To know a person, one must live in the same house with him.

The next morning, Sam sat at one of the little umbrelled tables on the patio, sipping his coffee and watching the view.

The sea was flat, calm and an incredible blue. Almost the color of Nikita's eyes, Sam thought, and took another sip of coffee.

From behind him, a voice asked, "May I join you?"

Sam looked up and shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Michael sat down with not only a cup of coffee, but a coffee pot. "I thought you might like some more."

"Thanks."

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, then Michael said, "Are you still angry?"

"Getting over it."

Michael nodded.

"Is Milla?" Sam asked. "Still angry, I mean."

"Very. Angrier than you."

"Well, essentially you let me and Mum believe one lie: We thought you died. With Milla, you've been telling lie after lie."

"Don't remind me. I'm aware of all my shortcomings."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"You've been with Nikita a long time."

"Yes," Michael said cautiously.

"Are you still finding out things about her?"

Michael's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Last night, I learned Sara already knew about Section One. Apparently she's got a cousin or something that was stationed at Section Five. She thought it was peculiar that I didn't know about any of the Sections. She said it was common knowledge where she came from."

"Where does she come from?"

"Manchester. But everyone else in her family works for the government in some fashion. She's the only black sheep of the family."

"Nikita and I were both at Five for awhile."

"Yeah, I remembered you'd said that."

"Where's the cousin now?"

"He's about to retire from the diplomatic corps. I can't remember where he's stationed now. South Africa or someplace. But he didn't have a second family," Sam said, his voice faintly accusatory.

"It makes a difference," Michael said neutrally. He looked at his son: tall, strong features, firm lips pressed together in disapproval. "Knowing about this cousin of Sara's makes this easier for you to accept, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't say that. But it does lend an incredibly unbelievable story credibility."

Michael sighed and took a folded sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket. "I wish Milla felt the same way. She left a note."

Sam's eyebrows raised and he took the offered paper, scanning it quickly and letting out a low whistle. "Does Nikita know yet?"

"No. She was very upset last night. It took her a long time to get to sleep. I didn't want to wake her this morning."

Sam's eyes narrowed and he nodded to the coffee. "Fortification?"

"I'll need all I can get," Michael said, topping off his cup and Sam's. "She won't be happy about this."

The men were quiet again, watching the unchanging view, then Michael finally said, "I didn't ask you last night, but ... are you planning on telling your mother about this, too?"

"What do you think?"

Michael considered. "Of course, I'd rather you didn't. It will hurt her, and I've never wanted to hurt her. I don't think she'd understand."

"I don't understand," Sam pointed out.

"But Elena's different. She's so ... tender. Fragile. She needs to be protected from things like this. I hope your step-father protects her."

Sam frowned. "Are you talking about Elena, my mother? Or some other Elena I don't know?"

"Your mother, of course."

"Well, my mother doesn't need protecting. She's strong."

"Elena? Strong?"

"Look, I don't remember you very well. And I don't remember Mum well either, from when I was little. All I know is, Mum runs a tight ship. She's a fighter. When my sister was in a car wreck years ago, everyone said she wouldn't walk again but Mum was determined that Indy would not only walk, but dance. And she's pretty good. Not Ballet Academy material, but she's all right. When Andy blew up the kitchen, Mum was the one who got us all out of the house and called the fire department. When Andy or I broke our arms or cut ourselves or whatever, she was always the one who took us to the hospital."

"Elena?"

"Yeah. I'm telling you, people change. Look at you."

Michael considered. "Your step-father, he doesn't help her?"

"It's more accurate to say they help each other. They're an excellent team." Sam frowned, then said evenly, "The only reason I'm not angrier at you than I am is, Mum has a good life. She and Ian have a solid marriage. They're good for each other; they always have been. And I suppose," he added grudgingly, "You did more than a lot of men would have done. The trust fund helped a lot, especially in the early years."

"Nothing I did was right," Michael said slowly, "But ... I tried to do the best I could. Especially for her. And you." After a minute, Michael asked again, "So, will you tell her?"

"I don't know yet."

"How long ... do you think you and Sara can stay?"

"Not much longer. I want to get back to Cairo." Sam hesitated, then said, "It's awkward that Milla's left. I was counting on her helping me."

"Help you do what?"

"It's Sara ... I'm worried about her having the baby in Cairo."

"What could go wrong? You're a doctor, aren't you? Nikita was impressed with your skills."

"It's different when it's your own baby," Sam scowled. "I was hoping Milla would help me talk Sara into going home to England to have the baby."

"Without you?" Michael raised an eyebrow. "Take it from someone who knows: women don't like to have babies by themselves."

"I'd be there for the last bit. I could get time off from work. We've got another doctor coming in from the States in a week or so. I'd need to show him the ropes, but I could be in England for the last couple of weeks of her pregnancy."

"You asked me before whether I still learned things about Nikita," Michael said thoughtfully, turning his coffee cup around. "One thing I learned very early is, if a woman's mind is made up, it's difficult to change it."

"We'll see," Sam sighed and took another drink of coffee before changing the subject. "I'd like to have some of Nikita's blood to send to Andy. He's doing a lot of research with nerve regeneration. Maybe he could help her. He's the top person in his field and if he can't help her, he might know someone who could."

Michael was silent for a moment, then said quietly, "You would do that for us?"

Sam shrugged. "Might as well. I can't promise anything, but Andy could possibly help her."

"The same Andy who blew up the kitchen?"

Sam shrugged again. "Mum wanted to remodel anyway."

***************

Your mother will always let you come home.

"Mum?"

"Andy?" Elena smiled over the phone, holding the receiver to her ear as she gave the rice a stir and fit the lid back on. She'd know his voice anywhere: perpetually congested, he always sounded like he was developing a sinus infection or just getting over one. Of course, if he took his preventative medicine ... but he never could remember. He could grow kidneys, but couldn't remember to take one little pill a day.

"Yeah, hi, it's me. Listen, I need to come over and do some laundry."

Suspiciously, Elena said, "What's wrong with Sammy and Sara's machine? You didn't break it, did you?"

"Uh ... no. Not exactly. Well, sort of. The repairman is coming tomorrow. Oh. That's another thing. Can someone come over and wait for him?"

Tempering her irritation, Elena said, "Can't you do it? You are housesitting for them."

"Uh ... I'm going out of town for a bit. Work. I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

"Oh? Where are you going?" Elena opened a drawer, took out a knife, and begin slicing the peeled carrots.

"Italy. So, can I drop by tonight?"

"We're having chicken," Elena smiled. "And Indira will be here, so be nice."

"Hey, great, it'll be good to see the runt."

"Andy."

"Sorry, sorry, you know I love her."

"Mmm. Don't be late, sweetheart."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be on time."

"I mean it, Andy. So what's the work in Italy?"

"Sam found me another funny nerve damage case. Sent me some blood a couple of days ago."

"Oh, so will you see Sam and Sara?"

"Uh, yeah, looks like it."

"How can you tell anything about nerves from blood?"

"Uh ... takes too long to explain, Mum. But this one's a good one. Now all I have to do is find some stem cells."

Elena gave up trying to follow the conversation; Andy may have been brilliant, but he was difficult to live with sometimes. Which was why he was living at Sara and Sam's apartment and not at home anymore. Not that a 30-year-old should be living at home, but Andy was different. Always had been. "Sweetheart, why don't you plan on spending the night here tonight? We're closer to the airport and Indira can take you tomorrow, then she can drop by the apartment and wait for the repairman."

"Hey, think the shrimp'd do it?"

"Yes, if you don't call her a shrimp."

Indira came into the kitchen, peered at the stove top and raised her eyebrows. A slight girl with honey-colored hair and an olive complexion, she had Elena's eyebrows and Ian's stubborn chin. "Who're you talking to?" she whispered.

"Your brother," Elena mouthed back, then said to Andy, "Come on over. Supper will be ready in about an hour. And sweetheart, don't forget to pack your allergy medicine. You sound awful."

************

Have good manners, even at home.

Andy glanced down at his watch as he slammed the trunk of the car and lugged his laundry basket to the back door.

Perfect timing. Well, maybe he was a little late ...

He stumbled in the door nearly koshing himself on the lintel because he forgot the doors in this house were too low for him, and set his basket down with a bang. He yelled, "Mum! I'm home!"

He heard the scrape of a chair and his mother peered around the door, patting her lips on a napkin. "So I hear. Put a load in and come and eat, sweetheart."

"Uh ... I forgot the soap," Andy realized.

"In the cabinet above," his mother said from the kitchen. "Where it's been for the past 20 years."

"Yeah. Right." Andy poured soap in, started the machine, and began stuffing his clothes in willy-nilly.

From behind him, a voice said, "Don't you care about sorting?"

He swung around, and his face broke into a smile. "Hey, shrimp! Give your old brother a hug."

Indira grinned and softly punched him in the abdomen. He grunted as if she'd really hurt him, and she said, "You're going to turn all your clothes funny colors again."

"S'okay. People expect it now. How's school?"

"Over. I start summer classes in June."

"Hey, be a sport and run out and get my files in the car. Don't want to forget them tomorrow."

He tossed her the keys and Indira scampered out, returning with two briefcases. "This it?"

"Yeah, thanks Indy." He stuffed the last shirt in, closed the top and grabbed the heavy cases in one hand and Indira in the other, swinging her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing. She shrieked and laughed, hitting him on the back. "Hey, stop tickling," he said. "Duck the door, we're coming through."

Indira cleared the top of the door frame with an inch to spare.

"Come and eat," his mother called, and Andy clumped into the kitchen and tossed the briefcases on the floor. "Sweetheart, put your sister down."

"Oh, yeah. Right." Andy set Indira down with a thump in her chair and sat down in his place. His mother placed a full plate in front of him.

"Looks delish, Mum."

"Use a knife, Andy."

"Uh, yeah. Right. A knife."

They chatted about this and that. Andy was not allowed to talk about work because fluids and functions were forbidden at the dinner table, but he listened to Indira's tales about her professors and his dad's latest book research. Soon, his mother glanced at her watch. "We need to go, dear."

"Right you are." Ian stood, a huge mountain of a man, clapped his son soundly on the shoulder and grinned. "Good to see you, ace. If I don't see you before you leave, safe journey."

"Yeah, thanks. Have a good time at the ballet."

Elena had turned to clear the table and Ian raised his eyebrows. "One of the joys in my life, the ballet," he said musingly, and Andy snorted.

"You're a good man, pop."

"That I am, that I am."

Indira said, "Mum, go get ready. You can't miss the first act, it's spectacular. Andy and I will do the dishes."

"Well --" her mother gave Andy a nervous look.

"Don't worry, Mum, I'll supervise," Andy said, waving her away. "Won't touch a thing, I promise."

"It's not that you're clumsy so much," Elena sighed, "You're just so big."

"Yeah, too big to be allowed, I know. Cut it out, I'll cry in a minute," Andy said, taking another piece of chicken before Indira put it away.

"Behave yourselves." Elena kissed the top of Andy's head and rolled her eyes. "And take a bath before you get on the plane tomorrow. Wash your hair. Promise me."

"Yeah, yeah, will do."

****************

May God spare anyone who has a hand in his own death.

Elena and Ian came home late. The house was dark and quiet; Indira had left the little light on over the kitchen sink. "Kids must be in bed," Ian said.

"Mmmm." Elena spotted Andy's briefcases on the floor and sighed. "He'll forget these yet," she grumbled, reaching for them.

"Lee, leave 'em. He's got to learn to pick up after himself."

"If he's not learned by now, there's little chance he will," Elena grinned. "Go on up, I'll be in bed in a minute. I just need to check and make sure he got all his clothes washed."

Ian kissed his wife and held her close for a minute. "The ballet was nice," he lied.

Elena grinned and craned her neck upward. She thought about saying how grateful she was that he hadn't snored quite as loudly this time as he had the time before, but instead, she just said, "I love you, Ian."

"Love you too, Lee." He swatted her lightly on the backside. "Hurry up and come upstairs." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Elena laughed.

She was still smiling when she went to the laundry room. Someone -- Indira, probably -- had neatly folded Andy's clothes in his laundry basket. His suitcase stood nearby. It looked as if he'd packed it, then just left it there. She peeked in the washer and saw a lot of wet clothes still left. Elena sighed, put them in the dryer, and started upstairs.

The briefcases still were in the corner. Andy would forget them, she just knew he would. Elena picked up one -- it weighed a ton -- and put it in Andy's chair. He'd see it when he ate breakfast in the morning. When she reached for the other, it tipped over and paper skittered across the floor.

She sighed again, stooping to pick up the papers, when a name caught her eye.

Nikita Samuelle.

Elena froze, then, very carefully, she picked up the papers, lay them on the table, and scanned them. Her eye snagged on a familiar signature on a hospital release form dated a few months before.

Michael Samuelle.

Elena's stomach suddenly cramped and she sat down in a chair. She blinked a couple of times, willing her vision to clear, and when she could finally read without the words dancing in front of her eyes, she went through every piece of paper in both briefcases.

Michael is alive.

Elena looked around the room frantically. Same old kitchen table, scarred from years of abuse from her children, same tiled kitchen floor where Andy had broken innumerable dishes, same wallpaper she had picked out after a minor explosion of Andy's resulted in an impromptu renovation, same refrigerator that had held years and years of Sam's drawings and Indy's dance schedules. Same curtains that Indira used for playing Scarlett O'Hara when she was eight.

In the room beyond, she could see the shadowy shape of the couch where she and Ian had made love when the children were asleep. The Persian carpet, where Sam had spilled grape juice and where numerous dogs over the years had relieved themselves. Sorry, Mum. I'll clean it up.

All the same. And all different. Because now she was afraid it was going to be taken away from her.

No. I won't allow it. It's my life. And Ian's. And I won't let anyone, not even Michael, take it away from me.

Elena shut her eyes.

"Lee? Honey? Come up to bed," her husband called softly from upstairs.

Elena gasped and shuffled all the papers back into the briefcase. Andy would never notice they were out of order. "Coming, Ian," she called up.

Elena quickly checked all the doors and windows and set the alarm -- something she normally didn't do when Andy was home, since he usually inadvertently set it off. Then she took a deep breath and walked quietly upstairs.

Her husband looked up from the book he was reading. He was a huge, blond man. In another time might have been a Viking warrior, he was that big. He and Andy were not fat, they were just ... solid. Ian was head and shoulders above any other man she'd ever met. His size scared her at first, he was just so tall and so immovable, and, like Andy, "too big to be allowed." But he was gentle and funny and hers and she loved him.

"Lee? Is something the matter?" Ian put his bookmark in place and frowned at her in concern.

"No ... nothing."

"Sure?"

Elena took off her dress and hung it up, slipped out of her shoes and put her earrings away. Her hands were shaking with anger and she felt as if she were going to burst into tears.

"Lee? Honey?"

She pulled on her nightgown and got into bed. Ian flipped off the light, then Elena sat up again. "I love you, Ian. More than anything."

Ian reached over a massive hand and hauled her over next to him, then rolled her on top of him. Elena put her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his hips. "I love you so much."

"Mmmm." Ian's huge gentle hand moved slowly up her back. "You're just saying that so I'll go to the ballet next month."

"I don't care if you never go with me again," Elena said sincerely.

"Ah, you say that now ..." His hand moved under the hem of her gown and she felt warm skin on hers.

"Although," Elena said thoughtfully, warming under his touch, "There is something incredibly appealing about a man who will go to such lengths to keep his wife happy."

"Appealing, eh?"

"Ian ..." Elena felt her panic and anger ebbing, replaced with a warm glow. Had she ever felt this way with Michael? She really couldn't remember. She'd been so young and he'd been so ... stoic.

Calm, cool, collected, that was Michael. At the time, they'd been perfect for each other: she needed direction and he needed someone to take care of. She'd even thought she loved him, but when she met Ian she realized she and Michael had been missing something important. There was a spark she felt with Ian that she'd never felt with Michael. Ian was firecrackers and fun and passion. And Ian was ... unique. Hers. Where Michael was all cool sensibility, Ian was ...

"What would you think about having another baby?"

"What?!" Elena jerked up and looked down at her husband's lazy smile.

"Just joking. Wanted to be sure you were paying attention."

Elena laughed. "I'm too old for babies. Maybe grandbabies, but not my own. How about a dog, instead?"

"Nah. Throws up on the carpet. Pees on everything."

"So do babies." Elena took off her gown and Ian's huge hands settled on her hips.

Ian said softly, "Remember the first time we made love? I was sure I was going to break you."

Elena looked down at him and smiled. "Ha. You teased me and teased me so much that you could have done anything to me and I would have been so wild to have you, nothing would've hurt..." She ran a finger down his nose and to his mouth, and he kissed it, then lifted her a bit and resettled her.

"You're more beautiful now than you were then," he said softly.

"I'm 20 pounds heavier ..." Elena said, clutching his shoulders as he moved subtly. Gentle. Familiar. Hers.

"I love every pound." He kissed her, a sweet, gentle kiss that made Elena shudder with pleasure. "Elena ... Lee ..." he crooned, and Elena, feeling loved and warm and certain that this man was the only one for her, no matter who might come back from the dead, surrendered willingly.

Later, Elena curled around her husband. He was quietly snoring, a comforting sound she'd grown used to in 20 years. Like a train that passes a house every night, she thought sleepily. How could I ever get to sleep without him?

Ian turned over, one arm draping over Elena. It was like having an extra blanket thrown over her, and she snuggled closer, hugging his arm. In the moonlight, the heavy diamond he'd given her for their engagement sparkled. Under it was a thin band studded with diamonds that he'd given her for their tenth anniversary. So many more years than she'd been with Michael. Happy years.

I'm not giving him up. No matter what.

***********************

Don't forget the obvious.

The next morning, Elena was putting on her lipstick when the house alarm went off. There were scuffles in the downstairs hallway.

"Andy!" Indira's voice was sharp. "You can't just open the front door, you have to turn off the alarm."

"I know, I know, sorry, I keep forgetting."

"Honestly! I don't know how you manage, Andy!"

"Me either. I'm a wreck. Just a total wreck."

"Don't tease me!" Elena heard a faint thump: Indira had probably slapped him.

"Hey, no hitting. T'isn't nice." Elena heard a more distinctive thump, and she winced.

"Hey!" Indira's voice sounded a little muffled.

"Okay, so, ready to go?" Andy's voice sounded very cheerful, even if he did let out a grunt.

Elena sighed and walked to the landing and looked down: Andy, tall, rumpled, looking like a pack mule with his suitcase, medical bag and two briefcases; Indy, slim, pretty, quick and upside down over his shoulder. "Andy, sweetheart. Put your sister down," Elena instructed, trying not to smile.

"Oh, all right." He righted Indira, who wobbled for a minute and grabbed his arm for balance. She stuck out her tongue at him.

"Indira. Behave. And drive safely," Elena called out.

"Will do, Mum. I'll be home for dinner."

"Andy, don't leave anything in any of the airports along the way. I think you have a change to make, don't you?" Elena asked.

"Uh, yeah, think so. In Rome. Or Naples?"

Elena and Indira exchanged a glance and Elena came downstairs. "Sweetheart, do you have your passport?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's here somewhere ..."

"Indira will take your suitcase out to the car while you look for it."

Indira rolled her eyes and lugged her brother's case out. Andy pulled out the little blue book. "Knew it was here somewhere."

"All right then. Travel safely. Tell Sammy and Sara hello for me --" Elena stuttered to a stop, but Andy didn't notice.

"Right, Mum. See you later. Love you." She was enveloped in a fierce hug and he was out the door, Indira already waiting with the motor running. Andy flung his bags in the back, folded himself in the passengers' seat, and they took off.

Elena remained frozen in the doorway. If Sam had sent the information to Andy, that meant Sam knew ... he knew ...

Elena felt the world close in on her and she gripped the door frame.

His mobile. Sam always carried a mobile. Suddenly galvanized into action, Elena slammed the door and headed for the kitchen telephone. She had to get in touch with Sammy. Good God, what must he think? And why hadn't he called?

The phone rang. Ian picked it up and called out from his office. "Lee? It's Sammy. Wants to talk to you."

************************

Take things one day at a time.

Nikita reached over to pick up her hairbrush. It tumbled from her fingers and bounced off the floor.

Cursing softly, she leaned down to pick it up. It was only 8 o'clock, but she'd already had a wretched morning. She'd tripped getting out of bed, fetching up against the dresser. It didn't hurt much at the time, but now she had a goose-egg on her forehead that was starting to smart. She'd tripped again over the bathroom rug. She nearly fell in the shower and the soap kept slipping out of her hands. She kept dropping things: the toothbrush, her lipstick, her comb, they all slipped out of her fingers like they'd been coated with oil.

Nikita slowly rose, hairbrush held awkwardly in her hand. She frowned at her face in the mirror. She reached out and ran her fingertips over her cheeks. It was the strangest sensation. Her face felt her fingertips, but her fingertips didn't feel her face. She looked down at her feet and slid her sandals on. She felt the straps slip over her skin, but she couldn't feel the soles of her feet against the leather interior. When she wriggled her toes, it was as if she was watching someone else's foot.

"Michael?"

"Mmmm?" He reached down to tie his shoe, flicking the lace away from a very interested cat who was hiding under the bed.

Nikita slowly went to him and ran her fingers through his hair, frowning.

"Something wrong?" Michael asked.

"I don't ... I can't seem to feel anything with my fingers. It's like I'm wearing gloves or something."

Michael pressed a kiss into her palm. "Feel that?"

"Y-yes."

He kissed each fingertip. "This?"

"Do it again," she said, frightened. He obeyed, and she shook her head. "It doesn't feel right."

Michael tugged her down to his lap, flipped off a sandal and ran his fingernail up the sole of her foot. She swallowed and shook her head. He fitted her sandal on and she didn't move for a minute. "Michael?" she whispered.

Instead of answering, he set her on her feet, kissed her bruised forehead and took her hand. "What if it gets worse?" she asked, still whispering. "What if I can't feel anything? What if I can't feel you?"

Michael wiped away her tears, kissed her again and said quietly, "That's a lot of 'what ifs.' Remember how we got through one day at a time in Section?"

She nodded.

"That's what we'll do now. One day at a time, Nikita. You can do that."

"I can do that," she said shakily. She looked down at their linked hands. "I hate being so needy."

"You don't like me to take care of you?"

"I'm a burden."

"Tell you what: I'll take care of you this time. You can take care of me next time."

Some of the old spark lit her eyes. "It's a deal, Samuelle. Want to shake on it?"

"A kiss is better," he decided.

*******************

Always leave a note.

After lunch the mail came in. Michael went through it quickly. The postcard caught his eye immediately. "Nikita!"

"What is it?" Nikita nearly tripped on her way to the front desk, her face tight with anxiety and irritation over her clumsiness. "Milla?"

"She sent us a postcard." Michael held it up, then quickly read the back. His face fell. "It's for David, telling him where she left his car."

"What's it say?" Nikita grabbed it in both hands so she wouldn't drop it. Her eyes filled with tears. "It was mailed days and days ago from Rome. She could be anywhere."

"She'll be fine." Michael put his hand in the small of her back and looked over her shoulder at the card.

"I want her to come home," Nikita said fiercely.

"She will. When she's ready. She just needs some time." Michael plucked the card from her hand and tucked it into the corner of the cork board underneath Milla's magazine spread.

From behind them on the public side of the front desk, someone said, "Uh, right. Say, I'm looking for Sam Sanderson? Know him? Doctor. Got a pregnant wife. Hope they're still here."

Nikita looked up, brushed her tears away and tried to smile. "He's a guest here, yes."

"Yeah? Spectacular. Was afraid this was the wrong place. Couldn't exactly remember the name. Knew it was a saint, but they're all the same to me. Can't keep 'em straight." He beamed at Michael and Nikita, a big, cheerful smile that made Nikita want to smile back. He was huge, at least six inches taller than either she or Michael. An enormous, friendly giant.

"I'm his brother." The giant dropped his suitcase with a thump and extended a ham of a hand. "Andy Sanderson. Good to meet you."

Nikita smiled. "Nikita and Michael Samuelle."

"Yeah? Great. You're the lady I want to see. Got your blood the other day and now I need to look at the rest of you. Can I come on back? And you're gonna have to take off some clothes."

Michael put himself between Nikita and the stranger. "First, we'll get you checked in," he said firmly. "Then you can examine her."

"Yeah? Right then." He beamed at them again. "Hey." He squinted at Nikita. "Meant to ask you before: how're your motor skills holding up?"

"Not so good lately," Nikita answered.

"Yeah? Thought that might be the case. Let's get a move on, then. And d'you know where Sam is?"

"I think he and Sara went to Pompeii," Michael answered.

"Yeah? Huh. They'll be back, though, right? Wouldn't want to miss them. Want to see Sara, anyway. Thank goodness Sammy's a GP, I wouldn't want to look at her naked. Be kinda funny, since she's my sister-in-law, you know?"

Michael blinked.

"Oh. Guess I forgot to tell you. Used to be a GP too. But you know how it is, I was looking for a change. I can still check out a woman's --"

"I'll need to see your passport," Michael said firmly.

"Oh, yeah, right you are." Andy fumbled through his briefcases, his doctor's bag and finally, his coat, where he seemed to be surprised to find his passport. "Here it is. Buggery little thing. Always losing it."

*******************

Suspense is worse than the ordeal itself.

"All right?" Sam asked, and Sara smiled at him.

"It's nice here. I can see why Milla likes it. The frescos are really wonderful, aren't they?"

"Mmmm. You're sure you aren't tired?"

"No, I'm all right." She gave him a sidelong glance. "You're more nervous about this baby than I am, Sammy."

"I wish you'd reconsider having it in Cairo."

"Cairo's hospital is fine, Sammy. I'm having a baby, not brain surgery."

"I know. I just keep thinking of those babies you delivered before we came out here."

Sara bit her lip, one hand straying to her stomach. "We were miles from anywhere. The woman was underweight and abused. The house was Infection City. She had no business having one baby, let alone two. I would have been surprised if the children had lived, darling."

"I don't want that happening to you."

"It won't."

"It could."

"Sammy. It won't." She rubbed her stomach, then suddenly said, "Oh!"

"What?"

"Feel!" She grabbed his hand and put it on her stomach. "Can you feel her kicking?"

"Him," Sam automatically corrected, feeling his child move under his hand.

"Feels like somersaults in there," Sara grinned, and the baby gradually quieted. Sam straightened up and put a possessive arm around his wife.

"They've got a super hospital in Manchester. You could stay with your mother," he suggested.

"Forget it. Why do you think I agreed to go to Cairo? Because it puts more distance between Mother and me. Besides, she's still in Australia for the next few months."

"All right, then, London. You could fly from Rome in a couple of hours. Mum'd be happy to have you at home and you get on with her."

"Sammy, I'm not flying home to stay with your parents for two whole months. And there's no way I'm sharing the apartment with Andy. We'd kill each other. Two months is a long time."

"You said you thought the doctor was wrong about the due date."

"Well, I do," Sara said, irritated. "But that doesn't mean I want to camp out in London with your parents or Andy."

Sammy switched tactics. "I was really impressed with the hospital in Sorrento. Weren't you?"

"You're just saying that because they didn't mind us storing the medical supplies there."

"No. Really. I thought it was a good operation. Very clean, very professional."

"I'm not --"

"No." Sammy stopped, swung her around and grabbed her hands. "Please, Sara, don't say no yet. Just think about it."

Sara looked at him thoughtfully. "You're really worried about this, aren't you?"

"Yes. I am."

"All right. I'll think about it. But you're being very silly."

"Yes," Sam said seriously. "I'm a very silly man. Completely ridiculous. Please consider humoring me about this."

"All right." Sara linked her arm through his again and they slowly resumed their walk.

They wandered through the streets of Pompeii, joining first one tour than another. Sam, who knew several languages, translated when they joined a non-English group, but Sara would have been content to just look.

"It's so big," she said. "I never knew it was so big, did you, Sammy?"

"It is a city," he pointed out. "But no, I guess I thought it would be smaller, too."

"I wish Milla could show it to us," Sara said, and Sam nodded.

Then, something caught his eye. A dusty head vanishing behind a yellow stone which was behind a "Do Not Enter" sign. He raised his voice a bit. "Sara, dear, let me know when you're ready to head back to the Lucia."

Puzzled, Sara said, "Sam, darling, you don't have to shout. I'm right here."

"If you decide to stay here in Sorrento, I'll need to think about heading back to Cairo soon," Sam called out.

"The only reason I'd stay in Sorrento is because I'm worried about Milla," Sara said, exasperated. "Now, keep your voice down, Sammy. Good heavens, you sound like a deaf old man!"

"Ah, sorry."

"You feeling well?"

"Perfectly fine." He glanced around again, and let Sara lead the way down another dusty street.

************

Hope for miracles, but don't rely on one.

"Right, then." Dr. Andy Sanderson closed his medical bag with a snap. "So, it's definitely neural. Your doctors were right about that. Nerves are a bloody mess, if you don't mind my saying so. Frazzed all out. Bloodwork is consistent with a few of the other cases I've seen. Your doctors didn't know about them, they're all private research cases. That's why it's taken so long to give you a good diagnosis."

Nikita pulled her dress on and Michael buttoned up the back.

"Doesn't really matter what prompted the degeneration. Must have been exposed to something somewhere along the line. Obviously, it was a long time ago or Michael'd be in the same boat. So. It's getting worse. But you know that, I guess. I'd like to see you go through one of these spells, if possible. Then I'd know exactly how far gone the buggers are. You said they're happening about once a week?"

"Yes," Nikita said.

"Yeah, well, it's not going to get better. What you need is some new nerves."

Nikita blinked.

"Now, it's not the kind of thing you can run out and buy."

Nikita blinked again.

"But I've been doing some studies. Lots of trial runs. We've grown all kinds of things from 'em: uh, let's see, I've grown a liver, a heart valve, couple of kidneys, part of a brain ... well, you get the picture. Tried to do a stomach, but it didn't work out. Started in with nerves a couple of years ago. Been pretty successful with it. Thing is, you got to have a willing donor."

"Donor of what?" Michael said, his fingers lacing through Nikita's.

"Oh. A fetus. Or cord blood, that's even better. They don't just let anyone have it anymore, not even doctors," said Andy darkly. "Like we're going to Frankenstein it or something. Daft. But it's still legal, so don't worry about that. See, what you do is, you take the cord blood -- uh, that's from the umbilical cord -- and it's gotta be fresh or it's no good for what we want. And you take the cells. Now, these are cells ... they're kinda like fetal tissue cells, they can grow into anything. So, we're gonna grow some nerve cells."

"How do the cells know --?"

"To grow into nerves?" He grinned and tapped his head. "Ah, that's where I come in. Know just how to persuade the little buggers to cooperate. So. Let's go find a pregnant woman. Sooner we get a donor, sooner we can fix you up."

He rose, ducked under the door frame and lumbered off. Nikita looked at Michael helplessly. "Is this a joke?"

******************

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

They had dinner that night in the interior courtyard.

Nikita absently counted heads and set the table. When Sara brought out the salad, she frowned. "Is someone else coming?"

"Oh." Nikita recounted the guests. "I ... forgot ... Milla's not ..."

"Don't worry." Sara put a comforting hand on her arm. "It's only been a few days. She just needs some time. She'll come around."

"I hope so." Nikita carefully picked up the extra place setting and rearranged the plates so there wouldn't be a gap. "I miss her."

"So do I," Sara said, handing Nikita a tissue when she went back to the kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Nikita blotting her eyes and clutching the extra plate to her chest. Sara called out, "Is olive oil on the table?"

"Y-y-yes," Nikita answered, and in another moment, she joined Sara in the kitchen.

Nikita had intended to serve something light for dinner, but then, after considering Andy, decided lasagne might be better. He ate half the pan, most of the bread and nearly a bottle of wine.

"You must have been some teenager," Nikita murmured.

"Oh. Sorry. Did I eat too much again?"

"No, no, you're fine. I was just wondering what Elena must have thought --" Nikita broke off, suddenly embarrassed, but Andy, looking longingly at the cake that Sara brought out, said, "Oh, you know Mum?"

"A long time ago," Nikita said carefully.

"No kidding."

Sam cleared his throat. "Actually, Michael is my birth father."

Nikita and Michael both froze.

"Yeah? I thought you might be related when I got her records. Funny, I always thought your dad died when you were little, Sammy," Andy said. "So. Mum was your first wife, huh?"

"There was a ... misunderstanding about my death," Michael said cautiously, when Sam didn't seem prepared to offer any details.

"Well, it's a small world, huh?" Andy asked rhetorically. His eyes gleamed as Sara carefully cut him a wedge of cake. "Thanks, love."

"Welcome," Sara grinned at him. "I think the rule that applies at home should apply here."

"Right, right, no seconds till everyone else eats," Andy said, forking up a huge bite of cake. He closed his eyes and mumbled. "Delish. Absolutely delish."

Sam cleared his throat. "So, Andy, what's the next step for Nikita?"

"Oh. Gotta find a donor. Pregnant woman. Be best if she's pretty far enough along, I'd like to start growing the little beggars as soon as possible. I'm calling Nikita's doctor tomorrow to see if I can rent some space at the hospital's research lab."

"Can you do that?" Michael asked.

"Sure, no worries," Andy shrugged. "They love for people like me to come."

Nikita eyed the table. The nerves on the tips of her fingers and her feet were dead, so she had to concentrate when she picked up anything. But even with her disability she hadn't made as big of a mess as Andy had. The tablecloth was damp because Andy had knocked over the centerpiece. There were crumbs and spilt wine all around him. His shirt was dotted with tomato sauce, and he had a red smear on his chin. If he was like this at dinner, what must he do to a medical lab? "What do you mean, people like you?" she asked.

Sara grinned, handing everyone else a piece of cake. "You'd never know it to look at him, but our Andy is quite the celebrity in medical circles. He goes to a hospital and little crowds of researchers and doctors follow him around, hoping to soak up knowledge."

"They usually end up cleaning up after him," Sam said.

"Not my fault everything's so small," Andy mumbled around another bite of cake. "The counters hit my knees and the doorways are always too bloody -- sorry, Sara -- blasted -- sorry! -- blooming small. Crack my skull on 'em."

"Everyone loves to see him come," Sara said.

"And they're happy to see him go," Sam grinned. "Ask the hospital if they'll provide you an assistant, too."

"They'll give me too bloody -- uh -- too many assistants anyway," Andy sighed. "Hope I don't hurt any of 'em."

"A few years ago, Andy tripped over an assistant and gave him a concussion," Sara explained. "Don't worry, Andy, no one remembers that except you. I'm sure they'll rent you space."

"Yeah, probably." Andy finished his cake. His eyes kept straying to the uneaten portion, and Sara, smiling, cut him another wedge.

"Thanks, love."

"So, you'll find the research space ... do you think you can find a donor at the hospital?" asked Sam.

"Dunno. Maybe. I'll look around." Andy's eyes narrowed and he suddenly pointed at Sara with his fork. "Hey. When's the little bloke coming round?"

"If you mean the baby, the doctor says two months."

"Damn. Was hoping it was sooner. Two months is eight weeks ... was hoping to get this wrapped up in a month. Gotta do some tests with Nikita, then get the donor lined up ... Too bad. You'd be perfect. I know you're healthy, cause Sam's been taking care of you."

Sara gave Sam a speculative look, then turned to Nikita. "I'll trade you an umbilical cord for a room at the Lucia for two months. Actually, it'll probably be about five weeks."

"What?" Nikita said, shocked. Concentration broken, her fork clattered to her plate, sprinkling cake crumbs across the table.

"Now, Sara --" Sam began, his face white with anger. "That's not what I --"

"Wait a minute, Sammy." Sara waved him aside and focused on Nikita. "This is my first baby. Sammy's a bit nervous about it. He doesn't like the hospital in Cairo. It's silly, I know, their hospital is perfectly fine. But he's never had a baby before either, and new fathers can be a little ... difficult. So he wants me to go somewhere civilized. Like London. Or Sorrento."

"Now, just a minute --" Sam started at the same time Michael said, "Well, I don't know --"

"Why on earth not?" Sara finished the last bite of cake. "It'd make everyone happy."

"I'm not happy at all," Sammy said furiously.

"I'm not either," Michael said, his eyes dark and forbidding.

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable --" Nikita started to say, but Sara cut her off.

"Nonsense. Nikita needs some cord blood and I'll have some for her soon. Five weeks should be enough time to get things set up with the lab and get Nikita's preliminary tests done, right, Andy?"

"Yeah, should be about right," Andy said calmly, finishing the last of his cake and, without asking, pulled Sam's plate over and finished his.

"Totally unacceptable," Sammy snapped.

"I agree." Michael frowned.

Sara rolled her eyes. "Come on, Nikita. Let's wash dishes and talk about this. Alone," she glared at the men.

*****************

It is more blessed to give than to receive.

"Take the bloody thing," Sara said, scouring the lasagne pan. "Like I said, what am I going to do with it?"

"It just seems weird, okay?" Nikita frowned, drying off another plate and carefully putting it in the cabinet. "What would you do if someone came up to you and said, 'Hey, I've got an extra kidney, d'you want it?'"

"It's not like that at all," Sara blew her bangs out of her eyes and frowned. "Besides, you're family."

Nikita froze. "Don't say that."

"Oh. You thought I meant the thing with Michael and Sam? I just meant that you're Milla's mother, and Sammy and I think of her as family."

"I don't know."

"All right then, think of it this way: I'd do the same thing for a stranger. I would. And you'd accept a stranger's umbilical cord, wouldn't you?"

"Well ..."

"Look, Nikita, you'd be doing me a favor. Really." Sara wrung out her dishrag and hung it neatly on the faucet. "Sammy's been acting funny about all this baby stuff all along. But I didn't realize how much it was bothering him till today. I think he's sorry he took the job in Cairo."

"Did he drag you there or something?"

"More like I dragged him," Sara smiled. "It was a joint decision. But now he's second guessing himself and I don't think it's good for him. He likes to know what's going on, know the obstacles, have a plan and carry it out. Is Michael anything like that?"

"Somewhat," Nikita managed to say, trying to keep a firm grip on the platter she was drying.

"Well, then, you know what I mean."

"Michael also doesn't like it when we don't agree on something important," Nikita said frankly. "And I don't feel right about --"

"For goodness' sakes, it's an umbilical cord! That I won't even need!"

"I know that. And I can get one from someone else if I need to."

"Yes, but you'll have to get permission."

The kitchen door opened, and Sam and Michael came in, followed by Andy.

"We've agreed," Sam said, looking stiff and irritated. "If you want to give her your cord blood, it's all right."

Nikita looked at Michael. He didn't seem happy, but he did look resigned. "Sure?" she asked him.

"Yes."

Sara looped her arms around Sam. She gave him a big kiss. "Thanks, darling. I knew you'd do the right thing." Sam growled, but allowed her to lead him upstairs.

Nikita tentatively linked her fingers through Michael's, pressing her palm against his so she could feel him. "You did say," she reminded him, "That you'd do anything."

"This wasn't what I had in mind."

Andy headed for the door to the hotel. "Uh, well. G'night --"

Nikita cried out, "Watch the door frame --"

"Uh, right." He ducked just in time. "Thanks. Ummm ..." he hesitated, and Nikita smiled.

"Would you like a bedtime snack? Here, why don't you take some cookies and a banana? And here's a bottle of water --" She gathered up an armload of provisions and handed them to him.

"Hey. Thanks. Appreciate it," Andy beamed. "Good night."

Michael and Nikita watched him go. "It's difficult to imagine Elena raising someone like Andy," Michael mused.

"It's difficult imagining anyone raising Andy," Nikita grinned. "I think she did a good job, don't you? With both of them?"

"The best. As good as you've done with Milla."

Nikita's face darkened. "As she's run away, I don't know how good of a job I did."

"Nonsense. She's just confused."

Michael turned out the lights and followed Nikita to their bedroom. She glanced at Milla's closed door, and Michael said confidently, "She'll be back."

"I hope so."

"Nikita. She will be back."

*******************

Blood is thicker than water.

But Milla didn't come back. She wasn't there to see Sam off to Egypt with his cargo of medical equipment; she wasn't there to see Nikita and Michael help Sara feel more at home in her patio-level guest room; she wasn't there to hold her mother's hand while Nikita went through test after test after test in preparation for her transplant.

She also wasn't there to witness any of the dinnertime conversations, which, since Andy was at the Lucia, tended to be macabre.

She wasn't there when David got a second letter from his mother, this one more definite than the first.

"What's that?" Nikita nodded to the large vellum envelope that David held gingerly in his hands. The handwriting on it was lavender and a strong scent wafted through the air.

David tried to hide the envelope under a pile of junk mail. "It's nothing. Really."

"It looks like an invitation," Nikita observed. "Is a friend getting married?"

"Uh ... not exactly."

Nikita smiled. "You're beginning to sound like Andy."

Giving up, David pulled the envelope out and opened it up. He handed it to her and waited.

Nikita read it silently, carefully holding the card far enough away so she wouldn't sneeze. "Colefield. A relative?"

"My mother."

"Really? She's getting married! That's great! How much time do you want off?" Nikita smiled brightly and turned her attention to the calendar. "How lucky she's getting married in Canne! That's so much closer than the States."

Unable to argue with geography, David was silent.

"You want a couple of days? A week? Just let me know. It's tourist season but we can get someone else to fill in for you. Your mother doesn't get married every day of the week."

"Mine does."

Nikita blinked and looked at David. "Surely you exaggerate."

David shook his head. "This is her ninth. Really, it'd be no big deal if I missed it."

"I don't know," Nikita said, her eyes going back to the invitation. "'The Right Honorable ...' Sounds important."

"I'd really rather skip it."

"Well, it's up to you. If you change your mind, let me know. I'd like a little warning so I can get someone from the agency. With everything that's going on around here ..." She sighed and rubbed her forehead, eyes straying to the pile of mail.

"Nothing from Milla," David said.

"Oh. Well. All right, then." Nikita turned to go, and David cleared his throat.

"Thanks, Mrs. Samuelle. For the vacation offer, I mean."

"Don't mention it," she smiled at him. "But really ... if you don't take time off now, do consider taking a week or so sometime. Everyone needs to get away sometime." A shadow passed over her face, and she hurried toward the laundry room. But they both knew what she was thinking: Milla.

David frowned. From all indications, Sara Sanderson was going to go into labor at any minute. She'd been here five weeks and was as big as a house. Her husband planned to come back to Sorrento in a couple of days. David hoped he would make the birth: from what he understood of pregnant women, they were very demanding of their spouses.

Everyone needs to get away sometime.

David's frown deepened. Maybe it was the invitation from his own mother, but he felt his temper fraying. Five weeks was a long enough vacation for Milla, David decided. She was just being stubborn.

"Dulcie?" David called. "Can you come mind the front desk? I've got to take the afternoon off. Something's come up."

*******************

Don't run away from your problems.

David paid admission to Pompeii and was promptly absorbed into an English-speaking tour group. He kept behind the elderly American women in tennis shoes and umbrellas -- the day was sunny, but they were prepared -- and thoughtfully trailed further and further behind, gradually leaving the giggly group taking pictures of a bordello.

He glanced up. Along the tops of the walls were small projections, marking the way to the prostitutes' headquarters. He got his bearings -- after all, he could be mistaken and have to find his way back -- and set off, glancing at his map periodically.

He headed for the edge marked on the map. Beyond that was undiscovered territory, which visitors were forbidden to wonder around in. The archeologists fenced the unsafe part and locked it up so curious tourists couldn't hurt themselves while exploring.

David sighed, tucked the map in his pocket, glanced around quickly, and climbed the fence.

The paths weren't cleared here. He got away from the fence -- and from any passersby that might spot him -- and gingerly picked his way over the overgrown, tumble-down parts of Pompeii visitors never saw.

It was quiet. Birds sang, fluttering from trees that had grown into the rubble. Brindled stray cats dozed in the sun, briefly waking to give David suspicious looks. He wondered around for nearly an hour and was considering giving up when he heard voices.

"-- nice, that's for sure. Better than the big one in the museum in Naples. Let's try to clear the edges --"

"Reminds me of the ones in Herculenium, doesn't it you?"

"Yeah, a bit. Colors are brighter here, though."

Then David heard Milla's voice: light, clear, interested in the project. "What did you say the measurements are again? I want to do this to scale --"

David followed the voices and finally emerged on what looked like an interior courtyard of what had once been a villa. The workers were in the process of clearing debris, but even from where he stood, he could tell this would be quite a find. A small, dry fountain with a statue stood in the center, and around the fountain was an intricately laid out mosaic of flowers, fruit and birds. David sucked in his breath. It was lovely, even encrusted with dirt. Once it was cleaned --

"Hey!"

David turned toward the voice and found a half-dozen people staring at him.

"You're not supposed to be here!" said one of the workers indignantly.

Milla glanced up. She was squatting on the mosaic, graph paper spread out in front of her. She was filthy, even dirtier than the first day he'd met her. She was thinner, too. Her cheeks, instead of being round and rosy, were flat and dusty, and the waist of her pants was pleated where her belt hitched it up. Her eyes widened and she slowly rose. "David?"

"I came to talk to you," David said.

Milla waved to the other workers. "It's okay. He's ... a friend."

"Yeah?" said one of the other dirty people. "Well, tell your friend that --"

"I just came for Milla," David said mildly.

"What is it?" Milla tucked her pencil behind her ear and came towards him, frowning as she tucked her notes into her back pocket.

David backed up a little, so they were out of hearing from the others. "It's time for you to come home."

"Forget it." Milla took a step backward.

"Milla --"

She paled suddenly. "Did anyone die?"

"Milla, no. But your mother needs you."

"She's got Michael." Milla dismissed him and turned back toward the mosaic.

"Sara's going to deliver pretty soon," said David. "She'd sure like you to be there. And your mother will have her transplant when Sara's baby is born."

"Transplant?" Milla whipped back again. "Transplant for what?"

"A nerve transplant. Sam's brother is going to do it. I overheard him talking on the phone to Sam last night. It's a tricky thing, Milla."

"Sam's brother is at the Lucia?"

"Yeah. So is Sara. Sam's due back in a few days."

"So ... what's involved in a nerve transplant?"

"Come home and see."

"No." She frowned, stubborn. "I won't."

David relented. "Sara's umbilical cord is going to be used to grow new nerves for your mother."

"Don't call her that. She's lied to me all my life. She's not my mother. A real mother wouldn't lie to her daughter," Milla said furiously.

"She's more of a mother than mine is," David said angrily, finally losing his temper.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means at least someone cared about your welfare. Want to know why I'm so good at the hotel business?" David said, eyes narrowed. "Because that's where I grew up. In every hotel in America. Palm Beach, Malibu, South Carolina, New York, Seattle, anywhere there were rich people my mother could date."

"You didn't go to school?"

"Yeah, whenever we stayed somewhere long enough. Sometimes her husbands would try to teach me stuff. Then when I was too old to be cute, she sent me to prep school."

"Husbands?"

"Yeah. I got an invitation this morning. She's decided to tie the knot. For the ninth time."

"Nine husbands?"

"Nine."

Milla blinked. "Why didn't she just have affairs?"

"Who said she didn't?"

"What?" Milla looked absolutely shocked.

"You're a selfish, dumb little girl, Milla Samuelle," David said, his voice hard and his eyes narrow slits. "You've got a mother and father who love you like crazy and you're out here pouting because of some little dumb unimportant thing."

"It's not unimportant! They lied to me!" Milla said, outraged.

"Yeah? Well, so what?"

"So what?! So .... everything!"

"Look at it another way, Milla. What if the other part of their lives was the lie? And the part they've spent with you is the truth?"

"What? That's the craziest thing I've ever --"

"You are so damn lucky, Milla, and you don't even know it," David pointed out. "Your mother adopted you and took care of you and loved you because she wanted to. Not because she had to. There's a real difference, Milla."

"You can't just lie and lie and lie and then say, 'Oh, sorry,' and expect it to all be all right!"

"Well, you've got one thing right. Everything is not all right."

Milla stood very still. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to get your little dirty self home, honey." David ticked items off on his fingers. "Your mother is stressed out about surgery and worried sick over you. Sara's panicking because she's about to drop that kid any day and Sam's not here yet. And I expect when she goes into labor, Sam's parents are going to come down."

"So?" Milla said, glaring at her toes.

"So, that means that in addition to facing major surgery, your mother is going to have to deal with her husband's first wife. And I don't care how amiable divorces are, there's going to be tension. Trust me. My mother's run into former first wives all her life and it's always messy."

Milla looked up uncertainly. "Elena's coming to Sorrento?"

"Probably. Wouldn't your mother come if you were having a baby?"

Instead of answering the question, Milla said, "Would yours?"

"Probably not," David said thoughtfully. "Though, to be perfectly honest, she's never much thought of me as her child. More like an extra person to round out a dinner party."

"But she's your mother. Your real mother."

"So what? The only thing we've got in common is DNA."

"I don't even have that in common with Mami."

"DNA is overrated. Trust me. Milla, please reconsider and come home. They need your support. Like it or not, they're your family."

Milla was quiet for a moment, and finally sat down on a flat stone. David sighed and sat down beside her, pulling out a candy bar and splitting it in half. He wordlessly gave Milla the bigger piece and she took it without thanking him.

"She lied," Milla said flatly.

"She did end up telling you the truth in the end," David pointed out gently.

"I suppose." Milla licked her fingers: chocolate over dirt. David winced slightly. She wiped her sticky fingers on her grimy pants and looked at the ground. "You really don't think it matters?"

"All I'm saying is, there are other things more important than your hurt feelings," David sighed. "You can get over this if you want to."

"I would like to see Sara before the baby comes," Milla said slowly, not looking at him. "And I guess ... I do miss Mami."

David wisely remained silent.

"But ... I've got a lot of work to do here." Milla's eyes brightened and she looked across the courtyard to the mosaic. "Have you seen it? Isn't it wonderful? It's the best one they've uncovered in Pompeii in years. Not to mention the fountain. They think there's a spring underground and that after the volcano erupted, ash clogged the pipes leading to the spring. If we can clean them, it should work again."

"It's very pretty Milla," David said, crunching up his candy wrapper and putting it in his pocket. "But let me ask you something: How long has this mosaic been here?"

She shrugged. "A little over 2,000 years."

"Don't you think it could wait for a few more weeks?"

Milla was quiet for a moment, then without looking at him, she mumbled, "It'll be awkward going back."

"I'll be with you."

"Still." She glanced up and abruptly changed the subject. "You said you got a wedding invitation from your mother this morning."

"That's right. Number Nine."

"I'll make you a deal."

His eyes narrowed. "What kind of a deal?"

"I'll go home, if you go to your mother's wedding."

"Milla --"

"You can't lecture me on family duties and loyalty if you refuse to meet your own," Milla pointed out. "Besides, how can you not go to the wedding? She's your mother. Your real mother."

"She is a woman who happened to get pregnant by mistake while she was married to a man who wouldn't consider abortion."

"If you go see your mother, I'll go see mine. What do you say?" Her eyes sparkled, and David, remembering the date for the wedding was a few weeks away, shrugged.

"What the hell. Okay," he said.

"Really?"

"Sure. If it'll get you home." He glanced around. "Where's your stuff? Where've you been staying?"

"Uh ... well, here."

"What do you mean, here?"

Milla licked her lips. "I've sort of been camping."

"No wonder you're so dirty."

"Hey, I wash in the public washroom when everyone leaves," Milla said indignantly.

"Whatever. Come on, Milla."

"I have to -- I can't just --"

"Come on, Milla. You promised."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're real pushy for a busboy."

He spotted a familiar battered rucksack behind a pile of rubble and bent down to pick it up. It still had the tags on it, but they were grimy and barely hanging on now. He said, "I thought I told you before. I'm the general manager."

"Whatever," said Milla, rolling her eyes. But she led the way out of the old part of Pompeii and David followed her.