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.

She walks quickly away from the house, the fingers of her right hand twitching nervously. It takes only a brief acquaintance to tell her that Geoffrey Tennant is not the most stable man in the world, but she has already made the calculation. Far better to focus on a woman who has definitely been injured, likely the target of some conspiracy with wider implications, than to babysit a man who may or may not be a suicide risk.

It is times like this when she wishes she had a human partner. Someone who she could trust to stay behind or go ahead, and do the things she cannot do.

If she is completely honest with herself, she is wishing for someone more specific than "a human partner." Much as Geoffrey Tennant, she suspects, will never stop wishing for his Ellen.

"Kobie," she says as she slips back into the driver's seat, "I need a favour."

Meg Thatcher has grown accustomed to filling her days with necessary, useful, and practical activity. Training with Kobie. Studying Canadian criminal law. Practicing for the PARE. Indulging in long baths.

But today nothing seems appealing, even when she appeals to her inner sense of duty. And yet, she can't sit by the phone waiting for Ben to call. She refuses to be that sort of woman, even in this strange new world.

After spending what feels like hours (only 72 minutes, according to her watch) wandering around the estate, she finds herself in the garage with the Shelby Mustang. Suddenly even the vast Knight estate seems too small.

"Kobie," she says impulsively, "how would you like to go for a drive?"

... eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety! Meg Thatcher can feel her muscles beginning to burn now, but she's determined to push herself to a hundred one-armed push-ups. Her upper body strength needs to be increased if she wants to hit her target benchmark for the PARE. Exercising here in the sitting room, on a stretch of polished hardwood floor, adds to the difficulty, since the smooth surface doesn't provide much grip or friction.

... ninety-five, ninety-four, ninety-three....

This was easier when she was younger.

... ninety-five ... ninety-six ... ninety-seven....

She grits her teeth against the pain.

... ninety-nine, one hundred!

Finally. Done. She knew she could do it. She rolls onto her back and stares up at the ceiling as she breathes, then she sits up and reaches for her towel and water bottle. After all, now she has to do a hundred on her left arm....

He trots the air, the earth sings when he touches it.

Meg Thatcher has, like most Mounties, some experience in riding horseback. Though she had never had any great ambition to participate in the Musical Ride, she was mindful of the RCMP's tradition as a mounted force, and had been determined to develop at least an adequate seat. Her instructor had pronounced her to be a "tidy and effective" student of equitation, and with that she had been reasonably content.

All other things being equal, she would prefer a mount to herself, but now, this weekend, is not the time for separation. Now, at this time, she is behind Constable Benton Fraser in the saddle, her arms around his waist, her hands clasped together, not holding the reins.

Arguably, he is the finer horseman, and it is only logical to have him in control of the beast. She has managed to control her twitching, not wanting the horse to be confused by two sets of signals.

Oddly enough, what she misses most is her Strathconas. While she could, as a civilian, order a pair for riding purposes, she has shied away from such a purchase. She'll wear them when she is once more entitled to them.

She realises she has spent more time thinking about the horse and her boots than she has in observing the countryside, and turns her attention to the field they are crossing. "I hear that foxhunting was banned here," she says, looking around and imagining what the field would have looked like with hounds and riders. "Five years ago, if I remember correctly."

Their first weekend has ended, and all too soon. This is ridiculous, Meg Thatcher tries to tell herself. It's not as if he can't handle Chicago.

Even though it's not the city they know, and he always sounds so lonely whenever they talk on the phone....

Stop it. He won't wither away without you. And you won't wither away without him.

It's time, and past time, really. She twists her new ring once around her finger before approaching him, wrapped package in hand. "I got you something," she says rather inanely. "Something you can--while you're in Chicago, I thought--well, here." At a loss for further words, she thrusts the gift at him.

He is coming. He is coming. He is coming home.

The last two days have seemed like an eternity, but she has determinedly filled the minutes and hours with as much physical and mental activity--distractions, if she is honest with herself--as she could find. It has helped that she genuinely has needed to learn about Kobie and train for whatever missions lie ahead of her.

When he had left, she had stayed behind in their bedroom, unwilling to watch him walk away any further than their wing of the castle. But his return is another matter. She cannot bear to sit passively, to delay her first sight of him, and so she has left the castle behind to watch for his appearance on the horizon.

And so that he may see her, she wears red.

The reaction of Chicago to B. is astonishing; while I am admittedly grateful for the opportunity to follow him (metaphorically) from the distance of our current separation, I continue to wonder if nothing else of note is occurring in the city. The media frenzy following the incidents pertaining to the Bolt brothers' criminal activities was understandable: B. and Det. Vecchio had successfully averted a nuclear catastrophe and then prevented the commission of grand larceny as well as multiple counts of homicide and other lesser charges. I am the last woman to deny B.'s remarkable physical appeal, but reducing his worth to nothing more than his appearance does him a great disservice.

Am contemplating a visit to Chicago in the near future to quash the ridiculous "Chicago's Most Eligible Bachelor" gushing. (Am aware that this would also satisfy less noble urges on my part. Said awareness insufficient to persuade me against the attempt.)

Currently finding myself impatient for the weekend. Have found gift for B. to take with him upon his return.

Keenly regret my lack of contacts in this world's RCMP, though should deplore use of same for personal purposes.

They have finished with breakfast now, the last one they will share for--

Stop it, Meg.

She shakes herself out of the downward spiral threatening to sweep her away into a pit of despair. He's only going to Chicago, and even though it is not the city they both had come to know, it is Chicago. A city where he will be welcomed, where he is known, where he will be appreciated. A city where she herself can visit him.

"You're sure the living arrangements for you will be all right?" she can't help asking him yet again. "And the wolf license for Diefenbaker? Is it true Mayor Daley issued one?"

Meg Thatcher finds her way to the garage without too much trouble, resisting the urge to ask the staff for directions. It's only a large building, she thinks as she enters, and not that much different from some in Ottawa. Only none of the buildings she'd frequented in Ottawa had had Constable Benton Fraser waiting for her at the end of the day.

Waiting for her on the balcony, outlined in the last rays of the sun. One hand reaching out to her as his smile lights up his eyes.

Firmly she sets thoughts of him aside, concentrating instead on her route to the garage. On entering, she is struck once again by how tidy it is. Everything is in place, and she can't see any splatters or drips from motor oil or other lubricant, such as she's noted in other garages.

Time for business. "Good morning, Kobie," she says in her first-day-on-the-new-job voice, along with the expression she'd practised in the mirror at the time of her earliest promotion. "How are you doing today?"

A castle?

She finds it easier to think of the Knight Estate as something like a large government building that happens to have a dormitory wing. She wonders how many rooms they will have available. Looking at Fraser in the driver's seat, she hopes not too many. For herself, she hopes one of the rooms is a large bathroom with an enormous tub.

Although, it would also be nice if they had a small kitchen available. For cooking lessons.

As they continue up the long drive, she has ample time to consider what lies ahead, and weigh her speculations against the reality they will shortly meet.