Every Time with a Highlander Read Free Page A

again.”
    He slipped the friar’s habit over his head, and she handed him the sandals and cincture.
    â€œI can’t believe you’re retiring,” she said. “You’ve been such a savior to the Rose. Bankrupt, down at the heels, no artistic point of view—until you stepped in and lifted her from the gutter.”
    â€œAnd it only took twelve years and fifty-odd pints of blood.” He took the stage beard from her hands, fumbled with it a minute, realized he wouldn’t have time to put it on properly, and shoved it in the pocket of his cassock.
    â€œDon’t joke. You did so much.”
    â€œYes. From artistic director and fund-raiser to nanny, tour guide, and supporting player. My trajectory has been meteoric—if you think of a meteor on its way to crash into the earth. If I stay any longer, I’ll be cleaning the loo.”
    â€œPeople love you. The queen called you a national treasure.”
    A national treasure but no knighthood. Apparently, they’re saving those for telecommunication billionaires. “One always loves the people who’ll work for glory. Cheaper than a pension.”
    He rolled up his pant legs and slipped his feet in the sandals, which were two sizes too small and cut into his instep like a garrote.
    Get on with it, Michael. In another week, you’ll be sitting in a pub in Barcelona, sipping Sangria and reading David Copperfield .
    â€œMichael? Yoo-hoo?” Lady Velopar’s call cut through the afternoon like a dagger. “There’s no tonic.”
    â€œTonic,” Eve said, handing him the bottle of stage potion. “I’m on it.”
    He was no longer surprised Genesius was the patron saint of actors, clowns, and torture victims. He only wished the man were the patron saint of spontaneous human combustion as well. What he wouldn’t give to be lifted bodily from the place and spit out somewhere he’d never see an actor or patroness or corporate sponsor again.
    â€œWhy oh why,” he said, looking at the bottle, “can’t this be real poison?”

Four
    Undine would relinquish neither the small satchel of clothes nor the much larger case of herbs, already propped open on the chest of drawers, to the young, doe-eyed lady’s maid assigned her.
    â€œI shall manage on my own,” Undine said, observing the ornate bedchamber without much enthusiasm. “Pray, don’t trouble yourself.”
    â€œâ€™Tis no trouble, Lady Bridgewa—Miss Bridgewater—I mean, milady. Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you.” A bright pink crossed her cheeks. The girl shifted the linens in her arms and looked as if she may cry.
    â€œAny of your choices is fine,” Undine said, “though I’m not Lady Bridgewater yet. Could you call me Undine, do you think?”
    The girl stiffened. “I should be whipped for it, milady.”
    â€œBy whom?” Undine inquired casually, gazing at her case. A fortnight of flux ought to break the spirit of even the most hardened villain.
    â€œMrs. Janus. She’s the housekeeper.”
    â€œWe shan’t upset Mrs. Janus then. You may call me Mistress Douglas.”
    The girl’s jaw fell. “You have a surname?”
    Undine laughed. Witches, she supposed, were born without fathers. Naiads, unfortunately, weren’t. “I do, though few have ever heard it. But I shouldn’t like to see you get in trouble.”
    The girl bobbed her head. “Thank you, ma—er, Mistress Douglas.”
    Undine smiled. “And you? Might I be honored with the gift of your name?”
    The girl’s color rose higher. “Ardith.” She curtsied. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    â€œWell, Ardith, I shall require a great deal of privacy. The bed may be made and the fire drawn, but you are not to touch or move any of my things. There are herbs in that case that will scale your skin and turn your