The next day, Janice found herself standing in front of a door she thought she'd never find herself in front of, not of her own free will. She glared up at the lettering over the door that read: "PROFESSOR TRENT N. MITCHELL, ARCHAEOLOGY." Muttering imprecations to herself, she shoved the door open and walked into Professor Mitchell's office, straining with every conscious effort to maintain her dignity and keep the hostility from her voice. All I have to do is get one little bit of input from this damn fool, and then I can leave, she reminded herself.
      "Ah, yes, Doctor Covington," Mitchell announced from behind his desk, in a voice dripping with condescension. "I believe you wished to acquire some information from me?" The arrogant smile on his face made Janice want, more than anything, to haul off and hit this goddamn son of a bitch. Leave it to Mitchell to milk every last damn opportunity to lord it over me!
      But instead, she swallowed hard, gathered her resolve, and forced herself to speak slowly, civilly. "Yes, that's right, Professor Mitchell, I was hoping you could give me one small suggestion."
      "I see." The look on Mitchell's face suggested that he doubted Janice's accuracy of judgment where "small" was concerned, and that he was looking forward to an opportunity to put her down again-an opportunity that always, to his frustration, just managed to elude him. "And what might this be?"
      Janice's eyes were as cold and hard as jade, the set of her jaw revealing that she was not about to let this patronizing fool get the better of her. "Simply this, Professor Mitchell. My friend and colleague, Melinda Pappas, and I are looking for someone who specializes in Celtic languages and culture. Seeing as how you have so many connections, we were thinking that you might be the one to go to for a recommendation."
      "Ah. Ah. I see. How . . . touching. Still engrossed in the studies of these . . . Xena Scrolls of yours?" Mitchell allowed a condescending smirk to cross his face momentarily. "Quaint little pursuit you have there, Doctor. Very well then, Doctor Covington, I shall have my secretary-" Damn him, Janice thought, he doesn't need to be reminding me of his seniority in this school! - " look things over and take care of it."
      "That's all I needed," Janice said gruffly. Then, with difficulty, "Thank you, Professor Mitchell." With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the office, closing the door forcefully.
      Mitchell snorted with laughter once the younger professor was gone. "She'll have no choice but to thank me one of these days," he said out loud to the window. "May as well do what she wants, so she'll be indebted to me." If nothing else, he figured, whoever he found to do the job would probably help debunk that crazy Mad Dog Covington's ideas about the Xena Scrolls . . .
     
      "Dr. Covington?" A young man was leaning hesitantly into the open doorway of Janice's office.
      Janice, seated at her desk in the middle of a pile of term papers, looked up. "Hello, Lucas. Is three something I can do for you?"
      Lucas shrugged, and tentatively stepped through the doorway, a small envelope clutched in one outstretched hand. "Professor Mitchell asked me to deliver this to you, that's all, Doctor." He edged back toward the doorway again, uneasily.
      What? Janice thought in irritation. Do I smell bad or something? But all she said was "Thanks, Lucas. You can go now, unless there's anything else you need." She gave the young man the barest hint of a smile as she took the envelope, and watched as he retreated down the hallway as fast as he could. Then she remembered how she'd chewed him out in front of the class last semester for the poor job he'd done on his midterm. That would explain it, she admitted to herself, wryly. With a shrug, she opened the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of stationery, which Janice unfolded and proceeded to scan.
      "Doctor Covington," read the note inside, "I have complied with your request from earlier today and have indeed succeeded in finding someone who should be able to help you pursue your pet project."
      "Good gods," Janice burst out, "even his handwriting is condescending, the bastard!" She growled softly and continued reading.
      "Her name is Kaitlyn Velasquez; she is a graduate student in excellent academic standing at Harvard University in Boston, where she has been entrusted with teaching several basic linguistics courses, in addition to working on her dissertation on ancient Welsh and Gaelic. She also pursued an undergraduate minor in archaeology, which you may find useful. Velasquez is something of a colorful character. I think you and she may have much in common." The note was signed, "Professor T. N. Mitchell, Ph.D., Department of Anthropology, University of South Carolina."
      "Unbelievable," Janice muttered. "What a pompous idiot." Still, she decided, he had been quite helpful, and from the information he'd supplied, this kid would probably be a hell of a lot of help. A second sheet of stationery inside the envelope contained a detailed history of the student's academic achievements, as well as an address at Harvard at which Kaitlyn Velasquez could be reached. Without further ado, the archaeologist pulled a sheet of paper from her desk drawer and started to write a letter of her own.
     

Boston, Massachusetts, May 1943
Two weeks later . . .
     
      The sunlight filtered in through the curtains that covered the hotel room window to fall across the pillow. Startled into wakefulness by the sudden and unwelcome light, Mel shifted slowly, rubbing her eyes and trying not to disturb the sleeping form of Janice, who lay snuggled up next to her. The dark-haired translator smiled and brushed a light kiss against her lover's bare shoulder, wrapping her arms around the shorter woman and holding her close. "I love you, Janice," she murmured into the soft golden tresses.
      In response, Janice stirred and awoke, opening sleepy green eyes to smile up lovingly at Mel. "I love you too," came the whispered reply, as she reached up, her arms encircling Mel's neck and pulling her down for a long, sweet kiss. They both felt the familiar lightheadedness claim them as their lips met, and began to surrender themselves gladly to it.
      With a sudden effort, though, Janice broke the kiss, grinning apologetically at Mel as she did so. "Sorry, sweetie, you know there's nothing I like better than quality time with you, but we have an important meeting to keep here." She couldn't restrain a giggle at the palpable look of disappointment on Mel's face. "So let's get up, get some clothes on-before I decide that meeting's not that important after all-and have some breakfast, huh?"
      Mel forced a grin. "Breakfast sounds good to me." She promptly rolled over and got out of bed, causing Janice to groan loudly and cover her face with a pillow as the bedsheets, which had concealed the Southerner's lithe form, fell away. "It's safe now, dear," she tossed airily over her shoulder a few minutes later.
      Janice uncovered her face and peered out to see Mel standing at the foot of the bed, smiling sweetly, and clad in a simple, but elegant, navy-blue skirt and jacket, with a cream silk blouse. "Oh. Oh yeah. Lookin' good, Mel." She grinned and vaulted off the mattress-this time it was the aristocrat's turn to bite her lip as Janice sauntered smugly toward her suitcase and pulled out various items of clothing.
      By way of diverting her attentions from the view, Mel bit her lip and walked briskly to Janice's side, slapping her hand down atop the shirt the archaeologist had been about to put on. "No, dear, you are not wearing that shirt."
      Janice arched an eyebrow eloquently at her lover. "Mel Pappas, what are you trying to imply?"
      Mel gently pried Janice's fingers away from the vaguely olive-green flannel shirt, which looked oddly similar to a certain outfit that was mounted in a display case at the Pappas estate. "I mean that you are not wearing that shirt, Janice. That color just does not become you."
      "Yeah, yeah," Janice laughed. "And I'm sure you have a million people who'd agree with you on that, right?" She sighed, shook her head, and dug into her suitcase in search of another shirt.
     
      Two hours later, well-fed-or as well-fed as they could be, what with the war and all the food rationing going on-and more awake, the two companions were walking down Massachusetts Avenue, headed for Harvard Square and their arranged meeting with Kaitlyn Velasquez. After a few wrong turns (further complicated by Janice's obstinate refusal to ask for directions), they finally made it to Boylston Hall and located the modest office that the graduate student shared with another teaching assistant. The door was closed, but according to the time on Janice's father's antique pocket watch, they were just in time for the scheduled appointment. After a quick glance at the small, hand-lettered sign beside the door to ensure that they were in the right place, Mel glanced at Janice for reassurance and raised one hand to rap firmly on the door.
      "Come in," called a voice, somewhat muffled by the wood and glass.
      Janice pushed the door open, and entered the small office with Mel on her heels. A tall, battered desk chair was turned away from them and facing the window, its occupant entirely hidden from their view. Another desk occupied the corner of the room, its empty chair angled partly toward Janice and its surface covered with books. The two companions' attention, however, was turned toward the first chair and the person who sat in it.
      The archaeologist looked quizzically at her friend, neither of them sure how to get the attention of the person in the chair. Finally Janice cleared her throat, trying to peer over the chair back. "Hi, excuse me, we're here for a meeting?" she inquired.
      The desk chair swiveled around to reveal the compact form of a young woman in a white men's dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie. Deep, intense brown eyes, partially obscured by a few stray strands of short black hair, regarded Janice and Mel. There was a hard, professional, almost skeptical look about the girl, tempered only by the casual air of friendliness that seemed to radiate from her.
     Asian or Pacific Islander, looks like, was Mel's silent assessment.
      Dear gods above, Janice thought, she's just a kid! In fact, the young graduate student didn't appear to be much more than twenty. But still, Janice conceded to herself, judging from the information Mitchell gave us about her, she definitely looks like she knows what she's doing. And it takes a hell of a lot to impress Mitchell, so she must know her stuff.
      "Doctor Covington? Miss Pappas?" the girl asked, glancing at them in turn. At their nods of acknowledgment, she smiled slightly, and extended her hand. "Kaitlyn Velasquez," she introduced herself, firmly shaking first Janice's hand, then Mel's. "Please," she indicated the other desk chair, as well as another chair that stood nearby, "have a seat. It's good to finally meet you, I have to say. I've been closely following your work with the Xena Scrolls for quite a while now."
      "Have you, now?" Janice was somewhat surprised. "It's barely publicized at all, and when it is, nobody ever takes it seriously." She seated herself in the smaller chair, gesturing for Mel to take the bigger, more comfortable desk chair for herself. The translator quickly complied, and the two of them focused their attention once again on the graduate student.
      "Yeah, well . . . " Kaitlyn laughed. "You see, I have an interest in the Xena Scrolls that's somewhat . . . personal. I can tell you that much, Doctor Covington."
      "Please," Janice interrupted. "Just Janice, okay? I don't like being called 'Doctor' if I can avoid it. It makes me feel old and I really don't like that."
      "Okay then, Janice. Guess I should return the favor, so it's just Kaitlyn to you, got it?" The girl grinned roguishly. "And what about you, Miss Pappas? Shall I continue to refer to you by that honorific, or can you reassure me that I'll be safe from retribution if I venture to address you more informally?"
      Mel blinked for a moment, having to process Kaitlyn's rather wordy request. "Oh. Oh, no, that's fine . . . I mean, I was about to say . . . no, you can call me Melinda, or Mel, whichever you prefer."
      "Good. I was afraid I might have to translate that." Kaitlyn flashed another grin and shifted slightly in her chair to take a more comfortable posture. "So anyway, now that that's out of the way, I believe we have a meeting to get to? You were pretty secretive in your letter, Janice, but pretty insistent about needing my help. What exactly can I do for you, if it's within my power?" She punctuated that last statement with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes, washing away any trace of pompousness that might have possibly accompanied the words.
      "Well, you see," Janice began, "we've got this new set of scrolls, but they're, well, anomalous." Quickly, she filled Kaitlyn in on the details of the scrollcase's origins and design. "We can't figure out what a scrollcase practically identical to one we found last year-we just finished translating the documents that last one contained, and they're definitely written by Gabrielle-is doing in the British Isles."
      "It appears to be a replica, too," Mel put in. "The writing on the case is in Linear B, but the case itself is far too new."
      Kaitlyn nodded slowly. "Right," she said, cupping her chin in her hand. "But as you know, my specialty is Celtic languages, particularly Welsh. What do you need me to . . . " She trailed off. "The British Isles. Of course." The relaxed posture disappeared, and suddenly Kaitlyn Velasquez was all business. "You didn't happen to have brought a sample of the scrolls with you, by any chance?"
      At a nudge from Janice, Mel answered, "We did, actually. We've looked at all of them, and the writing on them is all the same, to the best of our knowledge." Reaching into her satchel, she pulled out the smallest of the scrolls that the case had contained, carefully protected within a wooden tube. "May we . . . ?" she asked, indicating Kaitlyn's desk.
      "Of course," Kaitlyn was quick to reply, pushing books and papers out of the way, giving Janice enough room to unfurl the scroll that her partner had just handed to her. The young linguist swiveled in her chair to lean over the parchment on the desk, and her eyes widened. "Mel, Janice, at the risk of sounding egocentric, you will be needing my help after all."
     She pointed at the writing on the parchment. "This scroll-and presumably the others you found with it-is written in what's called the Insular hand. And this is crazy, but . . . " She shook her head, eyebrows knitting together in puzzlement. "Well, the Insular script has never before been seen on any documents in any language on the British Isles preceding Old English. It was developed by the Irish, and taught to the Anglo-Saxon invaders, but we've never found evidence of it being employed in ancient Irish Gaelic, or anything other than Old English. But this . . . " She ran her left hand through her unruly shock of short dark hair and blew out a long breath. "This scroll is in ancient Welsh."
     

      Janice found her voice first. "In that case, we'll need your help for sure, Kaitlyn. We've got a whole case's worth of scrolls in ancient Welsh, and no idea what they say. We've got some new character popping up who's apparently been archiving the stories of Xena and Gabrielle's lives, but no idea who she is or why she's doing it, or how she got to the information in the first place. And we've got no idea how to go about translating all this and putting the pieces together." Her eyes held a hint of pleading, and a faint trace of desperation cracked her voice. It was the closest the archaeologist had ever come to admitting she needed help from someone else, other than Mel.
      The Southerner heard the tone in her lover's voice, caught a glimpse of the plea in her eyes, and knew instantly how hard this was for Janice. Asking for help from someone was tantamount to mapping out all her vulnerabilities, as far as Mad Dog Covington was concerned. Sensing this, she moved to Janice's side, placing a comforting hand on the shorter woman's arm.
      The gesture was not lost on Kaitlyn, who cast the pair a sidelong, appraising glance, then smiled knowingly. Continuing nonchalantly, as though she had seen nothing, she began, "All right then. You've got me hooked. There's no way I can resist the chance to get in on this now. I don't want to sound like I'm full of myself, but in these circumstances, I'm your man . . . so to speak." She chuckled softly.
      "There's a few things you need to know, first," the student continued. "I've got to finish up here for the semester-just a few more days and I'll be done. I've been planning to take the next semester off anyhow, so I'll be free all summer and then some, should the work take that long. As for the rest, that may take a while to explain, and I'm getting hungry . . . so would you two care to join me for lunch? I'm afraid I can't offer you fare more elegant than the dining hall has to offer, but the invitation still stands."
     
      The food was surprisingly good, much better than most stories about college dining hall food would suggest. Relaxing over coffee and lemon cake in an empty corner of the dining hall, the three began to talk.
      "How long have you been following our work with the Xena Scrolls, Kaitlyn?" Mel wondered.
      Kaitlyn took a slow sip from her cup of coffee. "About two and a half years now? Yes, that sounds about right. I used to keep track of your father's efforts to find the Scrolls, back when I was in high school, Janice, and when I found out that you'd actually found them, I was excited. So I kept on plugging away until I actually found a way to learn more about what kind of progress you were making with them. Once that happened, I started following your work, and I've been doing so ever since."
      "You kept track of my father's search for the Scrolls?" Janice was amazed. For once, here was someone who spoke of Harry "the Graverobber" Covington without the slightest bit of malice, but instead with respect.
      The linguist nodded. "Oh yes. I really admired his devotion to it, you know. I know a lot of people have come down on your father pretty hard because of what he did for the sake of the Scrolls, but-"she spread her hands wide-"hey, who am I to judge people for that kind of thing? I don't believe that people have a broad enough perspective on the universe to really be able to understand the scope of true good and evil. Maybe it's a Machiavellian sort of thing to say, but there are many acts that people deem questionable or wrong that ultimately lead to a greater kind of good. And I don't think people really live long enough to see those results for themselves, so they don't really understand. Y'know what I mean?"
      Janice nodded slowly in understanding, a gesture Mel duplicated. "That's not an outlook many people share, Kaitlyn," Janice said with a slight smile.
      "I know." Kaitlyn laughed. "But what can I say? I've always specialized in being unorthodox." She cast a glance down at her clothing. "That's kind of obvious, I guess. But it's fun."
      "You must get a lot of criticism for that," Mel observed.
      "Oh, definitely," Kaitlyn agreed. "I get a lot of grief for all kinds of things. I'm used to it. It's just a way of life for me . . . I try to see it as a way to build character." She smiled crookedly, but Mel caught a hint of pain in the younger girl's eyes.
      "You mentioned that you had a personal interest in the Xena Scrolls," Janice remarked. "Mind if I ask you what that personal interest might be?"
      "Not at all. It's kind of a long story, and there's several levels to this interest. You see, first of all, the Scrolls are something I very much want to see publicly accessible and accepted." Kaitlyn leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, a conspiratorial expression on her face. In a low voice, she said, "With all due respect to Sappho, her works on their own just aren't a very solid base for establishing the existence of homosexuality, particularly lesbianism, in the ancient world."
      At this, Mel and Janice exchanged looks of surprise, as the linguist continued, a zeal and fire suddenly kindled in her face. "I mean, of course we know that it existed, but it's terribly underrepresented in literature. And the literature of the ancient world has proved to be so pivotal in the structure and development of our modern society. I . . . well, I just think that it might do a great deal of good in future generations if it can be substantially proved that one of the greatest examples of love in history was between two women. And that it really was history."
      "How did you know?" Janice asked breathlessly. Anticipating a good deal of backlash if the true nature of Gabrielle and Xena's relationship had been revealed, she and Mel had decided not to publicly release the translations of the relevant documents. There was no way Kaitlyn could have known about this. And yet somehow she did.
      Kaitlyn chuckled. "I hazarded a guess. Apparently I was right. Well, if you read between the lines enough . . . to me it was kind of obvious. Like somehow I just knew; it was a feeling I couldn't deny. To be honest with you, I think it's just a matter of time before other people who read your translations come to the same conclusion."
      "You think they will?" Mel looked a bit worried.
      "I think it's a possibility," the dark-haired student replied. "You know what I think? I think there are basically two kinds of people who'll come to that conclusion. There's people like me, who actually go hunting for these hints because they want to believe that they're there, and there's people who search for them because they want something to attack and condemn. I just hope it takes that second group a good long time to even touch these Scrolls."
     She paused, taking a deep breath. "But there's an even more personal level to why I care so much. You see, I've always been told that somewhere, way back in my family line, I have a Greek ancestor who, judging from what I've heard, probably existed around Xena's time. I'm not sure how much credibility I can assign to that, but it has been passed down in family stories for generations now. So because of that, I feel kind of obligated to know about ancient Greek culture and all. Just because of an extremely tenuous connection. The funny thing is, I understand that I also have a Celtic ancestor who existed around the same time."
      "So that's why you chose to go into Celtic studies?" Mel asked.
      "Sort of," Kaitlyn answered. "Actually it's kind of been a personal lifelong quest. You see, stories weren't the only thing about my Celtic ancestor that were kept alive by my family. I own a small case of documents written in ancient Welsh-it's been handed down from generation to generation in the family, but no one has been able to read the documents for centuries. I felt . . . as though a quest had been imposed upon me to learn once again what they say, and to rediscover my Celtic ancestry. As for why I feel so strongly drawn to study the Scrolls-no offense intended, I don't mean to intrude on your territory-that's something I can't explain."
      She shook her head, and a faraway look came into her eyes. "This may sound dumb, or unbelievable, but I believe I have an inherent talent for magick, though I haven't learned to use it. It runs in my family, though most of the recent generations have denied it." Kaitlyn snorted at that. "The talent, as the story goes, came from my Celtic ancestor, who was very powerful. Of course, if you think I'm just full of shit when I say this, I understand."
      Amusement played about the corners of Mel's mouth as she responded, "Kaitlyn, you're talking to people who have uncovered firsthand scrolls that others have said never existed. We've encountered and been possessed by the spirits of our ancestors and battled the ancient gods. Don't think we're not ready to believe you!"
      Kaitlyn grinned down into her coffee mug. "Okay, point. You win."
      Janice put a bite of cake into her mouth, gesturing with her fork as she chewed and swallowed. "Granted, I tend to be a bit more skeptical than Mel here, but you can ask her, I'm better than I used to be."
      The young linguist raised an eyebrow jokingly in Mel's direction. "Should I take her word for it?"
      "Oh," Mel replied coyly, deliberately shooting teasing looks in the archaeologist's direction, "I think you're safe enough doing that. But yes, if you ask me, she really has gotten a lot better about that sort of thing."
      "Good to know." Kaitlyn smiled and used her fork to trace patterns in the cake crumbs on her plate. The levity in her voice suddenly disappeared, to be replaced by a more serious note. "So now that you know all the reasons behind my interest, do you still want me on board for this project?"
      "Definitely. Why wouldn't we?" Janice kept her voice casual but couldn't help worrying a little bit at the question. She kept on talking, trying to ignore the feeling, gripping Mel's hand tightly. "You're genuinely interested, hell, you're passionate about the Scrolls; you're more than qualified for the job. Why wouldn't we want you for this project?"
      Kaitlyn fixed her eyes intensely on Janice's face. "You know as well as I do that it's damned hard to know who you can and can't trust these days. How do you know you can trust me?"
      "Good question. To be honest with you, Kaitlyn, I don't entirely know that yet. I can't speak for Mel, but if I were to go with my gut feeling on this, I'd still say I'm sure I want you to help us. There's something about your passion for this project that tends to convince me."
      The linguist shook her head. "Zealotry is a dangerous thing to be swayed by. If I were you I wouldn't use that as a reason. I may just be biased in that department, but still-these days, especially, zealots of any kind tend to scare me. Any other reasons, Janice?"
      The archaeologist just shrugged. "Just instinct. A gut feeling. And my gut feelings usually don't let me down."
      Kaitlyn's gaze fell on the Southerner. "Mel? What do you say?"
      Mel didn't answer at first; a strange, distant look was on her face. Only a moment, and then the expression was gone, but that in that brief moment . . . Kaitlyn had the sudden disturbing thought that she was looking at someone completely different. Janice felt a flicker of recognition, as though she knew the person she was looking at-but that person was not her Mel.
      The moment passed, and both Janice and Kaitlyn found themselves watching Mel expectantly, but feeling vaguely disoriented as well. "C'mon, Mel, what'll it be?" Janice prompted.
      "I think . . . " Mel began slowly, "that we should take Kaitlyn along with us on this project. Something tells me that we have every good reason to trust her."
      "All right then, I guess we're agreed!" Janice clapped her hands together and rubbed them vigorously. "Kaitlyn, welcome to the team." She reached out and shook the young linguist's hand firmly.
      The excitement on Kaitlyn's face was evident as she returned Janice's handshake, then turned to shake Mel's hand as well. "Thanks. I'm glad to be on board. Don't worry, I'll make sure not to be too much of a nuisance . . . "
     

      Kaitlyn, clad only in an undershirt and flannel boxer shorts, sat in the middle of a large pile of clothes, books, and sundry items, all scattered over the floor of her bedroom in the cramped apartment. The challenge was to pare down to about four suitcases' worth everything she'd need for the summer, which she'd be spending at Melinda Pappas's estate with her two new colleagues. She'd been reluctant at first to accept Mel's offer to live with them, and somewhat uncomfortable, feeling as though she'd be an unwelcome interloper.
     But she couldn't argue with Janice's sound reasoning: the work was going to be rigorous and probably involve unorthodox hours; it would be too inconvenient and expensive for the young student to be living elsewhere and commuting to the estate all the time. On top of all that, the secrecy of the scrolls' existence was far better protected without the unwanted attention that constant comings and goings would draw.
     
      "I'll be straightforward with you," Janice had said, shortly before she and Mel had gone back to Columbia the previous week. "Working with the Xena Scrolls can be a downright deadly business. Mel and I have gone through all kinds of shit to find and hang onto most of the Scrolls. Everything from ancient gods to Nazis. People and natural phenomena trying to kill us-that's all just a regular part of the business. You needed to know this before you really committed to help us. We couldn't let you get into this without knowing everything that might be involved."
      She'd expected Kaitlyn to back out at that, or at least show a good deal of reservation. But instead, the girl had just laughed and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her trousers. "Landslides, wild car chases and mad Gestapo agents, all just a part of a typical day in the life of Janice Covington and Mel Pappas, huh?"
      "Pretty much sums it up, yeah."
      "Nothing I can't handle, then."
      Janice had expressed her surprise at the casual ease with which Kaitlyn had absorbed the revelation, and her equally casual response. Kaitlyn had simply responded, "Hey, I'm used to taking shit from people for everything, Janice. I'm no stranger to it. I get beat up on because I dress like a man, and so they automatically figure I'm a lesbian. Not that they'd be wrong in that regard. I take abuse because I'm Asian. It doesn't matter to people I was born here, and that my family is from the Philippines, not Japan; Japan is occupying the Philippines now and to them it's the same thing. People come down hard on me because I'm young-I just recently turned twenty-two-and because I'm female. Because I think so radically compared to most people, and I'm vocal about it. They put me through the wringer on a daily basis, Janice. I had no choice but to learn how to deal with it."
      The archaeologist's jaw had dropped. "I never realized it was that bad for you, Kaitlyn . . . "
      "I try not to make it too obvious." A slow, tired smile had crossed Kaitlyn's face. "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself in dangerous situations, Janice, if that's what you're worried about. I'll accept all the risks inherent in working with you and Mel on these scrolls."
     
      With a sigh, the young graduate student looked over the pile. Everything should be taken care of now. "Clothes," she muttered, taking inventory of what she'd laid out. There were plenty of casual clothes to wear while mucking around the house, working on translations; a few of her usual semi-formal dress shirts and slacks, plus all of her prized collection of ties; one good suit in case some kind of formal event came up; and finally, some grubby old clothes, in the event that another archaeological dig would be in order.
      "Shoes?" Her favorite pair of boots, the ones she always wore to work, were already set aside, as well has a slightly dressier pair, and the army boots she wore on casual days. "Yeah, those are taken care of."
      "Books, now . . . " This was going to be important. She'd managed to cut the stack down to her most critical volumes-her most reliable Welsh and Gaelic lexicons, a couple of books on Celtic history and culture, and a few samples of writing in both languages. Just in case, she added some resources on Manx, Breton, Cornish, and Gaulish. "That ought to cover all the branches of the Celtic language family."
      Working quickly, Kaitlyn packed everything into her luggage. She was going to have to get to bed pretty soon, if she was to wake up at 4 in the morning and start the drive down to South Carolina. All the paperwork was filled out-her semester off was taken care of. No need to worry about a place she could be contacted; there wasn't really anyone who would try. She was definitely ready to hit the sack, she decided. But first, there were a few important things left to pack.
     She reached into the drawer next to her bed and pulled out the Colt .45 automatic pistol, with its customized black rubber grip and matte finish, checked to make sure it was fully loaded, and tucked it carefully into the holster that hung off the foot of the bed. A quick check of her army boots told her that the boot knife was safely hidden in the concealed sheath there. Extra ammunition and hardware went into the top of her final suitcase along with the holstered gun. And next to the suitcases rested a contoured black hard case. She'd definitely have to keep sharp with her music while she was gone.
     She paused. One more thing. She opened up the small safe under the bed and pulled out the ancient heirloom case containing the documents in ancient Welsh that had been passed down to her. She'd been waiting for the right time to actually start translating them, and somehow she felt like that time was coming up soon. With care, the linguist tucked the case into the top of her suitcase, next to her gun, and snapped it shut. She surveyed the whole pile sleepily.
     "Yeah, that should be everything," Kaitlyn mumbled quietly. With a yawn, she clambered over the suitcases, fell into bed, and turned off the lamp. Six hours of sleep should be enough. It would be a fourteen-hour drive to South Carolina; with the way she drove, she'd make it there well before midnight the next day . . .
     
     "Mel, relax, sweetie!" Janice was trying desperately to calm her overeager partner, who was pacing and fretting in anticipation of Kaitlyn's arrival. "Everything looks perfect. The house is spotless, the guest room is perfectly made up, I don't think the bedcovers are going to be too flowery or anything for her . . . "
     The tall aristocrat sighed and pressed a hand to her mouth. "I know, dear, I know. I just don't know if I'm so agitated because we're having a houseguest, or because we're getting so much closer to learning what those scrolls say."
     "Aw, honey." Janice wrapped her arms around Mel. "I know how you feel. I've been jumpy this whole past week myself, over those scrolls. Now come on, let's go relax in the study for a bit while we wait."
     
     The next hour passed pleasantly for the two, as the archaeologist entertained Mel with stories from old digs she'd gone on, and Mel returned the favor by telling about her experiences growing up in the South. It was past nine in the evening when their reminiscences were interrupted by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
     Mel looked out the window to see a battered old army jeep parked next to Janice's truck. In the light from the study, she could make out a short figure in a coat and hat jumping out of the driver's seat and lifting several suitcases from the back of the jeep. The Southerner gave her lover, who was busy staring at Kaitlyn's jeep, a gentle nudge. "Janice!" she scolded softly. "Go help her with her things!"
     "Oh yeah." Somewhat embarrassed, Janice got up and jogged for the door, still in shock that a city-slicker kid like this Velasquez character had wheels like that jeep. She made it out to the car, took two of Kaitlyn's four suitcases, and led the young linguist into the house. Mel was there to greet them at the door.
     "Careful with my guitar, please," Kaitlyn called to Janice, who had gone back to retrieve the black hard-cased instrument from the back of the jeep. She smiled and nodded to Mel. "Hello again, Mel."
     "Kaitlyn, I'm . . . we're so glad you made it safely! Your room will be just this way." She led them down the hall to a comfortable, simply furnished guest room a few doors down from the study. "Are you tired? Or hungry?"
     Kaitlyn shook her head, putting down her luggage. "No, no, I'm fine . . . had a bite to eat an hour ago, so I'm not really hungry. Thanks though." She stopped and considered. "Well, actually, I could use a cup of coffee or something."
     Janice set down the suitcases she'd been carrying. "I'll go fix some. It's good to have you around, Kaitlyn." She gave the younger girl a brief smile and headed off in the direction of the kitchen, soon followed by Mel and Kaitlyn.
     Kaitlyn paused by the front door and took off her boots, coat, and hat. Mel had to laugh; Kaitlyn's tan Burberry trenchcoat looked so funny, hanging next to Janice's worn old leather jacket on the rack. Likewise, Janice's battered old brown fedora and Kaitlyn's black wool one, in better condition though no less well-worn, cut an amusing contrast on the hat rack.
     
     "Hey Kaitlyn?" Janice was busy setting down mugs of coffee on the kitchen table as they entered. "How did you manage to get your hands on that army jeep? I didn't think they'd ever let one out of their grip!" She sat down at the table, in her t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and bare feet, and started dumping sugar into her coffee.
     "Would you listen to her?" laughed Mel, taking a seat next to Janice. "I declare, she's practically salivating over your car, Kaitlyn!"
     Kaitlyn replied with a chuckle, "I'll get the mop, then. Seriously, though, I talked it out of a guy who worked at the army base near Albany. It was broken. Engine completely shot. They said it couldn't be fixed." She let a cocky smirk curl up the side of her mouth. "Obviously they were wrong. Their loss . . . my gain. I only had to fork over a couple hundred bucks for it."
     "The engine was shot? How'd you manage to fix it?" Janice raised an eyebrow and took an experimental sip of her coffee before adding another spoonful of sugar, despite Mel's reproachful look.
     "Oh, I have . . . acquired a lot of useful bits of knowledge, shall we say. I was friends with my building superintendent. He helped me get the parts to build a whole new engine for it. So now the car is good as new, runs beautifully, and has a hell of a lot of character." Kaitlyn chucked a thumb proudly in the direction of the driveway. "I love that old thing." That said, she settled down at the table with her mug of coffee. Her hand went to the breast pocket of her shirt, but she then paused and glanced at Mel. "Er . . . do you mind if I smoke?"
     Mel's only response was to smile and tilt her head in Janice's direction. The archaeologist had lit up a cigar and was blissfully puffing away. "As long as she lets you share the ashtray." With her foot, she nudged the archaeologist, who gave her a mock wounded look.
     "I guess not, then." Kaitlyn laughed and pulled a black and silver cigarette case from her shirt pocket. Popping it open, she flipped a Dunhill out of the case and put it between her teeth, using a slim black lighter to light it. "Thanks. I needed that." She shut her eyes, leaned back, and took a long, slow drag from the cigarette. After a few moments, she exhaled a rather impressive lungful of smoke, opened her eyes again, and took a sip of her coffee.
     "How was your drive?" Mel asked. "You must have been driving all day. We weren't really expecting you for another two hours or so!"
     "You must drive like me," Janice commented around her cigar. "What time'd you leave Boston?"
     "About four o'clock this morning," the linguist replied calmly, taking another drag off her cigarette. "Been driving pretty much straight through the day. I love those long stretches of deserted highway!" she grinned. "Eighty or ninety miles an hour and nobody knows the difference."
     "Yup." Janice blew out a mouthful of smoke. "She drives like me."
     "Being the only one of us who doesn't drive, I must say that's a comforting thought for sure," Mel remarked dryly. Then, changing the subject, she said, "Kaitlyn, you've had a long drive, and you just barely ended the semester. I'd hate for you to get to work on translating right away. Would you like to have a little tour of the city tomorrow, a little bit of a chance to relax?"
     Kaitlyn knocked the ash off her cigarette into the ashtray. "Oh, wow, that'd be . . . er, I mean, I don't want to put you to any trouble . . . "
     Janice waved away the protest, gesturing with her cigar. "No trouble. We could use a little relaxation too. Mel and I spent the past two days looking through that scrollcase, and the thing was packed. We've looked over all the scrolls that were in it, and they're all in Insular too, or at least they look like it. So how about it, kid? Up for a tour tomorrow?"
     Kaitlyn didn't need much convincing. "You're on." She was interrupted by a hearty yawn. "After I wake up. Thank you again, Mel, Janice, for putting me up. I really appreciate it. Right now, though, I'm going to get my room in order and get some sleep. I need it." She took a last drag off the dwindling cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray, then stood up, exhaling one more cloud of smoke.
     Mel looked the graduate student over and smiled. Kaitlyn looked considerably disheveled in the lamplight, with her hair windblown, her shirt and slacks rumpled, and her tie askew. "That sounds like a good idea. Get on with you; we'll see you in the morning." She smiled warmly. "Oh, and Kaitlyn? We're glad to have you here."
     Kaitlyn returned the smile tiredly. "Thanks. It means a lot." She yawned again and shuffled off. "Good night, Mel, Janice."
     Janice watched her go, then put her cigar out in the ashtray, turned to Mel and wrapped her arms around the taller woman. "She's a nice kid, Mel," the archaeologist remarked. "Come on, sweetie, let's get some sleep." They collected the mugs and put them in the sink, then turned out the lights and headed upstairs.