secret infiltration, both are allowed by the rules. I may yet do either, or both, now. If he has anything over Jamie - which he may - opening negotiations like this means Dougal has given me permission to go looking for whatever it is. And if I find it, I am allowed to do all in my power to free my ally from it. The rules of battle apply, but that's all.

He might have considered this aspect of things, but if so, he shows all the signs of still having no idea who he's dealing with. Why confront me with it in the middle of a concert, while I'm surrounded by new allies? Does he think he's going to intimidate me somehow? If I wasn't intimidated before, I'm certainly not going to be now. How on earth is he more willing to confront me when I have backup, than he was when I was all by myself, and on crutches?

"I don't believe that anybody,
Feels the way I do, about you now. . ."

And then, there's the third way. Private ransom, for a personally negotiated price. This is what he is suggesting - that I give him back the spy cameras, and in return he leaves me and Jamie alone. But quite beyond the fact that what he's demanding is manifestly against the rules, the problem with his suggestion, and what he has signally failed to take into account, is that even if it were allowed in this instance, this type of negotiation is not made with the capturing general - but with the person who actually has the hostage in hold.

And, in this case, that's not Dougal.

That's Colum.

Colum owns Leoch. Colum controls Leoch. If anyone is being held hostage here, he's the one to make a deal with. Even if I played by Dougal's rules in this, I would have to go to the Laird to negotiate exchanging the cameras for Jamie.

In effect, Dougal has just given me permission to walk right up to his brother and tell him everything. About the spy cameras in my bedroom, the microphones in my clothes, Dougal's attempts to isolate me - which include him disobeying a direct order from Colum - everything. I'd even be within my rights to tell Colum about Hamish now, since Dougal first brought the boy up during our initial confrontation, and if I go to Colum in the context of a hostage negotiation, that means I have blanket permission to discuss the terms of all previous related bargains.

An incredibly selfish, thickheaded, and downright evil suggestion on Dougal's part. Pure blackmail, only barely cloaked in a token wisp or two of noble warfare. Pure, clumsy blackmail. I cannot believe he thought of it, and I am aghast he actually thought it might work. A staggering miscalculation.

I can tell when he realizes it, too. His steps falter for a second, and he stops leading our dance.

"And all the roads that lead you there are winding.
And all the lights that light the way are blinding."

In order to keep either of us from falling over, I take over directing our steps. I do so carefully, allowing it to appear like he is still leading, but very firmly taking control of our dance nevertheless.

The double meaning of this is not lost on me.

I sigh. I thought - I really thought he was better than this. . .

"I could destroy you, right here, right now, Dougal Mackenzie," I say, through clenched teeth, "And ask yourself - do you think I don't have the guts to actually do it? Do you? You really ought to have asked yourself that beforehand, but since that ship has sailed, go ahead and ask yourself this too - are you willing to live with the fact that I have this power, because you handed it to me?" I lean forward and whisper, "Are you comfortable knowing I could annihilate you, because of your own misjudgement?"

I don't have to explain any more. He knows.

By the furious, stunned look in his eyes, bloody hell, does he know. . .

"There are many things that I,
Would like to say to you but I don't know how. . ."

Maybe. Maybe I've gotten through.

Maybe.

"It's incredibly fortunate for you, then, that your destruction is not my goal. Not now, nor has it ever been."

"Oh?" he grinds out, flatly, "Sae what is ye'er goal then?"

He actually doesn't know. He is the one who insisted on going to war with me, and he doesn't know that all I've ever wanted from him is to be his ally.

"I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,
And after all, you're my wonderwall. . ."

For the first time tonight, I find it in my heart to feel a tiny bit of pity for him.

"You'll know," I say, as kindly as possible, "When I've succeeded."

When. Not if.

It's more imperative now than ever. Somehow or other, Dougal Mackenzie must become my ally. He's too much of a danger to himself and others for me to dismiss.

If I'm going to have any hope of improving the future, this man must be on my side. He could undo all of my efforts, otherwise.

"I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,
And after all, you're my wonderwall. . ."

Since I am leading, I direct us to the corner near where Jamie is standing.

Then, slowly, deliberately, making sure Dougal sees what I'm doing, I make eye contact with Jamie.

Please, my lad, please give him a graceful way out. . .

"And after all. . . you're my wonderwall!"

The music fades slowly, and as the rest of the dancers begin to applaud, Jamie bows to us, very formally,

"I thank ye, Dougal, fer steppin' in. I'm afraid I havenae been quite as vigilant in my attendance tae Mrs. Beauchamp as I ought tae have been taenight." He extends a hand to me, and I take it, gratefully.

Excellent way to phrase it, my lad. . .

A strange look crosses Dougal's face, "Aye, ye'ev been lax, laddie. 'Tis fortunate fer ye indeed tha' th'young lady is sae well accomplished, she has bu' littel need fer escortin'." He bows to us both, then turns on his heel, and retreats across the room towards the drinks tables.

I exhale in relief, and slump against Jamie's side a little. He puts a steadying arm around me.

"Soo. . . did ye reach forgiveness this time?"

"No."

"Ah."

I make my best approximation of a Scottish noise, somewhere between a growl and a grunt, "Take me back to our table, Jamie. I need to be around people of kindness and intelligence."

He blinks, and looks at me, slightly shocked. "Weel now. That certainly says it all. . ."

I shake my head, "It doesn't. Not nearly. But I can't tell you any more right now, I'm sorry."

"Dinnae fash. Jus' so long as ye'er alright?"

"I will be. When I've calmed down a bit."

"Still want that drink?"

"I think I need it. . ."

We're slow walking back to the table, so when we get there, the boys have already reassembled, and are joking and crowing over their little adventure.

I, am not so sure. . .

"It isn't exactly something to laugh at, my lads. . ."

"Wha' isnae?" says Geillis, returning with a bowl of sliced fruit and a small plateful of cookies, "Ye awl laving me aloon lik' tha'?"

"Aye," cuts in Murtagh, "T'was shameful, and th'lot o' us ought tae apologize tae ye." He inclines his head respectfully, and salutes her.

The rest of the men take this very obvious hint, and settle down dramatically.

It appears I'm not the only one at the table who doesn't quite trust Geillis. . .

She shrugs, and gives a flattered smile, "Aw, Mr. Fitzgibbons, ye'er goin' tae mek me blush!"

"Small chance of tha', Mrs. Duncan!" says Jamie, teasingly.

Everyone laughs, and the tension is broken.

Gwyllyn has begun a new song, and the dance floor is quite full for this one.

"Found my heart and broke it here,
Made friends and lost them through the years. . ."

I take a sip of my cider. It's not overwhelmingly spiced, and the ice cream is a perfect accompaniment. It appears that, in this matter at least, Letitia has excellent taste.

"Sae how is tha' wee crop regulator workin' fer ye, pet?" Geillis asks me.

"I'm on my way,
Driving at ninety down those country lanes. . ."

I shrug a little, "Not bad, considering. I'm new to this machine specifically, and it's the middle of November, so naturally, there have been hiccups."

"Och, natcharally."

"And I miss the way you make me feel, and it's real,
We watched the sun set, over the castle on the hill."

Over Geillis's shoulder, I see Dougal striding around the stage, getting the drummer's attention, and giving him some kind of instructions.

That's a bit odd. The band has had completely free rein all night. They've even been taking the requests in whatever order they want.

". . . I still remember,
These old country lanes,
When we did not know the answers. . ."

This music is easy to like, and the cider is going down smoothly. I've managed to contain my adrenaline reaction to just a slightly upset stomach, and the sweet, cool drink is doing me no end of good. My queasiness has only just subsided when I see Dougal again, only this time, making straight for our table.

". . . Over the castle on the hill."

Gwyllyn finishes the song, but Dougal doesn't join in on the applause. His gaze is steady and his step is lance-straight, right for us.

If he's coming to ask me to dance again, I'm going to refuse. Under the table, I take hold of Jamie's hand, trying to communicate this through only the power of touch.

Please, please guard me, my lad. . .

He squeezes my fingers reassuringly, and I know he understands.

But then I realize - I have no idea what Dougal is about to do. I've already seen him do something I completely did not expect tonight, so who knows where his mind is at now?

Hell, he's perfectly capable of asking Murtagh to dance, just to see what the reaction will be.

Then, he's here. I grip Jamie's hand, but Dougal doesn't give a single glance at me. Instead, he bows, and offers his hand. . .

To Geillis.

She gives us all a delighted grin, and jumps up to join him.

Huh. Now that, I did not see coming.

I look at Murtagh. He gives me a small wave and shake of the head - clearly, whatever is going on, now is not the time for explanations.

As soon as they reach the dance floor, Gwyllyn gestures to the drummer, and they start the music with a rolling bang.

"Shot through the heart!
And you're to blame!
Darlin', you give love, a bad name."

Most of the men around our table collapse into mocking laughter.

"An angel's smile is what you sell,
You promise me heaven, then put me through hell.
Chains of love got a hold on me,
When passion's a prison, you can't break free!"

Geillis dives into a hip-swinging, foot-stomping dance, but at the very first note, Dougal froze in place, and he hasn't moved since. I've learned his mannerisms a bit by now, and I can tell, even from here, that he is shocked, frustrated, and something else I can't quite place. . .

I'm sure it isn't fury, but by the set of his shoulders, it isn't too far removed from that. . .

"Oh, you're a loaded gun, yeah.
Oh, there's nowhere to run!
No one can save me,
The damage is done!"

Except for Jamie and Murtagh, all the men around me are rolling with laughter at a mixture of Dougal's discomfort, Geillis's exuberance, and their own recent triumph.

I just shake my head.

"Aye, the Sassenach has the rights of it, lads," says Murtagh, so solemnly that everyone stops laughing and looks up, "She kens tha' music was a mistake - oor something Dougal didnae expect, annyway. An ye' all ken tha' ye dinnae surprise a stallion in his loose box, do ye no'? Weel, it holds true, lads. It holds true."

I nod, and make eye contact with a few of them in turn, "All I know for certain is - in battle, you always respect your enemy. Or it's your own head you risk, not theirs."

"Dougal isnae our enemy, lassie," says Harry, slightly shocked.

"Oh no? Well, he was a few minutes ago. Or do you seriously think he's just going to brush that off as the schoolboy antics of his brother's farming staff?"

They all squirm a bit.

Jamie pounds his fist on the table, "Did I no' tell th'lot of ye? I said dinnae go down there wi' me unless ye mean it. Unless ye can stick by it. Ye ken I did."

"Now Jam," says Gil, "Ye ken there wasnae a lot o' time tae explain-"

"Doo I havetae explain honour tae ye? Trust? Respect? Agch!" He pounds the table again, and then presses his knuckles to his mouth, as though trying to prevent himself from saying whatever he wants to say next.

"I play my part, and you play your game,
You give love a bad name!"

"Jamie's right, lads. Now the choice has been made. An' t'wil no' be unmade, no' while I run the stables, ye ken?" He looks sternly around the table, "Ye'ev picked yer side o' the haystack. Now ye sleep in et."

I smile at his metaphor, "Not that there's any real danger to any of you, of course."

"Oh there isnae?" says Edan, "How if he fires th'lot of us?"

"He can't do that without having to explain why - to Colum. And Colum was the one who hired me, so how Dougal feels about it makes no matter."

Of course, I can't tell them about the bigger issues at play here - all they can know is that Dougal doesn't like me.

"And besides that, if you stick together, he can't stand against you all - as you just proved not fifteen minutes ago," I shake my head again, "No, if there are to be reprisals, he'll visit them on me, and maybe Jamie, not on the lot of you. If you want to stand with us, though, we'd welcome that."

"Shot through the heart,
And you're to blame,
You give love a bad name!
I play my part, and you play your game,
You give love a bad name. . ."

Dougal has relented slightly, stomping stiffly around the dance floor, letting Geillis writhe and twirl all around him. He doesn't look half as ridiculous as he did a minute ago.

No one starts laughing again.

"Aye lassie," says Gil, finally, "I'm wi' Jam, an' if tha' means ye too, I'm all fer it."

Slowly, one by one, everyone else around the table nods.

It isn't anywhere close to how I wanted to become one of them, but as things stand, I'll take it, and be thankful for it.

"Weel, now that tha's settled, pour the vodka, laddie!" says Murtagh, almost cheerfully.

Jamie puts down his cider, and pours an impressive number of shots from both vodka bottles, nearly filling the tray he brought.

Gwyllyn somehow smoothly transitions from the sharp, loud drums of one song, into the sweet, light rhythm of another.

"Fly me to the moon,
Let me play among the stars. . ."

On the dance floor, Geillis stops her wild dancing, and offers a placating hand to Dougal. After a slight hesitation, he takes it, and he swings her into the dignified, respectable dance I'm sure he initially intended on.

"Let me see what spring is like,
On, a-Jupiter and Mars.

In other words, hold my hand,
In other words, baby, kiss me. . ."

The tray of shots makes the rounds, and I grab another of the coconut flavoured ones. After the impressive ride my stomach has taken in the past half hour, I think I deserve it. . .

"Fill my heart with song,
And let me sing for ever more.
You are all I long for,
All I worship and adore."

Under the table, I spread my hand out on the hand Jamie has resting on his knee. Tonight was just supposed to be a date. A fun thing for us to do together. How has it turned into. . . whatever this is?

"In other words, please be true,
In other words, I love you."

I comb my fingers through his, and gently scratch the skin of his knee between his knuckles. The fine down of hairs on the back of his hand tickle my palm. He sits up straighter, and again nudges his leg over a bit, until it is pressed against mine.

"Fill my heart with song,
Let me sing for ever more,
You are all I long for,
All I worship and adore."

I lean my head on Jamie's shoulder, lost once more in Gwyllyn's enchanting voice.

"In other words, please be true!

In other words,
Oh, in other words,
I
Love
You."

Jamie doesn't applaud - so as not to jostle me, I assume, dreamily, but the rest of the table does. A minute later, Geillis is back, grabbing another shot of vodka, and taking a large bite out of one of her cookies.

"Och, puir Gwyllyn! He accidentally played my request befoor Dougal's! He'el nevar live et doon, puir lamb!"

"Do you mean Gwyllyn or Dougal?" I ask, not quite without smirking.

She roars a laugh, then sighs, delightedly, "Booth, I suppose! But et's Gwyllyn I feel sorrae fer."

"Ye dinnae feel any pity fer Dougal, then?" asks Jamie, wryly.

"Nae, he deserved et, t'auld coot. He asked me, aftar all. He kent wha' he was gettin' inta." She grins wolfishly, and swallows her shot, "An' now I'm afraid I mus' luv ye an' leave ye, my pets. . ."

"Ye arenae drivin' back tae Cranesmuir?" says Murtagh, indicating her shot glass with genuine concern.

"Nae, Mrs. Fitz found me a room in the guest wing - I ha' an appointment earlay taemorrow - cannae be late - an' sae I mus' be off now," she stands and waves, cheerily, "'Night all!"

A chorus of "'Night" and "G'night" follow her away from our table, and out of the Great Hall.

"'N our next request uz 'Circles'," says Gwyllyn, his voice eerily unaffected by how long he's been singing, and what a variety of music he's had to perform.

I wonder how much longer the concert will go on. . .

I look up at Jamie, "Is this your request?"

"Nae," he says, casually, "Ye'll ken when ye hear it, most certainly."

"Hmph." I close my eyes, and let myself get caught up in the music.

"We couldn't turn around,
'Til we were upside down. . ."

And then, I must fall asleep for a minute or two, because when I next open my eyes, the song is winding down, and I have no memory of time passing.

"I dare you to do something. . ."

I inhale deeply, and sit up straight, even though I mourn the loss of Jamie's warm shoulder under my cheek. I feel so comfortable with him, so like myself.

Which is an odd thing to admit to feeling, of course, but I have felt so unlike myself so often recently. Anyone who makes me feel normal as often as Jamie does is an enormous blessing, without a doubt. Even when I thought he was angry at me, I felt like I could be angry in return, and he wouldn't hold that against me. I only rarely had that before Frank, and I certainly haven't had it since. I can hear his voice now, calm and sympathetic, telling me to feel my feelings, telling me it's okay not to understand them, telling me he'll be there to listen when I need him. . .

Except he isn't anymore, and never will be again. . .

"Run away, but we're running in circles,
Run away, run away, run away. . ."

I lean forward a bit, and put my hand on Jamie's knee again. He gives a low hum of approval, and puts an arm around my waist, pulling me as close as I can get.

"'N now ut's a perennial favaroute - 'Despacito'!" calls Gwyllyn.

There's a triumphant crow from a few tables away. I recognize Rupert's voice in it, and I can't help but smile. I spot both him and Angus making their way to a dance floor I notice they've mostly avoided all night. This song appears to be quite popular with the men at our table too, and almost everyone gets up to dance. Murtagh murmurs that he sees an old friend in the under-balcony section, and he goes to talk to him, leaving me and Jamie alone at our table.

"So, this isn't your request, then?" I say, gripping his knee tightly for a second.

"Nae," he grins slyly, and lets his hand slide lower on my hip than is strictly proper. . . "But I've been meanin' tae ask ye - who did ye dress for taenight?"

Gwyllyn starts singing a rapid, upbeat song in a language I don't know. And judging from how little singing along there is, I'd guess very few others here know it either. But the dance floor is filled with couples energetically dancing to it, regardless. It is admittedly catchy. . .

I just snuggle myself into Jamie's hold a little more, "Myself. Entirely. I realized it was the first time I'd had a chance to do so in. . . well, way too long."

His smile widens, and he squeezes my hip, "Good."

"Oh, that's good in your opinion, is it?"

"Aye, shouldnae it be?"

I smile at him, "Should, but very rarely is, my lad. I thought for certain you'd prefer it if I had dressed for you."

"Mm. Maybe another time I would. But taenight? Our first public date?" he leans over and pecks my cheek, "This is perfect."

I hum happily, but I can't let him leave it there, "But. . . why?"

"Because that way I ken I like ye for ye. No' some fancy fethers oor a deliberate tease," he squeezes me gently again, to illustrate his point, "Ye wore this because it was what ye wanted tae wear?"

"Entirely."

"An' ye'er still the bonniest one on the room. I like what ye'er wearing, because it's ye wearing it. An' I'm glad of that."

My insides melt a little bit, "Why Jamie Fraser, you say the sweetest things."

"Mm. Only when they're true. . ." he nuzzles lightly into the hair above my ear, sending tingles all down my side.

My heart jumps, and with a gasp, I push myself a few centimeters away from him, and flip his hand off my hip. He just smiles, and pretends to watch the dancing, while giving me teasing, flirty glances every couple of seconds.

You're in public, Beauchamp! Don't go there right now!

"So, what are the words to this song, anyway?" I ask, hoping to change the subject.

"Ye sure ye want tae know?"

I blink, "What? Of course!"

He holds back a laugh, gives me a wry look, and leans over to whisper in my ear.

Twenty seconds later, I'm staring at him, eyes wide, stuck somewhere between shock and horror.

"You. . . you're kidding me!"

"Nae, I'm no'. Tha's what the words mean."

I nod at the dance floor, "Do they know that?"

He shrugs, "Some do. None of them care."

"But. . . but. . ."

He grins, leans over, an whispers the meaning of another verse.

My cheeks warm embarrassingly, and I push him away from me, and slap his arm, "You stop that, right now, Fraser!"

He finally gives in to laughter, "Can't stand the heat, my lass?"

I try to give him a stern look. It's difficult when I can't keep a grin off my face, "When it's coming from you? Not at all. Not in the least bit."

He shakes his head, growls fondly, and drapes a soothing arm around my shoulders, pulling me close again.

Again I don't know how he does it, but Gwyllyn smoothly transitions from one song into another completely different song. Everyone on the dance floor laughs and claps at the first few bars, and no one decides to leave, instead swinging into the new music they apparently are all familiar with. . .

"Pressure,
Pushing down on me,
Pressing down on you. . ."

It's another one I don't know. I sigh, "Are you ever going to tell me when it's your request, Jamie?"

"I keep tellin' ye - ye'll ken." His mouth quirks up, teasingly, "But I will say, if I'd requested Queen, I would've at least have had the decency tae ask fer 'Fat Bottomed Girls'."

I snort, and poke him hard in the ribs, "Have I told you that I hate you, Jamie Fraser?"

He scoops up my hand and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my knuckles, "No' nearly enough. . ."

"These are the days it never rains but it pours. . ."

This time, I run my hand slowly down his thigh before resting my fingers on his knee. Delicately, I start to draw patterns on his skin with my nails, scratching ever so slightly, just barely dipping my fingertips underneath the hem of his kilt. . .

He coughs lightly, "Ah, ye ken I'm a True Scotsman, aye?"

"Never doubted it, my lad," I say casually, tracing a fancy design over his kneecap before returning to play with the edge of the MacKenzie tartan.

"D'ye. . ." he coughs again, and his eyes narrow at me, "D'ye ken what that means?"

"Well, I've never heard the saying before. It doesn't mean what it sounds like it means?"

"Nae. It doesnae." Once again he leans over and whispers into my ear.

My fingers freeze, I sit up straight, and I stare at him, with who knows what sort of expression on my face.

"You. . . this time you're kidding me, right?"

"Nae. That's what it means."

"Oh." I take a few seconds to collect myself. If that's true, then. . . "Well, I guess it's very fortunate you're wearing that leather purse thing. . ." I give him a saucy glance, and start tracing patterns on his skin again.

"Can't we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can't we give love that one more chance?"

"My sporran? Oh, aye. Many a lad has been thankful for a well placed sporran, tae be sure." He shifts, uncomfortably.

I smirk at him, not letting up, and I carefully time my response to the music -

"What's the matter, Jamie? Can't stand the. . ."

". . . pressure-"

He raises his eyebrows, "When it's comin' from ye? No' at all. . ."

Finally, he reaches down, and engulfs my hand in his, stopping all motion, right as the song ends.

"Ye relentless wee tease," he hisses, only just audible through the applause. "Ye'll pay fer that, Claire, I swear by-"

Either the next song title was lost in the applause, or Gwyllyn yet again transitioned without announcing it, but a new strain of music interrupts Jamie.

"Finally," he sighs, stands up, and offers his hand to me.

I take it, knowing this must be his request at last, but I don't ask him to tell me what song it is, waiting to understand on my own, like he keeps saying I will.

On our way to the dance floor, I take a long look around for Dougal, but I can't see him. Not among the dancers, not in the crowd, not sitting in the under-balcony, nowhere.

I would not have thought a man like that could just disappear, but apparently, he has.

I don't even try to deny my relief.

Gwyllyn has deliberately extended his opening instrumental to give us dancers time to assemble properly, but the moment we all do, he dives deliciously into the lyrics -

"On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair,
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air. . ."

Jamie's eyes meet mine, and all at once, I am lost in their clean-ocean blue, far more than I am even in Gwyllyn's voice. . .

"Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light.
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,
I had to stop for the night."

The room falls away, and it's just us two, on a wide and lonesome plain, bathed in a sunset light, orange and gold and purple, accompanied only by the pure, intense sound of Gwyllyn's singing.

"There she stood in the doorway,
I heard the mission bell.
And I was thinking to myself,
This could be heaven or this could be Hell."

There's been power in the music all night, but nothing at all like this. This. . . I don't even know what it is. I've had dissociative episodes before, even waking dreams. But I've never taken anyone else with me. . .

"Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way,
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say. . ."

The rich golden light swirls around us as Jamie pulls me tighter, and leads me into a more complicated dance than I've ever attempted before.

"Welcome to the Hotel California.
Such a lovely place,
Such a lovely face.
Plenty of room at the Hotel California,
Any time of year,
You can find it here."

The flat, empty plain around us warps and twists into glowing green hills and hollows of land, all lit by the same light as us two, but throwing blue-black shadows of cold across our path.

"Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends,
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends.
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat,
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget!"

All at once we are surrounded by trees, and tables filled with piles of fruit, bread and wine. Birds and moths and other flying creatures criss-cross the blue-velvet sky above us, their wings drawing down the sweeping breeze of early night. There are lanterns among the branches, and the music comes from the ground itself. We dance between the tree trunks, between the bountiful feasts lit with faerie light, and we twist and twirl down a pathway neither of us can see, but both of us know all too well. . .

"So I called up the Captain,
Please bring me my wine.
He said, We haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty-nine.
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of the night,
Just to hear them say - "

A veil of blood drapes between us, metallic and sticky, filthy and cloying. Then suddenly it is washed away as we are engulfed by a roaring, foaming wave that stills magically into a deep, still pond made clear and bright by the golden fire that burns beneath it.

"Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place,
Such a lovely face.
They livin' it up at the Hotel California,
What a nice surprise,
Bring your alibis. . ."

We float in the great blue void until a mountain of stones pours into the water, and drinks it up, pushing us towards the sun. The stars gleam as we are thrown into the sky, still clasped in each other's arms, and we fall. . . fall. . . fall. . . landing safe and breathless in a field of scarlet poppies.

"Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice,
And she said, We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."

A circle of rosebushes sprout around us, their blooms white, and blue, and pale lavender-grey, their thorns sharp and fierce, their fruit blood-red and vivid.

"And in the master's chambers,
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can't kill the beast."

Atop the Spire of Skycity 15 there is a place you can stand, and look down into the pale green ocean. More than once I have thought what it would be like to plummet from the sky, down into the dark depths of the sea.

And so we do, through the poison and death of the water, past the stone and fire the earth's mantle, the pressure and impossible power of the core, and out, and out, through to the other side of the world, until we are floating in the sky once more, on a purple cloud over a green-golden plain, glowing bright in soft sunset light, eyes locked in a look that is more marriage than glance, arms wrapped around each other, a feeling that is so much more than longing leaving its perfume between us.

"Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door,
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before.
Relax, said the night man,
We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave!"

The music pulls me back into myself, and the walls of Leoch reassemble themselves around me. . . around us.

But still, Jamie is all there is, his fate intertwined with mine, just as our fingers are woven together, just as the music winds and dips through the air, binding us so close. . .

The next thing I know, he pulling us past a door, and closing it behind us. Then I'm being pushed against a wall, and his lips are fused to mine. A light goes on in the room, but I notice nothing except him, his hands, and his mouth.

We might be in a ballroom or a broom closet, I don't care, just so long as he keeps kissing me.

It's like waking up from a nightmare, only to discover you're in heaven. . .

"Ye ken. . . what they say. . . about dancin'. . . aye?" he asks, in between his attempts to devour me.

"No," I gasp, "What do they say?"

"They say it's almost. . ." his words get lost in my mouth for a second, ". . . almost as bad as fightin'. For what it does tae a man. An', I assume, a woman too. . ."

He plants both hands firmly on my backside, drawing us even closer together. Then he drags one hand down my thigh, lifting my leg against his hip, pressing me to him.

It turns out I am the one who is extremely thankful for the sporran.

It's so good, he is so good, but it's so much, too much, too fast. . .

"Please stop," I whisper.

He does. At once.

He sets me back on my feet, and takes a half step back, "Claire. . . I. . . I'm. . ."

I clap a hand over his mouth, "If you dare say you're sorry, Fraser, I swear I'll scream. It was just too much. That's all. There's nothing to be sorry for. Okay?"

He nods, wraps his arms around me, and rests his forehead on my shoulder.

"Claire. . ." he heaves a great sigh, "I'm no' usually a man to beg, an' god knows I'm ashamed o' myself for asking ye this, now of all times, but. . ." his arms tighten around me, "Please tell me ye want me."

My jaw drops, and I push him just far enough away so that I can look him in the eye, "Want you? Jamie! If that isn't patently obvious by now, I don't know what else I can possibly say. . ."

"But, ye said. . . ye warned me we might nevar. . . and now. . ." he shakes his head, "It's all right if this is all ye want, it's only. . . I. . . I need tae ken that ye. . . I need tae hear it, Claire."

He doesn't look hurt, or thwarted, only sad, and somehow. . . impossibly. . . lost.

Oh, no, no, no.

I can't bear being the one who has put such a look in his eyes. Especially after that dance. . .

"There is a very great distance between wanting something and being ready for it, you know." I kiss my fingertips, and trace the outline of his jaw, then push back a few of his curls that have escaped the sticky bonds of condition-holder. "You're a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky for me, my lad, surely you know that? Completely unexpected, and thoroughly overwhelming." Softly, I kiss his cheek, "I want you so much, sometimes it terrifies me. I ache with wanting you, Jamie. I'm just. . . not ready yet. I don't know when, or. . . or if. . . I'll ever be ready. But want? You? How could I possibly not?" I sigh, suddenly frustrated, "Oh, my sweet, sweet man, can't you understand?"

The lost look in his eyes slowly transforms into something no less sorrowful, but infinitely more hopeful. He nods, "Aye."

Oh, Jamie. What I wouldn't give to be the woman of your dreams.

If only I could let go. . .

Let go of Claire Beauchamp, let go of Skycity 15, of 2279, and World War IV.

Of Frank. Of Lamb. Of Craigh na Dun.

Of strange dreams, and waking visions, and impossible songs.

Of this feeling that I was sent here to do something. Of this strangely overpowering need I have to change things.

If only I wasn't an anachronism. An impossibility. A fluke.

If only I wasn't me. . .

"Jamie?"

"Aye?"

"I'm. . ." I swallow back an inexplicable sob, "I'm. . . obscenely sober."

His eyebrows draw together into a fearfully determined line. "Aye."

Without another word, he takes my hand, drags my very willing self back to the bar, and proceeds to get us both thoroughly drunk.

---

For the full playlist w/links to videos, please check out this chapter over on AO3. The fic title and my penname are the same over there. Enjoy!