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December 24th 1917-Minnehaha, Minnesota

Yes...risk taking is failure prone, otherwise it would be known as sure thing taking. - Tim McMahon

"If I do say so myself, there is nothing like a party on Christmas Eve." Mr. Elton settled into the carriage as he spoke and Emma was amused to see Mr. Knightley roll his eyes in a speaking manner.

"And what comes after a party on Christmas Eve?" Emma made the enquiry as she tucked her feet more firmly under herself.

"Why a party on any night." Mr. Elton gave a hearty laugh.

"Poor Miss Smith." Mr. Woodhouse's sigh was clearly audible over Mr. Elton's laugh, even though it seemed to faint and feeble.

"Where is Miss Smith?" Mr. Elton had promptly turned to Emma.

"Harriet had a cold so she could not come."

"Oh dear." Mr. Elton looked downcast for a moment and Emma was satisfied that Mr. Knightley had been wrong in his assessment of the situation. A woman was always right when it came to matters of the heart, Mr. Elton was very clearly in love with Harriet. Emma gave a satisfied sigh and wrapped her toes more firmly around the hot bricks.

But Emma's satisfaction was tinged with doubt by the time they reached Randalls, the second home of Senator Weston, and only his courtesy of Mrs. Bates who had given it to Ann Taylor as was before her marriage. Though Mr. Elton had pulled an exceedingly long face to begin with, by the time they reached their destination there was no merry or more cheerful person in the carriage. Not even Mr. Woodhouse could persuade him that snow in any season was abominable. Mr. Elton was persuaded that the snow was seasonal and very pleasant, he also embarked on a lengthy discussion of the carriage and its contents and the various merits of those contents to the comfort of the inhabitants. A damping remark from Mr. Knightley concerning being snowed in merely drew a laugh and Mr. Elton was positive if his employer would forgive him, but he could hardly think of a more pleasant thought than to be snowed in with all his friends.

Emma rolled her eyes as they descended from the carriage, she was thankful that the Weston's stable hand was there to guide her father up the path, she grimaced at Mr. Knightley who was frowning darkly at the snow and would have glared at Mr. Elton had it not been improper. Mr. Knightley was too gloomy by half, and Mr. Elton was reminding her of the comic act back in D.C. whom Moss Bates liked so much, he never was silent, he was always laughing and certainly was not taking the hint that others considered his conversations inappropriate.

By the time Emma mounted the stairs and entered the house the subject of Harriet's illness had been exhausted, along with the discussion about Isabella's being in a promising way, and the wonder that Isabella could stand having John running around so many battlefields for his reports and stories. Emma had no difficulty in knowing why John did it, and she also knew how Isabella bore it, for Isabella was always fixed on what was in front of her. If John was there nothing else would be worth much consideration, but he was nearly forgotten when the door shut behind him. Though of course Isabella would never forget about her husband. The realisation that all her news had been already been told damped Emma's enthusiasm considerably, but the hug and smile with which Mrs. Weston greeted her more than restored them and Emma agreeably promised herself that she would forget the peculiarities of Mr. Elton and the ill humour of Mr. Knightley and enjoy the evening.

Emma's good intentions for the evening were thwarted from the outset for they were seated on either side of her for dinner and on one side there was utter silence and on the other was a flow of the most irritating conversation Emma had ever heard. By the middle of the evening she was beginning to feel a vague tickle of dread. Nothing could pass Mr. Elton by, everything must be praised, and it had to be praised to extraordinary lengths which almost turned the praise into an insult.

By the time the tea and coffee cups were passing around Emma was in the enviable state of being ready to bang everyone's heads together, but forced to appear polite and happy with the situation. Mr. Elton had interrupted her no fewer than four times when she had been trying to listen to Mr. Weston on the subject of a letter from Frank Churchill and as a result she had heard many enquiries about her own and her father's comfort and absolutely nothing but the repetition of 'Frank' and 'my son' several times by the proud father. By the time she had successfully dispatched Mr. Elton the topic was closed and a new one was introduced. Emma had to admit that even though she had no intention of marrying, she was very interested in the mysterious Frank Churchill, he was so elusive and yet honest.

Emma moved away, slightly dejected, and more than a little puzzled at how no one else seemed to realise that Mr. Knightley was nearly ready to storm from the room and slam the door.

"My dear Emma, and how are you?" Mrs. Weston, finally finished with talking at least briefly with everyone else in the room, pulled Emma down onto a small seat. Soon an animated discussion sprang up between the two ladies, a discussion which was shortly interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Elton who was now not only in a strange mood, but also slightly intoxicated.

"My dear Mrs. Weston, you must surely not approve."

"Approve of what Mr. Elton?" Ann looked up in utter astonishment.

"Why, Emma here, visiting Miss Smith when she is ill. It is not proper, it is not fitting. I have seen the Goddard House, and it is most inappropriate, why Emma might catch chill......You must back me up on this!"

"Why certainly." Ann choked softly and looked apologetically at Emma. Emma was frowning darkly at her teacup and was wishing it was one of the hefty mugs that Mr. Knightley tended to use, at least then she could be certain that the impact would have some effect on this impossible man.

"I am afraid that your father wishes to leave Emma." It was ten minutes later when Mr. Knightley expressionlessly interrupted Mr. Elton's monologue on the subject of what Emma shouldn't, and shouldn't do.

"Sorry?" Emma looked up, puzzled.

"The snow has increased and Hamish predicts it will be too deep to drive in by midnight. Accordingly your father wishes to depart."

"Oh, thank you Mr. Knightley......I do hope you will excuse us Mrs. Weston. Perhaps if we meet for lunch another day?"

"Certainly Emma." Mrs. Weston smiled kindly and helped arrange the group for departure. With the addition of Charles Hawley to the group, an innocuous neighbour who visited once in a blue moon, it was abruptly realised that the second carriage would be required, especially since Mr. Woodhouse also wanted his blanket. It was somewhat to Emma's horror when she realised that Mr. Knightley had helped her father in and had been immediately followed by Mr. Hawley, which perforce meant she had to travel tete-á-tete with the clearly inebriated Mr. Elton. She hoped she could keep him at bay by talking of the weather. She clearly couldn't pass the time by talking of Harriet, because clearly Mr. Elton was not interested in Harriet......or at least not for tonight. Emma wondered how she could talk for a mile about the weather, but gamely began the moment the horses moved off. But hardly had they moved off when her monologue was abruptly and rudely interrupted, and just as rudely Mr. Elton seized her hands and started to declare his passionate and undying love. Emma could not believe her ears and immediately wrenched her hands free. But such did not even deter Mr. Elton for he merely followed her hands and caught them once more, a situation which now had Emma cramped into the corner with Mr. Elton nearly on top of her.

"Mr. Elton, please! You forget yourself, I am Miss Woodhouse, such propositions are not to be made to me....I will forward your declarations to Miss Smith. Please, let me hear no more of this!"

"Miss Smith!" Even in the darkness Emma could see his expression of distaste, and distaste dripped off ever letter as he uttered her name. "Miss Smith? Who is Miss Smith. I'm talking to you, and I'm directing it at you. Emma my darling, my lo...."

"Mr. Elton you forget yourself, now sit up and get away from me."

"My dear Emma...."

"Mr. Elton I have warned you once, this is your second warning and I never warn a third time."

"But Emma dea...." Mr. Elton slid closer once more, before doubling up with an agonised whoof and sliding onto the floor, wheezing and gasping.

"I warned you Mr. Elton, and believe me I can do it again." Emma glared at his dim, agonised form on the carriage floor, her anger was such that she could ignore the waves of nausea producing pain which rolled up from her ankle. Mr. Knightley had taught her years ago how to kick.....well tomorrow she was going to learn how to kick properly from sitting as well as standing. Clearly one did not kick the same way sitting as one kicked while standing.

Fifteen minutes later the still seriously uncomfortable Mr. Elton was handed over to his housekeeper and Emma continued the ride to Hartfield in outraged silence, an outrage which became indignation when she found herself utterly unable to descend from the carriage, let alone walk to the house.

"Are you alright Emma?" Mr. Knightley's head entered the carriage.

"No I am not." Emma growled. "Have your crow now, so you were right and I was wrong....now please, before I become even more improper will you help me out of this obnoxious carriage and assist me to the house.....I have twisted my right ankle."

"Do you trust me to escort you upstairs as well?" It was not until they were standing on the porch that Mr. Knightley asked the question.

"Well I can hardly ask Mrs. Franck to carry me up and I will admit to not being thrilled by the prospect of climbing the stairs."

"How generous you are Emma, permitting me to do so much for you." Mr. Knightley cautiously ascended the stairs, having first assured Mr. Woodhouse that nothing worse had befallen his daughter than a slip on the carriage steps and a twisted liar.

"You are an abominable liar."

"I'm the product of an English Public School and a Politician......didn't you know that is spelt L-I-A-R in your vocabulary......what happened?"

"I kicked Mr. Elton.....and I obviously need to learn how to kick while sitting down."

"What did he do? Breathe hot love down your collar?" Mr. Knightley was somewhat unceremonious in his disposing of Emma on her bed.

"No he proposed to me, would not take no for an answer and tried to kiss me."

"Ah." Mr. Knightley's face shifted slightly. "Well get that ankle healed and I'll then teach you to kick from any position or situation you care to name."

"Thank you.....you have saved me from asking you to." Emma smiled up. "Thank you for the escort Mr. Knightley, I'll try not to tease you again."

"You'll do nothing of the sort Emma, you know you can never resist an opportunity to poke fun at me."

"I'm serious!" Emma straightened on her bed.

"Good, I'll believe it when I see it. Farewell Emma, I'll send up Mrs. Franck to tend to that ankle of yours.....your tongue is far too ready for it to be broken so I analyse a semi-serious sprain....sweet dreams." Mr. Knightley waved a cheerful hand over is shoulder as he opened the door.

"You are a snob Mr. Knightley, and a disbelieving one at that!"

"No, I am a public schoolboy who takes George Washington as a model, no man lies to me........only women." And Mr. Knightley was gone, leaving Emma to grind her teeth and swear in a very unladylike fashion at the wall before Mrs. Franck entered. Emma had never tasted a bitter cup of humiliation as bad as this one, and the worst of it was that it was a very big cup. How could I have been so utterly wrong about it all?

December 25th 1917-Zurich, Switzerland

Everything should be as simple as it is, but not simpler. - Albert Einstein

Dr F.C. von Hense was staring morosely out the window of his small rented apartment. Small flakes of snow occasionally dashed themselves against the panes of glass and frost was weaving its delicate pattern up the glass. In his hand rested a half-empty glass of brandy and the fire had burnt very low. Von Hense's expression could not be said to be promoting the festive spirit of the season, in fact his face had a singular lack of expression as he stared unblinkingly at the few remaining red embers.

"Goddammit I am so tired." The arm convulsed and the glass spun through the air and shattered on the grate, the brandy flamed momentarily before the fire returned to its few red embers. But the eyes continued to stare as if they were not connected with the hand, and though the mouth had moved the expression had not changed. "Debarred from entrance to Britain, forcibly deported on no grounds what so ever. What a pleasant country I chose to live in. Debarred from France and forcibly deported. What pleasant coutries those allies are, they do not trust a soul." There was another period of silence. "I am a fool and it is dinner time, perhaps I shall descend for dinner."

"Friedrich." The voice spoke softly from the door and von Hense turned his head sharply. "Ahh, Heidi.....what brings you here?"

"There is a gentleman to see you." The chambermaid, Heidi, bobbed a neat little curtsey and then retreated, leaving an impressively round man standing in the doorway.

"Doktor Friedrich von Hense?"

"Ja." Von Hense rose to his feet and eyed the rotund man in perplexity.

"Ich bin Schlief, Herr Bernd Schlief."

"Please excuse, mein Deutsch ist nicht gute. Perhaps du hast Francais or English?"

"Hah! English! Language of the pigs. I have no French, we will converse in English."

"Thank you kindly....my German has only progressed but slightly."

"Better it progress slowly then not at all." Herr Schlief settled himself comfortably in a chair. "Perhaps you would like to sit down again?"

"Oh...yes." Von Hense coloured uncomfortably and sank down into his chair in front of the fire again, pushing a heavy lump of hair off his forehead as he did so. "I think you do not come for a consultancy?"

"You think correctly......You were just forcibly deported from England weren't you?"

"I was deported from England nearly two months ago."

"You then tried France did you not?"

"One would have thought that France would accept one of its former students, but no, I was deported by France as well. I have no taste for the Americas so I wait here for direction from the Gods."

"You have not considered Germany?"

"Why should I? Is Germany any more likely to trust me?" Von Hense looked up expressionlessly.

"They might, they might not. It will all depend on whether you are worthy of trust. Tell me about yourself friend."

"My name is Friedrich Christian von Hense, I was born in 1880 in Amsterdam. My father was Johann Christian and my mother was Ekaterina Elizaveata Wildermann....."

"Your mother was Russian?" Herr Schlief raised surprised eyebrows.

"My mother was of Estonian parentage, but she grew up in Switzerland." Von Hense corrected in precise tone.

"I do apologise, please continue." Herr Schlief settled back in his seat.

"I was educated in France and did Medicine on a scholarship at the Sorbonne......"

"Speaks the man who boasted in England and France that he had no higher education."

"I can stop if this bores you." Von Hense's tone was becoming progressively shorter.

"Not at all, in fact I find it fascinating.....I'm just curious about things."

"I have found over the years that the presence of University Education brings in the types of patients I am not interested in. I do not talk in high-flown terms any more than I think in them. Admitted, I can talk of concatenations of the cervical cavity comparitus Homo Sapiens and the more common ape, to use simpler terms, but such discussions I tend to find a bore. Who cares where we come from, I'm concerned with the here and now. The here and now should be enough to occupy the world for millennia to come, look at the mess we are in, three quarters of the world trying to blow the skulls off the rest, with the minor exception of a few countries who lack the equipment....or perhaps have sufficiently wise and strong governments to avoid such conflicts."

"You are saying that to honour a promise is foolish?" Herr Schlief's voice dropped in pitch.

"Don't be ridiculous, promises make the world go round and are broken every day. You were in a treaty, and on that treaty you were expected to make declarations of war in every direction. Fine, I've got no problem with that. Written promises must be kept. The foolish ones are the United States and all her smug neighbours who wish to stay in her good books. A war in Europe is no business of the United States, it is a petty squabble between the people down the road. It is the mood of people in Europe who interest me. The Americans are boring, they are full of the crusading spirit, they come to show us how a civilised world behave. Such a pity civilisation is a matter of opinion of the people in the situation."

"You were saying about your history?" Herr Schlief attempted to bring the subject of conversation back on track.

"True. From Sorbonne I practised for two years before discovering it wasn't meant for me. I then sailed as Captain Helmann's doctor aboard the sloop Canard. I left the Canard in Tokyo because it had been a big canard to have ever boarded it. I spent eight years in Tokyo and beyond some very interesting medical lore I also gained insight into several other fields. From Tokyo I traveled to China, before working my way south into the Malayas. I spent less than a year in Malaya, a very interesting country, but also a very unhealthy country, my health would not take more than the eight months I spent there. From Malaya I traveled west into India, then north into Georgia, before coming back down through Baluchistan and Turkey. I then traveled south down the eastern shore of Africa where I spent many years with the medicine men.....very interesting people in North Eastern Africa Herr Schlief, a very dangerous people. They have many cures, but even more poisons and there is little difference between any of them. I was in South Africa when the war began. Interesting people in Johannesburg, people of Jo'burg, they are so frightened. I traveled back up the western coast of Africa in a tramp steamer which docked at Lisbon. I spent a month in Lisbon, but the people there are unkind and stingy so I went to London. From London I returned to France, but it was not my France, it was another France and now I am without country."

"You do not consider Switzerland as home?"

"I never lived here, even though I carry Swiss Citizenship. This is the first time I have lived here, and I am only here because I could go nowhere else."

"The British were not kind to you."

"The British were very kind to me, they thought well of me and they still think well of me. It is the Foreign Office and their suspicious minds who do not trust me." Von Hense's eyes were closed and he had a quiet smile on his face.

"You are so certain they still think well of you, even after two months?"

"Poor Herr Schlief, know you nothing? I know they think well of me, I can feel it." The smile grew slightly and von Hense blinked slowly at the nearly dead fire. "Patches of warmth, those are the people who think well of me."

"How useful."

"Oh it is, they think well of me, but they do not think well of their government. Tired are the English, tired are the French. They do not like fighting, they fight to hide their depression and manage to remain cheerful, but I feel when they feel depressed. They are depressed tonight, they miss their sons and their daughters, their husbands and their wives, their fathers and their mothers. Ahh, that we cannot even have peace for the Lord's birthday."

"We did the first Christmas. The day before they shot each other, the day after they shot each other, but on the Lord's birthday they shook hands and played Fußball und cricket, they shared food and jokes even exchanged small gifts."

"They had sense, but their sense does not live on for they are dead. You must forgive me Herr Schlief, I am tired, hungry and more than a little depressed. With confidence comes strength, but also weakness. These people prove to me I do good, but their depression wears on me."

"I do apologise Herr Doktor, perhaps if we meet another day?"

"Tomorrow at breakfast I will be available for a couple of hours and then I have some patients.....perhaps Herr Schlief would like to visit, his mind is troubled."

"Perhaps....thank you for your time Herr Doktor, I find you very interesting. 'Til we meet again." Herr Schlief nodded in satisfaction as he descended the stairs and did not even look at the shadowy figure perched on the window ledge as he walked down the street. Hans was a good boy and even though it was cold he would not stir....but Herr Doktor seemed to be exactly who they were after and much safer than the other options.

Dr. von Hense dressed with his usual precision the next morning, he then turned and gravely inspected his equipment before settling down in a half-lotus position in front of the small ball which traveled everywhere with him. As von Hense sat there the ball seemed to shimmer and then glow, it was a blueish-red glow which became steadily brighter and more painful to the eye, but von Hense continued to stare at it until the blue faded from the glow and it went from scarlet through to a burning, scalding white.

Hans was crouched next to the window and he stared in disbelief at the scene, that someone could simply stare at that light when he couldn't even look at it, let alone focus and hold focus on it.

"It is all in the mind Hans. You see blinding brilliance because you expect witchcraft, I see just a crystal ball because I know it cannot hurt me." It wasn't until the precise voice spoke next to his ear that Hans realised that von Hense had moved from the ball and the room was back to its normal appearance. Such was Hans' surprise that he nearly fell off the ledge. "Come let us have breakfast, you are cold and cramped."

"I would prefer to remain here Herr Doktor." Hans' English was jagged, gutteral and rough to the point of being unintelligible.

"Suit yourself." Von Hense released Hans' collar and withdrew back through the window before precisely exiting his room and descending to break his fast.

"Herr Doktor." It was twenty minutes later when Bernd Schlief settled himself into the opposite chair.

"Herr Schlief.....you trust me even less than the Foreign Office. At least they did not perch little boys on my window ledge for the night. What do you think of me? English Agent? Spy? Why should I be in Switzerland if I was that?"

"Possibly for the same reason that I am......how did you know Hans was out there?"

"You thought of him as you left Herr Schlief, you were very satisfied that Hans would not be seen up there."

"Clearly my error."

"Not at all, I did not hear or see Hans, but you thought of him so I knew where he was.....he would not join me for breakfast and he has very bad English." The latter was added as an after thought. "Very sensible kid Hans.....very sensible for 22 years, and yet very foolish. I should like to go to Germany if the people are like Hans, Hans is interesting in a way no one else is."

"That is fortunate, you may leave for Berlin this evening. Here are your rail passes and papers, catch the eight o'clock train out, any other and you will be shot on sight."

"I'm never shot Herr Schlief, if I could be shot by a gun the Africans would have killed me years ago. I like the idea of Berlin, I was talking to Maria this morning and she told me much about it. Maria is interesting, but only slightly, she has no opinion of her own, she is a puppet for another....how I would like to meet the man who manipulates her."

"You already have."

"So." Von Hense nodded slowly and gravely. "I will catch the eight o'clock train, even though that means I will have to leave Madame Ziegler's dance early. Maybe we will meet again Herr Schlief, I hope we do."

"I hope so too, maybe when I'm next in Berlin?"

"That would be nice." Von Hense smiled gently and then blinked. "My patients need me, auf wiedersehen Herr Schlief, I will see you in Berlin."

"That would be a pleasure." The two men bowed gravely to each other and separated, von Hense to his patients and Herr Schlief to his hotel.

January 3rd 1918-Narrow Creek, Canada

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. - Unknown

Victoria kicked a lump of snow, it was a morose and miserable kick, and watched as it settled down again, fluttering and weaving and sparkling like innumerable diamonds. Victoria kicked again and once more innumerable diamonds sparkled in the air, but the kick was not as morose. Third, fourth, and fifth kicks soon followed and then Victoria tugged at a nearby branch and watched as nearly the entire tree shed its load in a sparkling, dancing swirl. A light snow in bitterly cold weather had produced ideal conditions for playing the fool. Victoria swung her foot once more, missed the snow, and found herself sitting down heavily in the snow.

"I appear to have fallen over." Victoria scrambled to her feet and spun around, soon to find herself lying flat on her back in the soft snow while the sky seemed to spin dizzily around her. Victoria scrambled unsteadily to her feet and promptly fell over onto her face this time. Victoria pushed to her feet and spat out a mouthful of powdery snow, it reminded her of schoolyard snow fights.....Elliot had invariably filled her face and collar with snow just before the bell rang. Victoria had tried innumerable ways, but it seemed that not even standing right next to the teacher could save her as Elliot seemed to still load her up with snow without the teacher realising.

Victoria was decidedly subdued when she let herself into the Little House and helped herself to some cake.

"What's up Vicky?" Emilie was seated next to the fire, knitting yet another sock.

"Couldn't say." Victoria helped herself to another slice of cake. "Remembered Elliot's beastly propensity to shove snow down my neck while we were at school."

"He always said that you were most inventive when it came to trying to avoid the snow.....but I somehow doubt that that has caused this dismal assault on the cake."

"Jeb Carter proposed again." Victoria crumbled a third slice of cake morosely, stirred the crumbs around and then slowly ate them.

"Ah."

"Don't go ah like that." Victoria snapped shortly and then abruptly stood up. "I'm sorry Emilie, I didn't mean to snap like that.....just tired I guess.......I'll be back in time to make dinner." Victoria grabbed her coat as she spoke and banged the kitchen door behind her as she escaped once more into the late afternoon.

"What was that about?" Mrs. March crept unsteadily into the kitchen and sank heavily onto one of the stools, drawing her dingy grey robe tightly around herself as she did so.

"A lot of things." Emilie finally looked away from the door. "Elliot can thank his lucky stars he's not here or I'd be wringing his bloody neck."

"I think I'm missing something here." Mrs. March gave a shiver.

"You're missing a lot of things Meg, and so am I. Vicky's the one who's not missing anything....damn him, damn him, DAMN HIM!" Emilie's voice became bitter. "We shouldn't have let Vicky do it Meg, we knew what would happen......"

"But we're a couple of selfish old ladies. Emilie, what has Elliot done?"

"He hasn't done anything, and that is the entire problem. If he proposed before he left than Vicky would be able to mourn, or leave, or something.....as it is she's not allowed to and it is tearing her apart.....Jeb Carter proposed again."

"I take it he did not acquire the inkwell as an ornament this time?"

"No......I'm afraid that someday she's just going to accept someone out of sheer desperation to get away. We're old Meg, we're so used to living with ghosts that another is neither here nor there...."

"And I'm not helping. Well that's a vote of confidence for me....pity we don't know any of her old friends so we could bring someone in to break the mess.....do you know where she went?"

"Just out." Emilie picked up her sock and started to knit again.

"She scares me Emilie." Mrs. March moved over to the stove and started distractedly loading up the stew pot.

"Why?....and you go get dressed, you are not cooking in your slippers."

"She's getting more and more like Elliot, she's just pulling away from everyone and everything."

"Different motive though. Go get dressed Meg."

"Motive?"

"Elliot's dead, Frank Edwards is dead, Charles Crawford's dead, those were who she spent most of her time with. Bill Elliott will never walk again, the doctor gives Harry Metter another three months at the outside....but he's a Metter and they are stubborn, I'd give him the better part of a year. Susannah Elliott has moved to Halifax, Mary Sue is married. Harry, Jackson and Miles Harris won't return, they've all married in England. Where are her friends Meg? Where are the people she grew up with? She was friends with the boys mostly for the girls only dreamed of nice kitchens while she dreamed of Redmond........She hasn't anyone left from her age group, and those that are can't share what she's struggling with....or at least she can't speak to anyone. We can only leave her alone and hope...." Emilie's voice died off and she stared blindly into the middle distance.

"What Emilie?" Mrs. March looked at Emilie sharply. "What is it?"

"Hope." Emilie gave a shrug her tone sharpening still further. "Why do I speak of hope, a stupid word, there is only one way to fix this mess and that will take a miracle."

"Elliot?"

"Elliot." Emilie stirred again. "Crochety old women, no wonder she leaves the house. No fair on anyone, I'm being a bad Emilie and should be spanked. Meg dearest, go get dressed so I can shake off my mournfulness and stop blaming Elliot because the wind is in the east and my bones ache......silly, stupid, arrogant boy, must needs make her actually love him in the last minute and then hasn't the decency to ask her. Damn Chivalry. Never bring up a boy thinking about other people, ends up hurting everybody......go away Meg, I'm being bad."

"We all are Emilie, we all are.....except I lie in bed instead of shaking knitting needles at Elliot's shade. I'll go get dressed."

January 11th 1918-Minnehaha, U.S.A.

Miss Emma Woodhouse stretched luxuriantly underneath her thick featherdown. Or it was a luxuriant stretch until her hands hit the freezing morning air outside.

"What is so important about today?" Emma stared at the ceiling, then shivered and dug deeper into her bedding before abruptly flinging it all aside and grabbing her dressing gown and slippers. Her dressing gown. It was with a semi-guilty and only semi-conscious after-thought that Emma gently touched the beautiful embroidery which brought life to the sky blue gown. She so loved this gown, and yet she was fast developing a complete inability to tolerate the maker. Miss Bates was becoming so..... Emma thrust the improper thought resolutely from her mind, it was not Miss Bates she could not tolerate, it was not......It was the perfect Miss Jane Fairfax she could not cope with.

"You're up early, Miss Emma Woodhouse."

"Mr. Knightley!" Emma's tone was far from welcoming.

"Well, I've had politer welcomes before. Surely the Woodhouse book of social graces has something to say on the subject of welcoming old acquaintances....since a welcome of that type certainly doesn't put me in the ranks of a friend."

"I would prefer to know why you are sitting in our kitchen when you left for D.C. a fortnight ago."

"Maybe if you try guessing clever Miss Emma." Mr. Knightley took a sip of the tea that sat next to him, then tensed against a violent shiver.

"Mmph." Emma sniffed her disapproval and hastily put the kettle onto the range.

"Dear Emma you have been snowed in here by a blizzard which came through two hours after I left. Yes I do have a lot of faith in our rail system, but I'm afraid I do not believe it can get from Minneapolis to Chicago in two hours. Last week it didn't even make it into Wisconsin."

"Well what are you doing here?"

"I'm not in the mood to live in a Hotel in Chicago and it will be at least a week before I can get through to D.C. as an uninterrupted ride. So I returned."

"Still why come here, can't you go home?"

"Emma dearest, have you been near Donwell in the last two days?"

"No, I've been helping clear snow here."

"Then do remember snow drifts badly at Donwell. Emma the snow is still above my first floor windows." Mr. Knightley tensed again.

"Why do you keep tensing like that Mr. Knightley?"

"Dear Emma, I have not a dry article of clothing on and I'm afraid that fire is not precisely the warmest one I have sat near.......your father has probably completely forgotten he was in search of a shirt and trousers for me when he left the room."

"You've been here for long?" Emma poured out her cup of tea and refilled Mr. Knightley's.

"What's the time?"

"Seven in the morning."

"Just over two hours have I been here for." Mr. Knightley gave a quiet nod. "It was an hour and a half ago when your father decided I probably needed some dry clothing."

"Well why didn't you remind him?"

"Two flights of stairs were beyond the capabilities of my frozen limbs and my legs have only become stiffer since."

"You are whinging.....but never the less I'll go find out what happened to father. You can wear this for penance." Emma removed her quilted and embroidered dressing gown as she spoke and flicked it across to Mr. Knightley before turning and remounting the stairs.

"Penance indeed." Mr. Knightley thoughtfully fingered the embroidery as he arranged the robe to maximise the warmth he could get from it, and minimise the amount of wet he soaked into it.

"Oh dear, I am sorry my old friend." It was five minutes later that Mr. Woodhouse came into the room. "Emma says you've been waiting a couple of minutes."

"Not many." Mr. Knightley carefully untangled himself from Emma's robe and took the shirt, trousers and underclothes proffered to him. "Thank you very much, I'll be back in a minute." Mr. Knightley quickly withdrew, having first hung Emma's robe over the back of a chair near the fire. He was back almost within the promised minute.

"You are quick my friend." Mr. Woodhouse attempted to help arrange the shirt and trousers Mr. Knightley brought back with him, but he only really managed to make more trouble than he prevented. "News we have since you were last here."

"Oh?" Mr. Knightley looked up, but it was little more than a vague flicker of interest.

"The.....oh....him.....her......yes I think it is her.....Emma." The last was an appeal as Emma came into the room.

"Yes papa?" Emma had managed to do her hair and get dressed while she was out of the room and she now turned her attention to making the breakfast. There was a high probability that Mrs. Franck would once again be unable to make it.

"What was the news we heard last.....last.....night was it?"

"If you refer to Senator Weston's news, then yes it was last night."

"Was it Senator Weston who brought it."

"If you refer to the news of last night, then yes it was Senator Weston, he came with Mrs. Weston to deliver it and we spent two hours around the fire afterwards talking."

"Oh.....yes I remember......he beat me at chess. Poor Miss Taylor, to be married to a man like that."

"Mr. Frank Churchill has finally come to visit his father and meet his step-mother. He was in Minneapolis last night and was to arrive early this morning. He is to be at the Coles' Party this evening."

"So the mighty Frank Churchill has finally deigned to visit this poor community."

"You needn't sneer, just because you are not dependent on the whims of an aunt."

"There is no need for him to be dependant on his aunt....she's a great-aunt and a grandmother anyway."

"Are you staying breakfast?" Emma changed the subject pointedly and earned herself a triumphant smile from Mr. Knightley.

"I doubt the snow has reduced in quantity yet. So if you don't mind I will rashly throw caution to the winds and risk your hospitality before going to dig my poor house out of its bed." Mr. Knightley rose as he spoke.

"Hmmph." Emma took the eggs he had retrieved from the icebox, then abruptly handed both eggs and saucepan to him. "I need to get the bacon....don't burn the eggs."

"Do I ever burn eggs?" Mr. Knightley looked enquiringly back over his shoulder.

"No." It was a reluctant admission on Emma's part, but no matter how she felt, she could not accuse Mr. Knightley of burning eggs. He might burn everything else beyond recognition, but eggs he cooked to perfection every time without fail.

"I will refrain from uttering the remark which hovers on my tongue and thus hopefully we will not have a fight in the kitchen."

"How kind of you." Emma swept from the kitchen before her impulse got the better of her upbringing and she swore at Mr. Knightley.

Mr Frank Churchill arrived with due state and appeared with his father and step-mother at church. On Monday Mr. Churchill was to be seen all over Minnehaha, visiting everyone and exchanging civilities at every turn. Tuesday and Wednesday were a repeat of Monday, then on Thursday Mr. Churchill went to Minneapolis to have his hair cut....it seriously dented his prestige in the community. Mr Churchill rose in favour again when he expressed his willingness to join the church choir, even though he laid claim to complete tone deafness. Mr Churchill's star rose even further when he had his hair cut a second time by the barber at Minnehaha.

Mr George Knightley watched the perambulations of the young gentleman with all the glacial arcticity he was famed for in Political Circles. More than once Miss Emma Woodhouse roundly took Mr Knightley to task for rudeness to the man in question after he had delivered a carefully barbed remark which would stop all conversation and make most people feel particularly uncomfortable.

"He's a fool. A complete, utter and arrogant fool. When he wakes up sufficiently to realise that I'm teasing him he'll probably do something about it. But until then, don't interfere with my sport. Reminds me of a chap back at school, you could have hit him over the head with a brick and he wouldn't have noticed it."

"You are being prejudiced and arrogant against someone you don't even know."

"I don't need to know him, it's all there to be seen. As long as he has adoring attention he's happy. Which reminds me, Mr Elton has returned......complete with bride. I warned you he was interested in the Oil Magnate's family. Girl's worth all of forty thousand dollars."

"You are despicable.....and he's even worse. Mrs. Phillip Elton, who was previously Miss Augusta Hawkins, is the perfect wife for Phillip Elton. They're both utter idiots."

"You were hardly polite Emma."

"You expect me to be polite? I'm not going to be told by a complete and utter stranger that our Dining Room reminds her of her Uncle's summer house!"

"Oh, well I hadn't heard that one. I thought she'd only managed to compliment your taste of literature and criticise your taste of art."

"You changed the subject. Why don't you practise what you preach and give Mr Churchill a chance?"

"He's had his chance and he blew it badly."

"Gaaah!"

"Heard anything from Isabella lately?" Mr Knightley offered Emma a polite conversational life-line.

"No." Emma looked gloomy for a moment. "Last I heard she was in Cornwall at some hospital and John had gone back to cover another story in France."

"Be thankful it's not Africa, the Chicago tribune and half the rest of America have been hunting madly for the Mad Messiah who has prophesied the end of the world, human civilisation, and some Sheik....in that order."

"Next you'll probably say that the date order was also that way. So nice to know that we'll live slightly longer than our world will."

"Thank you, Emma." Mr Knightley rolled his eyes before giving her a gentle push. "Now, go and be polite and show everyone the lovely manners you've learnt in D.C."

"You are abominable."

"I'm a Politician." Mr Knightley smiled quietly.

"And I'm a journalist, I want that interview tomorrow Senator Knightley."

"Ugh!" Mr Knightley moved across to where Senator Weston was yawning over his tea cup in the corner. "Good evening, Bill."

"Same to you George. Come to grow a grey beard have you?"

"Feel like it this evening."

"Frank does not find favour in your eyes?"

"No, I'm afraid to say that Frank does not find favour." Mr Knightley's tone was slightly short.

"Emma looks like an angel tonight."

"I've never seen an angel in forest green." Mr Knightley thoughtfully pulled a pipe from his pocket. "We have a problem Bill and a big one. That Unionist Act is coming before the Senate next week and we are several thousand miles out of place."

"How kind of you to tell me I must dig out of this comfortable rut. You're far too good to be a Senator, you leave me absolutely nothing to do."

"Irrelevant, even if I left it for you, you wouldn't do it."

"Respect your elders boy." Senator Weston laughed softly. "I would so like to see Frank happily settled."

"Mm." Mr Knightley deigned no further response as his eyes watched a figure he had never even thought of as an angel. Damn Frank Churchill!

January 15th 1918-St. Quentin, France

The speed at which the English Tommy could hit the dirt when an aeroplane came over head never ceased to amaze Carrigan. One moment he was surrounded, the next moment there wasn't a soul to be seen. Not that Carrigan objected to it, in fact he was more than delighted with the expedition with which the entire Division could take cover. There were few things that Carrigan felt more mixed over than a return from the front. He was relieved to be back, to get rest, and to see the men rested. Yet there always remained the dismal feeling of a job unfinished. It felt like he was running away when they moved back and even three years of it had not managed to eliminate the feeling.

Carrigan's morose ponderings were interrupted by a hoarse holler and a heavy collision. Spitting the dirt from his mouth Carrigan let the Tommy know his opinion in a plain, concise manner which could not possibly be misunderstood.

"Awfully sorry, sir, but the buzzer landed 'ere."

"What?" Carrigan scrambled uncertainly to his feet and looked with great distaste at the Camel which was resting on its belly where he had been standing. The pilot was rubbing a rueful cheek as he stripped off gauntlets and his helmet. "What in hell happened to you?"

"I crashed, what in hell do you think happened?" The pilot swung down and looked ruefully around. From the ground a never-ending supply of infantry seemed to emerge to stand and stare in distasteful silence. The fact that Australia was emblazoned across each shoulder helped not in the slightest.

"Well the least you could have been was a Yank." Carrigan groaned and then he frowned, the pilot was clearly suffering from some emotional stress, but whether the man was about to laugh or cry Carrigan had no idea.

"Lord Carrie, to think someday I'd nearly wipe you out!" The pilot was nearly doubled over and it was now very clear that it was laughter he had been fighting.

"Who in hell are you?"

"Now, now Captain, mustn't set a bad image for your boys should you." The pilot had finally straightened up and was quickly recovering his composure. It was a composure Carrigan realised that also carried a somewhat rocklike impeturbability......it was in fact a very familiar expression.

"Ashie?" Carrigan stared in undisguised amazement.

"At your service.......do stop your lads from wrecking my wreck."

"Why?" Carrigan asked the question after letting the men know he wished them to leave the crash alone.

"Well I'm in enough strife already, I don't need to add to it by losing the wreck as well."

"What sort of strife.....and while I'm thinking of it, what in hell are you doing flying without wingmen?"

"Well that's the whole reason for my strife...." Whether Ashie was going to say more was debatable because at that moment a motor drew up and a very irate figure hopped out and stalked over. For Carrigan the figure was familiar and he hastily saluted it, all expression deserting his face in a flash.

"Brigade-Major Carrigan, do you, or do you not have a problem with the simple matter of moving the Division back from the front?"

"Sir...." Carrigan got no further as Ashie abruptly interrupted.

"The Brigade-Major 'as no problem wi' i' a' all Gen'ral.....Until I tried to park me 'plane on 'is 'ead.....Ya wouldn' min' lettin' Wing-Commander Colonel Johnstone know 'at the 'Cad' 'as h-returned would ya. I'd 'ate to 'ave the h-report delayed any more 'an necessary and it'll take me at least an 'our to get back to base."

"Yes I would mind.....Captain!" The utter loathing in General Witherton's voice was indescribable and with a final look of distaste General Witherton retreated back to his motor and left with a roar.

"Well I don't envy Harvey, Witherton's going to be crusty as now." Carrigan rubbed a rueful head and then grinned. "So long Ashie, we'll challenge you to a game the minute the Major gets back."

"General Witherton does not approve of cricket I take it?"

"General Witherton does not approve of anything he himself has not personally thought up....and all he seems to think about is polished boots and marching. So if you'll excuse me Ashie, but this mob need to get back before we're fried by an hour-long tongue lashing and put on parade for the better part of the next week because our boots weren't shiny enough."

"Sounds like a stuffy bugger alright." Ashie whistled softly to himself and the heaved a mournful sigh as the division formed up and moved off. How he was going to get back to the aerodrome he had no idea.

"You're joking!" Mac stared hard at Ashie, almost hoping that by staring alone he could change what the morose Captain had just said.

"I'm not."

"What the hell are you boys going to do? You'll never take another C.O. after Thomlin leaves."

"Well clearly we're going to have to. I'm more concerned about how long we're going to keep flying for with him gone. Florrie would have been grounded months ago if a medic had got hold of him." Ashie morosely stirred at the sludge on his plate. It was meant to be a convivial evening, but the telephone had rung just as he was leaving and the tidings could hardly have been less welcome.

"Pyro?"

"Probably should have at least a month or so of leave."

"But of course none of you can because headquarters don't keep you anything near quota on pilots. Got any idea of who's going to take over as C.O.?"

"I've got a couple of ideas and I don't like any of them.......they've offered me promotion once more." Ashie added the last despondently.

"You nearly wiped out a division yesterday and they're offering you a majority?"

"Something like that. Probably would have given me a double promotion if I'd got the General....now that man is atrocious."

"Been talking to Carrie have you?"

"You think I'd speak to Brigadier Miles? Millie 'ud get skinned alive if he was caught hobnobbing with me."

"That bad is he?"

"Worse. The man is apparently made of iron and expects everyone else to be made of iron as well. Throws the lot of them over the top at the slightest provocation....it doesn't even need provocation half the time. Apparently Carrie spends half his time forking out apprehension orders to some defaulting private who lost his boot polish.....and when he's not doing that it's court-martial orders to the firing squad."

"After the Major I expect that probably grates somewhat."

"Shot the Division's casualty rate to hell and breakfast. If it wasn't that the Major's supposedly coming back within a month or two I swear the whole damn division would probably desert. Carrie says he's used more bootblack in the past month than he's used at any other time in his life."

"Lucky sod." Mac paused and then frowned. "They're not lining you up to replace Thomlin are they?"

"You take a guess." Ashie's response was sour.

"Only thing I'll say is that Major would probably like it.......Major doesn't like it when other people don't look after themselves.....and don't deny it, you're still crook from last December!" Mac waved a warning finger under Ashie's nose.

"Nothing to lie in bed about." Ashie shrugged dismissively.

"Not half!" Mac snapped his response shortly. "Damn it all Ashie I feel like wringing your neck. What you count as enough to stay in bed over everyone else is getting sedated over. You're not bad enough to stay in bed over is like dancing a Tango while you're still BADLY hungover."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's nothing at all, the Major probably wouldn't even blink at this."

"Well you're not the Major! You're a foot smaller....at least. You're less than half his weight. And the Major hasn't had a polite discussion across the dinner table with the Turks over where the Australian troops are to be found."

"You look a trifle heated Mac.....a drink of beer?"

"Don't change the subject on me."

"I rather wish you would." Ashie sighed slightly pensively and twisted his mug between his fingers.

"You always wish I would.....How's Sister Bennet?"

"Being Bennet-ish.....What's she meant to be?"

"Exhausted like any decent human being is."

"Mya-mya-mya." Ashie extended his tongue at Mac's pointed look and then hastily checked his watch. "Got to go, you want a lift back?"

"Not in that death trap of yours."

"Tell Mick thanks for the lift next time you see him."

"I'm sure he'll love to hear that the ever so elegant Ashie has said thanks." Mac's eyebrow twitched ever so faintly.

"SHI-UUH-TUP!" Ashie dumped a few francs sorrowfully on the table before grabbing his hat and ducking out of the room.

"And that is that." Mac frowned pensively at the beer still remaining in his tankard.

"What irritated Captain Lord James Ashington-Frankston?" The question interrupted Mac's study of his tankard a little over half an hour later.

"I really couldn't say." Mac didn't bother looking up as the other took a seat.

"Odd. He came storming back into the aerodrome and has locked the rest of the flight out of the barracks."

"I didn't think you could lock those doors."

"You can't. But if you pile enough garbage up against them they can be VERY difficult to open....you were twitting him about his health again weren't you." It was more of a statement than an accusation.

"Well it's damnably unfair that he can be run through the mincer and continue to live and my blasted observers keep kicking the bucket over the most minor of complaints......Florrie's foot still playing up is it?"

"He's got a bullet lodged in his Achilles tendon and it won't come out without some major surgery.......and then it's highly likely that he won't be able to walk as much as he is currently managing."

"Fortunate. How do those boys manage it?" Mac finally looked across at Colonel Thomlin who was slowly consuming some beer.

"Don't ask me." Thomlin shook his head.

"Heard you were retiring."

"It would seem so."

"What are you going to do?"

"Damned if I know." Thomlin shrugged disinterestedly.

"Test piloting?"

"Not likely. I only came out here because test piloting was getting to much."

"That sounds bad."

"It was.......please don't rile Ashie again, it's hard enough containing his hair-brained antics as it is."

"Whatever." Mac dropped his head again and heard Colonel Thomlin's departure. Somewhere a cracked bell was striking the hour and somewhat grimly Mac inspected his watch before looking around the room. The Pub was empty of all but the bartender and even he was leaving. The lights dimmed and Mac was left with half a tankard of beer. Mac looked slowly around the room then blinked angrily before wiping at eyes which stubbornly refused to clear. "Damn it all." Mac rose to his feet and emptied his spare change into the tankard before stalking to the door. A soft thump told him that Nero was coming after him. Nero. Mac dug his fingers into that rough coat as he moved blindly down the road. He hated the days like these, he felt old, he felt vulnerable and worst of all he invariably seemed to be alone at the end of them.

January 24th 1918-Paris, France

If the first button of one's coat is wrongly buttoned,
all the rest will be crooked. - Giordano Bruno

It was an impressive motor which rolled to a halt outside the Hotel. The only really surprising thing about it was that it was a distinctly down-at-heels tramp who descended from it. The tramp shuffled self-consciously for a minute and then with a wheezing cough he shuffled away into the shadows of a nearby alley.

Lord Parker Dellingham was sipping in an unenthusiastic manner at a cup of tea. Tea was not a drink Lord Parker liked, in fact he usually went out of his way to avoid it. But today the only available drink was tea, so Lord Parker drank tea.

"Lord Parker drinking tea....my, my, what a surprise." The sudden advent of a voice in his room caused Lord Parker to choke violently and it was a red and irritated face he turned on the visitor who was seated just inside his window.

"Do you mind, Darcy! You are permitted to knock......or even perhaps use the door."

"Ah, so tramps invariably ask their way up to the Imperial Suite?" Darcy stretched his legs out and then waved his big toe at Parker through the hole in his boot.

"Why are you looking like a tramp?"

"Because in nearly two months I have tramped over the better part of Eastern Switzerland, within a range of forty miles of St. Euvais and one thing the terrain is not is friendly."

"What's happened now?"

"We took a walk to Mertou. In other words I have tonight and tomorrow to speak to you and after that I depart again very quickly indeed."

"Well buy new boots while you're in Mertou." Parker offered Darcy a cup of tea, but it was turned down.

"Why was I pulled in?"

"Because communications are at least under observation if not exposed. But fact is we're dead certain they don't know about you. We need as good an outlay as you can get of the Chateau St. Euvais....particularly rooms and such like. I'll explain it all tomorrow."

"Why not now?"

"Because you weren't meant to arrive until tomorrow and all necessary information has not yet arrived.....in fact the Count's report hasn't arrived at all and Chris' hasn't yet been fully read."

"In other words go away and find trouble until tomorrow morning."

"Something like that." Parker nodded briefly.

"Any mail for me?" Darcy had a leg out the window before he jerked back and looked enquiringly at Parker.

"Three. All came through Ashington-Frankston and all three are written by him."

"Thanks." Darcy took the letters after Parker had retrieved them from a small cubby-hole in the desk and quickly ripped them open scanning the contents with satisfied nods until he reached the last one which he read three times and frowned darkly at it.

"Problem?"

"No, indecision." Darcy didn't even glance up from the letter as he spoke.

"Too rude to enquire why?"

"Yes." Darcy abruptly pocketed the letters and slid out the window. "I'll see you at six, my wife's on leave and I'm going to see her." Darcy slid quickly down the side of the hotel and ducked into the safety of the dark shadows by the hotel and set his course.

"You bought new boots." Parker made the remark dispassionately as he glanced over the top of an immense folder.

"You expect me to visit my wife in boots I can stick my toes out of?"

"How should I know? You didn't get a new coat."

"Only because my coat-maker was out of town."

"How did you get boots made after midnight?" Parker lowered the folder and looked hard at Darcy.

"How do you think I managed it? I went and picked up a pair I order and paid for nearly ten years ago. Now if you don't mind!"

"Alright! No need to get excited." Parker raised a pacifying hand.

"Sure! Fine! Nothing to get excited about at all! I'm just going back to Switzerland in an hour."

"You can still pull out." Parker shrugged slightly.

"Don't be bloody stupid. You'd better have it all ready."

"It is. Read it while you go and then leave it in the motor."

"Thanks." Darcy took the file and pushed it under his coat. He then pulled the old bashed boots out from under his coat, and having wrinkled his nose at them exchanged them for his new boots. "I want these available the minute I set foot in France again. Nothing will be nice in Mertou."

"Of course not." Parker sighed as he pushed the boots into the corner. Having seen the mark of the maker it didn't surprise him at all that Darcy was pessimistic about getting something comfortable.

February 14th 1918-St. Euvais, Switzerland

Captain Elliot March was scowling morosely out the front window when his view of the nice pristine snow was utterly destroyed by the arrival of a very dead man. The man seemed to come from nowhere and he sprawled in the shapeless huddle, which only the dead can achieve, on the snow. Elliot grimaced at the man, snow-covered, the corpse had clearly been one for more than half a minute.

"Josef!" Elliot turned his head and yelled and in response Darcy shambled from the backroom.

"What?" Darcy pulled an appropriately lugubrious face until Elliot silently indicated the corpse in the snow. "How long has he been there?"

"Just over a minute."

"Clearly we have a visitor." Darcy scratched a thoughtful chin and then took a second look at the corpse. "The only question is whether the visitor is friendly or not."

"You don't question much."

"Well the visitor can't be very local, the locals here don't go slinging corpses around much. In fact regular people don't go slinging corpses around, and they certainly don't sling them from the roof if they do decide to take up a bit of corpse slinging. The result of this is that clearly there is a person on the roof, and that person is very likely not legally allowed in the country. So one asks whether it is German or English....though it might be French or Italian as well.....it is unlikely to be Austro-Hungarian."

"You seem to express doubt of the possibility of it being French or Italian."

"Neither should know of this place....point of fact the Germans shouldn't either."

"Well clearly someone does."

"Unless the corpse is an accident." Darcy abruptly grinned. "What a lovely idea for an accident.....does he look like a chimney sweep?"

"No." Elliot wrinkled his face up somewhat distastefully.

"No, in fact I'm rather of the opinion that the corpse is not legally in the country either."

"Do you ever make sense?"

"Very rarely." Darcy lifted a warning hand as he spoke and as soon as he finished he catfooted across to the door and abruptly jerked it open.

"I was hoping you'd open it some day."

"Norse Mythology." Darcy gave a yawn. "Enter oh man of the snow and remove your thy layer." Darcy's likening the man to Norse Mythology was accurate for the man was covered from head to toe in snow and ice splinters, streamers of ice trailed back from his elbows and he cracked and crunched with every step.

"A fire." It was made as a statement, but the tone was that of gleeful wonder.

"Verily a fire, now get moving. Elliot, get the blinds closed.....we also need a mop. Who's Cheerful Harry in the garden?"

"Haven't the foggiest idea." Chris was stripping off a heavy coat as he spoke and ice splintered everywhere in great sheets. "The Count gave him to me this morning."

"I see." Darcy frowned. "Bury him here or does he continue travelling with you?"

"Bury him here....unless there's nowhere where you might be able to put him."

"Plenty of places, but he'll be found with the first thaw."

"We'll be long gone by then." Chris shook his head and ice and water flew from the thick mop of dark hair he currently had.

"You leaving again, or do you wait with us?"

"All depends." Chris gave a wide yawn. "Depends what happens in the next couple of hours."

"So the fishing has been successful."

"Here's hoping it hasn't been too successful." Chris finally managed to pull the last of his outer layer of and was now standing by the fire in flannel trousers and a flannel shirt, he looked remarkably like he was just going to bed.

"Why are you in flannels?"

"Because it is cold up the mountain and I wanted to become colder.......My sleep was interrupted and I needed to leave in a hurry."

"Cheerful Harry disturbed your sleep?"

"No, the man who Cheerful Harry disturbed disturbed my sleep." Steam was enveloping Chris in a fog and he was shuddering steadily. "Bye-the-bye, if you have some spare clothes I'm more than willing to borrow them."

"Elliot?"

"Only a spare pair of pyjamas."

"Well fetch them, even another pair of pyjamas will be preferable to these soaking ones." Chris was now shivering almost uncontrollably.

"Where have you come from?" Darcy lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

"B-berlin." Chris forced it out with a stutter. "The Bavarian Alps are bloody cold at this time of year."

"The Bavarian Alps are cold at any time of year.....I'm sure you will be thanked for the loan of your pyjamas Elliot. I'll go deal with that corpse before the postman turns up."

"You expecting the postman soon?" Chris looked up from changing with slightly raised brows.

"Not at all. But if he comes he'll come within the next half-hour and a corpse makes an awful lot of talk in a small place like this.

"Hard snow?" Chris glanced up from the armchair as Darcy's snow covered figure returned to the room.

"No."

"Postman?"

"No."

"Then what excuse do you have for a delayed return of half an hour?"

"I thought you might be able to tell me." Darcy lobbed a small leather wrapped object across to Chris. "It attempted to knife me."

"Hmm." Chris looked very long and very thoughtfully at the object, before grimacing and shivering again. "That's the last thing I wanted to see."

"I suspected as much." Darcy hadn't bothered removing his coat and Chris was picking his up with a grim expression and brushing the ice off it.

"What's going on?....And what's that?" Elliot looked slightly puzzled as he glanced back and forth between the two men who were clearly preparing to depart.

"We're leaving, and so are you....but not by the same route. Thank goodness you can drive at least semi-reliably now...That's a scorpion....old friend of ours."

"Ehhh!" Elliot blinked uncertainly.

"Take the motor and drive to Mertou. Remain in Mertou unless someone starts to pay too much attention to you. The minute someone starts to pay attention get yourself across the border as quickly as you can." Chris was hauling on a balaclava as he spoke, it was clearly a balaclava that was designed for comfort not appearance.

"Why Mertou?"

"Because we're hoping like hell we may not need to catch a lift with you later." Darcy grabbed a bag from behind a chair and slung it onto his back and turned to Chris. "Where's the Count?"

"Heading for Zurich. He was going to come back by here, but Cheerful Harry upset that. We're just to head out and he'll find us."

"Right." Darcy bulled the earflaps on his hat down hard and then with a grimace pushed outside and into the snow. The snow was rapidly deteriorating into a storm and it promised ill for the future.

February 23rd 1918-Italian Alps, Italy

"Move it." The Count's order came with the first blink of dawn and was softly voiced. They headed off immediately across the ledge, it was less than a foot wide and slippery with ice.

"Count." Darcy had gone a grand total of four steps when he stopped. "We can't make it......Take the third valley after this one."

"That's a dead end!" The Count frowned.

"No it's not. The climb's rough, but we're not going to make it across this ledge, we've got to risk it."

"You certain?" The Count frowned.

"Look, no I'm not certain, but I'd prefer to stake my life on that then a three mile scramble along this ice ledge.....Especially with him along." Darcy jerked a derogatory thumb at the rotund Frenchman whom they had collected by request and were theoretically conveying to safety.

"What's up?" Chris had stopped only a few steps after Darcy, and his stopping had stopped the Frenchman.

"Darcy here says that the third valley is passable."

"Well if he reckons it is, then I reckon our chances are better there then they are here." Chris was clinging somewhat unstabily to an icy outcrop.

"Well that's decided it." The Count promptly stepped back off the ice and soon they were skidding back down the way they had come, and several hours later saw Chris and Darcy arguing fairly heatedly on the edge of an ice flow, while the Count stood a short way behind them staring up at the sky.

"Look we've got to take it, so pack it in and let's get moving." As the Count spoke he waved a hand in the direction of the sky. No one else could see anything, but obviously the Count had seen something.

"How'd you find this place?" Chris asked the question as they reached the first of many snow ledges and called a break to rest the Frenchman.

"My brother and I were....evading the wrath of a very near paternal relative at the time and we decided it diplomatic to not show up for the next few days.....We very near got lost in the process."

"What on earth did you do?" Chris looked up curiously, the path they were following was a tortuous series of short chimneys and ice flows, a killer to climb, even with Darcy in the lead roping off at regular intervals.

"Err." Darcy gave a grin. "We..errr, accidentally upset the son of our steward when we were testing out a slightly thin iced pond. He declined our escort back to the inn after we fished him out, so brother and I made a run for it and managed to get our father sufficiently concerned for our mother's well-being that he didn't take us to task over dunking George Arthur.....we got taken to task instead for alarming our mother as to our well-being."

"Your father wasn't?"

"You've got to be joking." Darcy gave Chris an odd look. "Our father was well acquainted with the fact that both of us were unkillable. We need to get moving again."

"I can't." The Frenchman made the statement in a dark tone, and gave Darcy a dirty look as he spoke.

"How annoying." Darcy pulled a pipe out of his pocket and soon it was lit. "Chris, dig the rope out of your pack will you."

"What on earth does he want another rope for?" The Frenchman's expression was a wrinkled grimace of distaste as he smelt the rank odour which emanated from Darcy's pipe. The Frenchman's question was legitimate since Darcy still had the better part of a thousand feet of rope slung across his shoulders.

"Possibly to carry you with." Chris pitched the rope across, and sooner then the Frenchman liked he was fastened like a bundle to Darcy's broad back and they were once more headed up the ice flow.

Two hours later they broke the top of the flows and a vicious wind whirled down on them, magnified by the various chimneys which opened up at this point.

"Watch the wind." Darcy yelled the warning as he fought to keep his grip on the slippery upper slope.

"What?" Chris' face appeared over the top of the flow, but from his expression Darcy knew he didn't need to repeat his warning. Chris ducked down, but seconds later he reappeared. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just got caught by surprise both by the wind and my unusual loading." Darcy finally wedged himself into one of the chimneys.

"Hell, we have to go up that?" Chris grimaced at the awkward, twisted crevice Darcy was already working his way up. Chris couldn't make out the top, it seemed just to vanish into the clouds.

"Yes, the others all die away into dead ice and you really don't want to go climbing onto that." Darcy's answer was tense as he pounded another piton into the icy face in front of him. Oh for the old days where pitons weren't needed and he didn't have a damn Frenchman on his back who persisted in turning and twisting.

"Aww, come on David, you're not going to let a miserable ice slope defeat you?" The voice had Darcy instinctively beginning to turn, but then his mind caught up with him again. It was only a memory. Oh, how Darcy had hated this climb when they had first made it, the sleet had been blinding, and so many times they had been forced to turn back from a chimney because it ended in rotten ice. Darcy shook his head again and drove another piton in, as if the effort would drive away the memories. He'd have much preferred just to use an ice hammer.

An hour after that Darcy cleared the last of the chimneys and just stood there, leaning into the sharp wind as he struggled to get the information through to his brain that the climb had ended.

"You okay Darcy?" Chris came scrambling out of the chimney, and immediately set to work getting the Frenchman untied from Darcy's back.

"Fine." Darcy let out his breath abruptly, then gave a yawn. "But it will be nice to use my back when I go to retrieve those pitons. Darcy shrugged his shoulders stiffly, then immediately started descending as soon as the Count had cleared the top.

"Where's he going?" The Count looked to Chris for explanation as he unloaded his pack.

"Went after the pitons." Chris gave a shrug and started digging through his bag after some food which was not as hard as plate iron.

"Well I guess the wait will make no difference." The Count took the lump of chocolate Chris offered him and sank stiffly to sit on his pack, watching silently as the Frenchman curtly refused the lump of iron hard chocolate. Chris shrugged in response and shoved his own lump into the corner of his mouth.

"How long do you think he'll take?" Chris lifted his eyebrows.

"Couldn't say." The Count shrugged.

"Well maybe you'll tell him to stop smoking that damn pipe of his, it stinks to high heaven." The Frenchman growled irritably.

"You are not particularly generous m'sieur." The Count rubbed a stiff hand across his face as he spoke, leaving a faint trailing of blood behind. "The man has just carried you without break for the past three hours."

"Well they were three damnably unpleasant hours, that pipe of his reeks beyond bearance."

"Much as I agree with you dear boy about that pipe, the fact remains that he has carried you for three hours."

"Well he could at least have put it out."

"Oh I doubt it, the only time he isn't smoking it is when the wind is in the wrong direction." Chris gave a shrug.

"Well can't you order him to stop?"

"I may be an honourary Captain, but even that does not give me sufficient superiority to order Darcy to out his pipe."

"Why, is he an honourary Captain too?"

"No, the man is a Major-General....complete, not honourary."

"Oh." The Frenchman subsided in a limp heap, not opening his mouth again until Darcy reappeared half an hour later from the Chimney.

"Sorry for being so long." Darcy rubbed at a red streak across his forehead and relit his pipe.

"Long?" Chris lifted his brows in surprise. "It's only been half an hour."

"I was delayed by ten minutes." Darcy wiped the red streak again. "We need to get moving."

"Following are they?" The Count was on his feet.

"About an hour behind us currently, possibly more since I pulled all the pitons and they'll have to go further afield with theirs to get a safe grounding in the ice......Their forward guard met with a slight accident."

"Mmm." The Count grunted and soon they were loaded up and moving off again.

Two hours later Darcy came to an abrupt halt and started pulling the roped clear of his shoulders, depositing the Frenchman on the ground.

"What's up Darcy?" Chris came to a halt.

"Just going to see if I can delay our followers for a few minutes." Darcy was frowning around himself as he spoke.

"Darcy......No." The two words had Darcy's head around sharply.

"But...."

"No." There was a moment of silence after the Count's word, then Darcy abruptly shrugged. With a suddenness that caused the man to yelp, he yanked the Frenchman back up onto his back and headed off down the path. "Chris." It was a single word, but for the only remaining auditor it carried a wealth of meaning.

"Don't worry." Chris gave a brief nod, and for the first time in nearly two years Chris saw the Count almost smile.

"I'm not....Heinrichi has come. Good-bye my friend." With that the Count left the path and started working his way up a nearby ice slope. Chris took one last look at the Count before turning and heading off down the slope as fast as his legs could carry him.

The Count paused briefly in his climb to look over his shoulder, Chris was already a small point down on the snow slopes, Darcy was a minimally smaller one much further away.

"Mon Pere." The cry had Alexei's head turned back up the hill.

"Coming Heinrichi." Alexei resumed his climb at a faster rate and was soon planting the explosives carefully under the edge of a large boulder. As their pursuers appeared over the top Alexei knelt and crimped the fuse. They exploded dully and Alexei watched expressionlessly as the boulder went careening down the cliff taking an ever increasing quantity of ice and snow with it, the path down the mountain was no more.

The ripping pain was the first intimation Alexei had of their pursuers arrival and looking down Alexei saw a stain welling up and spreading from his shoulder, and soon dark red blood was dripping in huge drops onto the snow near his feet. Alexei wavered as he saw the snow quickly staining, then slowly subsided down into the snow, his strength was ebbing fast.

"Mon Pere!" Heinrich's call came and never had Alexei heard is so close and clear. Lifting his eyes with effort the Count saw not the grey, snow-filled sky, he saw not the mountainous peaks, what his eyes saw were the Formal Gardens of his ancestral home and Heinrich was running across them, his bare feet flashing in the sunlight, his face illuminated by a bright grin.

"Heinrichi!" Alexei caught his son's hand and swung him up into the air as he had done so many times in years gone by. Alexei could hear other voices, harsh guttural words, but this no longer matter, they came from another world, another existence. Heinrich had returned. Now was Alexei's life finished, all that remained was the minor detail of dying.

"Come mon Pere, ma mere awaits inside." Heinrich was tugging Alexei towards the house.

Chris had just caught up to Darcy when the explosion ripped through the still mountain air and turning back the two men watched in awe as the boulder left its perch and plunged down the mountainside, bringing with it an ever increasing avalanche of ice and snow.

"So finally Heinrichi has come." Chris spoke softly, and then started in surprise when Darcy responded.

"I had wondered....Germany's invasion of Russian held Poland?"

"Yes." Chris rubbed his face wearily, he suddenly felt incredibly old and weary, and it was with surprise that he realised his hand was wet when he drew it away. "His only son, I believe his wife had died some fifteen years earlier."

"Come on, we've only a few more hours until dark falls and I'd prefer to be off this mountain before then......likewise too that avalanche is fast catching and I really would dislike giving Georg such an immense satisfaction as having our lives terminated."

"What the..!" The men cowered back as Nickel turned to face them, fury etched across his face. "I told you not to kill him!"

"But..." The man who started to speak was silenced by a vicious back hand.

"No, you have literally blindfolded us." Nickel's fury had the men backing slowly. "When he was alive we at least had an idea of what might happen....even if it was the fact that we had to expect the impossible to occur. Now we have to deal with a totally new situation!" Nickel kicked hard into the fractured snow and ice, soon covering the dead man with ice and snow. The men, a ragged mob, hung around in silence, waiting to see what would happen next. It was a well-known fact that Nickel would either do nothing, or they might all join the snow-covered man who lay at their feet. "Well it's no good hanging around here." Nickel kicked once more at the snow before he marched off back the way they had come. It would take them more then a day to cross the new face created by the avalanche it would be faster to retrace their steps back to the St. Euvais Chateau.

"We must eliminate the big one.....provided the avalanche did not get him." Nickel paused at the top of the ice flows. "And fortunately we can eliminate that damnable Darcy." Nickel swung himself onto the rope as he spoke. Dark was fast falling and Nickel had no intention of staying on the ice any longer than was totally necessary after dark fell. In fact Nickel would prefer to be not on the ice at all, but that was not an option currently open since he was on it.

March 1st 1918-Base Hospital 23, France

Elizabeth rubbed her face wearily and smothered a jaw-splitting yawn, even the hard little stretcher bed seemed enticing today. Elizabeth yawned again and then abruptly turned and headed out, she'd walk for a few minutes and then see whether her bed was any more enticing. Elizabeth had been walking for perhaps ten minutes when she saw the man, he was limping badly and walking unsteadily. Blood seemed to have soaked his uniform and the face above was very pale. Automatically Elizabeth responded, only remembering seconds too late that she did not have the usual sister accompanying her.

"So kind of you to come to my aid Sister Bennet." The voice was soft, it was completely without accent and for some reason it was familiar to her, but for the life of her Elizabeth could never remember seeing the man before.

"I beg your pardon." Elizabeth tried to free her arm, for all the appearance this man was most certainly not injured.

"Come Sister, we are going for a short walk."

"I have had sufficient walk for today, I would prefer to return to the hospital."

"That, I am afraid, is not an option." The man's voice seemed to sigh and Elizabeth couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she knew the voice.

"Let me go." Elizabeth suddenly felt a bubble of panic rise and she fought desperately to prevent it, but the harder she fought it the larger it seemed to get. "Please let me go!" Elizabeth bit her lip.

"Relax Sister, we are merely going to this farmhouse.......and do stop looking worried, you will ruin everything if you look worried."

"What do you want? Why me?" Elizabeth looked around, but there wasn't a soul insight, even Folin seemed to have deserted her....and David was way out of reach, she didn't even know where he might be, let alone where he actually was.

"Because Mrs. Darcy you are important right now. Now remember, there is nothing to be afraid of......unless you cause me trouble."

"But why me?" Elizabeth tried once more to free her arm.

"A most foolish question Mrs. Darcy, I would sooner have expected such a question from your sister Lydia." The man tightened his grip on Elizabeth's arm. "Now Sister, there are ten people in the farmhouse. We are going to walk in there and you are going to request them to deliver an urgent note to the hospital. You will borrow paper and pencil to write the note and you will write to the Head Sister. No one must have any suspicions about your departure Sister. One miss spelt word, one attempt to give a warning that all is not well and normal and they all die."

"What.....?" Elizabeth stared in horrified amazement up at the man. "You couldn't?"

"You attempt to send a warning and watch me." The was no blustery confidence in the way he spoke, he was merely stating a fact, as if he were proposing a stroll down the road, and it chilled Elizabeth to the bone.

"But...." Elizabeth realised abruptly that she was no longer afraid, it was as if she were standing back from the action, watching like one watched a moving picture show.......except in moving picture shows now was usually the moment when romantic hero came riding to the rescue. Obviously the scriptwriters for this particular show had not realised what was meant to happen.

"Now Sister, shall we get that note sent?"

"Very well." Elizabeth automatically moved into the role she knew was assigned to her, injured man, unsuitable for the base hospital, had to be taken to Paris. The visit to the farmhouse took all of five minutes and then they returned to the road. As soon as they were out of sight of the house the man promptly straightened and shook his hand free of the small blanket which had hurriedly formed a sling, a hand which held a small, black, and vicious looking revolver.

"See it wasn't so difficult was it?"

"Says the cat to the mouse after he has killed it." Elizabeth wouldn't look at the man.

"An unfortunate necessity. But it really wouldn't do if they were to start looking for you before a couple of days have passed." The man looked thoughtfully around. "Yes, I think we will catch that train, after all they'll catch us much sooner if they know we never even boarded the train." The man frowned for a minute. "Yes I think that is best, we will travel a nice cramped third class."

The next three hours passed in a blur for Elizabeth. They had descended as some dusty and dirty station with hundreds of soldiers, without a word the man had lead the way through the crush and out into the street. The motor which waited was a classy number, one of the latest fashion Diamlers, all black, chrome and leather.

"Where are we going?" Elizabeth fought back a shiver as she settled into the far corner.

"Italy, there is something I wish to see there."

"What?" Elizabeth frowned at the man.

"You know you really are beautiful, I do not blame Darcy at all for taking the risk."

"What is in Italy? and where are we going after that?" Elizabeth wasn't interested in anything but the facts.

"What is in Italy is hopefully something I have wished to find for many, many years." His voice was satisfied in note. "Ahh to think it was caused by his own companion.....there is only one way it could have been better. After Italy we are going to Germany, through Switzerland."

"How?" To say the least Elizabeth was stunned.

"By auto, der untergrundbahn is by far the most comfortable way to travel."

"Why Germany? I don't want to go to Germany!"

"I think you will like Germany, it is such a lovely country."

"I don't want to go anywhere, I want to return to my Hospital."

"So stubborn." He seemed almost to sigh.

"Who are you?" Elizabeth repeated the question she had repeated many times, but until now never received an answer.

"I am many people." The man who sat across from her had been rubbing at the stain which Elizabeth had long since realised was not blood. A handkerchief was produced and soon the blood and grime were removed, and though the face was starting to seem vaguely familiar Elizabeth still couldn't place him. Or she couldn't until he ruffled up his hair rubbing at the back of his neck, the scar was angry, it was curiously twisting, and it was very familiar.

"You're George Wickham!" Elizabeth stared at the man in amazement.

"Ehh?" He looked up abruptly, and then ruefully inspected the scar in a small mirror. "Quite a nice mark isn't it. Full marks to you Elizabeth for your feat of memory."

"My name is Sister Bennet." Elizabeth responded icily.

"Not for long." Nickel shook his head and resumed cleaning up his face. A few minutes later Nickel straightened up and pulled his shirt off and Elizabeth noted with disgust that the 'blood' didn't go the whole way through, Elizabeth then firmly averted her gaze. "Elisabeth.....so fortunate you are dark. Elisabeth.....Elisabeth....no I can find no suitable last name. This will require consideration." Nickel pulled on a clean shirt as he spoke and then frowned out the window.

"Mr. Wickham..." Elizabeth began.

"Please, Nickel, or Georg, but not Mr. Wickham."

"True, you disgrace a creditable name by so using it."

"Not at all, I bring pride to a humble name. But you were saying?" Nickel had paused in knotting his tie.

"I was going to ask where that scar came from."

"It was given to me as thanks." Nickel resumed knotting his tie.

"You were obviously a great help to them."

"Indeed I was. In fact I had just returned a prisoner to him, and he responded by knifing me." Nickel knelt forward and started unlacing his high boots.

"Are you intending to get changed completely?" Elizabeth could hardly believe it.

"No.....or at least not here. We'll stop in a minute so you may relax." Nickel hauled off first one boot and then the other before he shoved them to one side.

True to Nickel's word a few minutes later the car pulled over at a small inn and Nickel descended, shortly to return in a resplendent suit of dark broadcloth, with a silk shirt and a tie like a poem. With Nickel's return the chauffeur then descended and vanished into the inn.

"I see I am indeed a prisoner." Elizabeth gave a yawn which was a close to bored disinterest as she could manage.

"Not at all, but you must excuse the precautions taken to safeguard you....it would not do at all if you were to be injured." Nickel had settled into the far corner of the motor and it was a sign that relieved Elizabeth, if only slightly.

Coira. Elizabeth only just saw the sign as they drove passed. They had crossed the Italian-French Border several hours earlier and the snow had considerably slowed the pace at which they traveled. Elizabeth had never seen such mountains in her life, awe inspiring piles which seemed to climb into the heavens. They blazed blindingly in the evening light, they were so wild and beautiful that it made Elizabeth's heartache and tears stung her eyes as she stared up at them.

"Hans." It was a curt call and Elizabeth's attention returned to the motor as it came to a halt. Nickel promptly swung down from the motor and pulled on a thick coat. "Take her to the usual place, I'll be back by tomorrow morning." With these words Nickel clapped a hat onto his head and headed for the towering mountain with long easy strides.

"Where is he going?" Elizabeth leant forward as the motor moved off again but the response she got was absolutely zero. Twenty minutes later Elizabeth was docily following an immense man into a small room. It was in fact quite a comfortable room with a magnificent view, but a quick looked showed Elizabeth that escape was totally impossible.....even if she had known where she was and where she'd want to go.

Nickel paused and cast his torch around thoughtfully as he worked his way along the lower edge of the avalanche for the second time. Still no marks beyond those of the searchers who would have come up as soon as they thought the slope to have stabilised. Nickel gave a sigh and looked up at the moon, he couldn't shake the feeling, he was positive that all three had come clear of the avalanche.....but how could they do it without leaving prints, there was no way Darcy's prints could be obscured. Nickel gave a sigh of annoyance and shook his head, there were tracks somewhere.....only problem was finding them and still having time to get back to the inn. Nickel shook his head again and then paused abruptly taking two steps to his left and stared sharply at a jagged ledge which jutted out about a mile further up the path of the avalanche. It was impossible, it was suicidal.....It was very Darcylike. Nickel knew precisely where his quarry had gone, the avalanche had caught them, but they had expected to be caught and had avoided it.

It took a sharp climb for Nickel to scramble up onto that narrow icy ledge, and the first thing which met his eyes was a footprint of formidable proportions. Though there was initially only the single track, by the time the ledge petered out into an ice field two more sets of tracks had materialised seemingly from nowhere. Nickel smiled wryly and gave a silent salute, there were few men Nickle knew who could have made the jump from the path of an avalanche onto that ledge, and there was only one man Nickel knew who could do it with two other men on his back. Nickel turned and headed back towards Coira, he needed to return with all possible expedition now all that remained was for the last round to develop. Darcy would do nothing that might hurt his wife, of that Nickel was certain.

Continued in Next Section