Date: Mon, 14 Jun 2004 14:32:12 -0400 From: John Ellison Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 09 AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental. My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have a different opinion or outlook. Others are so Liberal in their thinking that they make Hillary Clinton look like Attila the Hen! And then there are those that are into "causes". Please, do not write me hooting and hollering about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be warned. IN 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976 influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex. As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces, cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of erotica, please move on. Your comments are always welcome. Please write me at paradegi@rogers.com Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 9 "Are you certain you'd not like more of the quail?" asked the Major. Patrick Tsang glanced at the footman standing to his left and shook his head. "Thank you, no," he replied to the Major's question. Nodding, the Major smiled inwardly. Patrick was not quite the barbarian everyone assumed a Tsang to be. He actually knew which utensil to use for each course and the Major had purposely laid on the dog. Any "consort" of Michael would have to be sophisticated enough to work his way through a formal Western-style dinner, particularly in view of Michael's involvement with the Order. For his part, Patrick was smiling inwardly as well. They were dining formally in the Major's private dining room, a small, but richly appointed chamber. The Adam style room was painted a pale yellow and hung with portraits in oil of past monarchs, which tended to be a touch gloomy, as they all seemed to be painted wearing a uniform of one kind or another. The gloom of the paintings was offset by the magnificence of the furnishings. The table, the sideboard and side tables were from Michael's private collection of Hepplewhite antiques, and the Major had been allowed to borrow extensively from the silver and plate collection, and his acquisitions were displayed about the room and on the square, rosewood table. Patrick had been in Michael's service for many years but until now had never actually "dined royally", as Laurence had put it. He was not afraid of the array of Albany pattern silver cutlery (the good silver, the King's Royal pattern was reserved for Michael's use), nor had he feared the array of wine glasses placed at each setting. Wine was a normal part of fine dining and while Patrick might not have a palate, he at least knew what wine was supposed to be served with each course. What had surprised Patrick were the little touches of elegance seldom seen in his world. The large, silver gilt, 15-light candelabra that sat in the centre of the table held shaded candles, each shade hand-painted with a different pastoral scene. Flanking the candelabra were floral arrangements, pale pink and gold-tinged roses, with white and yellow daisies predominating, all freshly cut from the gardens and all arranged for this dinner only. At each place was a silver salt, with matching pepper caster. Placed around the table were small silver and gilt accent pieces: snuff boxes, a cigar box engraved with what look like a Royal Cypher, and small silver bowls filled with mixed, salted nuts. While grand, the room was subdued, and it was apparent that a great deal of thought had been given to the appointments. Grandness was balanced with colour. On the sideboard stood two of a set of six candelabra, made in 1870 and bearing the monogram of Edward VII when Prince of Wales, which were balanced by a pair of white biscuit Sevres "huntsmen" jars, rich in gilt and floral decoration. On the sideboards were additional pairs of candelabra, balanced with silver gilt pieces: four sauce tureens with the royal crest on the covers, a 17th century alms dish, a ewer in the form of a helmet, a covered gilt trophy, all balanced by green and yellow and white faience vegetables, their cheerful colours "degranding" the plate in an enjoyable way. As Patrick had expected, the food was faultlessly served by two footmen, new lads, and Caucasian, and expertly prepared, with each course being served in the French manner, and with a different china plate being laid for each course. That the Major rarely dined so empirically was never mentioned. The Major had set out to shock and awe Patrick with the riches and regal style that would be his if he was chosen to be Michael's consort. To that end the Major had huddled with the cook over the menu and chosen the wines himself. He had decreed that dress for the dinner would be black tie and he and Laurence were magnificently dressed in their Royal Marines mess kit, their bum-freezer red jackets adorned with their miniature medals and decorations. On each lapel of the Major's shawl collar his rank insignia - a small gilt crown - and the Royal Marine Globe and Laurel glowed in the soft candle light from the sconces placed on the plaster pilasters spaced around the room. Laurence sported two pips, indicating his rank as a Lieutenant. Both men wore boiled, stiff fronted, white shirts, wing collars and black bow ties. Patrick wore one of Laurence's dinner suits, which was a tad large, but quite effective and he looked very handsome. The Major made a mental note to have Mr. Leung attend. The evening was, in many ways, the culmination of a glorious two days in Patrick's life. Forgotten was the horse auction selection process, the memories replaced by wonderful lovemaking sessions with Laurence, long hours of gentle instruction and more love making. Whenever Patrick looked at the young Englishman his whole body seemed to glow. A nudge on his shoulder brought Patrick from his euphoric musings and he smiled a "no" at the footman, who went on to offer the silver tray to Laurence. Patrick picked at the small bird on his plate, marvelling at the amount of food he had been offered, and would be offered if the small, engraved menu card was anything to go by. Thus far he had been offered, for a "starter", Oeufs de caille en aspic et caviar, a choice of two soups, Potage St-Germaine or Consommé Olga, followed by Homard Thermidor (served with Duchess potatoes). Tournedos aux morilles followed the lobster, after which everyone took a rest and cleansed the palate with Punch Rosé. Now Patrick was dining on Cailles aux cerises, quail with a cherry and brandy sauce. According to the menu card there were three more courses yet to come: Asperges printanieres, sauce hollandaise; Macedoine de fruits and Oranges en surprise. As each course was accompanied by a superb wine Patrick did not know which would explode first, his bladder, his liver, or his stomach. During dinner no mention was made of Patrick's future, or of his involvement with Laurence. Patrick had been in the house long enough to know that no matter how discreet one was there were few secrets. He was also realist enough to know that both he and Laurence had been quite vocal in their love making and there was the natural remnant of that love making blotting the pristine whiteness of the starched sheets that covered the bed in Patrick's room. Patrick had expected some mention of it, but the Major had either chosen to ignore that his protégé and Patrick had been lovers, or was too much a gentleman to mention it. When the last course had been served the three men retired to the Major's small, wood-panelled library for brandy and cigars. The Major settled into a high-back, needlepoint upholstered chair, chose a cigar (a vintage Monte Cristo) offered to him from a large silver box by the footman, performed the necessary, ritualistic circumcision, then settled back, a wispy cloud of aromatic tobacco smoke hovering over his head, a snifter of Comet Year brandy in his hand. Laurence had settled on a leather sofa against the far wall while Patrick had chosen a most uncomfortable over-stuffed chair flanking the fireplace. Both men waited nervously for the wrath to descend. Both expected it, for while the Major had not exactly forbidden a liaison, he would not view their conduct with a friendly eye. This, coupled with the Major's plans for Patrick, did not bode well. The Major, who knew all about Laurence and Patrick being together in the most intimate way that two men could be, had no intention of mentioning their bedding. What they did before Patrick was committed to Michael was of no consequence. Young men sowed wild oats before marriage. It was expected, and could be forgiven. After marriage, or in this instance, commitment, was an entirely different matter and that the Major would address this evening. He looked into the glowing, ruby end of his cigar, cleared his throat, shot his starched cuffs and looked at Patrick. "I hope you enjoyed your dinner," the Major began slowly. One did not rush into such things. Nodding, Patrick replied, "It was, with respect, Great Lord, an experience I shall long remember." "It was a test, and meant to impress," returned the Major honestly. "Should you choose the path I have offered you, there will be many such dinners." "Or worse," muttered Laurence under his breath. The Major glowered at Laurence and then returned to speaking to Patrick. "You have thought of what we are asking of you?" "I have," replied Patrick simply. "And?" Sighing, Patrick looked directly into the Major's eyes. A soft smile formed on his lips as his glance slid over to where Laurence was sitting. "I have been sealed to the service of the Serenity, and I will do what is expected of me. I thank you for the gift that was given to me, a gift that I will cherish forever." He stood up, a serious look on his face. "I am ready to do what is asked of me." Patrick's look had not been lost on the Major, who smiled inwardly. He had always thought that Laurence was wasted on a guttersnipe such as Noel. But, that was not the topic of discussion. He gestured for Patrick to return to his seat. "I want you to understand, young man, that whatever happens, you will make whatever decisions need to be made. You will not be a courtesan, or a concubine. You will not be a plaything to be tossed aside." "I await my fate," returned Patrick stoically. "I am a Tsang, and I serve the Serenity. That is all . . ." "Yesterday you told me that you were a man!" growled the Major, "and that, damn it, is what I am looking at! You will be a partner, a helpmeet, and a friend! Please do try to understand that!" "I understand," returned Patrick hotly. "It has been explained to me time and again! I also understand that in addition to everything else I will be expected to please the Serenity as a man! Do not think me a fool!" The Major, somewhat taken aback by Patrick's outburst, stared at the young man. "I do not think you a fool," he said presently. "If I thought that you would not be here." He coughed delicately. "Patrick, Michael will make no demands on you. I know the man well and I can tell you with confidence that he will not ask you to do anything you do not want to do." "Let us not play games." Patrick fixed the Major with a look of determination and not a little defiance. "I will be expected to warm the Serenity's bed, if he asks me to. I am prepared to do that. I am homosexual and I will sleep with him. It will, after all, be my primary duty!" "No it will not!" came a harsh voice. The three men turned their heads to see Michael standing in the doorway, shaking with anger. All three men quickly rose to their feet, the shock at Michael's sudden appearance apparent on their faces. While the Major and Laurence remained stoic, the colour drained from Patrick's golden-skinned face as he sank to his knees. ****** The Phantom was alone in the Gunroom, lying on his bunk, staring into the gloom as the shadows of the dying sun crept across the spare compartment. He had been there since Doc had released him from Sick Bay. Chef had insisted that he take the balance of the day off and, as he had nothing better to do, he had returned to his bunk. For a long while The Phantom lay thinking about Colin, and what the young officer had said in the Wardroom of the gate vessel. He tried to convince himself that Colin was merely infatuated, a straight man that had succumbed to his feminine side, as it were. Colin would sail away tomorrow, or Monday, and that would be the end of it, a memory, and a remembrance. The Phantom was also trying to sort out his own feelings. That he was in love with The Gunner he did not doubt for one minute. But why then, was he feeling the way he did about Colin? They had barely met, hardly knew one another and yet The Phantom, deep within his soul, knew that he wanted to see Colin again, knew that he wanted to be held in Colin's arms, wanted to make love to him, wanted to have him make love to him. "Hell and sheeit," groaned The Phantom softly. He was confused and angry. He should not feel the way he did. He could reconcile his feelings for Cory, and Todd, for Ray and Matt. They were his friends, and the first loves of his life. They would always be a part of him. The Gunner understood that. But would he understand giving a relative stranger a blow job? Shaking his head, The Phantom doubted it. So lost in his musings, The Phantom did not hear the door from the outside open, did not hear the soft footsteps, and was unaware of his presence until Cory's warm, sweet lips touch his. He opened his eyes to see Cory looking back at him. "Are you all right?" asked Cory gently, his face alive with the love he felt for The Phantom. Shrugging, The Phantom sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bunk. "To be honest, no," he replied. Reaching out his hand Cory said, "In that case, it's time to talk to Doctor Arundel." He clasped The Phantom's hand and pulled him down from his bunk. "Come on, Tiger, the surgery is open." "Where are we going?" asked The Phantom as Cory led him from the Gunroom and into the barracks yard. "Someplace private," replied Cory. "Someplace where you can talk to me and I can talk to you. The Phantom did not protest too loudly as Cory led him down the length of the Spit and into the small forest that covered the southern tip. Presently he found himself on the small beach of the hidden pool where not so long ago he had swum naked with Todd, had made love to Todd, and been discovered, almost, by Randy, Joey, and Simon Keppel. Cory sat on the warm sand and patted the space beside him. "Okay, now come alongside, double up, and we'll talk." The Phantom did as he was told. He had barely sat down when Cory's hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him down to lie face to face with him. Smiling, Cory slipped his hands down the front of The Phantom's shorts and gently held his genitals. "Uh, Cory, is this your idea of talking?" asked The Phantom, surprised at Cory's blatancy. "Or did you bring me out here just to . . ." "No," replied Cory firmly. Then he grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "But then, maybe I did. Put your hand down my shorts." "What?" "Phantom, put your hand down the front of my shorts!" ordered Cory. Once again The Phantom did as bidden. He was not at all surprised to find that Cory was not wearing underpants. "Now then," said Cory as The Phantom gently squeezed his soft penis and testicles, "tell the doctor what is bugging you." "Cory, I . . ." procrastinated The Phantom. "Phantom!" growled Cory. He emphasized his impatience by giving The Phantom's tackle a good squeeze. "Ouch, damn it!" returned The Phantom. He was tempted to return the gesture but did not. He knew Cory would not let up until he either got the full story or got laid. "In two words? Lieutenant Arnott," he said slowly. Cory's face registered no surprise. "I thought so," he replied, his eyes softening. "He's got it bad for you." "Yes. He thinks he's falling in love with me." "And?" Cory leaned forward and for a brief moment their lips touched. "And just how does Chief Petty Officer Lascelles feel about Lieutenant Arnott?" he asked softly. The Phantom began to wiggle away from Cory. "Damn it, Cory, what a question to ask me when you know how I feel about . . ." A warning squeeze told him to remain exactly where he was. He looked into Cory's eyes and saw the scepticism. Sighing, he said, "He intrigues me, he appeals to me, he turns me on. There, satisfied?" Cory snickered. "And now your conscience is bothering you." The Phantom snarled low. Smiling broadly, Cory continued blithely on. "Phantom, you are lying on a deserted beach with your hand down the front of another guy's drawers. Snarling ill-becomes the situation." "Cory, I did not come out here to get it on with you! You're the one who came into the Gunroom and kissed me, remember?" "Of course," replied Cory evenly. "And as for getting it on with me, that remains to be seen." He removed his hands from The Phantom's shorts and sat up. He pulled his legs up, leaned forward, and grasped his knees. For what seemed like an eternity he stared into the crystalline, blue-green waters of the small lagoon. Then he turned to look at The Phantom, his eyes bright. "You really have no conception of the effect that you have on guys, do you?" "Don't be ridiculous," snapped The Phantom. "I have no . . ." Cory shot out his hand and his eyes turned cold. Pointing his finger in The Phantom's face he bellowed, "Listen to me!" Cory's pink face turned burning red as he pointed his finger at The Phantom and continued. "Just shut up and listen to me! Guys fall in love with you! They want to be with you, to hold you, to have you hold them! It's true, and I know it! Todd knows it, and damn it, it's time you knew it!" Startled at Cory's vehemence, The Phantom drew back, and then, much against his will, he nodded his head. "When The Gunner and I first started seeing each other, I made a joke about being popular, and desirable. I thought it was just a silly little joke." "It's no joke, Phantom," returned Cory. He smiled quietly. "You do things to others guys. Without even trying you make them, I don't know, perhaps 'fall in love' with you is not quite the term I want. But they do end up loving you and wanting to be with you. Hell, Phantom, not only could you have half the guys here in your bed, you'd have them following you into battle!" "Now I know you're being ridiculous," replied The Phantom. "You're a natural leader," said Cory firmly. "The guys see it, just as they see that not only are you capable of leading them, but that you care for them, love them, will protect them and support them. Let's face it, Phantom, it's no wonder Matt and Ray and Calvin . . ." "Calvin?" exploded The Phantom. Cory would not be deterred. "Calvin," he repeated firmly. "And Randy, and Joey. Sandro would give his right nut to be allowed just one night with you." The Phantom's snorting laugh broke the still air of the cove. "Sandro is Russian and prone to over romanticism! Besides he's not even gay!" Cory raised his eyes to the tree-covered sky and sighed. "Phantom this is not about Sandro being gay!" he snapped sharply. "It's about you and the affect you have on people." "Is Sandro gay?" asked The Phantom, his question more rhetorical than anything. He knew what Sandro had been up to and was quite blatantly trying to deflect Cory. "Phantom, Sandro got it on with Nathan the night of Tyler's Mess Dinner," said Cory impatiently. "More than once," replied The Phantom with a giggle. "From the way he was struttin' around the galley he was quite proud of himself. Then of course he got it on with Chad!" "Who also got it on with Anson!" growled Cory, remembering the morning he had seen Chad giving Anson a lesson in a unique way of steering a whaler. The Phantom sat up with a start. "What?" Cory was becoming angry. He had not come out here to discuss anything but Phantom's relationship with Lieutenant Arnott. He had, in fact, agreed to meet Sean in the canteen and then go for a stroll down by the beach. He lowered his brow and looked at The Phantom. "Chad got it on with Anson. Nicholas is all but married to André; Tyler and Val are playing happy families whenever they get hard - and believe me, I know when that happens!" The Phantom giggled. The bulkhead separating the Chiefs Mess from the Gunroom was wallboard, a notoriously thin material. "Don't laugh," begged Cory, a smile forming on hs face, his building anger ebbing. "Tyler on heat is not a pretty thing to listen to, and I wish Val would have the courtesy to speak English when he's about to blow because then at least I'd know how much he's enjoying it." The Phantom recalled his visits to Val and that Val, in moments of priapic stress, mumbled and chattered in some form of Sicilian, a dialect of some kind, and screamed out "Madonna" when he squirted. Val was almost as enthusiastic as Tyler when in the throes of orgasm. The Phantom did not, however, say anything to Cory, who knew too much about his visits as it was. "Anyway," Cory was saying, "I know all about who is getting on with whom. Rob was porking Ryan, Brian was humping Dylan, but that ended for some reason. Ray is madly in love with Kevin; Chris and Jon are all but melded together and Chris no longer remembers that the Fort Henry Guard exists. Calvin Hobbes is all but in mourning because Simon Keppel went home and Randy and Joey are jumping Phil Thornton's bones every chance they get!" "You forgot Nathan and Fred," said The Phantom. "Chef is pissed off with all the rockin' that boat of Mark's is doing every night! He says he's going to weld the doors shut!" The Phantom giggled, remembering Fred's morning woody. "Of course, Fred does have a pecker on him, which explains why Nathan is walking around funny but with a smile on his face!" "I am aware of Nathan's relationship with Fred," returned Cory coolly. Deeming it wise to move on, The Phantom then asked, "And what about Todd and Harry?" he asked. Snorting, Cory shook his head. "That's over." He looked at The Phantom and asked," Do you remember the night of the barbecue?" The Phantom nodded. "Well, where was Harry?" Thinking back, The Phantom remembered. "Not in the Gunroom with Todd." "He was on the beach getting the inside of his undies all wet and sticky from humping against one of the serving wenches and calling it dancing. You came to see us, Matt came to see us, everybody we know came to see us but one!" "Harry," said The Phantom. "Harry stayed on the beach and Todd got the message," replied Cory, his face was blank, hiding his hidden anger at Harry for hurting his brother. "I had thought that relationship might work," said The Phantom slowly. "Well it didn't," returned Cory bluntly. "Todd, the dickhead, could have had a real relationship with Matt. Instead he goes all Mother Superior and swearing up hill and down dale that he's not going to be responsible for Matt walking down Queer Street." "Matt loved him," said The Phantom. "If only Todd had seen that." "He refused to see it," returned Cory. He slammed the flat of his hand against the hard sand of the beach. "Just as you refuse to see!" He stood up abruptly and shook his fist at his best friend. "You refuse to see what you do to us! Harry goes on about the day you stared at him in the Mess Hall, after Little Big Man had slagged Todd and me off! Harry claims that your green eyes boring into him were like the finger of God drilling a hole in his chest! And Mike? I saw the way you looked at him! I also saw what he did after you looked at him!" "Mike needed to understand what you clowns were doing to him," The Phantom all but shouted in return. "You all were making a fool of him! That was unfair, and unkind!" "Yes, we were," Cory all but shouted in return. "But the point is that until now you never thought about what you did, did you?" He took a step forward. "Well, did you?" he demanded. "No," replied The Phantom, his demeanour softening. "Fuckin' aye on that!" Cory returned to sit on the beach. "You tend to think that nobody knows what you do for us. You also tend to equate everything with sex! Well, Phantom, sex might be a part of our relationship but damn it, our relationship is not based on sex! It is based first and foremost on friendship! And that is how the other boys look at you, as a friend, and not primarily as a sex object! They love you and they want to follow you, not sleep with you, God Damn It!" "But Cory . . ." "Don't 'but Cory' me! Listen to me! You give and you give and you give! For once in your life forget about giving and take a little!" "Cory, I do not want to sleep with Harry, or Rob, or Nicholas! I don't want to start something with Phil Thornton. You and Todd, and Ray are different, but the others just don't, well I just don't think of them as sex objects! They're my friends, my brothers and I just don't think of them that way!" Cory picked up on the fact that The Phantom had pointedly not mentioned Matt, which confirmed his suspicion about their relationship. He was not, however going to take that path, not yet. "But you do want to sleep with Colin Arnott!" he interrupted. "He turns you on and you'd sleep with him if you could!" The Phantom blushed and squirmed with embarrassment. "Cory, he does turn me on, I admit that! There is something about him that appeals to me, that wants me to . . . well, you get the picture. But I can't! I'm in love with The Gunner and . . ." "Is The Gunner here?" asked Cory. "Do you really think for one minute that if the opportunity presents itself he won't take advantage of it?" "You don't know what you're talking about," snarled The Phantom. "How can you think that The Gunner would . . .?" "The Gunner is a man, Phantom," replied Cory as gently as he could. "And because he is a man he has his weaknesses and failings." "That does not mean that he'll act on them!" rejoined The Phantom, his anger rising. "And when would he even have the opportunity? He's been gone all of two days! What the hell do you think he is, a mink?" Cory was not in the least intimidated by The Phantom's blazing green eyes. "Phantom, he's a man, and you're right, maybe he won't act on his feelings. I don't, I can't, know if he will or he won't! All I can tell you is what I know, and . . ." A smile creased his face. "Phantom, when we came back from the sailing trip I was minding my own business, squaring away our whaler, and I heard a voice and I looked up and saw the finest set of upper deck fittings to come down the pike since Todd - or you!" Cory's eyes lowered. "And in the pursuit of truth, justice and the Canadian way, I tell you I ended up on my back, in the Captain's cabin of some grotty Yankee cutter!" The Phantom leaned back, his eyes staring at the overhead canopy of greenery, staring but not seeing. "And, in the further pursuit of truth, justice and the Canadian way, I looked into the eyes of one of the most handsome men I have ever seen and ended up between his legs in a cabin in some grotty Canadian gate vessel!" "And we did because they intrigued us, appealed to us, touched us!" Cory moved to sit beside The Phantom. "I know how you feel about The Gunner, Phantom. I understand how you feel about him. But I also understand that he will not always be here for you! Whatever relationship you might have with him is five or more years away! You'll be apart more than you'll be together! Don't be a martyr for something that might not happen!" Without warning Cory reached out and clasp The Phantom closely. "I love you, Phantom Lascelles! I love you for the way you care about people, for the way you care about me, for the way you deliberately taught Sean how love! You did that for me, and don't deny it!" The Phantom bobbed his head, the colour rising in his face. "I love you Cory, I want you to be happy, always. And Sean will make you happy." "I know that," Cory replied. He gave The Phantom a quick kiss. "And I will remember it always, just as I will remember what you did when you went into the Petty Officers Mess and showed Little Big Man his true self. The others, they know you did something, and I think Nicholas has figured it out." "It's done with," replied The Phantom frostily. "What has happened has happened. Let's not dwell on it." "Phantom, because I love you I want you to take a step back and study your relationships." "My relationship with The Gunner, you mean," growled The Phantom. Cory drew back and nodded. "Phantom, you must face facts! Whatever relationship you have with The Gunner is going to be sporadic, hit and miss and . . . DAMN IT . . . Phantom, wake up and smell the goddam roses! You have a life to live! You are a wonderful, sensuous, desirable man and you should not be expected to live your life as if you were some sort of mendicant monk!" "But Cory," interjected The Phantom. "I'll have you. And Todd!" Groaning, Cory stared into The Phantom's green eyes. "Yes, you do. But Phantom, the day will come when neither of us will be what you want! The day will come when Matt will not be what you want!" The Phantom bristled. "What has Matt got to do with this?" he asked coldly. "Phantom, you've been with Matt, and for that I thank you," Cory said quietly. He impulsively kissed the end of The Phantom's nose. "Matt needed someone to love him. He needed someone to show him that he is his own man. You did that." The Phantom could not lie to Cory. "But I cost Todd . . ." "You cost Todd nothing," spat Cory. "Todd had Matt's love and threw it away for a fling with Harry! And before you say anything, that's all it was, a fling, a roll in the hay because Harry is much too selfish and self-centred to think about anyone but himself." The Phantom stared at Cory in astonishment. "I never in my wildest imaginations thought that I would ever hear you say that about Harry," he managed to say after the shock wore off. "Why?" Cory asked indifferently. "The truth is the truth. Harry and Greg had a thing going and then Greg made the mistake of falling in love. Harry wanted a fuck buddy and made it plain to Greg that was all he wanted. Greg wanted more, got pissed off, and they broke up." He gave The Phantom a hard look. "Harry didn't give a shit how Greg felt, and only wanted Greg on his terms!" "A fuck buddy, you mean," replied The Phantom bluntly. A strange, faraway looked came into Cory's eyes as he said, "Phantom, not too long after Harry told Greg that all he wanted was a fuck buddy, Todd, Harry and I spent the night together in the Unwinding Room in the School of Wind." The Phantom saw the look on Cory's face, a look he could not understand at all. "But Cory, that's what you wanted. Hell and sheeit, you never made any secret about wanting Harry!" "And I had him," replied Cory. His gaze was steady as he looked at The Phantom. "I thought I was in love with him, and because I thought that, I let him fuck me. Because I loved him I wanted him to make love to me. Instead he fucked me. I was just a one night stand." Shaking his head, The Phantom asked, "And Todd?" "I admit that Harry has feelings for Todd." His harsh laughter broke the still air. "But, again, on his terms. Todd went along with him and they began an affair and believe me, Phantom, it was hot and heavy!" "I got that impression," said The Phantom with a smile. "From the way I saw it Todd was Gunnery Officer and there were live fire exercises with the Pride of the Fleet every night!" "You got that right," confirmed Cory with a scowl. "Unfortunately, the Pride was only fired for exercise purposes. Todd was falling in love and Harry wasn't having that, for all he was going to come calling whenever he got tired of beating off his brother Nicky or screwing a cow, or whatever he does for sex on that godforsaken farm." His scowl deepened. "Do you know where I can get a pack of dogs? Mastiffs, if you have them." The Phantom's eyes widened. "Dogs? What would you want with a pack of dogs?" Cory was quiet serious when he said, "Well, according to Todd, Harry was worried that he hadn't picked me as his playmate and that if he came calling I'd set the dogs on him." "You wouldn't, would you?" asked The Phantom, "I mean, if you did have a pack of dogs?" Cory sighed and lay back on the sand. "No, Phantom, I wouldn't, because Todd has finally realized that while he means a great deal to Harry, all he ever was, all he ever would be, is a discreet affair." "Which has ended." Turning his shining eyes on The Phantom, Cory smiled and nodded. "Which has ended. Not, sadly, as it should have." He reached out to take The Phantom's hand in his. "Which is what I shall always be, Phantom. What Todd, what Matt, what Ray, will always be. Discreet affairs that touch your heart." "You will always mean more to me than that!" declaimed The Phantom. "I love you!" "I know," replied Cory simply. "And I love you. I have Sean now, yes, and now that you've managed to put a Tiger in his tank, I think I'll keep him." Once again he looked at The Phantom. "But you know, and I know, that we will always be together. We will always be friends, we will always love each other, and we will always make love to each other." He rolled on his side and pulled The Phantom to him. "That was what would have happened if you and Lieutenant Arnott had been given the chance." "Yes," whispered The Phantom. "I can't explain it, but something happened on that boat. I . . ." "You could have fallen in love, Phantom," said Cory. "And who could say you no?" He lowered his head and his deep, passionate kiss silenced The Phantom's promised protest. "But now, it's too late, and for that I am truly sorry." A tear trickled down The Phantom's cheek. "And so am I, damn it! I wanted to be with him and now it's too late. He's back on his boat and I'm stuck here! And even if I weren't where would we go? I won't . . . Cory, I want a discreet affair with Colin, a special, wonderful affair, and not some clandestine blow job in a smelly cabin in a gate boat!" Nodding, Cory sighed sadly. "And now, it's too late. If I could, I would swim over to the Government Jetty and drag him back. But then, you'd object because you want to be with him in your own way, and find him in your own way." He smiled impishly. "Mind you, I also thought that if anybody could find a way to get Colin Arnott into his bed it would be you, you being such a sneaky git!" The Phantom began sputtering a protest. Then he realized that Cory had made a joke not to make fun of him, but to make him see the futility of his dream. "You know what, I bet if I put my mind to it, I'd could do it," he replied with a smile. "No bet," returned Cory. "Not that I doubt you, but I know you. You would make love to him, not fuck him. And therein lies the difference." The Phantom sighed. "A thing that might have been, then." "A thing that might have been," whispered Cory. He looked into Phantom's eyes and asked softly, "Phantom, will you put your hand down the front of my shorts?" The Phantom looked into Cory's eyes, his own emerald green orbs sparkling with the love he felt for this blond Adonis, his friend, his lover, and said, "Only if you'll put your hand down the front of my shorts." ****** It was early evening in Toronto, and although there was still one full day of mourning left, it seemed that everyone who had known Margaret Winslow, or her husband, had decided that Saturday evening was the best time to call. Meeting Sophie's friends had been an experience that The Gunner would never forget because for the second time in his life he had come face to face with power. The men Sophie had introduced him to were, outwardly, hardly the stuff that legends were made of. But they had power. It was their demeanour, it was in the way they spoke, and it was in their eyes. The Gunner had seen the same look in Michael Chan's eyes, the same determination. The eyes of the men had been clear and steady, not shifting about as the eyes of the men who surrounded Edward Winslow did constantly. Sophie maintained that these men had to be shifty-eyed, as they had to keep a lookout for the knives. Chuckling, The Gunner left the house and walked a way down the driveway. He needed to get away for a few minutes and he needed to think. There was so much happening in his life, Michael, the boys, Michael's determination to use the boys if he thought it necessary and, not the least, Ace. Just thinking of Ace caused a stirring in The Gunner's loins. Damn it, he thought angrily, this was not supposed to be happening to him. He was feeling things for Ace that he kept telling himself he should not feel. Phantom was waiting for him back in AURORA, and how could he ever explain what had happened, and even if he could, how would Phantom react? Phantom was, in so many ways, a very mature, and reasonable young man. He was also, on the other hand, capable of flying into unreasonable, green-eyed monster rages. Could Phantom understand that having feelings, deep, wonderful feelings for another man were not exclusive to him? After all, Phantom had never denied his feelings for the Twins, or for Ray, or, The Gunner suspected, Matt. Nor had The Phantom ever denied that from time to time he would need to be with one of his friends. Could Phantom understand, then, that he, The Gunner, might need to be with Ace from time to time? Could he understand that need? The Gunner's musings were interrupted by the sound of rubber tires on the asphalt of the driveway. He looked up to see the bright lights of a motorcar, a dark green Ford, and knew at once that someone military was coming to call. Watching, The Gunner saw the car pull to a stop and the front door on the driver's side open. The driver, a young corporal, nimbly opened the rear door and out stepped a tall, very thin, bespectacled army Lieutenant, who reached into the depths of the back of the car and brought out a large, bulging leather briefcase. The Lieutenant stepped back and held the door open. The Gunner's eyes widened as the tall, compact form of the Command Chief Gunnery Instructor appeared. ****** The Command Chief Gunnery Instructor enjoyed a unique place in the Canadian Armed Forces. He was the senior ranking Non-Commissioned Officer and by his very appointment the most important. He had an office next to that of the Commander, Maritime Command, and the privilege of walking into that office whenever he felt the need. As Command Chief Gunnery Instructor, James Edgar used the many years of experience he had under his belt to further the interests of the men, and now women, of his Command. He travelled frequently, listening to the complaints the ratings all seemed to have and would never divulge to an officer. He could go into any Mess, on any base, in any ship, except the Wardroom. He would listen to the NCOs, to the ratings and, unlike the officers, would act, knowing, as he did, where the bodies were buried and that while stupidity, sloth and indifference to the plight of the Lower Deck was rife, not only in Ottawa but in the Flag Building, could and would use his knowledge to circumvent the barracks stanchions and naysayers. James Edgar held a unique position and used his power and authority judiciously. He was "rabbi" to many young men, but none held as deep a place in his heart, as the young Leading Gunner walking toward him with his hand extended. ****** "Chief!" The Gunner almost crowed, the smile on his face genuine. "I never expected, I mean . . ." Shaking The Gunner's hand, Chief Edgar returned the smile. "You've suffered a loss, and I'm here to help you in any way I can," he said. He saw The Gunner giving the eye to his companion and said, "You remember my youngest boy, Aaron?" "Of course," replied The Gunner, frankly lying. He recalled - vaguely - that Chief Edgar had three sons and remembered seeing them only on a Sunday when they accompanied him and his wife to Chapel, three skinny boys dressed in dark suits and starched, white shirts, their hair cut in the regulation manner. He smiled at the young Lieutenant. "It's good to see you again." The Gunner noticed the ring on Aaron Edgar's right hand: plain gold, and bearing a mailed arm and fist holding a maple leaf. Aaron was a ring knocker, a graduate of the Royal Military College. Aaron Edgar was tall, and frankly skinny, so skinny that The Gunner could not help thinking that the Twins would have a lot of fun commenting on the lack of the lanky young officer's ass. They chucked shit at Two Strokes constantly about his lack of a bum but compared to this lad Two Strokes was positively plump! There was also the fact that while Aaron was a Lieutenant, and obviously in his mid-twenties, he looked to be about 12-years-old! He had a smooth, oval face with warm, brown eyes and his pink, peaches and cream complexion, and smooth, beardless cheeks made one think of a baby's bottom. The Lieutenant's handshake was firm, however, and warm, and he looked directly into The Gunner's eyes. Aaron Edgar might look an innocent, but he was his father's son. "So then, how are you getting along?" asked Chief Edgar as The Gunner led him towards the house. "Coping," replied The Gunner enigmatically. Chief Edgar had been around long enough to understand when a situation had gone bad and recognized the tone of his protégé's voice. It was obvious that Stephen was not a happy camper. As whatever was bothering The Gunner was obviously a family matter, the Chief would not interfere, or mention the subject, unless Steve mentioned it first. There were, in any event, more important and urgent matters to attend to. In the house, The Gunner introduced Chief Edgar and his son to Sophie and Ace. Sophie, gracious, extended her hand and welcomed the Chief and the Lieutenant as old family friends. Ace gave Aaron the once over and when he and The Gunner were alone later on remarked that the poor boy would never meet with Sophie's approval, as he had no caboose at all! After paying his respects and being unimpressed by The Gunner's uncle, Chief Edgar asked if there was a private place for them to talk. Sophie had immediately gone into the library and cleared out the riff raff who were busily drinking Edward's booze, posted Ace at the door, and ushered The Gunner, Chief Edgar and Aaron into the wood-panelled room. "No one shall bother you in here," she said as she poured the three men a drink. "And Chief, you and your charming son will have supper with me later?" It was a command, not a question and the Chief, for the first time in many years, found himself bobbing his head in agreement. "She is not as shallow as she seems," said The Gunner as Sophie closed the door behind her. "She is actually quite nice, once you get to know her." Chief Edgar smiled wanly. "She seems a bit . . . much?" Laughing, The Gunner took his seat on the sofa opposite Chief Edgar. "Actually, she's an ex-Jenny Wren. She claims to know Mountbatten." "Really," drawled the Chief. "Well, she comes on like a Wren." He sipped his drink and then looked at The Gunner. "As for Mountbatten . . ." "Trust me, Chief, if she knows Mountbatten, she knows Mountbatten!" replied The Gunner, dispelling any doubts in the Chief's mind. Lieutenant Edgar, who up to this moment had not uttered a word, asked suddenly, "Are those jewels she's wearing real?" Once again a laugh rose from The Gunner's throat. "Very. Strip away that brittle veneer of cynicism and Sophie is very real." "Then we shall definitely dine with her," replied The Chief with a smile. "Who knows, she might take a shine to young Aaron and then he can keep me in my old age!" The Gunner shook his head. "While Aaron might appeal to her, sadly, he has no caboose at all." He cast at glance at the blushing Lieutenant. "She's a caboose person." Lieutenant Edgar was about to protest, and then caught The Gunner's meaning. He grinned and turned his head to look down. "She's right. No caboose. Damn!" The three men laughed and then Chief Edgar sobered. "Stephen, I came here, first of all to pay my respects to your aunt. She was, through you, a part of the Navy family and as such deserving of our respect." "And thank you. I didn't expect it," replied The Gunner sincerely. "I'm sure that you have more important things to do." Chief Edgar waved away The Gunner's words. "Stephen, to be blunt, I do, but not in the way that you're thinking." For some reason Aaron snorted. "And then some," he muttered. Chief Edgar glared at his son and then turned to look at The Gunner. "I'm swallowing the anchor this year, Stephen, and there are some loose ends I wish to clear up." The news that the Chief Gunnery Instructor was retiring stunned The Gunner. Jim Edgar seemed to be ageless, one of those people who had always been there. The Navy would not be the Navy without him and The Gunner added his rabbi's departure to his list of reasons for swallowing the anchor himself. "I don't, I mean I never thought," fumbled The Gunner. "It comes to all of us," returned Chief Edgar. "I've had a good run and now it's time to come alongside and enjoy the inadequacies of a Naval pension." "I'll miss you," whispered The Gunner, his voice filled with emotion. "If it hadn't been for you, I would have . . . well I would probably be slaving away in my uncle's bank." Chief Edgar promptly began to pooh-pooh The Gunner's remarks. "I saw a young man of promise and I merely guided him down a path." He shot a glance at his son, who pulled out the briefcase he had carried into the house. "And now I am sending you down a different path." The Gunner's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?" As Aaron handed his father a sheaf of papers the old Chief smiled. "Stephen, what do you know about the present political climate?" "Not much," replied The Gunner candidly. "British Columbia tends to ignore anything east of the Rockies and the newspapers there tend to put anything concerning Ottawa they deign to report on the back pages, if they report it at all." Nodding, Chief Edgar regarded his drink and then said, "Stephen, Mr. Bourassa, the Premier of Quebec, is going to call an election this year. The Writ has not been dropped, but it will be, and when it does Trudeau and his trained seals will go into a spending frenzy." The Gunner knew enough about Canadian politics to comment, "Trudeau needs Quebec nationally and is deathly afraid that the Separatists will win provincially." "He is," agreed Chief Edgar. "If Levesque and his people win - and they will because the Quebecois are sick to death of Trudeau and his nationalism - Trudeau will see it as a stepping stone to Separation. He cannot afford to lose Quebec. Without it, and Ontario, his power base is shot to hell, and it will give the Western provinces the excuse they need to leave Confederation." "And what has that to do with me?" asked The Gunner. "I could care less, really." "Stephen, the Liberals are about to open the floodgates so far as Quebec is concerned. Money for anything and everything will become available. They will build up the infrastructure and do anything they can to win votes. Need I tell you where the money will come from?" "The Defence Budget, just as it always has," The Gunner said promptly. "Precisely. It's already started. Our budget will be cut because the Minister will not fight the Prime Minister. He likes being in Cabinet and he likes making all that money. The Deputy Ministers and Associate Ministers that infest National Defence Headquarters won't fight No. 10 Sussex Drive because they like their perks, their drivers and their honourary military ranks." "In other words, I should drop my pants, bend over and grab my ankles because I'm about to get fucked!" snapped The Gunner angrily. Then he added, "Again!" "Of course," returned Chief Edgar evenly. "The military will take a hit, as it always does, and nobody will do a damned thing about it. "Now I know I'm sending in my papers," growled The Gunner. "No you will not!" Chief Edgar sat up straight and glared at his young friend. "That is exactly what the Liberals want! They want the young fighters, the men with balls and moxie, to leave. They want a military filled with ass-kissers and boot-lickers. They don't want some smartass standing around telling them "NO" all the time." He chuckled mirthlessly. "I plan on making sure that there is someone with the balls to stand up to them and say NO!" "But how? And where do I come into this?" "As we speak certain officers are being put in positions of, if not power, influence. As they retire, or leave the service, hopefully we will find men to take their place." He sighed reflectively. "It is not easy to identify possible replacements. They exist, of course . . ." He glanced at his son. "He doesn't look like much, does he?" "Well, I . . ." The Gunner's face turned red. "That's hardly a fair question, Chief!" he declared. Laughing, Chief Edgar leaned over and gave The Gunner's knee a pat. "I know it wasn't, but I wanted to see your reaction." He looked fondly at his son. "Aaron is nothing much to look at. He's as skinny as a whippet, looks about fifteen on a good day, and has the air of a bookish little man who wouldn't hurt a fly." The Gunner was not about to make any comment about a man he did not know. "If you say so," was all he would allow. "I do," replied the Chief with a grin. "Aaron also has no caboose, which is a shame, because he has something neither of his brothers have." "What's that?" asked The Gunner, intrigued. "A first class brain and balls," replied Chief Edgar promptly. He pointed at Aaron. "He has balls of brass the size of tennis balls - figuratively speaking - and he is going to help you keep the commissioned trash in line." The Gunner fell back against the back of the sofa. "Me? How can I do that? How can he do that, even if he has big balls?" "Stephen, you have been in the Andrew long enough to know that it is not what you know, but who you know, and how far they will push you along. "Chief, you do realize that I am hardly in a position to influence anybody! Hell, I'm not even a Petty Officer. I'm outranked by so many people that . . . hell, the ship's cat has rank on me!" "Not any more," returned Aaron enigmatically. The Gunner stared at both men. "What are you talking about?" Waving the sheaf of papers, Chief Edgar explained. "In this mass of bumf you will find a signal announcing your promotion to Petty Officer - back dated. You will also find a signal advising you that your application for Commissioning from the Ranks has been approved. You are a 'Mister', a Sub-Lieutenant." "But . . . I . . . I don't have a university degree!" declared The Gunner, grasping at straws. He wasn't at all sure that he wanted a commission, and was damned sure that he had never requested to be commissioned from the ranks, or anywhere else! "It is not required, although I would expect you to remedy that situation in due course. Hopefully your duties will permit you the time." He chuckled, and glanced fondly at hs son. "Aaron has a Bachelor of Science from RMC and he keeps his diploma in the loo. It makes a colourful accent piece to an otherwise drab little room." "Father, I was first in my class!" protested Aaron. "And? You still have to unzip to pee and pull down your pants to shit! Keeping your diploma in the loo is quite appropriate." He turned to The Gunner. "I am working my web, Stephen. I am moving heaven and earth while the politicians are busy covering their asses in Quebec, placing men of honour in positions where they can be of use. Aaron will be going to NDHQ and working in the office of the Vice-Chief of the Defence Staff. You are going to Special Branch for a little while. After that, you're going to sea, and you had better come back with a Command ticket because when you get your flag . . ." "Hold on," exploded The Gunner. He held up a shaking hand. "What makes your think that I would, that I will . . ." "Because you are a man of honour. You will see your duty, and no matter how unpalatable it is to you, you will do it! You can no more fail to right a wrong than a dog can pass a fire hydrant!" "A poor analogy," snapped The Gunner. "But then, I should be used to being pissed on!" "Only if you are the fire hydrant," returned Chief Edgar. "In this case, you are the dog. Soon enough you will be a man of importance and stature. It will take time, but we have plenty of that." The Gunner was still not convinced. "And just how do you expect that I, as a Subbie, could possibly influence people?" He grimaced. "It has been my experience that people tend to regard Subbies as irritants, like crotch lice!" "It has been my experience as well," replied Chief Edgar blandly. "Which is why you are, as of midnight tonight, an Acting Lieutenant, attached to Special Branch. In time you will succeed Rick Maslen. Eventually you will be moved to another Branch. As I said, it will take time, but it will be done." "But why me, dammit?" demanded The Gunner. "Why not . . ." he pointed at Aaron. " . . . Why not your son, why not a dozen other men I can mention?" "Because, Stephen, you have been chosen. It was recognized long ago the kind of man you were, a man of probity, and honour, and honesty. You were chosen because it is well known that you will not let the old rag fall into the dust and muck of politics, that you will not compromise your principles nor will rest until you right what you see as an injustice." Chief Edgar paused, "And you were chosen because you will make the sacrifices needed of you. And there will be many. You will be asked to give up a great deal - but only for a little while - when by God's grace you will have your reward, and your rest." The Gunner was about to retort that the next time he had a good rest he'd be dead, but Chief Edgar's sincerity stopped him. He simply nodded his head. "You were chosen because you have friends, some you know, some you do not, who have placed their faith in you," the Chief continued. "You were chosen because you are trusted, because it is known that you will never break the faith." He stood up abruptly and nodded at his son, "Aaron, if you please." Aaron rose from his seat and went to the door, opened it, and beckoned for Ace to enter. Ace was carrying a large, rosewood box, which he placed on the desk that flanked the library fireplace. He opened the box and brought forth a veritable treasure of gold and precious gems, a collar of majesty. Ace solemnly handed the jewel to Chief Edgar who held it and then spoke. "Would you kneel, please?" So accustomed was he to obeying the Chief, The Gunner knelt without question. He looked into the Chief's smiling eyes. His eyes darted to where Ace was standing and saw that his lover was smiling broadly. He glanced at Aaron who slowly removed his class ring from his finger and drew from the pocket of his jacket another ring, a heavy gold and enamel ring set with an oval, table-cut ruby that sparkled with a special fire in the light cast by the lamps that lit the room. Chief Edgar looked into The Gunner's hazel eyes. "You have asked why and I reply because you are the Champion of the Order. You have the trust of your brothers, and you have their power. You were chosen because you will use that power wisely and judiciously. You have been marked with great honour, and men will look at you, no matter what outward rank, and tremble." He placed the bejewelled collar over The Gunner's shoulders. "Receive as a special mark of favour and trust this, the insignia of an Imperial Knight of the Golden Fleece in the knowledge that it is given with trust and faith and devotion." When he had finished adjusting the collar Chief Edgar leaned forward and whispered, "Rise, please." The Gunner rose and was stunned when the man he had always considered to be a minor Deity gave him a slow, proper neck bow and then sank to his knees. Instinctively The Gunner reached out to take the Chief's hands, the better to raise him to his feet. Instead, Chief Edgar shook his head firmly, no, and clasped The Gunner's hands. In calm, deliberate tones Chief Edgar, his eyes never wavering, began his act of fealty. "I Walter Aaron Edgar, a Knight of Donat and Justice of the Sovereign and Most Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, give to you, Stephen, Chancellor of the Order, Professed Knight of Magistral Grace, Donat and Justice of the Sovereign and Most Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Imperial Knight of the Golden Fleece, Archduke of Trieste, Protector of the Hospital at Jerusalem, Champion, Margrave of Salzburg, my fealty, my honour and my life, and pray that God will make me worthy of your trust." Although stunned at the obeisance of so powerful a man, and trying hard not to let his emotions get the better of him, The Gunner at first nodded, and then quite impulsively, drew Chief Edgar his feet. He felt so honoured that he made another impulsive move. He leaned forward and murmured, "Receive, dear brother, the kiss of peace." He gently kissed Chief Edgar on each cheek and then said, "I pray that I am worthy of your trust." Chief Edgar withdrew and his place was taken by Ace, whose eyes shone with real love and devotion. He knelt, clasped The Gunner's hands and began his act of fealty, "I, Acton Timothy William Grimes, Professed Knight of Honour . . ." Acton's oath was exactly the same as that given by the Chief until after he had finished the recitation of The Gunner's titles, when he pledged, "My fealty, my honour, my life . . . and my love . . ." With tears streaming down his face The Gunner brought Acton Grimes to him and murmured, "Receive the kiss of peace, and my undying love. I pray that I am worthy of your love, dear brother." As Acton withdrew, weeping in happiness, Aaron knelt down. "I, Aaron Josiah Edgar, a Professed Knight of Justice of the Sovereign and Most Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, pledge to you Stephen . . ." His brown eyes stared into The Gunner's and a shy smile formed on his lips as he added at the end, "And I pray that I one day may be found worthy of your love." The Gunner smiled and reached out to help Aaron to his feet. "Receive, dear brother, the kiss of peace, and know that you will from this day forward forever have a special place in my heart." ****** The Gunner had scarcely finished embracing his fellow knights when the door opened and Sophie, followed by one of the caterer's assistants bearing a large silver tray of champagne-filled flutes, bustled in. She almost caused a minor catastrophe when she saw The Gunner's collar and pulled up short. Then, much to her own, and everybody else's surprise, she executed a curtsey that would have put to shame the ladies of the Court of St. James. The Gunner did not know whether to laugh or cry. 'Sophie," he exclaimed. "You were snooping!" "Of course I was," admitted Sophie candidly. "Now will one of you gentlemen help an old lady? I haven't done that in years and my bones are rusty!" Laughing, Aaron and Ace helped Sophie to her feet. "I knew you were up to something," Ace accused as he took a glass from the tray. Sophie smiled her most winning smile. "Of course I was. I saw you take delivery of that box, and then sneak away to hide it from prying eyes." "Yours," retorted Ace, although he smiled when he said it. "You failed," returned Sophie, smiling sweetly. "Next I saw you lurking about the doorway with the same bloody great box in your hands and just had to find out what you were up to." She fixed an accusing eye at Acton. "For all I knew, that box could have contained a weapon. You could have been bent on murder and mayhem!" "Now, really, Sophie," protested Ace. "Of course, you were not," Sophie continued airily, not at all repentant. "But, no matter. Now, come gentlemen, drink up. I've stolen Edward's best champagne. I refuse to let him waste vintage Dom Perignon on the rabble!" While the others helped themselves to the champagne, Sophie drew The Gunner to the far side of the room. She kissed him gently and smiled. "So, Stephen, what secrets you kept from me!" "They would have remained secret had you not been listening at key holes," replied The Gunner, matching Sophie's smile. "A knight, and with a caboose," said Sophie. "You'll have supper with me this evening?" "It will have to be late. I'm afraid . . ." The Gunner shook his head. Ace had made arrangements to meet Troubridge and there was no way they could get out of it. "We shall await your presence, my lord," replied Sophie impishly. "I haven't given my cook cause to pitch a fit in ages. She's about due." As the waiter passed by with the tray of champagne, Sophie snagged a flute and then set out rearranging The Gunner, and Acton's, domestic arrangements. "You shall come and live with me. I shan't take no for an answer. The Lord knows the house is big enough and all I do is rattle around the place watching the staff eating my food and growing fat! Now I know that you and Ace will want to have your own room, and you shall, as I have a perfect . . ." The Gunner stood there, a fixed smile on his face, not listening to Sophie's prattle and nodding in what he hoped were the appropriate places. He was not listening to her at all. Instead he was . . . "What shall I tell him?" he asked himself, his mind spanning the dark waters of Superior, the sun-seared prairies, the snow-capped Rockies, the slopes of Whistler and across to the Island. "How can I explain to him that events have spiralled out of my control? How will I tell him that there will be no nights under the stars, watching the dancing flames of a campfire he built? Will he understand that what we had is ending? Oh, dear God, what shall I say, what shall I do?"