Potter Professions

Having his lunch tray loaded, Harry walked to the table where he could see Laurent Clerc and Gilles Picabault sitting opposite each other. He steered to the head seat, so that he would have one of them to each side. Reaching the table, he deposited his tray and sat down.

"Hello," he said.

Laurent, the older one, stared at him with undisguised hostility. "Was this the only empty seat you could find?"

"Actually no, but the last time we talked, you had a few suggestions I'd like to discuss a bit more."

Hostility made room for unwillingness.

"You picked a bad time for that," replied Laurent after a moment's hesitation. "And besides, if you think here's a good place for discussions of that kind, you're still more stupid than you look."

It had taken Harry some willpower to go searching for this conversation, but Hermione's remarks were a strong motivation. Now that he'd managed, the result was somewhat surprising. He had expected a bit more enthusiasm from the other side.

Still more difficult was the question how to respond to Laurent's rude rebuke. Appearing submissive didn't look promising. In addition, Harry had a more general problem with this approach: he didn't feel submissive at all, especially not after having taken care of Jacques Deray.

Something as simple as, 'Fuck yourself' might be the proper reply, except that, in Harry's eyes, this answer felt as submissive as before, only with more noise.

That left just one approach, which had the advantage to match the fake stories in his personal file.

"It might not be the best start for a business partnership to break your nose, but you seem to be begging for it." He arched his eyebrows. "But then, maybe I didn't notice something of importance."

While Laurent again took his time, Gilles quickly glanced from one to the other. He looked concerned.

It was meaningless. Gilles was a follower, a weakling, not even a useful adjutant, for all Harry could sense. He remembered his suspicion from the previous encounter, that Gilles' affair with Jeannette gave them access to official files, and wondered if Gilles still had another purpose in the circles to which Harry would count the older one.

"Don't be so touchy," Laurent said eventually. "You want some business? Okay, but as I said, right now's a bad time. Wait for me getting in touch with you."

"Why's it a bad time now?"

Impatience flashed up in Laurent's face. But apparently, Harry's remark in combination with the reports in his personal file, no doubt fully known to these two cronies, had tempered his style.

"Because of Jacques' accident," he said, "and the mess he's left behind."

Harry managed a look of which he hoped it passed for incredulous. "If an old fool climbing trees in the night has a saying in that business, I might reconsider my plans, or look elsewhere."

"Looking elsewhere, yeah, that'll do you a great deal of good," said Gilles importantly.

Laurent sent his junior partner a murderous stare, then turned to Harry.

"Jacques has contacts, that was his job. And he'd been scheduled for that trip of the new classes. Things need to be rearranged."

"Well," replied Harry, "it shouldn't be the most difficult task to find someone else to escort the kids on that trip, should it? And with the - "

"Gilles was right in one regard," interrupted Laurent. "You don't know zilch about which strings to pull. So don't push it, okay?" He gave a smile that was probably meant conciliatory but just looked filthy. "The market's not going to disappear within the next days, early retirement or not."

Harry nodded his agreement and took a few bites.

Then, by way of small talk, he said, "Still I wonder what Jacques' been doing in that tree. It's such a weird accident."

"Accident, my ass." Laurent lowered his voice. "He's been set up."

"You think so?"

"I can tell you for a given that Jacques didn't show the habit of climbing trees, not in the night and not in full daylight either. And the concussion he's supposed to have - about the only proof of that is his failure at remembering anything, but that can be achieved with something else, is all I'm saying."

"You mean an Obliviate?"

Laurent showed another smile, thin but no doubt appreciative. "Quite a handy tool, isn't it? But who'd thought that old Jacques would be beaten with his own - "

He stopped, for a fleeting instant looking like Gilles after his remark a moment ago. "Anyway, that's just rumour what I said."

It took Harry a few seconds to have a guess why Laurent, midway through his own remark, had lost courage and suddenly started backpedaling. That short moment came to his benefit since he showed neither widened eyes nor signs of disgust when the older teacher sent him a quick glance to check his reaction.

"A set-up needs someone to be set up and someone to set up," Harry said after another bite, keeping his voice non-committal.

"Jacques had contacts, as I said. He used them well, and he made sure there wasn't a kind of monopoly."

Laurent grabbed his tray, about to rise. "Keep that in mind, and show a little patience while things are being reorganized. Train your troupe."

---

Harry watched the unalike couple leave. His mining had yielded two nuggets, both of them unexpected in their particular shape and size. They gave him something to mull over, to evaluate their consequences.

By the end of his lunch, he knew that he'd struck gold rather than pyrite. He also knew that he needed the help of someone who'd done similar tasks for him in the past.

After getting out of the Brest building, in safe distance from any accidental audience, he took his phony out and pressed the 'Call' button.

"Paul Sillitoe, please."

There was a moment of silence, then the still-familiar voice said, "Hello Harry, long no hear. How are you?"

"Urgent, as always. Hello, Paul. I need some research."

"What else." Paul chuckled. "Would yesterday still be in time?"

"Not quite. Has this been a yes?"

"This has been a joke, but of course wasted on you. What kind of research?"

"Not over the phone. Where can we meet, and when?"

"Well, I was about ready for my lunch. You know, I never deny an invitation." Paul had another chuckle.

"I just finished my own, but you can chew while listening, and I can talk. Where are you?"

"Still in my old office."

"Just a second."

Paul's office was in London. Harry apparated from where he stood, for once not caring about anyone watching him disappear.

A moment later, he said hello to Paul personally, and after a few more minutes, they were sitting in an Indian restaurant, Paul chewing and wiping his eyes from the spicy food, and Harry talking.

Paul Sillitoe was a freelance researcher with a journalist's background. Harry had met him in his sixth year at Hogwarts, when Paul had been working for the Daily Prophet in a team with Deborah Beckett, who became Deborah Black a while later. Harry hired Paul for the first time in his seventh year, to look for Voldemort's whereabouts, and Paul had proved his qualities as someone who could find meaning in a maze of facts.

Harry sized his story so that it came to an end around the time Paul finished his Bombay Plate. He'd left out only a few details of personal interest when he finished, "There are two things about which I want you to collect all information you can get."

"Well, the first is an easy guess. It's MiraLuc, right?"

"Yes. You might need support from local French people for that. Cho said there's a MABEL seminar close, in Saumur - er, no, in the Chateau Saumur, anyway, you might get in touch with her for that, unless you prefer your own contacts."

"I'll use everything," replied Paul. "Is it bad if the people behind get wind of our interest?"

"I have no idea. I don't even know if it's dangerous to stir up some dirt - provided there is some dirt."

"There is, trust my word. That remark about a monopoly was more informative than the guy had in mind, probably, and that company - I mean, certain people in that company - would be the natural candidates."

Paul started to unwrap a toothpick. "But I still can't see your second topic for which you want me to research."

"No? I thought it was obvious," replied Harry. "It's the Obliviatus."

---

Paul looked uncomprehending. "What about it? Isn't it common knowledge?"

"Sure - as common as the principles of current and volt and watt, or those of a computer."

Paul grinned. "I've got my lesson about bits and bytes. But yes, I see what you mean. Still, as far as I know, the most interesting aspect is still unchanged."

It was Harry's turn to look blank. "What are you talking about?"

"I thought you were interested in detecting traces of an Obliviate in some students. That's as impossible as ten years ago. You can interview people and let them tell about a faked or hidden memory, and with a lie detector, you can see that there's something wrong although the people look perfectly calm. But the questions must be quite specific for that."

"I didn't know that. But" - Harry shook his head - "that's not my primary goal, to prove the application of some Obliviates."

"Then what else?"

"Somehow it doesn't fit together. It took me until hearing the remarks from that guy to notice the likelihood of an Obliviate as a tool in the - in the process of committing the crimes. But - "

Paul interrupted him. "Come on, Harry, give me a break! That accident with the guy crashing through a tree, that's a signature I can recognize even from the distance."

"You think so?"

Paul grinned humourlessly. "It was a faked accident, and I know who faked it because, if the other side had had their fingers in that play, the guy would be dead."

The grin faded. "Sexual assault can take place at many levels, Harry. Social levels, I mean. It's a game played by white trash - or coloured trash, for that matter - and also by top ranks. And if top ranks are involved, a killing's as likely as if we'd talk about the cocaine business."

"Whatever. But to come back to Obliviates, my mental track always stops at the same spot," said Harry. "Imagine someone raping a child, and afterwards cursing it with an Obliviatus. So far, so bad. The child is back in school and doesn't remember anything. Does the scenario sound okay to you?"

"I could imagine some physical pain," said Paul with a grimace, "but I'm no physiologist. So let's assume okay."

"Then why did some of them commit suicide?"

"Hmmm ..."

Harry watched the visual signs of Paul scanning his memory for something that might shed a light on this mystery, a process Harry himself had gone through often enough, not getting any wiser.

Nor did Paul.

"Harry," he said after a while, "if you can drain that pool of pederasts, I'm sure as hell that the suicides will be a problem of the past, but at least I know what you're after. Okay, I'll check around."

"About your payment - "

Harry didn't come further because Paul interrupted him.

"Not this time, Harry. Expenses yes, of course, and I might call you back to ask for your agreement to a hefty bribe, but my own part - let it be my contribution to this particular kind of drainage."

"Unless it turns out a long-runner for some reason; then we'll address the issue again ... Thank you, Paul."

It struck Harry how people refused to accept money in this context. Like Mr Ollivander before, and Harry hadn't even told Paul about the second-hand wands.

He wondered how it was among the people opposite in the plot, those who - with some exceptions - were still faceless. Which of them were driven by simple greed to the dirtiest business he could imagine, and which of them were unaware of the money, taken or earned, by their desires?

In press articles, headlines would use the term inhuman to describe such desires. This was a cruel joke; no other species on earth raped their sexually immature offsprings in whichever conceivable way. Such behaviour was a specialty of mankind, monstrously human.

* * *

Gabriel watched as Ireen, Dragonfly's manager, came walking toward the low stage. For the first time since she'd arrived in the same room to announce their Sweden tour, he felt more expectation than anxiousness at the thought of what news she might have this time. Pleasure was about to replace pressure when looking forward to the events ahead, and this change had to do with their rehearsals and what could be heard there.

Like, a growing number of songs sung. Like, a shrinking amount of passages played badly, or not at all because the player just gave up, saying, "Oh, shit!" It was still a hell of work to do, but they were coming round the bend. Just barely so, but they would; Gabriel could feel it.

They'd stopped playing a moment ago. Ireen entering the room just after they'd finished a song was hardly a coincidence. She'd been waiting outside for the break, had played her game of not being there to prevent Gabriel from sensing her. The correct name for this technique was yaho, the art of hiding your intentions, which meant something like emptying your mind of any purpose until it was time to strike. Yaho originated in Japan, as did Ireen's family. For Gabriel, this parallel was no coincidence either.

Ireen had found the door open. A little while ago, they'd stopped locking it during their rehearsals. Their playing, and the girls' singing, could gather a few students as audience any time, but those were polite people, just eager to listen, or maybe even simpler: to have a rest from hard learning with background music. When asked, they would leave at once to let Dragonfly have their privacy for discussions. Or arguments.

Time to ask them now. Gabriel stepped to the edge of the stage. "Hey folks, let's have a break, okay? If you hear us playing again, you'll know that the break's over."

A smile, a wave, and a nod from the three figures who'd been sitting near the exit, while they stood up good-naturedly to file out and let them alone.

A fourth figure who'd been sitting not quite as far off the stage showed no intention to leave, instead came up to join the group of the others. This was okay; anything else would have been a reason to investigate, because the figure was Benoît, their newest acquisition, so to speak.

Benoît's presence was the result of some gentle pressure from Frédéric. When the keyboard player had joined them and started attending their rehearsals, suddenly Benoît, Frédéric's friend and Héloise's slave and part-time boyfriend, was the only one left out of the group of four. Then Frédéric had come and reported that Benoît would be ready to work as a roadie. But, as the name indicated, a roadie made only sense on the road, that meant while on tour. What to do with a roadie during rehearsals?

The answer was: let him do sound checks, to listen and to judge the audio impression from the mixing in the amplifiers. Benoît was no Desmond, but he might grow to the task that kept him busy in the meantime, happily so near Héloise.

Héloise's excitement was about as overwhelming as that of Sandra during Frédéric's first session. One difference, though - Sandra gradually turned friendlier while Héloise could fall back to her snappish responses any time. It was the Veela privilege, as Michel had explained; anyone falling in love with a Veela did so at his own risk, and no mercy be granted if it wasn't mutual at full scale.

He'd explained that to Gabriel, not to Benoît. Even so, Gabriel doubted that it would have made any difference.

---

"You sound great," said Ireen, having reached them. "You know, I'm not the expert to tell you how much you've improved in the last five days, or where, and what still needs practising. But I can tell you something that matters, and that is, you sound attractive. You make people want to listen to you."

The others looked pleased. Gabriel beamed.

This was Ireen's artistry: to give them the feeling of being unique, incredible, the band everybody had been waiting for. She would do it anyway, as Gabriel knew for sure, and still he took her words for real, and somehow they were, or would be soon.

"I'm here to coordinate some arrangements with you," she said.

As if she'd cast a gathering spell, the Dragonfly members left their instruments, or put them down before forming a semicircle in front of Ireen. Only Frédéric stayed on his seat, simply because Ireen used the keyboard in place of a table to put down her papers and shuffle through them, so he was already as close as he could go.

Seeing the others hurrying over, Gabriel was reminded of a scene he'd watched at the Delacour farm, on a weekend he'd spent together with Michel, following an invitation of his friend's grandparents. There was a yard behind the barn with chicken moving everywhere. You could walk through and shy them off your path or chase them for fun; it would raise a short complaint of outraged cackle, then the scene would fall quiet again. But in the late afternoon, when the stable boy appeared with a bucket dangling from his arm, the same chicken would come running from all directions, anxious to come close, pushing each other but too excited to start a peckfight, waiting the short moment until the food was ladled out of the bucket and spread on the ground.

Ireen said, "The promoters want to know what reservations they have to make regarding hotel rooms. I told them that we'll arrive Friday afternoon and that we'll need the rooms till Saturday after the second concert. Normally this would mean that the rooms are booked till Sunday morning, but for some reason they'd like to know whether we'll really stay overnight from Saturday to Sunday. So that's one of the open questions."

Some Dragonfly members looked at each other, while some others did just the opposite - they desperately avoided meeting certain eyes.

To get things going, Gabriel said tentatively, "Do we need hotel rooms at all?"

It earned him angry looks from several of his teammates. Before they found the the words - or the courage - to complain, Ireen took care of that.

"Yes, we do," she said to Gabriel. "I know that you and your sister could summon all of us over, and the luggage too, but we need a little bit of presence there. To some degree, we have to play this according to conventional rules."

"Conventional?"

"Muggle rules. If you have one concert in the evening and another one the next afternoon, you stay overnight; it's as simple as that. In the evening, the local press has the opportunity to ask you some questions, and of course they expect to be invited to a drink or five at the bar.

"That's how it's played in general, and for Swedish local press, the drinks are still more important because you won't believe what they take for a single drink in Scandinavian bars. Actually the same's true for food, but all of that's on the promotor's expense, and they consider these exorbitant prices normal."

Ireen scanned the faces looking at her. "So what about the second night?"

When nobody answered at first, she said, "After the second concert, you're free, so that would give you the opportunity for some sightseeing. You can think it over, and if someone's homesick, returning home earlier shouldn't be a problem, but I'll claim the rooms till Sunday morning, to be at the safe side."

Moira said, "I wonder what my Dad's going to say when he hears about that. More to the point, I wonder whether I'm allowed at all to stay overnight."

Gabriel was hardly surprised to hear about such concerns. Moira was the youngest - of course with the exception of himself and Michel, but their parents wouldn't be worried about two nights in a Swedish hotel room.

Ireen said, "That man can be helped. We can offer him a hotel room for himself, so he can be around." She smiled at Moira. "You're under age, that's why the promoters won't even blink at hearing that we need another room for some parents - "

"As if I wanted my father there," muttered Moira.

"Ask him," replied Ireen, "and tell me. So far I came to fourteen rooms when counting all people ..."

Fourteen! For an instant, it felt like a blow in Gabriel's mind to hear that Dragonfly had so many people to its name. Eight band members, plus Ireen and Desmond, then Rebecca, and finally Benoît, Matthew, and Tobin as their roadies. But why -

"... which is a trick number," added Ireen with a grin, "because I counted Desmond and myself for two rooms just in order to have a spare room if the need arises."

"Hotel room math," said Héloise to no one in particular, "doesn't necessarily follow the rules of algebra ... Says my Mum; I'm just quoting her."

"What a clever Mum of yours." Ireen held her expression forcibly neutral. "I'm your band manager, that's all; my duty ends in the hotel lobby ... Oh, right, the promoters wanted to know how much security people we need. I said we'll need the normal quota during the concerts, but that's all. We aren't famous enough to need security in the hotel."

Frédéric chuckled. "Well, you never know. Fans, stalkers, trophy hunters - "

"Let them come," said Sandra with some menace in her voice, "and we'll let them go. When we're done with them, that is."

Frédéric chuckled more, but stopped abruptly when Sandra sent him a glare.

"That's pretty unlikely," said Gabriel. "But otherwise, Sandy's right; we can take care of ourselves in such a case."

Ireen closed her file and took it from the keyboard. "Okay, then. Make up your mind about the Saturday evenings, and" - she turned to Moira - "you ask your father whether he wants to join us. Anything else?"

Caitlin said, "My family wants to come to one concert. We agreed that Stockholm would be best; by then we'll have more experience, and the city should be the most attractive of all five." She turned to Moira. "I could ask them to give your Dad a call; maybe that's all we need to let your Dad calm down."

"Yes, please, that'd be great." Moira looked hopeful.

Ireen had opened her file once more to write a line or two. Now she closed it again.

"All right, folks, that's it from my side. Keep playing; the future looks bright for all of us."

Some laughter followed her while she walked toward the exit, waving a last time without looking back.

Gabriel hadn't laughed, had only smiled. True, the remark had been another one of Ireen's encouragement lines, but wasn't she right? Nobody would call Jonkoeping the center of the world - or any of the other cities, including Stockholm - but success stories could start anywhere. Some decades ago, a band had arrived from Sweden to conquer the world of popular music.

Gabriel felt driven by curiosity and a sense of adventure more than by a longing for fame or money. Something had started, and he was going to see where it might end.

He noticed how his sister was staring at Frédéric, apparently lost in thought. She could do it without the risk of being caught because Frédéric had his back to her, was staring at the keys in front of him, his mind similarly adrift, as far as Gabriel could judge.

Indeed, something had started. Some other people might also be looking forward, although with their minds set to different goals.

* * *

Cho watched as the waiter fixed her dish. Grilled fish and rice, and a green salad. She wouldn't object grilled fish and rice seven days a week; it reminded her of the time before her parents had moved to England. Only the salad didn't fit to the picture, but this enhancement of the Western cuisine was welcome.

It was lunchtime - for the locals, including the man sitting opposite her, who was served now by the waiter. For herself, running on European time and therefore being ahead by eight hours, it was dinnertime.

"Enjoy your meal, madam, sir." The waiter gave them a short but pleased smile that signaled satisfaction at a perfect moment, with magnificent guests and excellent food on a table in the best spot of the restaurant, then he left them alone.

Cho smiled at Reuben Timball. "He doesn't sound like a well-oiled machine any longer. He sounds human, at a very personal level. Great work!"

The resort manager chuckled briefly. "Thanks, but that's a honour I have to share. You see, the simple truth is, they really like having you as a guest for lunch, still more so for dinner."

She ate a few bites, then said, "I won't be around for a little while. Maybe just for a few days, I don't know yet, but most likely it'll take a bit longer. I didn't look forward to it, but it's nothing I can leave to anyone else."

"I'm sorry to hear that, in particular since you don't seem to enjoy it."

Checking his face, she saw that the man she liked had disappeared behind a professional mask of politeness, as if temporarily hidden behind a cloud. It was certainly not uncommon among hotel managers, but she suspected that something in her own words had caused him to shield his true emotions.

After a moment of recollecting what she'd said, she felt certain that she knew.

"You think I'm a case of business deprivation, right? You think I need a shot of million dollar deal negotiations, that I'm one of those who believe the world will come tumbling down if they don't take control all the time?"

"Do I?" But the sparkling in his eyes was answer enough.

"Wrong. Maybe not in general, but in this case for sure. It has nothing to do with business. I'm going to visit another MABEL resort, but only because they're in the right place and because they might be able to help. My husband has messed up, and I have to come for rescue."

"Really?"

Again she examined his face. What could easily have been confused for the listener's normal reaction, for the rhetorical equivalent of Tell me more, as much and as fast as you can, had come suspiciously close to the question of true disbelief. And in that case, another suspicion followed in the wake of the first because her husband, according to what she'd told Reuben, was a former movie star who had found a taste in raising their children but now was facing his mid-life crisis, including two bare misses in being cuckolded - altogether not the figure you'd doubt messing up.

"Yes he did, thoroughly so. He manoeuvered himself into a trap from which there's no safe escape, and now his only chance is to have someone like me making sure that the trap's teeth don't bite him when they snap shut."

Reuben laughed pleasedly. "What a wonderful picture! I just can see him before my eyes, his leg in mid-step aimed right between the claws, and now slow motion kicks in while you come hurrying to file away at the teeth."

He laughed more. "Must be super slow motion, actually, because you're still sitting here, not showing untidy haste."

Despite herself, Cho felt addicted from Reuben's laughing. "You're making fun of me, okay, but you have no idea what you're joking about."

He grew serious, except for a little smile not leaving his face. "I'm sorry, my dear Cho, but you have no idea of exactly how much I know what I'm joking about."

---

She stared at him, her fork with the next bite temporarily forgotten.

"Several times already, I was looking for a good opportunity to tell you, but there wasn't any, and so far, the need to let you know wasn't exactly desperate. But now - it would be dishonest to let you rant about your husband with me sitting there and pretending to be ignorant about the issue at hand. So - "

"What do you know?"

Cho could have bitten her tongue. She had interrupted him, her voice almost shrill, to ask him for what he would have explained next second, hadn't she cut him off. It was hardly excusable toward Harry, and not at all toward Reuben.

Who paid back by saying, "I know that your husband is famous for his clumsiness." Inaudible laughter seemed to shake him.

"What else do you know?"

Reuben's expression changed as if a boy migrated to a man, while his voice took on a flat, military-like tone.

"Cho Chang, operates under that name, which is her maiden name, to avoid unwanted publicity. Owns the majority on the Groucho Industries corporation. Full name Chang-Potter, married to Harry Potter, about whom she told a very selective part of the truth. Two own children, two more adopted."

"Since when do you know?"

"A hotel manager has the same instincts as a casino owner: he needs to know about his regulars. In your case - let's say the genuine impulse was increased by a personal interest shortly after we met."

"Did you know that when ... when we established our current state of relationship"

"What a wonderful phrase!"

Reuben was grinning openly. "You want to know whether I refused to follow your suggestion because I had found out about your husband? No, this particular information came to my knowledge only afterwards, but I don't think it would have changed anything. Also, according to my sources, said Harry Potter isn't known for bullying other people, no matter which reason."

"Maybe so," she snapped, angry at Reuben for his spying behind her back, and at herself for bickering like a fishwoman, "but it doesn't mean he's unable to mess up thorougly. By the way, do you know that he's been here? He saw us together."

"Really? But then, doesn't it prove my point?" Reuben looked wondering. "I don't remember anyone storming at me and telling me not to mess with his wife."

Cho's look was telling him that - certain past attempts notwithstanding - even the assumption of such behaviour from her husband was an insult toward herself.

Having paused long enough to know that his remorse wouldn't grow more, she said, "He sat at the bar. Dressed like a wood cutter. Beard, short hair, and a large discolouration across his face. He - "

"Yes, I remember him. That was your husband?"

"Wearing a mask, and as you certainly remember, he fooled me too."

"Are you trying to tell me that he disguised himself that way just to spy on you?" Reuben frowned. "That's hard to believe."

Cho snorted. "That's what I've been looking for! My almost-lover defending my husband. Really, some women just have no luck with men."

With satisfaction, she watched as Reuben simultaneously laughed and blushed.

Then, showing amusement herself, she said, "No, he was testing his mask without second thoughts. Seeing us together made him cancel the task."

With some of the fury the scene had raised in her, although much later, she added, "But then, having fooled me, what else could he score?"

Reuben didn't answer, didn't even arch his eyebrows to hint that another husband might well have seen a reason to stay and watch. Instead, he asked, "Why does he wear that mask?"

"Because he's working undercover."

Having come that far, feeling the secret in save hands and sufficiently far away from France, she sketched out Harry's task at the school in Brest, how he'd managed to get their younger children there, and how he'd trapped himself because their children had found friends there.

Then she summarized what she'd done so far by planting the fear of God - or, failing that, the fear of Chinese triads - in a French headmaster, and what she was going to do by joining the MABEL people at the Chateau Saumur as her home base for the next days, or maybe weeks.

---

By then, they'd finished eating and had reached the state of after dinner drinks, which was coffee for Reuben and tea for herself. In a few minutes, she would have to fight the temptation of a million-calories dessert, still more so as her good conscience - no booze after food, just tea - tended to undermine her good intentions.

Reuben sipped from his coffee, looking thoughtful. Eventually, he said, "I wouldn't call it a mess. A bit of a trap, yes, but - "

"If you can't just take your children and leave? Not without damaging their faith forever? A bit of a trap? It's a bit of a disaster, as far as I'm concerned, and no way to sweet-talk it."

Again, he kept silent for a few seconds. Then he said, "Since I have no children, I might be the wrong person to judge the dimensions of Harry's wrongdoing - I was never introduced to him but I use this name anyway because all the time saying your husband sounds so stiff ... But there's something else in this situation that touches a nerve in me, a kind of sensitive spot in my memory. Say, does it make a difference whether the children are adopted or your own?"

"What?" She stared at him, unable to see where he was aiming at. "Not the least bit. Maybe in the first months after adoption, but not after so many years. Why do you ask?"

"So we can exclude the possibility that Harry considers them dispensible in any way?"

For an instant, she felt like slapped in the face. With difficulty, she kept her voice quiet. "Reuben, what's wrong with you? Do you know what you just asked?"

"I guess I do, yes. Please forgive me, because it was a test question, but I had to ask it for my own peace of mind. Now I have my answer, so I'm ready to wait for the triads."

He looked surprisingly solemn for this joke that bore a small core of truth inside. Examining his face, reconsidering what had been said recently by either of them, Cho became aware that, some sentences earlier, he'd thrown a signal that there was something about himself, rather than about her own ego, which liked to dominate topics and agendas and conversations. She was spoiled in this regard, was used to men who liked to spoil her, but even they had something on their minds, every now and then.

She presented a placatory smile. "I know something better than that. You have to tell me what's on your mind, that you ask such a question. How did you say - it touches a nerve? Which one?"

"Ah, it's not important, and probably it sounds stupid when told, especially compared to your stories. So - "

"Please."

To her relief, the word's magic didn't fail, although it took another moment until Reuben started to speak, so it had been more than a bit of sulking.

"The way you describe your - er, I mean Harry, that strikes me as familiar, somehow. It looks to me as if, once he concluded that something needs to be done, he's going to do it without so much as s second look at the consequences. Is this description halfway accurate?"

"Halfway? It's pinpoint!"

"Yes, I thought as much. I have a similar approach, that's why your Harry suddenly feels like a soulmate to me, although I never met him, not directly, that is. I mean, my life is eventless, compared to his, past and present, that's why this comparison sounds a bit ridiculous, but there was one event in my life where I did something similar - not spectacular at all, not really comparable to what Harry's doing, no bad guys involved, and no children either, maybe except for one, but - "

"The king's daughter."

He looked pleased. "Right, the hotel king's daughter, when I said to hell with the king's throne that was waiting for me in fifteen year's time, and even then her father would be still lurking behind the curtains. Since you could guess at once what I was talking about, maybe I'm not entirely wrong, and this side-by-side comparison isn't too far-fetched. But can you see the big difference, too?"

She could see lots of differences, at the same time knowing full well that these were minor details, and with every second not finding the answer to this riddle, she could watch the beaming grow in his face.

"I hate to admit it, as you certainly know, but I can't."

He laughed like a boy who'd found the expected toy in the wrapping. "You. You're the big difference."

"Me?" She tried to joke it off. "I'm not that big."

"Not physically, no. Helen wasn't either. Helen could scream and complain and make hell break loose just like you, but that's where the similarity ends. Because you leave me, your almost-lover, without the slightest sign of remorse to build up the second front in Harry's battle, using whatever tool comes your way, and - "

"A MABEL seminar isn't a tool that comes your way."

"No, it's the other way around, you go there. And you should have seen your face a little while ago, when I hinted the possibility that the one who messed up so thoroughly, according to your words, might be a tiny bit less caring than yourself. For a second or so, it looked as if next moment I'd have to pick the tableware out of my face."

"Well ..."

After a few seconds of shared silence, out of curiosity and probably also to overcome the slight embarrassment Reuben's words had left on her, she asked, "Does it still hurt, this particular memory?"

"That she didn't come to help like you do for Harry? Usuallly not, and besides, give me some more years, then I might have started my own hotel chain."

His ironic smile made it clear that he was exaggerating, while at the same time there was little doubt about his ambition to own a place like the Vancouver Resort, rather than just running it for a salary, no matter how high.

But she thought she could see, or hear, something else, and the moment struck her as one of those when it was okay to put the finger on it.

"Maybe I didn't refer to the helping aspect so much. Maybe I meant something else. And what's more, I wonder whether this something else has to be held responsible for the two of us not making out at two occasions."

His smile was guarded. "Who knows? At any rate, that's a topic I shouldn't comment on; rejecting a woman's offer is normally a dangerous thing to do and a shortcut to a deadly enemy."

"Normally, yes." Her own smile was compassionate. "Although there's an excuse that would be accepted by such a woman. Just one, actually."

"Oh, would she? Always?"

His smile turned ironic. "Listen, this is pretty much like a nigger telling a nigger that he's black, if you get my drift. Let's concentrate on something more solid, like a dessert. Mousse au chocolat, with advocaat on top."

Yes, she knew what he meant, couldn't deny it. The question was, whether she could deny the dessert. Or, failing that, at least the liquor on top.