My dearest Ben,

As promised, I am writing you to let you know I am now established in an apartment on the North Shore. I've printed out a copy of the floor plan from the building management's website and included it with this letter. The view from the third floor is adequate, but the courtyard boasts several maple trees and other features I have come to appreciate.

I had a very productive conversation with my new CO upon my arrival. Superintendent Enger is a remarkable woman who has served overseas as well as detachments in other provinces, and I consider myself fortunate to be under her command. For now I have been assigned to Auto Theft; I would prefer Fraud or Commercial Crime, but that may come to pass in the near future.

It has been fascinating for me to compare my new posting here with my first posting back home. The media relations officer, for example, maintains a Twitter account and contributes to the online edition of several local newspapers. The corporal currently holding this position is sometimes hard-pressed to juggle new media duties with the more traditional ones, but that is to be expected.

I have spent some of my free hours exploring North Van (to use the local nickname), but I am sure it will come as no surprise to you that even the distraction of learning a new city cannot make me forget how much I miss you. I hope you and Diefenbaker are doing well.

All my love,

Meg

Meg Thatcher stopped believing in Santa Claus decades ago, but even mythological figures can have noteworthy characteristics worth imitating. So she has made her list and checked it twice before hoisting her duffel to her shoulder.

Once more she is in uniform: Undress Order. Mindful of the travel that awaits her, she's opted for the trousers rather than the skirt available to female members. With any luck, her creases will remain sharp until she reaches North Vancouver.

Luck. She certainly does feel lucky, in one respect, having been assigned a posting that will allow her to exercise her urban peace officer skills and also provide her husband with the sort of terrain he prefers when he visits.

Of course, that posting is still very far away from where her husband is now, and the distance will only grow when he returns to the Consulate in Chicago.

They have indeed been spoiled these last few weeks, enjoying the sort of marital benefits many other couples take for granted: falling asleep next to each other every night, waking up in the same bed, sharing daily meals together, and--perhaps most precious--simply knowing that one's partner is only minutes away.

Standing on the tarmac, waiting to board the plane, she already feels the pain of losing those simple marital benefits.

The shoes fit, with little interference from their previous owner's feet. Julie. Whoever she was. Who she was to Chris Cutter is rather obvious.

The question is, why did she have to go into a volatile situation so blind?

She'd asked him. She'd specifically said she wanted to know if there was anything she needed to know about Old Crow, and he'd warned her about Chris Cutter's appearance, but not that talking about curling could open up old wounds.

If she were still his commanding officer, she'd be furious with him. As his wife, she's ... hurt. Yes, back home she'd realised that he would occasionally conceal parts of some plan or another from annoying Chicago detectives named Ray, but given how stubborn that category of man could be--and wasn't she a different kind of partner? Did he really feel that he had to manipulate her? This time without the benefit of posthypnotic suggestion? Was it simply an old habit? Was he even aware of what he'd done?

She'd successfully resisted the urge to go to the detachment and ask him some very pointed questions. Instead, she'd returned to his quarters to try on the shoes, and to see which pairs of pants were stretchy enough to accommodate the range of motion associated with curling.

He'd be home soon enough, even given the loose measurements of time employed here.

She'd endured a certain amount of discomfort during her time at Depot, as is traditional. It was easier to endure this time around, given her past experience, in addition to the shorter time between her entry as a cadet and her departure as a constable. With her husband.

And, of course, the wolf.

In between her coursework and exercises at Depot, she'd taken a few moments to study the website for Old Crow--everyone really does have a website here--and what had stood out to her most of all was "no road access." No roads? She envisioned having to ride horseback or perhaps some sort of all-terrain vehicle, though it was easier to picture her husband in the saddle than in the driver's seat. Especially if she could ride pillion--enough of that. It had been something of a relief to learn that Air North made regular flights to this small town of the northern Yukon.

Though the less said about that flight, the better. Meg suspects that her kidneys will recover from the bruising just in time for her return trip. Still here she is, and here he is, and here they will be able to spend some time together as a married couple, barring the time he will be dedicating to his official duties with the RCMP detachment here. Duties that he will doubtlessly expand according to the needs of the community, as he always has.

Despite the barren landscape, and the sure knowledge (born of the recent flight) that they are far away from what she would consider civilisation, Meg finds herself envying Ben. Here he seems more comfortable than in Chicago. Here, obviously, is where he belongs, serving and protecting people whose names and histories he has already learned, and whose heritage has common elements with the First Nations people of his childhood. She can't imagine any place more alien to her own upbringing, or one more suited to his skills and temperament.

She doesn't have much luggage, which means they may leave the small airstrip shortly after landing, and as she looks around at Old Crow, she finds herself thinking that she wouldn't require too many wardrobe options anyway. The small duffel she brought will be more than enough. Though she could wish for an extra bar of that oatmeal soap....

"Well?" she asks her husband. "Where to now?"

There are constants as solid as the rock of the Canadian Shield. Each cadet begins his or her time at Depot in a uniform that is, admittedly, far removed from the iconic red serge of Review Order. As time marches on, the uniform elements are gradually replaced until this day. Graduation Day. When cadets become constables.

There are differences as fluid as the Great Lakes. Meg Thatcher remembers how few female faces were seen above the mandarin collars when she was first at Depot. How she and her troopmates had struggled with tailoring, because while many men had worn the uniform over the generations, there had been few or no women. Alterations had been required. How she and the other women had struggled with accusations and insinuations that they were taking a man's place, that women could never be part of the proud Mountie traditions, that women could perhaps serve a useful purpose in handling sexual assault cases or crimes against children but not homicide or major cases.

Alterations had been required.

Now she is one of many women who have worn the uniform. A woman has commanded the Force. Little girls all across Canada are no longer told that being a Mountie is a dream only for boys.

As she stands in formation with her fellow cadets in the flag-draped hall, she cannot help but think back to the first time she was presented with her badge. How carefully she had polished it afterwards, removing any specks or flecks that may have found their way into the black leather retainer. How her parents had posed for pictures with her, slightly bewildered smiles in place for shot after shot. How her mother's eyes had been troubled with the future she now saw for her daughter. How her father had glared at a male cadet who made a comment about the tailoring of her tunic, and how she had wished her father had taken no notice, but been grateful that he had limited his rebuke to the nonverbal realm.

They are not here. They may still be grieving for her back home. Have they blamed this uniform, her career, for her disappearance?

She doesn't know. She will never know. What she can know, what she can hold to, is who is here with her now to witness this moment, this occasion.

It feels good to be in uniform again, even with cadet's tabs on her shoulders. It feels good to be marching in familiar cadence with a troop. It even feels good to answer the corporal's challenges regarding the degrees of a wheel, or how many minutes until graduation, or details of the Charter.

It feels good to be where she belongs. To go to sleep in the company of others who are striving for the same goal. To wake up facing a day that is filled with exercises both mental and physical. To salute the fallen, and to learn (in order to better commemorate) the stories of fellow peace officers who had made the ultimate sacrifice on this world.

What has been less comfortable has been the looks she has been noticing today. Sideways glances, more from the other women than from any of the men, and the corporals have all spoken sharply whenever they have noticed eyes wandering from the position of attention.

Their expressions have not, as best she can determine, been rooted in envy (she can recognise that easily, no matter the world). Curiosity, yes. Surprise, occasionally. A few thoughtful, speculative expressions she cannot read very clearly.

Efforts to gather information covertly chafe at her, not least because these are supposed to be her brothers- and sisters-in-arms, and she still finds herself expecting the familial sense she had enjoyed back home. Finally, however, she manages a discreet conversation with a sympathetic cadet--a woman who, like herself, is older than the average cadet, a 10-year veteran of the Toronto police force--and all becomes clear.

The cadets are limited--appropriately, in her view--regarding their contact with the world outside Depot during their training, and she knows the limitations of her husband's posting, so she takes refuge in an older, non-electronic form of communication.

No more Charlotte Finley. No more pretending she was someone else. No more working for anyone with a big enough expense account.

Back to where she belongs. Back to serving and protecting. Back to the finest police force in the world. Back to Depot. But more importantly, and first of all, more time with her husband, who she has missed.

Unfortunately, most of that time lately has been spent in a hotel suite she has rented on a weekly basis, when she has not taken a portkey back to the United Kingdom to organise the packing and shipping of their possessions from the Knight estate.

But whatever time they spend together, before she heads north to Regina, she will cherish.

"Vegetable spring roll, chan do spare ribs, and fish and chicken bean curd," recites the teenager wearing the red and black polo shirt with the WOK IN - CARRY OUT logo. "Fortune cookies?"

"Yes, please," answers Meg Thatcher, waiting until the cookies are dropped into the white bag before handing over her debit card and accepting the meal. She's hungrier than she thought. A side effect of inefficient sleep? Possibly.

She tightens her grip on the bag as she hurries back to the hospital, pausing briefly in the lobby to pick up a copy of the latest Chicago Sun-Times. A couple of nurses glance at her, then whisper briefly to each other as she passes by the unit desk on her way to Ben's room.

She's grown accustomed to his latest room over the past few days. No more the glass walls of the ICU. Hospital staff are still prone to walking in throughout the day, but now they knock first, and when the door is closed, she and her husband can enjoy the privacy they've been denied for far too long.

Newspaper folded and tucked under her arm, she raps briefly on the door, just below the sign reading IMMEDIATE FAMILY ONLY - ALL OTHER VISITORS CHECK IN AT NURSING STATION. "It's Meg," she calls through the door, then opens it, smiling at its occupant.

At times like this, even though he is nowhere near, Meg Thatcher feels very close to her husband.

The scents of dust and oil, of hot metal and damp concrete, of human sweat and animal urine ... all mingling in the air of the train station. At this time of night, there are only a few other people around, drifting with the sluggish movements born of fatigue or walking quickly to loosen stiff muscles and joints. She takes note of their locations, their trajectories, and their body language, automatically cataloging each individual as she goes.

He is not here, she knows. But he is thinking of her. Even if she hadn't had Kobie send that encrypted message in Inuktitut, he would be thinking of her. Momentarily she focuses on the flex of leg muscle against the hunting knife in her boot. Characteristically, he had not presented it to her with any great ceremony. Characteristically, he had not told her much about it. At least, not verbally. She had discovered it when unpacking her duffle upon her return to Chicago after Christmas, tucked neatly into the folds of his red flannel shirt. The one she habitually wears when he is not with her.

Let this go with you where I cannot. Let this be at your side when I am not there.

She has missed him, has wished she could discuss the details of the smuggling ring with him every night, expanded their personal partnership to the professional. Their conversations have been both secretive and limited. Kobie has been an excellent partner, particularly when it came to crunching through terabytes of social media data to whittle their suspect list down to a manageable short list. But she cannot bring a car with her into a train station--and in any case, she has needed him to check another location in the nearby warehouse district.

Tonight. It's got to be tonight. Tonight is when the latest shipment is due to come in. Tonight is when she ends this. Tonight is when she hunts.

And so, even though he is nowhere near, even though he cannot be at her shoulder as she boards the train, she feels very close to her husband.

Have finally succeeded in winnowing down list of faculty suspects down to something manageable. Based on past work with CSIS, have asked Kobie to investigate social media utilised by University of Chicago students, with particular emphasis on services permitting the use of pseudonyms. Must assume a certain percentage of student suspects savvy enough to conceal their identities even from Kobie. Should still yield sufficient candidates for further investigation.

Resisting urge to contact B. at this time. Contact should be limited until investigation is complete.

Regret that university credits under Finley identity not transferable, given quarterly results.

It's late on this side of the Atlantic, and she should be in bed asleep. She's had a long day already, studying all the materials for her new undercover ID--far more extensive than what she'd had for her antiques dealer persona, yet she feels more at home in the world of criminal justice, despite the differences between the streets she has known and the ivory tower of academia she will be entering soon. She has another long day waiting for her, with the additional difficulties of jet lag to look forward to. A new apartment to move into: graduate student housing on Hyde Park Boulevard, in a pet-friendly building. Just in case.

Well, Meg Thatcher is in bed, but she is definitely not asleep, nor will she be able to fall asleep just yet. It's late on this side of the Atlantic, but it's 7 PM in Chicago, and according to the latest schedule for one Constable B. Fraser, he is now off duty and should be in his quarters. Unless of course circumstances have required him to interfere elsewhere, in which case she'll have to leave voice mail. She hates leaving voice mail.

She shifts her position in the bed and settles the Bluetooth into her ear as she makes the call.

I hope you think this is a good surprise, my love.

When on stakeout, Meg Thatcher learned a long time ago that it was vital to pace herself. So once she and Kobie are in position, she settles back, finding it easy to make herself comfortable in the driver's seat of the Mustang. Much more comfortable than a Crown Victoria.

She is careful to sip her coffee, rather than drink it in draughts that would empty the cup too quickly. She nibbles on a power bar rather than donuts. She breathes steadily.

The stealth drones have been deployed, which she finds comforting, though she privately admits she is accustomed to having two or three other Members also staking out the target area, from different angles. But despite missing the presence of fellow peace officers, she cannot regret having Kobie as a partner, especially with his extraordinary capabilities.

"Kobie," she says at last, "how're you progressing on that Cayman Islands account?"

The ice is helping with the swelling of her hand. A Desert Eagle has more kick than the SW 5946 she's used to, though the pull isn't as heavy. Experimentally she removes the ice pack and flexes her fingers: cautiously at first, then with more assurance.

"Kobie?" she asks. "What've you got from the cell phone?"

Meg Thatcher would like nothing better than to tell Kobie to leave St. Olave's and London behind in favour of the English countryside that cradles the Knight estate like a jewel on a velvet cushion. Meg Thatcher, however, takes advantage of the moment to check out a possible site where she may (will) successfully capture at least some of the men responsible for the theft of the Ethiopian tabots.

Meg Thatcher would like nothing more than to spend the rest of the night in the arms of her husband, but Charlotte Finley must be seen as registering for a week's stay at the Radisson Edwardian Marlborough Hotel, in Bloomsbury near the British Museum. Charlotte Finley has no husband to miss. Charlotte Finley has no reason to stare at a Blackberry and wonder if it would be possible to risk a call when she might already be observed by those who think Charlotte Finley is a loose end who needs to be tied off and tidied away before Dennis Taylor decides to talk to her after all.

Charlotte Finley, Meg decides, is not someone she enjoys being right now, even after she wakes up from a restless, lonely night's sleep in an unfamiliar bed on unfamiliar pillows without even a wolf to keep her company. But at least there is coffee, and after a shower and a change of clothes, she contacts her other partner. "Kobie, do we have any fishermen waiting for me in the lobby?"

Yesterday's interviews had borne little fruit, at least as related to the case. Blanche Holtz had been quite a contrast to Ian Barriman's solid demeanor. Meg suspected that Holtz had come under suspicion not because she was an actual criminal but because the woman was too flighty to enquire into where certain antiques had been before they found their way into her store. Certainly Meg can believe that Holtz has been used as an unwitting fence for a number of thieves, but should Holtz ever stand in the dock, Meg doubts any jury would convict her. One look at that frizzy hair and those floating draperies, and her peers would have no trouble believing that she honestly hadn't realised that the charming Trecento Madonna in quite good condition, other than its fugitive colours, had belonged to a family of Italian Jews whose goods had been confiscated at the start of World War II.

Grant Eastwood, unfortunately for her, had been out of town, and his assistant hadn't been entirely sure when he'd be back. Cameron Guzman had been willing enough to help Meg with her purported enquiries on behalf of her nonexistent clients, even the borderline requests, but he had little available from the correct period and region. One to check later, perhaps.

Today had been rather more of the same, but it had all been prelude, as far as she was concerned, to this moment. Sitting in Kobie, eating a lettuce wrap, sipping coffee, waiting for Dennis Taylor to leave for work.

Dressed in her most severe business outfit, the deep red one with lines suggestive of the uniform she is no longer entitled to wear, Meg Thatcher heads into London. She has reviewed her target's information until she feels she can recite it from memory, but more importantly, she can feel that quickening of pulse heralding the start of her first real mission. Not one as simple as the life or death situation she and Kobie had dealt with in Luton. The stakes are higher. Which makes it even better.

Dennis Taylor's neighborhood bears the hallmarks of post-war construction, with a bout of gentrification perhaps ten years in its past, and Meg suspects at least half the residents succumbed to the Changing Rooms frenzy in the last five years. The stoops are clean, but many of the curtains are beginning to fade.

Under pretext of checking her makeup in the rear-view mirror, Meg scans the street behind her, her gaze occasionally darting to the side mirror. The proverbial coast seems to be clear.

"Kobie, any sign that he has any visitors at the moment? Any recent phone calls?"

My dear husband,

You are, for once, asleep while I am awake, and so I have stolen from our bed to write you this letter, which I will post once you leave for Chicago. I hope it finds you well.

I wish I had the skills of a poet to tell you how I feel when I watch you sleep, Diefenbaker stretched out across the foot of our bed. I wish I had the eloquence to convey how I feel about you. This letter is a poor substitute for being with you, but it is what I can offer you, when you are thousands of kilometres away.

I can only conclude by telling you that our phone calls are the highlight of my day, and that my heart lifts when I see you walking over the fields on your way back to me.

Be careful. I find that is a better request than "be safe," where you are concerned.

All my love,
Meg

Fortified by breakfast and a shower, Meg checks with Kobie. According to her partner, Geoffrey Tennant has ceased phoning Canada--or anywhere else, for that matter. No outgoing calls at all. While she hopes this means he is starting to accept his current situation, her mind is already ticking off the other possible explanations as she dials his number.

If only she had better news to tell him. If only she could tell him that yes, there was a way home for him, and he could put this whole experience behind him and resume the life he had left. If only she could tell him that his Ellen had arrived and would be there soon.

If only he would pick up the phone.

It has, by any measure she cares to use, been a long day. And to think it all began because she wanted a change in her routine. Change she had sought, and change she had found. An embarassment of riches, in fact. Thwarting a smuggling ring would've been enough for one day. Assisting in the prevention of a homicide, the same. Meeting a near-double of her fiancé would have lifted any day out of the realm of ennui. Discovering her employer had, and in some sense still was, an AI housed in a car ... it has, by any measure she cares to use, been a long day, but definitely not boring.

After an unexpected conversation, and handing over her report of the day's events, she has her first proper meal of the day, then a long bath in the luxurious bathroom in their suite ... and by the time she has had her fill of soaking, it is after 1 AM.

A good time to phone someone in the city of Chicago.

With Kobie back in his garage, Meg heads back through the Knight estate, holding a data key with her report of the day's events. Aside from her verbal recorded report, she's had Kobie bundle in copies of the data he uncovered in the course of the investigation.

Reports. She finds herself missing that part of the routine. It's been months since she had to fill out a daily 10989B report, and compiling this chronicle has soothed that itch somewhat. Only somewhat.

There's another itch that won't be soothed any time soon, she knows. But she can bear it.