Margo felt herself shrink in stature and confidence. While she'd been off at college, alone, Malcolm had been free to ...
"Ianira, this is Margo. She is Kit Carson's granddaughter and the woman I plan to marry."
Another dazzling smile appeared, this time directed disconcertingly toward Margo. "I am honored to meet you, Margo," she said softly. "Malcolm is a twice-lucky man." The dark eyes seemed to pierce her very soul. "And he will take away the pain in your heart, as well, I think," she said in an even softer voice. "He will make you forget your childhood and bring you much happiness." Margo stared, unable to figure out how she could know, unless someone of the few who did know had gossiped. Which in La-La Land would be entirely in character, except the only people who knew were her father, her grandfather, and Malcolm Moore.
When she glanced around for Malcolm, she realized with a jolt that every "customer" at the booth was busy either writing furiously, holding out a tape recorder, or fiddling with the focus on a handheld vidcam. Sudden fury swept her; she made a grab at and barely hung onto her temper at the intrusion into her privacy. Margo took a deep breath, then deliberately turned back to Ianira. Margo found a smile far back in those dark eyes, a smile which understood her anger and the reasons for it. "Thank you," she said slowly, still rather confused, because she was certain neither Kit Carson nor Malcolm Moore would have told anyone. And she was utterly certain her father had never set the first toe on TT-86's floor. Ianira's return smile this time was every bit as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's, yet reminded her of graceful white statuary recovered from lost millennia to stand, naked or artfully draped, in vast, marble museums.
Malcolm said quietly, "Ianira Cassondra came to TT-86 a few years ago. Through the Philosophers' Gate."
"You're a downtimer, then? I hadn't guessed," she added, as Ianira nodded slightly. "Your English is fabulous.
A brief smile like sunlight on cloud tops passed over Ianira's face. "You are too kind."
Nervous, Margo focused her attention on the actual booth and its contents. Exquisitely embroidered cotton and linen gowns similar to the one Ianira wore were neatly folded up amidst dress pins, hair decorations, lovely scarves, tiny bottles of God only knew what, piles of various kinds of stones and crystals-with a select few hanging on cords to catch the light-charms of some kind which looked extremely ancient, carved carefully from stone, wood, or precious gems, even little sewn velvet bags closed by drawstrings, with tiny cards on them which read, "Happiness," "Wealth," "Love," "Health," "Children" in fake "Greek-looking" letters. There were even incense sticks, expensive little burners for them, and peeking out here and there, CDs with titles like Aphrodite's Secret: The Sacred Music of Olympus.
And, topping it all off, extraordinary jewelry of an extremely ancient design, all of which looked real, and from the prices could've been.
"You have quite a booth," Margo said, hearing the hesitation in her own voice.
Ianira laughed softly, a sound like trickling, dancing water. "Yes, it is a bit ... different."
Malcolm, ignoring the crowd around them with their scribbling pens, tape recorders, and vidcams, said, "Margo, you remember young Marcus, don't you?"
"The bartender from the Down Time? Yes, very well." She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she recalled that first, humiliating meeting with Kit. The blush was innocent, as it happened, but Ianira might wonder. "Why?"
Malcolm smiled and nodded toward Ianira. `They're married. Have two beautiful little girls."
"Oh, how marvelous!" Margo cried, completely forgetting her earlier doubts. "Congratulations to you! Marcus is so... so gentle. Always so anxious to put a person at ease and treat them like royalty. You must be very happy."
Something in those fathomless dark eyes softened. "Yes," she whispered. "But it is not wise to speak of one's good fortune. The gods may be listening."
While Margo pondered that statement, Malcolm asked, "Have you had lunch, Ianira? Margo and I were just on our way. My treat, and don't give me any lame excuses. Arley Eisenstein's made enough money over the cheesecake recipes you've already given him, you might as well share the taste, if not the wealth.
Unexpectedly, Ianira laughed. "Very well, Malcolm. I will join you and your lady for lunch."
She lowered prettily painted plywood sides and locked the booth up tight with bolts shot home from the inside, then finished off with a padlock. They smiled when Ianira finally joined them. Ianira held a curious, largish package in brown paper tied up with string, which reminded Margo of a favorite musical with nuns and Nazis and narrow escapes.
"Special delivery after lunch?" Malcolm asked.
Ianira just smiled. "Something like, yes."
Margo, oblivious to that exchange, found herself envying the way Ianira walked and the way that dress moved with every step she took. She tried, with some fair success, to copy Ianira's way of moving, but something was missing. Margo vowed silently to buy one of those gowns-whatever it cost-and try out the effect on staid, British Malcolm Moore, who melted in her arms and kissed her skin with trembling lips as it was, every time they made love.
Unhappily, the entire mass of curious scribblers, tapers, and vidcammers followed close on their heels all the way down the Commons.
"Who are those people?" Margo whispered, knowing that whisper would be picked up and recorded anyway.
Ianira's lip curled as though she'd just stepped in excrement. "They are self-appointed acolytes."
"Acolytes?"
"Yes. You see, I was a high-ranking priestess in the Temple of the Holy Artemis at Ephesus before my father sold me in marriage. I was only part of the price to close a substantial business transaction with a merchant of ivory and amber. The man he gave me to was ... not kind."
Margo thought of those horrid Portuguese in South Africa-and her father-and shivered. "Yes. I understand."
Ianira glanced sharply at her, then relaxed. "Yes. You do. I am sorry for it, Margo."
Margo shrugged. "What's past is past."
The statement rewarded her with another brilliant smile. "Exactly. Here, it is easier to forget unhappiness." Then she laughed aloud. -The day the ancient ones" she pointed to the rafters, where fish-eating, crowsized pterodactyls and a small flock of toothed birds sat "came through the big unstable gate, I hid under the nearest booth and prayed someone would rescue me. When I dared peek out, I found the huge one covered in nets and the small ones flying about like vengeful harpies!"
Both Margo and Malcolm laughed softly.
Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck, while his cheeks flushed delightfully pink. "You should've seen me, that day, trying to hold that monster down and getting buffeted around like a leaf in a tornado. I finally just fell off and landed about ten feet away!"
They were still laughing when they reached the Urbs Romae section of the time terminal. Malcolm steered them into the Epicurean Delight's warm, crowded interior, toward one of the tables eternally reserved for 'eighty-sixers. Frustrated acolytes seethed outside, unable to get in without the requisite reservations or status as 'eighty-sixers. Tourists, most of whom had made reservations months in advance, stared at them with disconcerting intensity. Margo heard a woman nearby whisper, "My God! They're 'eighty-sixers! Real 'eighty-sixers! I wonder who?"
Her lunch companion gasped. "Could he be Kit Carson? Oh, I'm just dying to catch a glimpse of Kit Carson!"