Tessa's face crinkled in amusement. The hushed confines of the expansive gallery didn't exactly encourage conversation, however, and her reply came back as a barely audible whisper. "Just a few more minutes," she promised.

The English-speaking Louvre guide gave them both a silencing look as he continued on with his boring analysis of Tintorino's "The Origin of the Milky Way." The thought of a Milky Way chocolate bar made Richie's mouth water but, appropriately chastised by the guide's ruthless gaze, he fell back and vowed to keep quiet. His stomach growled loud enough to be heard by the two young students standing next to him, and they giggled with their hands over their mouths.

"I'm going to faint from hunger," he threatened into Tessa's right ear.

Tessa found his left hand and squeezed it encouragingly. "Ssshhh."

The tour guide muttered something in his thick French accent about how Juno's breast milk, spurting to heaven, had formed the universe. Breast milk sounded gross, but Richie could have happily down a large glass of regular milk. Or bread sticks. Or crumbs. Anything to silence his hunger pangs.

"Tessa - " he almost started again, but sighed and gave up. Tessa had devoted herself entirely to the cause of improving his liberal arts education. Every Saturday for two months now, since almost the very day they'd stepped off the plane at Orly Airport, she'd marched him through the endless galleries of the Louvre until his head spun. She tried to drill into him the concepts of schools and movements and an appreciation of form and style, but he remained far more interested in watching the tourists than in trying to tell the difference between Botticelli and Rubens, whoever they were.

Like that young couple in the corner, their hands linked comfortably as they gazed up at the portrait of a Christian saint pierced by dozens of arrows. They whispered something to each other, and the man planted a kiss on his wife's cheek. An older woman with a ridiculously large black hat blocked Richie's view for a minute. She leaned down to scold a fidgeting ten-year-old girl in a long green dress. The scolding earned sympathetic glances from an elderly couple consulting a German tour brochure. Richie would have bet money they were grandparents. Just contemplating the idea that he might have some of his own somewhere in the world sent a faint twinge through his chest and he forced his attention back to the paitnings.

The tour guide said that Hercules, sucking on Juno's breast, was seeking Immortality. That final word brought Richie's attention back to the painting. So that was how Duncan MacLeod had achieved Immortality, he thought wryly. Sucking on a goddess' breast.

Finally, at last, thank God, the tour guide wrapped up the presentation. Richie nearly wrenched Tessa's arm off as he hauled her toward the exit. Tessa, however, insisted on eating in the Louvre's cafeteria, so that they could visit more of the galleries after lunch.

"I thought we were done for the day!" Richie protested.

"Not nearly," Tessa said, patting his cheek.

The Louvre's extensive cafeteria, on the first floor overlooking part of the ticket gallery, already teemed with people. Richie grabbed a tray and joined the main line, but Tessa drifted towards the salad bar.

"Don't leave me," he said. "You know I can't read these signs in French."

"You have to experiment," Tessa smiled. "Try ordering something new."

"I don't want something new," Richie protested. Everything in France was new. He was sick of new. "Come on, Tessa, translate for me."

"Be courageous," Tessa said. She patted his arm and abandoned him to the line.

She had this theory, he knew, that making him do everything by himself would speed up his attempts to learn French. Richie thought that was a lot of bull. Making him order in restaurants for himself, or answer the phone at the barge, or go to the bank down the street only made him stammer and flush with embarrassment. French seemed effortless when it came out of Mac or Tessa, but he only managed to mangle it worse and worse with each passing day.

Frowning, he edged forward in the line and peered through a plate of thick glass to examine the pre-packaged meals. He knew how to use francs despite their odd shapes and colors, but identifying the food proved beyond his ability. He looked up at the cold, bored face of the clerk.

"Parlez-vous English?" he asked hopefully.

She shook her head and folded her arms across his chest.

"Tuna fish," he said anyway. "Any of these tuna fish?"

She stared at him unhelpfully. People in the line behind him muttered in French, and he didn't need a translator to sense their growing impatience and disgust.

Richie made a face and motioned for one of the cold plates. Even after he'd paid for it and brought it back to the table, he couldn't figure out what it was. He stabbed at the whitish-beige chunks experimentally until Tessa arrived with her tray of lettuce and croutons. All she ever ate, he would swear, was lettuce and croutons.

"What did you get?" Tessa asked.

"I don't know," Richie admitted, and started eating carefully. After a few mouthfuls he said, "I don't think it's tuna fish. Maybe chicken. It's not bad."

"What did you think of the tour?"

"I thought the tour guide looked like Mr. French," he said.

"Mr. French who?"

"He was on an old TV show called Family Affair. He was this stuffy British butler for a guy with three kids. Sissy and Buffy were the girls. One of them died of a drug overdose in real life."

"He was British, but his name was French?"

"Yeah. You never saw it?"

"No," Tessa said.

"Must be one of those shows that didn't make it across the ocean," Richie shrugged. He'd tried watching American shows dubbed on the Paris stations but the novelty of watching Captain Picard and Will Riker speaking French had worn off quickly. "There was a little brother, too, but I can't remember his name."

"So all you think of the tour is that our guide looked like this Mr. French?" Tessa asked, delicately delivering a crouton to her mouth.

Richie shrugged and ate more of the presumed chicken salad. "It was okay."

"He entirely missed the significance of Tintoretto," Tessa said.

"Milky Way guy?"

She shook her head in exasperation. "Is that all you retained?"

Richie flashed her his most charming smile. "As you said, he missed the significance of everything else. Tessa, I can only learn from you. You're the master."

Tessa's eyebrows arched in skepticism. "The master, eh? Mistress is more like it."

"You're my mistress?" Richie teased. "Don't let Duncan hear you say that."

"I don't think Duncan can hear me in Lyons. I hope he got the things at the auction that he wanted."

"Duncan always gets what he wants. Like you. You two want something and - bam! You go out and get it."

"What about you?"

Richie shrugged. "I don't know what I want." Which wasn't exactly true. He wanted to be able to talk to girls in cafes without them giggling at his poor language skills. He wanted to see a movie in the theater that didn't need English subtitles. He wanted to decipher the Metro system, to understand tellers at the bank, to pay store clerks and count the change without worrying about being cheated. Everything in France had gone from new and exciting to exciting and confusing, and then to confusing and exasperating.

Things had brightened for awhile when he was dating Jenny, an American singer who'd been working a charity gig at the Paris Opera. Then an Immortal named Ursa, living in the sewers beneath the Opera, had totally freaked her out. Richie supposed being kidnapped and carried over Ursa's back into the labyrinths of bones and decay under Paris would do that to anyone. He'd had one or two nightmares himself about Ursa chasing him through endless mazes of dark, dank tunnels. Jenny had fled back to New York two weeks ago, and he missed her fiercely. Not because he loved her, but because she'd been the only other American he knew in Paris.

When they returned to the barge that afternoon Richie kicked off his sneakers and claimed the sofa. Tessa checked the answering machine and found a message from her sister Elise. Tessa called her back and walked around with the cordless phone, prattling in French. Richie made himself warm and cozy beneath a blanket, still cold from the wet and miserable weather that seemed to be France's only contribution to meteorology.

Tessa began to sound increasingly upset, and Richie wondered idly if there had been any more trouble with her niece, Tessa-Marie. Richie hadn't initially liked the girl when she'd visited for a few weeks in Seacouver the previous summer, but she'd grown on him. And she'd even saved his life, a big plus in his book. Lately she'd be running away for one or two nights at a time. But the problem turned out to be something else entirely.

"My mother is ill," Tessa said when she finally hung up. She bit the ragged edge of a fingernail, a habit Richie had only seen her do when she was worried about Mac off fighting Immortals. "I should go to see her."

"So go," Richie said. If he'd had a mother, and she was sick, he would go to her.

"You'll be alright alone?'

Richie cracked a smile. "I'm a big boy, Tessa. You can leave me alone and I promise not to sink the barge."

Tessa looked doubtful about his reassurance but went to pack an overnight bag anyway. Richie waved her off a short time later from the gangplank and then ducked inside before the rain soaked him. It occurred to him as he plopped back down on the sofa that this was the first time since they'd come to France that Tessa and Duncan were both away. If he'd had any friends in Paris, he could invite them over for a party. But the only one he knew was Darius and he'd never seen the priest leave Holy Ground, nevermind hit a keg. Did they even have beer kegs in France? Just another international mystery waiting to be solved by Richie Ryan, world traveler.

After a half-hour of channel surfing the small portable television he decided he was bored, and went rummaging in the refrigerator. Nothing looked appetizing, and he actually felt somewhat queasy at the sight of the fresh food. He went to his cabin under the wheelhouse and rummaged through the car magazines he'd brought from the States. Duncan had fixed up the cabin nicely for him, but Richie found the windowless compartment too claustrophobic for much more than sleeping and missed his room in Seacouver. He went back to the sofa, plugging a few CDs into the stereo, and read until an uncomfortable bout of diarrhea sent him to the bathroom.

He went back to the sofa, his stomach still churning, and tried to distract himself from the increasing discomfort in his body by calling Angie back in the States. He'd forgotten the time difference, and woke her up. After two minutes of groggy and somewhat cranky conversation on her part, Richie said he'd call back later. He huddled back under the blanket for awhile, then went in search of Pepto Bismal or the Gallic equivalent.
The medicine cabinet turned up a number of products, all labeled in French, and he couldn't decipher which might be helpful for a case of the runs. Annoyed at Tessa and Duncan both - they obviously didn't care that he couldn't read or write in this country - he tried some Coke from the bar and a few cookies. Twenty minutes later both came choking back up through his mouth and nose. He made it to the kitchen sink in time to avoid too much of a mess. A half hour later, he was roused from a miserable nap by a mass of greasy, half-digested food from lunch that landed mostly on the bathroom floor.

"Merde," Richie muttered, the only French word he remembered, and leaned against the bulkhead for a minute while the bathroom cabin spun quickly beneath his feet. The smell of vomit threatened to bring up whatever was left in his stomach. He dropped a bath towel on the mess, vowing to clean it up later, and when the barge finally steadied he groped through the drawers under the sink. He found half a roll of Rolaids and swallowed two with sink water cupped in his hand. After several queasy minutes of squinting at a French dictionary he decided to chance a bottle of gray-white chalky stuff that tasted horrible and left his mouth gummy.

Evening had settled in hues of dark gray outside the portholes, and the chill air inside the barge made him shiver. He didn't have the energy to start a fire and instead crawled back under the blanket on the sofa. Huddled with his arms wrapped around his stomach, he debated calling Tessa at her parent's house in Pontoise. He didn't want to take her away from her sick mother, even if he was dying from food poisoning or stomach cancer or who knew what. Let her come back tomorrow, find his dead body, and regret taking the job in Paris that made all of them relocate from Seacouver.

Richie tried to sleep off the sickness, and was running through a dark, frantic dream of Ursa chasing him when a pounding on the hatch upstairs brought him abruptly awake. The barge was completely dark, and he banged his shins on the coffee table, the bookcase and finally the stairs before he reached the hatch safely.

"Come on, MacLeod, I know you're in there," a woman's voice called cheerfully. "Time to come out and play."

Richie swung the hatch open and immediately regretted it. From the first moment he'd set eyes on Mac's old friend Amanda he'd been completely infatuated with the gorgeous Immortal. She'd called him Richard and given him looks that made Felicia Martins look like a Catholic schoolgirl. Amanda still looked gorgeous, in a black cape and black tights and stunning blue scarf. But he knew he looked horrible, and felt green just standing there with the blanket clutched around his shoulders for warmth.

"He's not here," Richie said.

"My goodness," Amanda said, "what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Richie said. He shuddered in the wave of cold, damp air sweeping off the river. "I'll tell him you came by."

Amanda put her hand out to prevent him from closing the hatch. She'd sensed another of her kind coming up the gangplank and blithely presumed it was Duncan. Now that she paid closer attention to the sensation crawling up her spine she realized it had been the fainter, more elusive hum of a pre-Immortal. Judging by the cast of his complexion and the way he was swaying on his feet, Richie might even be Immortal before the night was over.

"You're sick," she said.

"Ate something bad," Richie mumbled, turning from the hatch to make his way down the short stairs. He flipped the lamp switch on the wall and winced from the glow of yellow light. Amanda trailed the young man, concerned he wouldn't even back to the sofa. "Richie," she said, "you really are sick."

"I'm fine," he said weakly. "Took something. Just hasn't started working yet."

"Maybe I should call you a doctor."

"No doctor," Richie said, collapsing onto the cushions and dragging a pillow over his face "Just ate something bad for lunch, I think."

Amanda wasn't sure about that. She didn't remember very clearly what it was like to be sick, and hadn't bothered to keep up with medical developments in the last thousand years. Her mentor Rebecca had been a field nurse during several large wars, but Amanda found it hard to be interested in wounds or diseases or suffering. Richie might be sick, or he might be dying. With mortals it was hard to tell.

"Where's MacLeod and what's-her-name?" Amanda asked, scanning the inside of the barge. The clock in the corner chimed eight o'clock, nearly overriding Richie's words.

"Mac's in Lyons and Tessa went to her parents," he answered, his voice muffled by the pillow. He poked his head out for a moment. "Don't go into that bathroom. It's nasty."

The warning came too late. Amanda wrinkled her nose at the odor bathroom and delicately shut the door. She thought about leaving him to his sickness, but he was so very young and looked completely miserable. She was becoming soft in her old age, she decided, and scooped up the phone.

"What are you doing?" Richie groaned.

"Calling an expert."

Richie fixed a baleful look on her. "Amanda, please go. I don't want any help. No leeches, no tree bark, no whatever it is you medieval guys used to do for botulism."

His protests went unnoticed as Rebecca answered the phone. Afte a short exchange of pleasantries Amanda told her about the plight of the poor, sick, mortal teenager. Rebecca asked Amanda for his exact symptoms, and Amanda relayed the question.

"I feel fine," he groaned. "Go away."

"He looks white as a sheet," Amanda reported, placing her palm on his forehead and swatting his hand away when he tried weakly to block her. "A little warm, but no fever, I think. Vomiting? Definitely. Diarrhea? Let me ask."

"Just leave me alone," Richie protested.

Amanda pinched his cheek. "You're cute when you're miserable, you know that? Now tell Auntie Amanda exactly what's wrong, because MacLeod will never forgive me if you die."

Richie surrendered. Amanda hadn't doubted that he would. He mumbled a long story about the Louvre and being sick and Rolaids and French Pepto-Bismal. Rebecca said unkind words about the latter two.

"She says you probably just made yourself worse," Amanda said. "Those things won't help."

"So I'm not a doctor," Richie griped. A panicky look crossed his features and he lurched toward the bathroom. While he was in there, Amanda finished her conversatioin with Rebecca and then started a fire. The barge began to warm with waves of rosy light. Richie emerged from the bathroom with a pale expression and shakily went back to his spot on the couch. He sat upright with his feet propped against the coffee table.

"The barge is spinning," he told Amanda, and blinked several times.

"I'm sure it is," she said. "Stay where you are. I'll be right back."

She went into the small galley, hunting in the refrigerator and cabinet until she came up with the requisite ingredients and measuring cups. MacLeod even had a blender, which made things much easier. She mixed up fruit juice, honey, salt and ice and pour the combination into a tall plastic cup. When she returned, Richie eyed her with blatant rebellion.

"Whatever it is, I don't want it," he said.

"Rebecca said it will ease your stomach," Amanda said. "It's harmless. I promise."

Richie took the glass reluctantly. "Who's Rebecca?"

"Friend of mine. Old friend."

"Of course," Richie grumbled. "Everybody's old but me. Everybody lives forever but me."

Amanda stayed silent. If MacLeod had not seen fit to let the teenager know about his looming destiny, she wasn't about to spoil the party. She had her own opinions and perspective on the matter. She watched as Richie took a cautious swallow.

"Sip," Amanda said helpfully. "No gulping."

Richie gave her a dour gaze and sipped as instructed. He only managed half of it. Amanda didn't force the issue, but instead put the glass on the side table and settled back into her chair. "Do you want me to call Tessa?" she asked, forcing down her own dislike of MacLeod's current girlfriend.

Richie shook his head and instantly regretted it. His brain had turned into an overripe, moldy melon about to burst out both of his ears, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Maybe he was dying, after all. He closed his eyes. "No, don't bother her. Her mom's sick."

"Mortals," Amanda sighed dramatically. "A third of the time you're getting sick, a third you're getting better, and the rest of the time you're planning ways to make your health worse."

"Well, excuse me," Richie muttered angrily, without opening his eyes. "You think this is fun?"

Her voice came back surprisingly gentle. "No," she said. "I don't think it's fun, or funny." Her hands touched his shoulders, and Richie squinted up at her as she guided him down so that he lay on his side on the cushions. "You need to rest now."

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's not your fault."

"It never is," Amanda smiled. She lifted his legs for him so he could stretch out. "Just relax."

His stomach twisted into knots, his brain inched another notch towards bursting, and Richie clenched his jaw. He wasn't going to throw up in front of her. Amanda's right hand went to his sweaty back and made circles against the damp cotton of his T-shirt. "Breathe deeply," she said. "In through your nose and out through your mouth. Come on, try it."

Richie did as told and found his insides settling somewhat. His eyes slid shut as he tried to focus on the breathing and on the soothing rub against his aching shoulders. Amanda's footsteps retreated for awhile, and then she came back with a cool cloth that went on his forehead. The blessed coolness contrasted nicely with the warm toastiness under the blanket she added, and Richie managed to open his eyes again.

"You're pretty good at his," he said.

"Beginner's luck," Amanda answered. "I'm a terrible nurse. Now go to sleep."

He nodded once and slid into slumber.

***

The cab from Gare de Lyons dropped Duncan off at the barge early Sunday morning. He'd come back early, meaning to surprise Tessa, but as he paid the driver he realized her car was gone. He wondered idly where she would be at this hour. Richie's bike, parked near the bow, reflected the overcast sky in its shiny fenders. As Duncan climbed the gangplank he reached out mentally, seeking the low-level hum that Richie usually emitted, but was startled to feel the full fledged buzz of another Immortal instead.

Hand on his katana and unease rippling up his back with goosebumps, Duncan approached the hatch carefully. He let himself in, bracing himself for the slice of a sword as soon as he crossed the doorway, but no attack came. He looked down into the living room and saw Richie sleeping on the sofa with Amanda curled up in an armchair. Amanda stretched languidly, her eyes sleepy, a finger to her lips to warn him against disturbing the teenager.

Duncan slipped his katana back into its sheath and came down the steps quietly. Something smelled funny, but he couldn't identify the odor just yet. Richie lay curled up on his side, a blanket tucked to his chin, his face unnaturally pale.

"What's going on?" Duncan asked suspiciously, and as quietly as possible. "What did you do to him, Amanda?"

"Do to him?" Amanda asked, drawing herself up to him and poking him in the chest. A trace of outrage colored her voice. "Do to him? I've been Florence Nightingale, MacLeod!"

All of a sudden the smell crystallized for Duncan. He checked the bathroom and then the galley. One of Tessa's prized porcelain bowls lay to the side, ruined by its contents. Duncan grimaced and turned to watch Amanda set the kettle on the stove. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Amanda said. "Food poisoning, probably. In between bouts of throwing up and running to the bathroom all night he muttered something about chicken salad at the Louvre. I'll tell you what - the food was never good there, even when it was a palace. I told Louis, but he never listened to me." She glanced toward the living room. "He hardly got any sleep at all. Must be exhausted."

Duncan's eyes widened. "You sound like you actually care, Amanda."

She flashed him a look of genuine hurt. "I'm not as heartless as you like to think, MacLeod."

"I'm sorry," Duncan said contritely. He took her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I know you're not as heartless as I think or you pretend. Thank you for taking care of Richie."

"He's a good kid. You should tell him . . ."

"No," Duncan said firmly.

Amanda shrugged. "He's not going to be happy with you when he finds out."

Duncan knew that. But if not telling Richie he was going to be Immortal resulted in a few precious years of normal life, time to live and learn without the dangers of the Gathering, then MacLeod would gladly take the heat the day Richie rose from the dead. Food poisoning might be wretched and uncomfortable, but it wasn't usually fatal. They still had time.

"Where's Tessa, by the way?" Duncan asked when he walked Amanda to the door.

"Tessa who?" Amanda asked innocently. "Oh, the blonde? I think she ran away with a good looking mortal from Marseilles who couldn't handle a sword if his life depended on it."

"Thanks a lot," Duncan said dryly. He watched Amanda leave and then turned to the unpleasant task of cleaning up the mess that had transpired during the night. Amanda might do a decent Florence Nightingale impersonation, but she hadn't touched a mop or bucket of hot water in at least five hundred years. Duncan had just finished tossing out the garbage and setting more water on to boil when he heard Richie stirring.

"Well," Duncan offered when Richie cracked open bleary eyes, "you're going to live, I hear. How do you feel, tough guy?"

"I want to go home," Richie complained, his voice weak.

"You are home." Duncan sat down on the edge of the coffee table.

"Seacouver," Richie said. He put up an arm to block the daylight from his eyes, or maybe he was trying to hide the forming tears. "I want to go back to the States. I hate France."

"No you don't," Duncan said. "You're sick and tired and dehydrated. You want to try some water or juice?"

The blond head shook an emphatic no.

"You'll feel better," Duncan said.

"I'd feel better back in the States," Richie replied. "Mac, I'm serious. I want to go back."

Duncan sat back a little. "All right. You're serious. We can talk about it when you're feeling better, okay?"

Richie sniffed miserably and nodded.

For the rest of the morning the teenager dozed restlessly while Duncan tried not to disturb him. When he was awake, Duncan persuaded him to sip water or flat soda or more of Rebecca's fruit juice recipe. Tessa came home around two from visiting her mother, who had contracted the flu but was doing as well as could be expected. She fussed over Richie's sleeping form until Duncan shooed her into the galley.

"I feel terrible," Tessa said. "I should have stayed here yesterday. Then he wouldn't have been all alone."

Duncan didn't think it wise to mention that Amanda had stayed the night. He said, instead, "You didn't know he was sick when you left, Tessa. You don't have ESP."

"He didn't want chicken salad anyway," Tessa frowned. "And I should call the Louvre, tell them they're poisoning people."

Richie woke around three, and lurched to the bathroom before Duncan could ask him how he was doing. When he came out, the teenager looked green and shaky. "I'm going to my room," he said, listlessly picking up the blanket and pillow from the sofa. "You guys need the living room back."

"Don't be silly," Tessa said. "Lay down here. It's more convenient."

Richie shook his head. "I want my own bed."

Duncan offered, "Do you want to try something bland to eat?"

"No. It would just come out the other end anyway," Richie said, and retreated to his cabin.

Later that evening Tessa visited with a tray of water, juice and warm cloths. She found Richie curled under the sheet, his face half-buried in the pillow. "Stomach cramps still bad?" she asked sympathetically.

He raised one shoulder in a half-shrug.

"Duncan may not remember what it's like to be sick, but I do," Tessa said. She sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. "We called the hospital, just to be sure. They said you should be fine, but gave us warning symptoms to look for." "It's okay," he said. "I feel better than I did last night. It's just that . . . "

Tessa waited for him to finish, but the words caught in his throat. She gave him time to compose himself and pressed the warm cloths to the back of his neck. Finally he said, "I just want to go to sleep."

"I'll leave you alone," she said. "Sleep well."

A few minutes later Duncan came up to check on him and reported, "Tessa thinks you're mad at her for eating at the Louvre yesterday. Richie, it's not her fault if you got a bad lunch."

"I'm not mad at her!" Richie protested.

"Then what's the problem?"

Richie set his jaw stubbornly. "Nothing."

Duncan didn't answer for a long moment. Then he turned the room's one chair around and straddled it. "You said something about going back to Seacouver. Do you still want to?"

"Yes," Richie said firmly, then he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "No. I guess not."

Duncan arched an eyebrow. He didn't expect most teenage boys, especially Richie, to be consistent. He'd long ago decided it had to do with hormones, pride, ego, masculinity, fear. He wondered, sometimes, how the man he'd called father had ever managed to put him with the impulsive, reckless youth Duncan had once been. He'd wished more than once that he could somehow reach across the gulf of death and centuries, just to ask.

"It sounds like you're not sure," Duncan offered.

Richie dragged himself up to sit against the bulkhead. His stomach protested the move, but he ignored the complaint. He had to find a way to make Duncan understand. "It's easy for you and Tessa. It's her home, after all, and you probably remember when the place was a little village or something. But it's not the place for me, you know? Maybe I'm just not a big city guy."

"You? The original street rat, or so you say?"

Richie made a face. "Okay, so maybe that's not it. Maybe I'm just tired of not understanding what's going on, or what they say on TV, or what the bus driver is yelling about. Everything's so....different."

"That's what travel is all about. Things are supposed to be different, otherwise you'd never have to leave home. You can't be afraid of the unknown." Duncan tilted his head quizzically. "It's normal to be a little homesick, you know."

"Are you?"

Duncan considered the question for a few seconds. "I've lived in hundreds of places, Richie, but only a few that I would call home. Sometimes, yes, I'm homesick. For the heather of the Highlands, or the trees of the Northwest, or the rivers of France. I had to learn a long time ago to adapt to new places and new ways of doing things, or I'd have lost my head long before you were born."

"Well, I'm not you, and I'm not homesick," Richie said stubbornly. "I'm just tired of it all."

"Culture shock, then."

"Stop throwing psychological words at me!"

The vehemence in Richie's voice surprised Duncan. The Highlander tried a different approach. "Richie, do you remember the day I gave you the ticket to Paris?"

The corners of Richie's mouth turned up, although he refused to smile. "Yeah. I had about twenty minutes to pack everything."

"You were so excited you nearly bounced off the walls."

Richie slid down on his pillows and pressed his stomach against the mattress, trying to ease a sudden cramp. He wished Duncan would stop talking, and hoped for a little sympathy. But this was a warrior sitting in his cabin, a man who didn't give up easily.

"If you can remember that enthusiasm," Duncan said, "you'll find it easier to get past all the difficult parts of learning to live and adapt to a new culture."

Richie pushed down a swell of bitter frustration. "Mac, you just don't get it, do you?"

"What don't I get?"

"Yes, I was excited to come here. It was the most amazing thing that ever happened to me. Paris! Who would have ever thought I would get to Paris? But sometimes I wish Tessa had never taken this stupid job and made us move."

"Is that what she did? Made us move?" The Highlander's voice had grown distinctly chilly. "Tessa didn't make us do anything, Richie. We make our own decisions."

"You do," Richie retorted. "I just get to follow around and live by what other people decide. Someone stamps a file and - bam! - I go to an orphanage. Somebody else needs a poster child to prove what a great parent he or she is and - bam! - I'm sleeping on the top bunk bed in pajamas too small with a brand new brother underneath who doesn't want me. Or somebody else decides they're going to do a Father Flanagan's Boy's Town routine and - bam! - I'm sleeping in a spare bedroom and trying to sell antiques to people whose car stereo's I used to rip out. Because *you* decided to be a social worker - Mac, the great savior!"

Duncan's voice rose in anger as a flush crept up his neck to his face. "That's not how it happened, Richie, and you know it!"

"It's close enough! And to follow up on your martyr act, *she* decides the world is a much better place only if you're in Paris, so here we are, one happy little family floating on the Seine - "

"You're delirious, do you know that?" Duncan demanded. He stood up and paced the small confines of the cabin, his hands slicing through the air as if he wielded a sword. "Your stomach has poisoned your brain. You wanted to come here, and you did, and now you feel sorry for yourself, so you want to run away."

Richie hauled himself up to sit on the rumpled sheets and pillows. "I do not want to run away!" he said hotly.

"Yes you do," Duncan shot back. "And how can you possibly say have no choice in what happens to you? I didn't make you live with us! I didn't drag you onto that plane and force you to come here. And if you want to go back I'll take you to the airport myself. Let's get you packed right now, shall we?"

Furious, he ripped Richie's small suitcase from an overhead shelf, dumped it on the edge of the bed, and began tossing scattered clothes into it. Same tiny part of his brain registered that he was over-reacting, but he ignored it. "You'll need your sweater," he said, barely controlling the tremble in his voice. "It's cold in Seacouver this time of year. And your jacket. Favorite jeans? Let's not forget underwear. This should last you a week or two. Then you can find some well-paying job, and some high-priced apartment, and lead your life exactly as you please. You may not have an education, or a resume, or any prospects whatsoever, but you could always return to that highly successful life of crime you were leading before this social worker found you."

He slammed the suitcase lid down and glared at Richie. The teenager was white-faced, staring at him as if they were total strangers.

"Mac," Richie finally said, clearly and distinctly, "could you just do me one favor?"

"What?" Duncan growled.

"Take that suitcase and shove it up your ass."

***

The war lasted another two days. Richie claimed the battlefield of his cabin, and came out only to use the bathroom. At all other times he stayed inside. Duncan claimed the rest of the barge, and outdid himself in a flurry of swabbing decks, repairing lines and polishing brass. Tessa ventured to Richie's cabin at regular intervals, bringing first juice and soup and then oatmeal and toast. Her visits grew longer and longer, and Duncan found himself twice trying to eavesdrop at the hatch. He heard nothing. Tessa, when she came out, would volunteer no information, and Duncan's pride refused to let him ask.

His fury of that afternoon - he'd stalked out of Richie's cabin enjoying fantasies of strangling the teenager - had abated over the last two days to a cold, sick shame. He'd honed his verbal fighting skills in spirited debates over the centuries with everyone from Connor and Amanda to kings, philosophers, even lawyers. He'd had no reason to fling the caustic, spiteful words at Richie that he had. No reason besides his own temper. Richie's youth and inexperience made the circumstances bad enough, but adding the fact that Richie was so sick only made Duncan's shame even worse.

Duncan had, of course, told the whole story to Tessa - favoring his own side, of course - and had been startled, at the end, that she only shook her head and sighed.

"Poor Richie," she said.

"Poor Richie?" Duncan demanded. "What's so poor about him? We flew him to France, we give him a place to stay, I pay to have his bike shipped over - he doesn't work, he doesn't go to school - what in the world do you mean, poor Richie?"

Tessa gazed calmly at the fire in the stove. "You didn't listen to him."

"I didn't listen to him?" Duncan asked in disbelief. "Are you insane? I listened to more than my father ever listened to me."

"You're not his father," Tessa said softly.

"I didn't say I was."

"You implied it."

"No," Duncan said, as his temper began to flare. "I didn't." He wondered if this conversation would end with Tessa also telling him where to stick an inanimate object.

She shook her head again. "You didn't listen to him, Mac. Do you realize how hard it must have been for him, to be that vulnerable? He trusts you so much that he was willing to expose his darkest fears."

Duncan decided something in the water on the barge must have affected the two mortals. "Trusts me so much?" he repeated in a high squeak. "Trusts me so much that he flings everything we've ever done for him back in my face?"

Tessa folded her arms. "When you're ready to, you'll hear what he's saying is different than what you think it is."

For two days now he'd tried to figure out what she meant, and come to the conclusion that he was hopelessly confused, once again, when it came to relationships with twentieth-century teenagers. He was going to have to go to Richie's cabin and apologize to find out what was really going on. Pride and cowardice kept him lingering below decks until dinner, which tasted as bland as every other meal he'd picked at since the fight. He was about to screw up his courage for the confrontation when the hairs on his neck rose in anticipation, and he glanced at the katana on the wall.

"Trouble?" Tessa asked.

"Maybe," Duncan said. He slipped from the dinner table and hefted the weight of his favorite sword. Duncan crossed to the hatch, wondering why it was so much easier for him to physically fight another Immortal than to apologize to an eighteen-year-old boy. When he swung the heavy steel open he found himself face to face with Amanda.

"That's a fine greeting," Amanda said cheerily, stepping past him into the barge. She unwrapped her black and gold scarf from her neck and deposited a paper sack into the Highlander's hands. "Is that dinner I smell? I'm famished."

"We've just finished," Tessa said frostily.

Amanda replied, with no trace of regret whatsoever, "What a pity."

"What brings you here, Amanda?" Duncan asked.

"Bad timing?" she returned, dropping onto the couch and stretching her legs out on the coffee table.

Duncan peered into the sack. "Family matters. What's this?"

"Fruit shake for Richie. I saw him on deck, but he didn't look like he was in the mood for talking. Is he feeling better?"

The news that Richie had emerged from his self-imposed confinement cheered Duncan a little, but he had to tap dance quickly to cover Amanda's other words. "Much better. Thanks for coming by, I'm sure you're very busy - "

Tessa's suspicions had already been alerted. "How do you know he's been sick?"

Amanda gave Duncan a devilish grin. "Duncan didn't tell you? Richie and I spent quite an evening together. He heaved all over the place, and I watched. I haven't had so much fun since the Black Plague."

"Thank you, Amanda," Duncan said severely. "Time to go."

"Oh, Mac," she pouted, "I just wanted to see how the boy was doing. He looked so forlorn the other night, when he thought everyone had abandoned him."

"I didn't know we'd had guests," Tessa said to Duncan.

He flushed under her gaze. Somehow it had seemed easier not to mention Amanda's presence that night. "I forgot to tell you," he admitted.

Tessa's eyebrows arched. "Forgot?"

Amanda watched the interplay with a smirk and then swung up to her feet. "Well, then, I suppose I should leave you to your dessert, or whatever. Make sure he gets his shake, won't you, Duncan?"

She patted his rump in a friendly, familiar way and breezed out the hatch.

"Forgot?" Tessa repeated, in a higher voice. "What else have you forgotten?"

Duncan sighed. "You know she's just being Amanda. It's nothing more than what she said. She came by and found Richie sick and stayed to help him."

Then Amanda's words "when everyone had abandoned him" repeated in his mind, and Duncan replayed in his head the argument with Richie. This time he saw what he hadn't been able to see before. Richie's anger and underlying fear had not come from being unable to talk to a bus driver or decipher television shows. Instead, he'd been afraid of being helpless. Of being powerless. Of being abandoned.

"Oh, my," Duncan said in realization.

"What?" Tessa asked.

"You're right. I didn't listen."

Several minutes later they both went topside. Richie sat against the railing, swinging his feet over the gray Seine. City lights glowed along the horizon, and the river boulevard had turned into alternating pools of dusk and gold beneath the streetlamps. Tessa slipped a blanket around Richie's shivering form and Duncan handed him a mug of hot chocolate.

"Thought you might need this," the Highlander said.

"I'm sorry." Richie stared down at the water. He sounded very far away, and very lonely. "I shouldn't have said what I did. It was mean and horrible and ungrateful."

"Well," Duncan said, easing to the deck beside him, "I think I was more than a little mean and horrible myself. I'm the one who's sorry, Richie. I shouldn't have let my temper get away from me like that."

"Sometimes I can't stop talking even though I know I should be shutting up," Richie confessed. "You were right, I was feeling sorry for myself."

"And you were right - about where to put that suitcase."

Richie almost laughed. Tessa took his free hand and wrapped it between hers. She said, "I told Duncan that I apologized to you yesterday, but I'll say it again. When I applied for the curator job last fall I was homesick for France and my parents. I didn't think I would get it, but then I did, and all I could think of was how wonderful it would be to come back. Although I told Duncan I wasn't asking him to make a sacrifice, I think we all know that's not true."

Richie didn't say anything. Duncan focused on the city horizon, thinking back to the day in the store - and to the cold, clammy feeling that had wormed into his gut when Tessa said she was taking the job.

Tessa said, "When I applied, and when I accepted, I didn't give a great deal of consideration as to where you would go. Duncan, I knew, would come with me. I assumed you wouldn't want to come, and that you'd be happy getting your own apartment in Seacouver. But I didn't ask you."

"You didn't have to," Richie murmured. "No one said you had to."

"But I should have, anyway. Because I was breaking up our home, wasn't I?"

Richie looked up from the river and searched her expression. "It wasn't our home," he said tentatively. "It was your home and Duncan's home, and I was in the guest room."

"That's not true," Duncan said firmly, "and you know it."

Richie's expression turned stubborn, and Tessa quickly intervened. "It was your home too, Richie, and I broke it up without thinking about the consequences. Or thinking of how many times that might have happened to you in the past."

Richie leaned his forehead against the railing. Wistfully he said, "It didn't matter. I was going to Paris. Everything was going to be okay. Except I got here and after awhile it wasn't okay anymore."

"When you got sick, and there was no one here to help you - " Duncan started. He found that he had to clear his throat. "- well, you probably felt abandoned again."

Richie hunched deeper beneath the blanket. "I've got to get out and stand on my own two feet sooner or later. I should have stayed behind and gotten my own apartment. I should do it now. I'm eighteen years old now, and can't leech off you guys the rest of my life."

"You don't leech," Duncan assured him. His expression turned wry. "Well, sometimes you do. Like when you want extra money for a leather jacket, or C.D.'s, or a new bike part - "

"Duncan!" Tessa scolded.

But the humor had quirked up Richie's mouth. "Okay," he admitted, "sometimes I leech."

"All other times you earn your keep pretty well," Duncan allowed fondly. "And you should get a bonus for danger pay."

"That's the truth." Richie rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've been acting like a baby. I got sick and I felt sorry for myself and I panicked. What if it hadn't been food poisoning? What if my appendix burst, or I needed to go to the hospital? I can't speak French."

"Plenty of people in France don't speak French," Tessa reminded him. "They speak English, German, Spanish, Indian, or something else. It would be helpful for you to learn, but you've been doing a great job of getting around and making yourself understood so far."

"Not that great," Richie frowned. "I should have had the tuna fish, not the chicken salad."

Duncan said, "Every day it will get better, if you stay. But if you truly want to go home, I'll get you a ticket and we'll work something out."

Duncan didn't know what exactly they could work out. He wasn't sure Richie could take care of himself back in Seacouver. It wasn't a question of ability - he generally believed that no matter how hot-headed Richie could get, how impetuous and stubborn, he could survive mostly anything. But then Immortals came into the equation. Someone might chance upon Richie and go for his head before it was the proper time. Others might find him and try to mold him to their own images of the Gathering. Not even a year ago Duncan had promised Connor he would keep an eye on Richie, and that promise still stood. On the other hand, he didn't relish the thought of leaving Tessa here in Paris just to go back to the States and baby-sit the American teenager.

After a moment of silence Richie asked hoarsely, "Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes," Tessa and Duncan said, one voice combined.

Richie smiled faintly. "Well, with a fan club like this . . . I guess the only thing left to do is celebrate."

"Celebrate how?" Duncan stood up and gave the teenager a helping hand. He felt very, very relieved that this was settled. He had forgiven Richie, but forgetting the spiteful words might take a little longer. He supposed that worked both ways. Well, they had time. Decades and centuries, if he taught Richie well enough.

"I was thinking of something really ambitious," Richie confessed. "A ham and cheese sandwich. I'm starving."

Duncan laughed. "I think that can be arranged."

"I know a better way to celebrate," Tessa said as they made their way below deck. "My friend Allen has a chateau in the countryside, and he's invited us out there next weekend. It should be nice and quiet, a chance to get away - and he has a son your age, Richie. Mark was educated in America, so you should have a lot in common. What do you two think? Should I tell him we'll be there?"

"French chateau?" Richie asked, eyes lighting up. "I could get into that."

"Sounds wonderful," Duncan agreed, settling back to his dinner. "After all, what could go wrong in the middle of nowhere?"

THE END

 

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