Up above, a squat raven settles on the Crow's Nest (where else?). Ugh. Romance. I think I'm going to be ill.

     "I have some things which we should discuss, Io." Patient, as always. There is no sign that this is something out of the usual. Tiernan smiles at you quietly, bending to pour the wine. "Nothing too terrible. But I have been hearing from Gruffydd about his trip."

     Fresh off of the shower-inducing hug given by the squealing young girl -- that's going to keep him up for hours -- the shock of seeing is grandmother (and grand-aunt) as the offered chaperone is enough to send him reeling. "Nainie?" he proclaims in shock.

     He has been roosted on the news of this all night and well into today. Messages back and forth, hush-hush escorts into realms of shadows for quick-quick appearances. And all because of something Gruffydd was doing, or about to do, or at least was considering the doing of. Imagine the fun! O, Calamity!

     Tiernan steps back, looking at you with quiet pride. You have faced a hard truth. Now you are ready to begin.

     Affectionate blue eyes look at that sleeping form, the note left where he will find it. No emergency, but something's come up. I've gone to see to it, will be back. I love you, always and forever. - T.

     A moment of peace. In such ambassadorial journeys, such moments are rare indeed. And so, for a moment, to enjoy the moment, Gruffydd does not rush off headlong into other entertainments. Instead, he lifts his gaze to the boughs of the tree at hand, and reaches up to select a worthy apple.

     As big as it is, Powis Castle is becoming intimate once more. All that's left are a couple of cousins, and your husbands two and children three.

     "Each day, he and his husband will have lunch. A private lunch. We will eat and make love before heading back to our respective businesses. So let it be written, so let it be done. So says the king."

     "...I was High King there for a while, but all things must pass, yeah? Besides, the real work's back in the Other-Other-World."

     A moment's pause is all there is. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I understand your part of the argument. I can understand his regret. I ...appreciate it more... what he was going through, or I imagine he was going through, when we were young.

     Stolen moments. You and he shall have to become master thieves, plucking moments in spontaneous silence.

     The door to 12 d. Rue de la Comtesse opens, and the tall figure of a man turns, his fingers flipping another page of the book -- a book of sketches. You are on time. And it is a good thing. A moment later, and that would have been wasted dramatics.

     "Ian and I leave tomorrow night. Would you care to join us for a drink tonight? We like to drink brandy while our servants pack for us. It makes us feel useful."

     "Bonsoir," Frederic de Champenois nods as you rise. He takes up his pad and his charcoal again, his cigarette lighting his way. And he returns to his sketching. In the foreground, a figure takes shape. A tourist approaches the statue of Voltaire, facing the past and the future in the same moment. Behind him, traffic moves in shadowed blurs, punctuated by sudden illumination...

     Outside on the docks, he pauses to take a look around. One never knows what the future will hold. He never once thought it would ever bring him here, or that he would ever have fought trolls and ogres on land in the company of Tiernan of the Winter Diamonds.

     ...But I will be your escape when you need it. That's what Black Jacks do best...

     "But," he exhales, a smirk trailing after his breath. "I cannot sit here while he is possibly bleeding somewhere, can I? So I will stay in the royal palace and demand special treatment from mother. It won't be a completely wasted endeavor."

...Rest assured that I have not forgotten you...

     His hand cups your face. "The best antidotes for ghosts is illumination," Agapios murmurs, his fingers stroking your cheek. "They cannot abide the clear light of examination. And so... we will vanquish her. I am confident of this."

     When they shake hands, it is like the Captain of All the Ships of the World shaking the hand of the Pirate King...

     "So...does he still want to kill me?"
     "He doesn't want to bake you a cake," William chuckles.

     "Would I be happier in knowledge or ignorance? Let's ask Adam, shall we? I believe that is the quintessential question of the universe, my brother. For now, give me the illusion of ignorance. If you are still seeing him in a year, then... come confess, my door will be open for you as always."

     Now you see it. Now you don't. He is a veritable illusionist in the exchange, the sleight of hand and redirection covering the slide of the envelope into the inside of his coat.

     A guitar pick rolls and flips, finger to finger, leaping, effortlessly leaping, faster. And faster. It is a blur of motion, faster and faster until it becomes a streak of red and blue hovering above his hand like an aura. The pick, a guitar. Are you playing me, shadow-lord?

     The alley's darkness surrounds him until he dissolves in it, a glance given in the direction he believes you to be. And he slips away with a taunting chuckle. You want me? Catch me. Kill me. Thrill me. Iovis Macarelli steps into the Void.

     He moves faster than any human. So fast, that human eyes would catch only one motion in five -- and this is all without breaking into a run. He is simply walking but at the speed of shadow...

     He sees you and he smiles with a rascal tilt. He doesn't say anything before he pulls you in for a hug and kisses you in fine Italian greeting. "Buona notte," he tries Italian on for size. "How was that? Is my accenting off?"

     "...Duw... you look...I don't know that I've ever seen you this way," Iowerth remarks suddenly. "You are in your own power. You are radiating strength and confidence."

     Gwilym rolls his eyes, his hands lifting to scrub at his face. "He looked ... almost Arabic, or Greek, or - something. But not quite. And I looked at him, because he was looking at me, and he didn't look away when he saw me looking at him. And his eyes reached out and hit me. And oes... oes, my ears are still ringing..."

     If I'd known that the last time I saw you would be the last time I would hold you, the last time I would be held by you, I would have done so much differently. But if I'd known, I wonder, would I have had the nerve to leave...

     It's in the heart of London; the irony appealed to him, inasmuch as anything has been appealing to him of late. Where does the man who's lost his heart go but to the city whose heart is stone cold uncaring?

     "No no, Gwi, you're working too hard," Iowerth drolls low and wry, "...you should slow down, brawd, before you pull something."

     Sitting in the chair, Iowerth lingers in his unsilent quiet, his weary brain pulsing with conversations and consequences.

     My head is swimming. I have navigated the worst seas imaginable and have kept my head while doing it. Only to lose my head on land.

     He crosses to one of the other tables, sitting on the edge of it, letting his legs swing. "I'm scouting for an apartment over one of the little clubs. Music in the evening, cheap vodka, easy women - all the things mother'd warn me against. I don't plan on avoiding you, Io, I just ... I don't know. I have - things to figure out."

     You are leaving me...

     I'm lost, and I don't know how to find myself again...

     If this is the seduction, if this is the information you wish, my spy... you will have it. More than you need.

     And a week into this three-week trip, you have seen such sides of him, facets you may not have known existed. His humor, unbound. His love, unrestrained. His tenderness of heart, freed. You had been tied, bound in a thousand different, orgiastic ways -- but the one who was really restrained was Rhodri himself.

     The ship pitches and rolls, even as you and he pitch and roll on the bed. It sends you deeper inside his mouth, it makes his weight land on you, it rocks you back and forth into one another as it rolls upon the skin of the sea.

     He relaxes, very slightly. Ah, so he's not to be immediately tossed to the curb; though what answer should he give? The truth? There are shades and shades upon shades of truth. "I can accept being a Leon Tamer better than some slurs," Tiernan murmurs, his hand shifting to scoop up the little clockwork lion.

     "I do need you," Alire admits with a smile and some coloration. Though, it occurs to him that the globe is only one-way. You cannot see him. He begins to roll out of the shirt. "I feel the separation of our worlds when I go where you may not..."

     For all his droll humor and his reserve, even his stubbornness (and he's most stubborn about the topic of love and all you have had to say. It'll take a while to sink in. Like father, like son. Poor boy), he comes to you with a look and he bends to give you a hug and a kiss. "I'll keep my eyes on him," a nod back to Gwilym. "I am my brother's keeper..."

     He is honorable, and capable, and so what need have he to blush?...Perhaps the arrival of his mentor, a man of great faith, great will, who really isn't supposed to see him flirt.

     Relax...
     Relax, hell, you don't know...

     "Thank you for showing me," he whispers. But now that we have both seen ourselves in the clear light, what shall evening have to offer us. Foolish mistake, Alire. Foolish, and you know better, prince.

     Al'alim taps away the brown and grey ash, "I do not think you sound foolish. Young," he grins at your call on that. "Not yet lacking hope in self or in others. If you can hold onto such feelings, then... who knows," another shrug, "...you may be the better philosopher..."

     "Layers and layers deep. I fall in, he falls in..." Valan's voice trails off. "We fall in."

     William exhales slightly. "I know...we have been more open since returning from America. And I have needed that. And I appreciate how difficult it is for you." He adjusts your towel around your shoulder. "There's a part of me that ... wants to take the Directorate by storm one night. You and I... secret marriage... not so secret anymore."

     A sudden grin flashes at Edward's lips though his eyes remain closed. "Ami...don't worry," Edward says again. It's an exercise in futility for you, his smile says, but for him, it is the exercise that keeps him on the Brujah path.

     But this December, where water was expected (and by one particular visitor, actually anticipated) there is instead snow. And not just a dusting of snow. Several inches of snow hide the stones of the Piazza San Marco and icicles hang from the open mouths of St. Mark's golden lions.

     It'll be a long journey, ap Owain, but you've made those before. You can't protest your feelings and expect things to change. Well, they'll change sure enough but in time. In time.

     Davydd lowers his head, red hair vibrant against your ivory skin as he bends down, kisses travling southward. "It doesn't matter where," he breathes between your breasts. You feel a sudden unhooking as his fingers make the fabric give way. "Here is good," he chuckles.

     It's been a long time since there was a king. Not a king of mere kingdom - someone who could merge with the land, and more than the land. Someone with the power to command souls. Too long, mayhap. I don't know that we're still what we were, when we were, then.

     And below, an ocean of water transforms to an ocean of sky as starpocked below as it is above. It parts, shimmering as the ship cuts through it. This is where the ocean has yet to dream itself into being. Here, on the frontier of Forever. It is where the End and the Beginning meet.

     It is the kingdoms of fairy and dreams dotting the Imaginary Landscape, with the dark oceans of future dreams dotted with heavenly stars and creatures. There, the plains of chaos, roiling midnight blue clouds of Unknown Possibilities -- both Good and Evil -- both unformed and waiting for God... or the dreams of Man... to shape them.

     "If you are not here for a book, then I do not know how I, a bookstore owner, may help you. But... tell me what the problem is. Perhaps there is something," Albizzina finally looks up, her dark eyes fixing forward, her lovely olive face tilting, "... I may do for you, Miss Higgins. Would you like a cappuccino?"

     "Notte," the Italian says, lifting his voice so that the person may hear it. "Excuse me... do you need a ride?" He tries it first in English. Has to be a tourist, right?

     "Venetian. From Venice. Your parents ... met there." One eyebrow raises quizzically. "And, of course, your parents met by some startling, astounding series of coincidences that made for a hell of a story in the retelling, didn't they."

     Rhodri chuckles. "You are so uncomfortable with intimacy. Are you certain you're pregnant? It could just be a case of bad gas, you know."

     "You are really improving. Perhaps we should take a trip to Tokyo some time. You can study the masters of Eastern Art, and I can have tea waiting for you." William smiles to think of it. "I can be your samurai, waiting. You? The emperor, of course."

     Permission was given not only for him to cross the Marches again, but to manifest within the Tower walls itself. Into the Dream itself. An honor in that, and he was keenly aware. But his mission, this time, is simple. To have a moment with the Sentinel he loves. To give the Sentinel some comfort that the others of the Tower cannot provide.

     "But you are the most amazing wife," Cesare explains, "...on a horse, with a sword, with food, in conversation, in politic, and in bed. This is no shame," the knight remarks. He grins and feigns innocence. A sigh follows as the diversion ends. "I do not know what to do, bello. Not yet."

     But he expects it shall cause no ripple whatsoever, this night at the De Ville, his appearance in the sumptuous halls of his own Clan. Why should it? Would they not have to care first, in order for there to be such a thing? And when have they, exactly. He came in a Plantagenet to a Capet party. This he knows. And as long as he is a Plantagenet, it shall be so.

     It must be why her shades are pulled down, her windows shuttered, the daylight pouring within the chamber subdued and tea filling a cup instead of espresso. Albizzina wanders from the backroom to the front room, kettle in hand and pouring yet another cup of orange tea. In it, she grinds nutmeg and drops three drops of vanilla into it.

     You speak. He writes. "I do not think it is so simple. Your gifts are your gifts. Your skills, your skills. You should not compare yourself to Nathaniel," the way he speaks that name. An obvious attempt at being civil, but he does not hide the partial frown.

     "Tumult," Sabine decides, voice still careful, "you have seen great tumult. The Emperor is not a light card to have laid upon you. There were responsibilities in your life, and your goal was to ... conquer..."

     The kettle starts whistling again as he sets it on the burner, a wolf call of sorts, one that matches his suddenly sparkling look. He ignores it, patently, and moves to you. Just shy of your embrace, Rhodri pauses and he makes a courtly bow, 17th century for yours in return.

     Habits. Old habits that have become impulses, impulses that became compulsions, compulsions that, in some cases, became illnesses. And still we ride to Fontevraud...

     From crescent to quarter to full, the moon will show its variable face, donning one mask after the other. So, too, myself, but in terms opposite.

     It is the first time he's discussed it. Perhaps it is the safety of this cove, the liberating waves. "Which is the lie and which is the truth?" Giancarlo shrugs. "Is this truth?"

     "Well," he exhales, pausing to remove the jacket after a moment later, losing nothing by the shedding of a layer. "I think it is a meaningless challenge."

     He isn't dead.
     He isn't dead, and he hasn't left...

      Only one horse? What do you suppose such young men do out in the woods needing only one horse? And with an extravagant amount of hounds. Clearly, they are sleeping together.

     And soon the Toreador are on what talents one may or may not have. Guild, artistes, or poseurs. The world's so drawn along such lines.

     "...What other arms should I want to be in, but Edward Meurelle's? Where is there a better man for Valan Montague... where is there... a better man..." Period.

     It has been a long two evenings. Edward's hand tightens, nodding at the notion of being alright. His disposition's improved, but the situation has not really been solved yet.

     Ian nods, then looks in the mirror again. Hand lifts to adjust his collar, but then he sighs, lowering his hands. It'd be the fifth time he's made corrections.

     The woods shivered with a large wind (me) and we stood upon fertile ground of a different ... View of Wales, Cymru. The red-towered castle still there, still symbolic, flowers and green grass everywhere. And there he was, the Oak King himself, bending to kiss the slip of a girl....

     As garden parties go, it went rather well. There was a string quartet set up on the paved stone area in front of the chapel, allowing for those who wanted to get in a waltz to do so at their leisure. But, in general, the gathering was more low key.

     "Quit stonin' me," Davydd mock-protests, "...it's not as if I danced around saying 'Jehovah', 'Jehovah'," he can barely get through that without laughing.

     "We will figure it out, and piece these things together with logic. There has to be an order, a pattern. You and I will find it, Giancarlo."

     His words are sing-song power, and here that power is everywhere. As the myths say: the land is the king, the king is the land. Red-blushed and golden apples grow, dip delicately from blossom and fruit-heavy branches as you sail by.

     Paolo looks to the passengers in glances timed with the stroke of the oar, in rhythm of the motions that make the gondola sail forward. "Ah... so you, too, are bound by a destiny, a fata," Paolo says.

     Girault looks between the two of you for a moment and then he exhales, "I will apologize for my tone. I do not wish it to seem that I am some Svengali, keeping Ms. Whitethorne in a gilded cage, not allowing her the freedom to move, or to visit friends..."

     ?Perhaps upstairs.?
     A spiraling stair. It circles twice more for him than it does for others -- a total of three times. But the trip is worth it. Below, an ever expanding field of rosewood shelves carry the wisdom of ten thousand years of human civilization. Around him the hidden power of glamour. He had found the Baron?s court. Now to find the entrance.

     "Anything strike you?" comes Raymond's voice from nowhere. He was not in the shop before the staring into the cases. And there was no alerting of his presence. He simply, suddenly, Is.

     Little is known about her other than her association with the earlier owner of the castle, her profession as a psychiatrist, that she has only visited the chateaux briefly this fall for a few hours in the span of her ownership, and that she is (unfortunately) American.

     Faith has seldom failed him, though gods and priests and popes have come and gone...

     I hope this letter finds you well and will find you in Trallwm for my visitation. I am very much looking forward to having the opportunity again to speak with you. The Sisterhood wishes me to convey their greetings, their esteem and their hope that you will join us.

... [The two gentlemen are seated swiftly at a table outside, on the roof, overlooking the brilliance of the South Bank. Menus and waiters appear, glasses are filled, all without a word. They depart as silently.]

     Enter VALAN MONTAGUE, the Hip, Young Man About Town. Waiting on the Tower Bridge is the Duke of Normandy, GUILLAUME d'ANGEVIN, clothed in a dark suit with an equally dark overcoat.

     Your spouse wanders on the parapets tonight, blue and scented smoke trailing his slow stride. It is a way of connecting, disconnecting and imprinting. It is a lord's walk, a prince's walk on the walls, walking among the tower. Below the lights of the ville twinkle and the lights on the Vienne and the bridge that crosses over it.

     And the colorful cherub drifts downward, solitary, to one of the grottos in this great maze of glass and gardens, the best of what would become Venetian palazzi and their hidden, grotto gardens millennia later...

     "Yes," he says excitedly, eyes and eyebrows widening a touch, "I am happy to take you to the Abbey tonight." He pauses half-a-moment, turning to Tori, "Fontevrault, or Fontevraud," slight variation on pronunciation but barely noticeable really. "Victoria wants to go visit the family crypt..."

     Bringing up the rear again is Sebastian. He's fine to be in the back, really. Unnoticed. Invisible. He follows along, still smirking. This is the weirdest interview for a mistress he's ever witnessed...

     So when the phone rings, his cell phone, on his nightstand, it is not greeted with a quick lift and you, by extension, given a quick and awake greeting but instead continues to ring as a large Plantagenet hand emerges from a pile of bedding and fumbles for it in the darkness.

     And then from shadows, Davydd comes, popping air punctuated by the march of the Cymri. His aura could light half of Welshpool. If you view it, ever, but certainly now, it'd fill the aviary full of bright white light. And in it, swimming, dragons of blue light in nine locations.

     I think sometimes it was a mistake, leaving without him. Maybe I am still used to travelling alone when I am off to experience...well, whatever it is I expect to experience. I should have allowed him to come.

     Raymond's palm remains upright in offering, even though his eyes wander the dress. "And no, you did not keep me waiting. No man, upon a sight, could say that his time was lost."

     "You should pay very close attention to your ensemble. The more attention you pay to it, cher, the more attention... he will pay to it." I feel like I'm Educating Rita.

     "Victoria," he says, the name almost purred. A side-effect of being French. "Please, my father was Monsieur Marillet," Raymond teases, hand extending as he comes to his full six-foot height.

     "I don't know, Marta. I don't know what it is." Davydd stares forward, actually thinking of it. "Maybe... it's just that she came. She was ...brave enough," he suddenly thinks, "... to show up unannounced on my borrowed doorstep. She found me, she reached out. She's ... brave," he notes again. "And frightened."

     "Always nice to see help in town," Salem says, her blondish hair piled on her head. She pushes up a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Have you gotten settled? I will admit...I'm a little surprised, but no less grateful."

     Little poet, so sticking out among the fetished and freaky crowd, a brilliant beacon of purity in a most impure world, you are irresistible.

     You and I have memorized the earth. We have been here before. Safir has been here before. The trees were different, older then. These, these have been planted after the ravages of tall ships and navies emptied the forests of France and Europe. I remember the oak and beech stands, the thickness that could, and did, hide armies.

     Of course, underneath the tweeds and silks, she's a lot less comfortable.... Was this a good idea? I feel like a circus sideshow freak. Maybe I should've worn the leather instead.

      "What did Maria say," Edward keeps rambling, "...when you said you'd be staying here with her for a few nights?" His earlier explanation of a friendly family visit apparently wasn't taken as truth, somehow.

     A bigger concern was how I would make the week's journey and avoid the sun. That it was autumn was only partially consoling; for though the sun may wane early, it made for rocky Channel waters and more treacherous seas.

     In more sobriety, then : you had the opportunity to take from her much of herself - of her mind, of her body, of her heart, of her soul. For whatever reasons of your own, you refrained, and for that, I thank you.

     Arms go wide, green eyes -- Cymru green -- go wide as well. And so too the smile. A triad reaction, how fitting. "Mad Peter!" he exclaims, the whiskey, brandy, scotch and mead -- yes, mead -- getting the best of him for a moment. "Boyos, look there... my old soothsayer, messenger of The Lady...go greet a friend..."

     He's a small man, topping five feet only by perhaps four inches, and his storm-grey eyes crinkle as he regards the Norman. "It has been a few years, hasn't it, lord."

     "Melodrama, at your age," he murmurs, shrugging his jacket into place, smirking. "As if anyone should pity you." As if you pity yourself. William gets the joke.

     "I did hear that you were asked to speak with me. Is there anything you ... would like to say, Edward?"

     I am heading into the Caliph's Land. Or to quote the Unnamed Poet of the tome at my feet, that sun-kissed land, rich in dark-eyed girls, and water that springs silver from the golden ground. I have never been to this part of Espana. Only the vineyards of Castile, the exclusive villas of Madrid, the discos of Barcelona.

     Ian grins even brighter. "A true traveler," he chimes, delighted with the prospect and serendipity of it all. "And you have ended up in our little part of the universe."

     Hands lowered, Valmiki stumbles, tripping over his own feet, and winces. Oh, this will hurt, when he hits the ground... except the ground isn't where it ought to be, and instead, his forehead catches against a door, producing a hollow clonk, paired by a muttered oath. "Vishnu's balls!"

     The amber hue owed to the lights of Chenonceau, lit as they are every night. But this night, they burn for new residents. And the lights echo across the quick moving waters of the Cher, ripples highlighted.

     Standing at the edge of the awning as the water billows around him and soaks his heavy cloak is a tall figure that seems to have stepped right out of European folk lore, or an American pulp serial.

     She leans her head back and chuckles, finally murmuring aloud, "When I find him, I'm going to duct-tape him down so he can't wander again. Or maybe I'll chain him up and just never let him leave."

     Your vagabond sister: Victoria. Vagabond because since she left the 'new world', she's not yet settled. Never staying in one place for too long, almost stubbornly refusing to stop and relax, Tori continued to travel over the last year or so, seeming to be searching for something.

     Another point of truth, laid down in a solitaire of them. She's no idea what she's in the middle of...

     Perhaps prayers will be resumed. Perhaps he's just stalling...

     A thrumming in the back of the head, fluttering, follows the clocks. A ripple in the floorboards, imperceptible to most. The sound of something rushing forward at incredible speed.

     He has been quiet since Ibiza. Barcelona. Venezia. Content to practice his hand at watercoloring, still his favorite. There were a few sudden phonecalls, he suddenly rising and heading within quarters upon loud, flat steps.

     ...And then, holding out the package, the slender smile turns to an almost grin. "Ventrue Express..."

You may find that what drives you, what impassions you, what interests you, and, truly, what you are fit to do is different from the expectations The Others may have of what you should do. Do not be discouraged.

But what I most associate with Spain is Edward. It will always be recalled
as the place where I met the only man I have ever envied. You must tell him
this -- and take a picture of the look you get. I have enclosed enough
envelopes and instructions for any replies you might wish to send...

I am looking over the city lights from the sea shore, smelling the breath and skin of Espana, like you do when you have been parted from a lover for too long and all you can do is quiver and breathe. I do not know what so sets into me about this country.

     Will he still want to speak to me? Do I really want to speak to him, knowing it might not have been him? I don't know what I want...
     Worse than a child in a candy store, and with less reason, isn't she.

     "Babi is the quite busy semi-deity," comes a perturbed voice... from the heretofore still statue, "...who can't be seen without an appointment. Do... you have an appointment?" And the airy voice of an Eternal Bureaucrat settles its emphasis on the two intruders. Eyes open and a stony eyebrow lifts angular. And skeptical.

     Then a knock on the door. Perfect to the ticking of the clock. The man is out there, waiting. A small slip of paper in his hand on which is written this address. And a name.

     The threads illuminate one of the white washed walls, something like stucco only not, and the heretofore random peelings and cracks in the wall become a crackling smile. "Put a kettle on, Karoly, prop your feet. Tell me, how have you been. What have you been up to..."

     Through another set of doors, the labyrinthine halls. Until there is peace. Quiet. And simply a feeling of power. It is not until you reach this area that Girault speaks again. "For all that I tease him, amice, he is one of our prime voices. If we were to form a choir, a symphony of Who We Are and Why, the Circle may set the key... but Villon, amice, is the measure..."

     There is a visible exhale from Christian. Among the Justicar, he must indeed be the most sociable. "Sabbat in Paris suggests other forces in Germany. I think this is why Messereich is as he is right now. Well, he is as he is, because he is Ventrue," Christian drolls out. "However, that is of concern, and the organization of Tours and Poitiers. Of that, I am sure Girault will have much comment," he motions to the returning companion.

     Past the entrance to Montemarte itself, there are still old gates marking your entrance -- much as one would expect to see sign-posts in hell, and not so far from sacre coeur, there is a gated mansion, very old. Very steeped in the bohemian legends of Montemarte. La Tanire de L'oie D'or. The Lair of the Golden Goose.

     Kit lifts his cup in a little salute to you. "Purity... that is something we can aspire toward, hmm? Some choose purity, others truth, others honor. We all have an ideal that we chase, like birds chasing after a comet. But it is the effort, I think, that is rewarded. Not the capture..."

     We all have our sorrow. We all have our joys. We have our reasons to smile and our reasons for tears. The Song of Solomon still rings so true. I was once a poet, too. I wrote psalms. But in the ash and in the fire of the birth and death of stars, I have not had a moment to do so since. Not since the time of David of Israel. Strange. Why did I let that go? To whom did I surrender it...

     Brilliance has left Venice. Soldekai off on Heavenly errands, those as archangels have -- whatever they are. The sun hasn't been seen in days, and all of the record-breaking snow has turned to rain.

     Essence is what is given. Essence is what pours out of the one collapsing back on the sand, singing today. In sound audible to all ears. In power felt by some more than others -- that is the nature of this song. It continues, with its call and answer to Allah in a tongue that is of no tongue but understood in all nations.

     "How do you know if pinkus hybiscus means Sri?" Soldekai now frowns. This is...not good. Suddenly, Gabriel's ache becomes his own. How can one whisper inspiration...if the words are...well, they're words. Not cosmic thought. That is how the Symphony works. Suddenly, Soldekai doesn't like words, and his frown becomes more of an anxious tremor.

     "So basically, wot you're saying is that you can't be bothered to commit, so you stick with people you can use and toss away without worrying they'll come after you with a shotgun." She turns to look over her shoulder, her smirk having more real warmth in it this time, even as her eyes are challenging. "Funny, that. I always thought that's what Kleenex got invented for..."

     I know that is why Ian and William are here. So removed from all of that noise. The press and the push of it. And I think they are wise men. And I think that this is a lesson of them that most men miss.

     What a great old place is this. A hand of Montague strays over his coat as he draws away from the chair and takes a seat near a bookcase. His eyes stray over the titles there. His thoughts stray some six hours southbound. I wonder, mon ami, where you are in your task now. A hand reaches up and fingers toy with the garnets strung at his throat.

     She turns about in your arms, the nervousness upon her again. "I..." she acknowledging what is happening between you, "I...am...a little nervous," Sandrine laughs softly, timidly. It is been ages, since I was so close to someone.

     I have to remember how to handle a dove. Slow hands, Llewelyn. Slow hands and slow movements. Soft voice and a soothing warmth. And then you'll have your bird in the hand, boyo. You used to catch them, remember... when you were young...

     A hint of humor. Sakir watches the interplay of the three as an outsider would, an interested outsider.

     Wrists turn down instinctively as Sakir notes Edward's gaze. A touch of alarm on his features. "I --" He faulters for a second with the language "-- would enjoy that yes." He then slowly begins to stand, at least to make introductions, while one hand remains on his glass. "Sakir Akalay." Left hand offered to shake. "And I thank you for your offer, though I already have a drink." Strange how fast he changes from faultering over a language to seeming perfect fluency. It must have been surprise.

     Have I won? After a thousand years? I think so, but it is hard to tell. We have such a long way to go.

     He pushes himself from the support, letting the breeze blow him your direction. "I should convince you to go to Copenhagen with me one night. Or how about Capetown..."

     "Stop me... sometime while we are here... tell me No. It will be good for me." He chuckles quietly, half-turning from the glass, and the things it holds to ... others equally nice.

     "It has been too many years since I have been on the Mediterranean... and with you, with art, with male models and the promise of adventure..." Sensuous, his mouth holds the smile that follows with a scandalous curl.

     I want you to go to the summit of the western tower. There is a woman there very dear to me. It would please me very much if you would make her happy...

     And books from Paris now join those of Chinon. Books delivered lately from Scotland now join French bretheren. And the lights in the library remain on all night.

     Baskets of flowers hang from the awning of every cafe and shop along the historic street, so narrow only foot-traffic may traverse its length. The streets still sparkle with the rain that is still falling.

     "Holy --" Edward doesn't finish the rest. "Um," he suddenly stands, eyes wide open, "...no..." already, he's tumbling past your legs and the table, moving towards the foyer. "No, no, I got it...just..." he twists to see you, hands out, "...just stay there. No," he blinks, turning to look in the mirror above the table in the foyer, "...stand. That's better," he nods, running a hand over his hair.

     He'd prepared himself rather nicely. A bath, a meal. A walk around the outer gardens. You know his habits, when he rests, when he rises. Edward dressed in blue and black, his favorite colors. Slacks are dark linen, and his shirt, the finest of shimmering indigo silk. He took his time tonight, thinking that this is the beginning of forever.

     It is chaotic. It is beautiful. And in everyone of them you can see the man you love.
     Valan looks to you then exhales. Ah... home...

     "Chinon..." Tori's voice says, almost numbly as she glances around frantically, ice-blue gaze flickering from person to person. Oh gods, don't let him be here already... no... please...

     A lift and a touch of his gloved hand against his partner's cheek as he leans in. A kiss that, though it is brief and for public consumption, is also without shame. A kiss, love, and see my smile? "Handsome, without compare, beautiful. I like this..." Distraction is spreading. William touches his hand to Ian's indigo. You wear my colors. As easily as you wear me .

     Et vous, Eduard. The last words to leave my lips and they did so ... with so little thought. Distracted. Non. Confused. As if the heart and mind rose up together in concert and in unison spoke. Why now? I should not feel this way. My brother and my friend making... honest outreach. Non, it is ... not important -- the past, that is. And what did... or in this case, did not ...happen. He is happy. I am happy. Oui, it is enough.

     "Oh, God!" he calls, an open, aching lament. "What in the fucking hell," English now, "...is he doing here...." Edward's head rolls in disgust, hands coming up to cover his eyes. What is with the last two nights ...

     The craftsmanship alone make the figurine worthwile. An old boat, the curved hull made of Lebanese cypress. The fine pieces curve and are joined by the tinest of fittings, mimicing the ships of old. A ship you once travelled in, so very long ago.

     Such stories begin this way. No fable should be without its chateau and a winter landscape. And so it begins...

     But then the grin erupts with laughter behind. "Alright, dammit... stop... now that you found me, Edwina... mind cutting back on the quakin? Sit like a gentlemen... are all of you Brits heathens to a man?"

     He had other plans for Palmer's tonight, until he got your call. A fighter by the name of Yang Ping was to meet for a bit of martial arts. But plans change. Ping had been there regardless, but after finding another opponent and then watching others, he gave a wave and departed. Another time. Instead, Edward mustered himself together to face his cousin instead. While he was glad to see you, there was something else behind his expression.

     There's a warm look of affection as he feels what crosses your heart about Navarre. It is understandable. It is...regrettable. But once where he worried on such, he does not now. Her acts reflect not on him or you, or your love. She will suffer the consequences of what she did.

     That...is the sound of a motorbike. And it is not veering. Soon, a light can be seen in distant wheat, more than likely someone driving through it. The tops of silver-gold bend, yielding to something's approach.

     You are the bright focus in his universe. To touch you is to touch the Divine and the Desired.

     "I have brought you things asked for and things not... warm clothes and clean... hello, beauties," he takes time for the horses as he moves toward the bank, quieting his voice.

     The look says it all: Lie, me? But the grin confirms it. "It is warmer than the Pacific...oui? Get in, she will not bite..." The river that is. He makes no such promises regarding himself.

     Has either of you felt so Alive? So in tune with each other and the world around that nothing else matters? So unfettered by vampiric life as to feel safe and secure?

     Ice-blue eyes flicker back and forth at the scenery passing by, taking in every tree, every hill, every blade of grass, it seems. To a Toreador who's never set foot in Scotland in her life until now, the passing countryside is a living, breathing portfolio of artwork.

     "I was telling Will," he smiles, "...that you might be too busy, being Seneschal and all, to come visit an old pair like us."

     The smile is sudden. And it is explosive in indigo eyes. Fiery. Igniting. Immediately. "Hello, ami..." And William nearly chuckles. But just...seeing you. He is stopped. Standing. Still...

     As people head into the ring, Edward turns to see you and gives you a smile. "Hey there, cos!" he yells, "Whatcha doin?" as if nothing's happened and you're walking towards him down the street.

     "And what exactly..." comes the voice at the other end, relaxed and teasing, "...was I supposed to think of that small piece of footage you sent me? Oh, I'm sorry, it was not footage..." Ian purrs, rather amused at it all.

     There will be no sadness for it, just an ultimate realization that his completion comes from one source only. The body has enjoyed the rides, the spirit is lifted and soaring, but it flies homeward, seeking the comfort and bed of its True Heart.

     "You are the only one who sees them... You are the only one... who has ever been so close to me. That you know me... so well. That to touch my skin, is to feel your own. No... one knows my secrets, but you."

     His hand is yet gloved and shakes yours. A firm grip. "You are in Spain... but never when I am there... Is William afraid I will sweep you off your feet and convince you to live in Florence with me?"

     "Yes, we did, it was...unusual," Ian confesses, watching the pilot. An affinity...if his heart was not already taken by another former pilot and commander. "It was nice...being home again."

     And it is as if Cadiz knows you shall soon be leaving... that it makes itself as brilliant, if not more splendid, that the first evening. Incense is lit. Corridors are rimmed with beeswax candles. And the young men of the house are attentive to your every care. And somewhere you hear a song is stirring.

     And he rose from where he sat. He rose without goodbyes. A stained glass shadow, he abandoned the remainder of the reminders. This is what it is like to be without you.