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Chapter Seven: DEARLY DEPARTED

        At the beginning of the last century, James had been seated as Supreme Court Justice for the entire Northwest Territories. He'd had a wife, Mary, and five children, four of them fair lasses, one of them, also Mary.
        And Mary begat Jean, who begat Anne.
        For this simple reason, and many more complicated ones, Duncan MacLeod found himself stuffed into an ancient land transport and bouncing down an even older roadway which navigated the ice-glazed, snow-dusted heights of the Canadian Rockies. Somewhere, in a better world than this, he was still back at the Cross Estate, sitting by the pool and watching his son play with baby dragon begats, but not today.
        The entire journey had been a collection of memories--more haunts--and unforeseen reminders, scraping away at his pretense to objectivity. First, they'd landed, he and Strike, at Calgary (somehow he'd thought they would be going to Edmonton) and the Scot had fairly walked straight into the "Highlander Brigade Museum" sign while he was trying to sort out the Immortals on the list of "let's get Duncan MacLeod," or, as Adam put it, "hippity, hippity."
        Strike had piloted them himself in a small, fixed wing. Duncan might have taken the time to get to know the versatile facet who managed "Drieg South," or whatever they called the 'Frisco leather annex these days. He had wasted the time, though, in melancholy and regret and a pounding generic misery. It wasn't a fit or respectful mourning, but it was all he had to offer.
        Anyway, Duncan had crashed into the Brigade sign and had danced around Striker's friendly commentary about "old times." How was he going to explain about his not exactly being on that side of the conflict? In those days, he was a Blackfoot, in every way, but birth--wife, adopted son, all dead by such as this damned Brigade. The Highlanders had done him no favors then, nor did he feel a kinship, unless vengeance made them brothers in blood.
        And again, Strike had stopped on their way out of town and pointed out Scotchman's hill. Duncan tried to be pleasant, to be grateful the Facet took such care and concern with him, but all he could manage was a non-commital, "Yeah, I know."
        After that, Strike had left the moody Scot to his own dark thoughts and concentrated on getting them down the treacherous path through the Northern Rocky Mountains. The Facet did break out in a few choruses of "I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay..." but when this failed to elicit any amusement on the Clan Chief's part, Striker gave up and settled into "furniture" mode.
        Before the beginning of the last century, James Alexander had brought his troops to an outpost, far south of Calgary, which would one day be considered the birthplace of the "mounties." A Scotsman by birthplace and birth, James Alexander Farquharson had named this bleak mountain lair after himself. Later, he would found Fort Calgary and Fort Walsh, but at that point in time, he built and fortified the very place where Duncan was bound with the ashes of James Alexander's dead great grand-daughter.
        James Alexander Farquharson MacLeod, Assistant Comissioner of the Royal Mounted Police and Supreme Justice of the Northwest Territories, had set down in his will that all his heirs and assigns, or some such, should have claim to the tiny graveyard behind the chapel. The only thing Duncan knew about this chapel was that its altar had "Holy, Holy, Holy" written in Blackfoot, phonetically, on its front face. He knew this, because he had made it happen almost fifty years earlier, some small acknowledgement that the people he had known and loved had passed that way, as much in the spirit, as they had in the flesh.

        For all the time he'd known Anne, however, the Scot had never suspected she was kin. He wondered why she never said anything about it. Duncan could look back now and see the subtle sparkle of surprise in Anne's eyes when he'd first introduced himself on the bike path. He'd just written it off as part of the anger she'd expressed at his making her fall from her bike. Now he wondered if she hadn't taken his name as a sign. He wondered if, in touching him, she had been trying to touch a wilder past in herself which had always remained--as he had--just out of reach.
        Poor Anne. He hadn't known she was dying, hadn't known she was in such pain. There she had been before his stupid, blind eyes, struggling through her life with only her raw and bitter edginess, only her perpetual anger, to keep her going forward. What tender things might he have done to ease her lonely and miserable passage, what kindnesses might he have shared to rend that tearful veil?
        I am so sorry, Anne. I was only the memory of the Highland warrior that you needed me to be.
        Duncan MacLeod noticed the car had stopped. "Are we there?" he managed to mumble.
        "No," Striker said softly. "I--I have a cramp in my calf. I thought I'd get out and walk it off. Probably take me, oh, ten, fifteen minutes, and then we'll be on our way again."
        The Scot knew very well that the explanation had nothing at all to do with the deed.
        And it only made him feel worse that Striker had been caring and gracious enough to leave him alone for the time he would need to give full vent to all the sorrow and regret that filled the dusty ash in the small box on his lap.

        Judge Stoner watched the small plane bank into the sunrise and turn towards the east. The distinctive gild "T" on the tail rudder marked the craft as one of Thomas Cross' private fleet. He wondered why Thomas would be sending a plane east just when everyone would be arriving for the funerals. Maybe picking someone up, but, no, that really didn't make any sense. The Judge shook off the mind cloud and walked away from the car.
        He had stopped the car at a point overlooking Seacouver because he had to pee. He'd purposefully delayed for the past five miles, because he didn't feel like marking the spot where Anne had died. Anthony Jackson Stoner was nothing if not appropriate. Twenty years on the bench will do that to you.
        Tony'd been awake three solid days in a row and he'd spent all of the preceding night digging with his bare hands, so he might be forgiven if he had not quite thought out exactly how he was going to accomplish his mission, even after he'd decided where. His hands were torn and swollen and useless, bandaged haphazardly in two socks each. He had his handy stick to punch the ignition button on the dash--thank the Lord, this model's key was verbal, and the doors automatic. He had his forearms to grasp the wheel. He had made it all the way back to 'Couver with his loot, and a whole day to spare.
        And tired as he was, Tony had to admit that the world was coming into order again, and life, if not good, was at least well worth living.
        Or so he thought right up to the moment he reached for his zipper. Cars might have become more automated in the past few decades, but clothes were still a manual endeavor. He needed a wire or a coathook or--.
        --a dry cleaner. Damn!
        After a throaty argument with the door, Stoner threw himself back in the car and, grabbing the stick between his swollen wrists, he managed to punch it into start and then idle. It had been a total waste of time getting out of the car. He could have stayed where he was for all the good it had done.
        The mounting anger of his frustration began to wake him and he remembered something Anne had said when they first met. Anne's long explanation about why she couldn't marry him--the heart condition and so forth. He had vowed he would promise to bury her, if that's what it took to get her consent.
        Anne had said that would be in the graveyard at Fort MacLeod, in Alberta.
        That would be due east of 'Couver.
        Dear Lord.
        Anthony Stoner had thought she was joking.

        Adam Piersen, recently Watcher, Research Level, and more recently paramour and duly pronounced spouse of Duncan MacLeod, prowled the group of assembling mourners like an errant brother-in-law at a family reunion, counting the house. With Duncan off to Alberta with Anne's ashes, it fell to him to see that Mary's official departure from them came off with all the dignity and comfort that could be afforded.
        It should not have surprised him that they did not know who he was. Hadn't he spent several lifetimes being someone, anyone, else? He was surprised how easily they had settled into a hearsay, second-hand version of him. Adam was MacLeod's whatever--fill in: significant other, lover, wife. He was that Immortal that had infiltrated the Watchers, in the old days when that even meant something. He was Sean MacLeod's nanny, or, the more formal, mentor or uncle.
        It surprised him even more that any of this meant anything to him at all, but it did. So, after the pleasantries of a friendly cavort in the "downstairs" library, he'd stayed up the rest of the night practicing how he would present himself, practicing how "Adam" would be this day, without MacLeod around to amend their opinion of him.
        They knew he was Methos, or had been, a long, long time ago, but it really meant nothing to them, except as another of his many oddities. The Horsemen portion of his mis-spent youth was known only to the closest of their acquaintances and they tended to excuse it, in Duncan's favor, as a lapse, as if he were some kind of reformed ex-con, perfectly charming, but not to be trusted, after all.
        The whole presentation would hinge on his eulogy. Words were Adam's strength. He would make them see him in a new way, by his words alone. That would not be a difficult affair at all.
        If they would only stop asking when Duncan would arrive.
        The real problem, Adam mused, as yet another of the guests remarked on his suit and vented their surprise at how splendid he looked, the problem was that he did not know how he wanted them to see him.
        Or, more accurately, he was not so sure he knew this Adam he'd become well enough to present him with any accuracy. He was himself guilty of a second-hand interpretation, seeing himself only in those soft brown eyes of the Scot. He was hardly a trophy wife, but he did see himself as secondary furniture to the main power of this eclectic tribe. How had Duncan phrased it last night?
        Ah, yes. It was time to put up or shut up.
        Adam made a fast estimate. The guests had nearly all arrived. Sean would not be coming. He wouldn't understand this in any case and the babes needed watching. Kyle would be absent as well, but he had taken time out from his babysitting duties to arrange the flowers for the ceremony, as he had done for Mary's wedding. Each flower had a meaning, constancy and love and eternity and such, but Adam couldn't remember any of them. He thought the whole thing, the funeral, the eulogies, all of it, was worse than ridiculous.
        Worse, Adam found the whole idea of Mary's life and death to be disgusting in the extreme. Oh, he granted, it did make a lovely little romantic tale, but the notion that Mary really never had a life except as a conduit to the next generation made him gag. He'd tried to speak about this travesty to his mother, but Ram had immediately turned the discussion elsewhere and they somehow never managed to return to the subject. She hardly ever told him to shut up. She didn't need to in so many words.
        What had they talked about? After discussing the apparent Gathering, he couldn't really remember. Oh, she'd made him bring her the suit, this suit. He couldn't recall whether she'd approved of it or not. Probably did or he'd have worn something else. Was his own life really so different than Mary's? Then again, Mary Palmer MacLeod Malak had Destiny to deal her hand, and he had only Ram. Hardly different at all, come to think.
        Ram was still too injured to attend, or so he had been told, and so he told the others.
        "Friends," Adam sounded his soft baritone in somber and--he hoped--friendly, comforting tones. "We are all here now. Please," his elegant hands gestured to the rows of chairs set up on the floor of the drained and dry library pool, where the ceremony would be held.
        The murmuring ceased and they made their way down the stairs and took their places, facing the marble stone box where the last of Mary remained. It was a soft pink Carrara of the finest quality, polished to satin, the matching lid leaning against the front and Mary, like a sleeping princess, laid within dressed in a copy of the gown she had worn to her wedding day a little more than a half year earlier. The original dress had been lost in a fire, set by her husband when he came to rescue her from the angel who had fathered her children.
        Oh, yes, Adam thought, a lovely tale. He walked to the front and took his seat beside Seacouver's Mayor and the Mayor's wife, Sweet Lucille. He nodded to Dawson and whispered an offer to help him stand, for which he received an elbow in his ribs.
        "We are gathered here," Dawson began as soon as he had struggled, by himself, up the two steps of the dais, to stand behind the marble bier. "To say goodbye to a young woman who touched us all, by her grace and her humor--"
        Adam glanced over at Lucille. Now here was an example of how to maintain high profile as the spouse of a leader. He doubted it was an example he could follow, except to remind him that such things could be done and very well indeed. Adam's stomach jolted a bit. He regretted not having time for breakfast, but he wasn't sure the mild nausea he was experiencing would have been the better for it. There would be twenty speakers before his, the last, turn would come. It was too soon to get this anxious.
        Adam settled his thoughts by reviewing his eulogy. He would begin gently and build. He would remind them of his position in the hierarchy of Immortals. He was their Elder by many ages. He knew death and he knew the rhythms of life better than any of them, if only because of his ponderous weight of experience. They would do well to respect his wisdom in these things. He would stand at their dyings and he would show them no less honor than they showed to this member of their wide family who had departed them this day.
        But he was with them in life, now, and he would defend their interests, and lift up their...
        "The Facets have elected Molly Drummond to speak for them, " Dawson was already finishing.
        Adam stopped practicing his speech and tried to listen to the timid Facet. He hardly believed that "elected" was the proper term, more likely she drew the short straw.
        "I--I know that you will understand--" Molly stammered. There was a soft rustle and Adam looked down at the pale tremulous hands. She was reading, probably something Margaret had written for her.
        Adam felt a strange wave of emotion wash over his back as the group, some one hundred honored guests, sent their comfort and good will towards Molly where it formed a nearly visible froth of support as it broke against the tilted marble slab of the coffin's lid. He heard Molly's melody smooth out and begin to flow more easily. He saw the hands descend with their paper talisman as Molly spoke back to the wave and the tension in the room slacked off to a bearable level.
        They will welcome a firm hand in Duncan's absence, Adam thought. They are all feeling rudderless and lost. I can show them what a fine father I may be, how diligent and strong. MacLeod is not their only rock. I will show them they have more to their defense than one very young and intemperate Scot.
        Thomas, dressed in an exquisite grey suit, was next. Here was graciousness incarnate, the concierge di tuti concierges, Adam thought, mixing his many languages in a sprawl worthy of his more usual physical signature. Master Cross would be fifteen minutes or more, acknowledging all the guests and Mary's many fine points, the times, not long past when he had taught her how to ride on Adam's old dray Belgian...
        He was dead too, now, Adam thought. Buried by Blood on a hill in the pasture where they would be laying Mary to rest. She had asked to be buried by the horses, the first time Thomas had taken her up to the graves.
        A simple enough request, by the sound of it. Adam knew they'd airlifted three industrial lazers from 'Couver just to cut the simple square pit in the frozen ground on the hill and it had taken them twenty hours to complete the dig. That crew had not attended this ceremony. They were all soundly sleeping, restoring their energy for tomorrow's celebration of the coming new year--the megabash, and possible melee, at the Drieg Tower.
        Tomorrow there might be more funerals for them to plan. He wouldn't address this directly in his speech, but he would convey his own readiness to battle for them and for their cause after they were gone. The Facets were already briefed on tomorrow's coming conflict should the Non-Aligned Immortals storm the New Year's festivities. The Tower was even now being fit out for such a contingency. If they had to meet the enemy, then better on their own terms, their own field.
        And with these strong folk, they had no fear of losing. Not a whimper, not a sniff, through the entire crowd. They all bore their sadness with great strength, sublime dignity. They would welcome his leadership when they came to know just how very strong he could be.
        Adam watched them stride up to the bier, their shoulders square, their words steady, an excellent army, these.
        The Swahili prince was next down the aisleway between the chairs. He had just made it in time having arrived at 'Couver International only an hour earlier. Mokgobja represented the African contingent with all due dignity, relaying condolences from Grace and Cassandra and Amanda and the entire tribe at the Zulu Natal preserve, the adopted family of Mary's departed father, Mark Palmer.
        "Tanuba," the prince was saying, "was brother under the full moon to this dear daughter who sleeps before us now. I brought a tuft from his mane for her glory, glorious, wedding festival, and, now, in this cold place so far from his birth, may Tanuba give his fire to the playmate of his youth." The prince opened a simple bundle he had carried to the bier and unrolled the enormous lion skin, draping it tenderly over the white-robed still body within the pale marble box.
        Adam could not imagine how much that must have cost to get through customs. The prince would be a fine addition to their battle throng. He was almost looking forward to the fight.
        By the time it was Adam's turn, he was more than ready to step into command. He rose effortlessly and strode brilliantly towards the bier, ascending more than the stair of the dais. Once he had positioned himself behind the massive marble coffin, he waited a moment, in silence, to heighten their attention.
        But there was no "their" there.
        Adam looked out and he could not see "them" at all.
        He saw Joe and Lucille, and their dear absent son, Kyle. He saw Molly and Margaret and Dragon. He saw Thomas, standing by a pillar with Grant, who had snuck away from the nursery and dressed in too much of a hurry to look his usual vision of butlerial perfection. He saw Allen and the staff from 'Couver General--Martin and Kathy and Nancy with the two sets of twins at home and no husband. He saw each of them, distinctly and separately and intimately. He saw how much pain they were all in, saw it so clearly that he felt it himself.
        And he saw how very little he had to offer them. Nothing at all really. Not one thing, blessed or otherwise.
        What good was he to any of them?
        Adam saw each of them lying here, instead of Mary. He saw himself standing here helplessly, with nothing to offer them, living or dead. He felt the keening pain of losing them, each one, and he wished, for the first time in his long, long life, that he was dead.
        He could feel the uneasiness at his protracted silence, but there wasn't anything he could say or do or...
        Adam's long fingers had nervously found the pockets of his fine suit, had burrowed under the tailor flaps and gone digging of their own accord. Adam pulled out the rough wad of paper they had found there.
        Oh. Adam turned the thing in his hand, a tiny booklet, ragged of edge, much read, most-loved, and he knew then what he could offer them. He cleared his throat.
        You have all been too civil here, he thought, too controlled, too unmindful of your pain. I am here to change that. I am here to make you weep.
        "Two and a half seasons ago," Adam began.
        They relaxed a bit with the sound of his soothing low tones. Each mentally began ticking off the things that they had left to do that day, now that the ceremony was nearly over. Not a few of them mused on what an odd "fat lady designate" Adam proved to be, even as his song rolled over them like an early taste of spring in this deep winter.
        "I left Duncan MacLeod," Adam raised the volume just a tad. Oh, that got their attention. Go ahead, remember how much of a bother I can be. Remember how you would hate me if not for the Clan Chief's addled affections.
        He watched Joe shift in his chair to a taller posture.
        "I was very unhappy and lonely and sitting on a cold bench at the bus station..."
        ...Where you belonged, he could almost hear them thinking.
        "Mary Palmer came over to me and gave me a gift." Adam lifted his hand and displayed the tiny book. "She said it reminded her of me, that Neville reminded her of me."
        Glances darted around the room. Nobody'd heard of this book. Shrugs and grumbles followed.
        They were beginning to anger, Adam thought. Good. He put on his best "poetry reading at the ladies' tea" voice and began"

The Gashlycrumb Tinies*
A is for Amy, who fell down the stairs,
B is for Basil, assaulted by bears,

        Mouths dropped open, and the mental planning stopped.

C is for Clara, who wasted away,
D is for Desmond, thrown out of a sleigh,

        They jostled each other as if one of them might explain what the hell Adam was doing.
        Adam affected the expression he liked the most and that all others, even his spouse, liked the least--a broad, grinning smirk of vast proportion. This he beamed down over the celebrants as if it were a benediction and not the curse it appeared. In the context of Mary's burial, it was more than a little obscene.

E is for Ernest, who choked on a peach,
F is for Fanny, sucked dry by a leach,
G is for George, smothered under a rug,
H is for Hector, done in by a thug.

        "Stop it!" Joe Dawson struggled up to standing, despite Lucille's pleas, and was the first to voice their building rage. "You bastard!"

I is for Ida, who drowned in a lake,
J is for James, who took lye by mistake.

        Grant and Dragon started storming down the aisleway and half the guests were on their feet, growling.
        But Adam read on, seemingly unaffected and unappreciative of the fury he was stirring in them.

K is for Katie, struck down by an axe,
L is for Leo, who swallowed some tacks.

        Just as the main phalanx reached the tilted marble top and the first step of the dais, Adam seemed to lose his place in the dreadful verse,

N is for Neville, who died of ennui,

        They paused there. Something in the gilded emerald eyes, something in the set of that impossibly long frame, stopped them.
        "And M," Adam said, as solemnly as a bishop, "is for Mary..."
       "...who died."
        Behind the knot of bodies at the dais stair, a single, piteous moan, rose softly and then fell to a sob.
        Before them, the Eldest Immortal bowed his long back forward over the casket. He tucked the tiny book into Mary's folded hands, and then he brushed her cold forehead with a lingering kiss. When he straightened up again, his eyes were as wild and shiny as any star and the grief of that moment hung on every line of his angular face.
        Almost as one man, the thirty or so, who had mounted the assault on the dais, now drew back, most of them beginning to tear, some sobbing, or swallowing heavily, trying to stop the display.
        Adam had wrung their grieving from their anger, now he would show them who he was, who he would be to them.
        Very slowly, Adam leaned back down and over the coffin. He spread his arms wide until his fingers found the edges of the ponderous marble slab which was the top to the elaborate coffin. Bowing his head to them all, he took a very deep breath and began to lift the top.
        Some of the sobbing turned to gasps and then to open wailing.
        Grant moved forward to help, but Thomas grabbed his elbow and slowly shook his head. The Master of Cross Estates knew what Adam was doing, even as he knew it was impossible. Six strong men had heaved that single slab of marble in here--and they hadn't had to lean over nearly double before they lifted it, either.
        Impossible or no, Adam smoothly lifted the top up and then set it gently over Mary, closing their loss away from their eyes, holding their sadness in the wide reach of his very strong arms.
        Adam could not have been more clear about his intentions had he hugged them individually, each and every one.
        Which, in essence, he had.

©Edward Gorey*

        "Molly?" Ram asked the darkness.
        "Yes, Lord," Molly walked around the study couch so that she was facing the dragon, rather than sneaking up, timidly, from the back. "It is--Oh, Nooo!" she shrieked.
        "What is it, Molly?" Ram's slim shoulders tightened and her head cocked, listening. "Is something wrong?"
        "They didn't say you were hurt so badly," Molly sobbed.
        "Oh, dear," Ram sighed, "and Thomas was all on about how much better it looked. And it was better enough I finally had a chance to wash the soot out of my hair. New shirt--" She lifted the front of the grey "T" with her good hand. "I sort of thought I was looking spiffy."
        "Except for the eyes," Ram grinned, opened her white-scarred orbs fully, and jutted her face suddenly towards the poor little Facet, who proceeded to screech and fall back onto the oriental rug which graced Tom's study.
        "I'm sorry, Molly," Ram managed when her laughter slowed.
        Molly sniffed and picked herself up. "You're awful!" she complained, forgetting her manners entirely. "Margaret said it was no good coming to see you, that you wouldn't appreciate it."
        "Oh, but I do, Molly. Really. I'm sorry I frightened you. I suppose I thought you might like to play. Adam always says I play too rough. How did he do, by the way?"
        "The ceremony?" Molly moved forward cautiously and, taking a very deep breath, actually sat down beside the wounded drake. "Oh, he was splendid. I mean, at first, I thought they were going to kill him, reading that awful poem--."
        Ram smiled and nodded. "Go on."
        "Well, then when he said 'M is for Mary who--' " Molly couldn't finish, just remembering that moment had started her tears again.
        Ram reached out towards Molly, her graceful fingers searching the air lightly before they settled on Molly's lap to pat gently. "Tell me about the interment, Molly."
        "Oh, well, that was a fiasco," Molly blurted. "Um, well, I mean, well there was this dreadful dust up about those terrible mules and how could Master Tom brook such a slur on Mary's memory, but--"
        "The mules, Molly?"
        "Oh, yes," Molly took Ram's hand between her own, smoothing and massaging it as she talked, just as if Ram were an old, dear friend. "HorseMaster Thomas has decided it's about time his stables won the team pull at the Spring Fair in 'Couver. He's been breeding mules for five years now, from that brother of Adam's Belgian that he found outside of Sacramento and brought back to cross with his best Blood and God stock. You can imagine, everyone's always telling him what a waste of excellent stock that was to breed them on the Mammoth jennies he imported from Australia, but you know Master Tom, when he gets an idea. A mule team has never won the pull, but..."
        "Molly," Ram interjected finally, "the interment?"
        "Oh, well it was up on that hill where the horses are buried," Molly's tiny hands played over the cast on Ram's left hand and forearm. "You know, the pasture that got that hole blasted in it over the grotto. Anyway, they've put a temporary fence around the hole, but the ground is too hard to sink the posts, and two horses got tangled and hurt--not badly--but finally they could only let the mules out in the pasture, because they were the only ones sensible enough to leave the ditch alone and to stay back when the workers were making the place to bury Mary. Doesn't that hurt?" Molly's touch feathered lightly over the burn on Ram's forehead.
        Ram held very stiff and still under Molly's touch. "It does," she said, "Not so much as it did, though."
        "I'm so sorry, Ram," Molly sighed. "Well, all right, where was I--yes--the mules decided they would pay their respects to Mary. They came right up and stood with the rest of us as they lowered that awful marble box down into the ground. Then, when Mayor Dawson started the prayer--well, those mules--it wasn't braying, really--it was like screaming, terrible, ugly sounds that were really loud...and they only stopped to catch their breath...and they never stopped at the same time. One would be wailing while the other breathed in..."
        "Good team," Ram remarked.
        "...and no one could shut them up. Mayor Dawson finally gave up and everybody went back to the Pool Hall Library to have lunch, those awful mules just shaking the ground with that nasty noise they made.
        "Some rest Mary will have with those two howling over her," Molly added.
        "Did you get something to eat?" Ram asked.
        "Oh, yes. I brought it with me, and yours also. Thomas made me promise to get you to eat something. He says he is going in to town tonight and won't be back until New Year's Day--," Molly paused uncomfortably.
        "Why wouldn't you be coming back at all, Molly?"
        "The Immortals, the ones that have stayed 'outside,' they are coming, we think to the Tower, to storm the party, at least Lord MacLeod will be there and Thomas thinks they will take that chance to attack him."
        "Duncan? You think they are coming for Leod?"
        "Yes, Ram. Aren't they?"
        "Oh, uh, very likely, Molly. That must be why they are coming. Have you seen Mary's children?"
        "What? Oh, no, no, the Facets were invited, and the Dawsons did go and--they saw and spoke to Kyle, Lord," Molly pulled her hands back from the place where they had settled, combing through the crown of Ram's hair. "I will just get the tray, Lord."
        "You think I will conjure up some retribution on the Dawsons, Molly?"
        "I thought you might, Lord," Molly's voice now emanated from across the room.
        "You are still right as rain, Molly."
        "I do seem to be, Lord, but--"
        Molly returned with a rich soup in a mug which she offered the dragon. "I thought after what happened with Breslaw--" The little Facet's voice broke on the name of the offending Immortal.
        "That was not supposed to happen, would not have happened, except--."
        "Except that coming to my rescue took you so long and then you were captured and then Mary's delivery--. I know, Lord. It was my fault."
        Ram sipped at the soup. "Oh, Molly, Molly--you would think that. No, Friend, not your fault."
        "Am I?"
        "To blame, Molly?"
        "Your friend, Lord?"
        "I hope so. I'd like to think I wouldn't ask such an enormous favor of an enemy," Ram answered cryptically.
        Molly gathered Ram's good right hand in her own and lifted it, making the fingers touch, first her throat, and then, her heart. She ended the Facet's salute by reaching out with her other hand to touch Ram's heart. It wasn't the proper salute, but a decent braille equivalent, still meaning roughly, "My life is yours."
        Molly said aloud, "Ask.
        "But, if it's not too much, might I ask a favor in return?" she hastened to add.
        Ram started laughing so hard she nearly spilt the soup. "Oh, Molly, Molly, Molly...you are a work, indeed.
        "You start the bargaining then, you subtle tyrant, you," Ram handed her mug back and waited.
        "Everybody has questions about what happened, Lord."
        Ram shifted and groaned a little as she repositioned the broken arm. "Questions," she echoed.
        "Would you answer some questions?" Molly said, the wince evident in her voice, even though the expression was lost on the blind drake.
        "Yes," Ram said without hesitation.
        "Oh, dear," Molly whined. "You must have a truly large favor to ask of me."
        "I do," Ram's voice had changed subtly, from friend to monarch.
        "Well then, I better get my value, hadn't I?" Molly stammered.
        "I would recommend it," Ram agreed.
        "What happened, Ram?"
        "I like that," Ram said with an undertone of the sinister beneath the sinuous glide of the words she spoke.
        "Pardon?"
        "The sound of my name on your lips," Ram slid a little on the last "s."
        "Oh?" Molly was clear across the study, putting back the mug, but she still felt the distance insufficient.
        When only silence followed, Ram prompted, "Why don't you tell me what happened and I shall tell you if you are right." Ram rose more steadily than Molly might have thought possible. "Go on. Time flies, Molly."
        Molly was suddenly so flustered, she couldn't think straight, couldn't remember one single question. "Don't you want me to promise not to tell anyone?" she asked feebly.
        "I would have done, were that so, Molly," Ram stretched her back and yawned.
        "You're going to kill me, aren't you? That's why it doesn't matter what you tell me," Molly had begun crying again and her nose ran like a faucet.
        Ram sighed, "If I thought I could manage it, Molly. I would come over there and hug you."
        "Th-that's all right," Molly said.
        "Molly?" Ram called across the black expanse. "Friend?"
        "Yes?" Molly answered, but her voice sounded even farther away, nearer the door to the study.
        "Give me my favor now and later, when you are more composed, I will answer any question you may have," Ram tried to make her voice light and conversational.
        "Will it hurt?" Molly asked.
        "What?"
        "Will you hurt me!" The little Facet's volume had increased considerably, both from her building frustration with her own fear and from the fact she was approaching Ram now, despite that fear.
        "No," Ram replied, "Not at all. In fact I am told this is quite pleasurable, but I have never done it before, so I cannot say for sure." She reached out both her hands and the leading edge of the cast bumped against Molly's shoulder. "What are wearing?" she asked.
        "A suit. A wool suit, Lord. I dressed up for the funeral service," Molly wondered at the question.
        "Take the coat off, Molly," Ram said. "And then come and sit by me on the couch."
        Ram moved smoothly back to the couch as if she were not blind as a newly-molted adder.
        "Am I going to be sorry I did this?" Molly asked, slipping off the suit jacket and laying it on a nearby chair.
        "I think we are both going to be a little sorry about this, Friend," Ram said softly.

        Thomas Cross was "ruffled," not a familiar state for the Master of Cross Estates, who usually wended his way through life as a model of decorum and aplomb. The ceremony for laying Mary to rest had quite undone him, so he was in no fit shape to be taking this elite little group down the winding tunnels for the first "viewing" of Mary's children.
        Grant, God bless him, had had the foresight to procure some suitable swimwear for himself and the other "water uncles" before their company arrived.
        The group included the Mayor and his wife, the Facets, and the African prince. It had been decided to keep the existence of the dragonets within as small a circle as was possible. Of the Facets, Molly and Striker were absent, on other duties, and Dragon was already on his way back to 'Couver to see to the arrangements at the Drieg Tower and to cancel the New Year's program at "Joe's." This left Margaret and Doc to round out their tiny audience with the children of the Dearly Departed.
        "I don't see anything," Lucille remarked, kneeling at the pool side and peering into the water, the caustics of the underwater lighting washing over her like liquid veils.
        Joe shifted on the stone bench where he'd finally had a chance to take the weight off his prostheses. Long days with lots of walking were difficult for him, but he was damned if he would attend Mary's leaving in a chair. This last excursion into Tom's subterranean water works had been too much and he would just be sitting here until one of Tom's minions brought a chair down for him.
        "Mother?" a blond head, bright blue eyes, and sweet smile broke the surface of the pool.
        "Kyle!" Lucille leaned forward, over-balanced and slipped into the water, hugging her son all the way down to the bottom of the deep pool.
        "No!" Thomas stopped the others going in after her. "You are not supposed to be in the pool."
        Lucille and Kyle floated back up to the surface, accompanied by two "floats," one cobalt, the other violet.
        "Lucille!" Dawson shook his head. "Oh, Honey, if I'd known there was going to be a wet 'T' shirt contest, I would have got a bet down on you."
        Lucille looked down. The pale cashmere of her very conservative dress had been rendered more or less transparent. "A gentleman," she observed in southern tones of julep and honey, "would avert his eyes."
        Everyone laughed and not a one of them "gentlemen."
        "Wait a moment, Darling," Lucille dispensed with the dress, which was only getting in the way and doing absolutely nothing to maintain her decency. "Hey there," she complained as the two orbs tickled their delicate cilia over her remarkable chest.
        "They've just never seen--" Kyle started to explain that the poor babes had only had male nannies up to now.
        "Mmmm, mmmm," the Mayor made a sort of state-of-the-city address.
        "Oh, behave," Lucille crooned to the little glowing crystal balls, throwing a glance towards the Mayor to let him know he was included in the admonition.
        Lucille played at mermomma, her glorious red hair adorned in dragon babies as she swam circles in the pool and they played an aquatic version of "snap the whip." Grant ushered his two charges in to join the play, and all four children hummed their delight in such eloquent melodies that their guests were transported.
        Piper would have none of this. Poor Sean was trapped in the farthest corner of the pool by the stubborn little dragonet, who proceeded to batter him so mercilessly that he finally surrendered and took his charge down one of the tubes to a lower level cavern.
        A half-hour later, the Mayor's chair arrived.
        "Darling," the Mayor rolled his chair towards the pool side. "Time to go home."
        "Awwww!" rose up from the pool, Lucille and Kyle and the babes in a lovely harmonic unison.
        "Just ten minutes more," Lucille whined.
        "Lucille!"
        "Oh, all right." Lucille turned to hug her son. "Oh, Kyle, when I knew you had your life back, I thought I would never be any happier for you, but, oh, what a life you are having! Be good, Darling," she kissed his forehead.
        "And you too, Darlings," she reached out her arms and the orbs gathered in their circle.
        "Come on, Grandma," Joe laughed. "We have hundreds of folk invited to the mansion for the New Year's dinner and Cook is liable to quit if you don't get back to help with the menu."
        "Hehemmm," Lucille stared pointedly up at one and all.
        Thomas Cross, who had just been standing at the doorway this whole time, drinking in the sounds and the sights and the general happiness to be had here, snapped alert and went to get Sweet Lucille a bathrobe.
        Thus attended, the Mayor's wife rose, like Venus, from the waves.
        And just for that instant, she served as an avatar of all the life that had been lost and all that was left for those who remained.