Major Eberbach glared at Z for a moment, hoping to find a suitable target at which to explode. The blond agent, never high-tempered, declined to glare back and merely said with firm deference, "Sir."

"Mr. Z." Eberbach reminded himself that the orders had come from some idiot in Bonn. The mission was over, barring the paperwork, whether the Major liked it or not. Z, recently promoted to diplomatic liaison duty at the Edinburgh Embassy here, was no more than the messenger. The Major glared without saying anything more.

After a moment Z said, "The Embassy staff has provided all of you with hotel rooms in Edinburgh for tonight and tomorrow. The operation won’t be concluded until your report is filed, here."

"Meaning?" growled Eberbach.

Z backed toward a relatively private corner of the office suite in which Major Eberbach and his subordinates had been sequestered. Agents S, V and W seemed happy enough to observe—or interfere with—the office’s work this afternoon, but Klaus seethed with frustration. The diplomats had taken over his mission with the clear intention of trading back everything he’d spent 36 hours chasing down. "The Department has been asked to keep you four in Britain for a few more hours," said Z, carefully neutral. "I believe it’s in the nature of a compliment to your tenacity, sir. So the word is that the NATO liaisons at the embassy here won’t be able to finish the operation’s paperwork until tomorrow. And given that tomorrow is Christmas Day, non-emergency work will be postponed until the 26th."

The Major scowled, but he knew Z and he knew Z’s superiors. There was no recourse. He released a few random expletives aimed at the keepers of world peace, glared at a passing briefcase-carrier (who paled and scurried out), and turned his glare back on Z. "I see that you are performing your duties in an exemplary manner," he said freezingly.

"Sir."

"Is there more?"

"There’s to be an official Christmas Eve reception at the embassy. You would be welcome to attend."

"Is this a formal invitation?" Klaus was not in the mood for a Weihnachtsabend celebration. Not this evening. Not this year. He hadn’t felt like it even at Eberbach, before he was called to duty.

Z’s expression lightened, but not enough to be called a smile. "It’s not an order; more of an embassy policy toward visitors of a certain rank, I’m told. You might prefer it to spending the evening with the office staff."

The Major’s three subordinates seemed quite happy at the prospect. "You," said the Major, "may inform Agents S, V and W of their altered Christmas plans, and that I expect them to be prepared to leave here as early as possible on the 26th. In the meantime," he glared around the office, wondering where his overcoat and briefcase had been put, "I shall go to Mass. Good day!"

He marched into an inner office where he thought he’d left his things, but it was no longer a quiet haven of efficient clerks and document files. Desks and tables had been pushed to the walls, and large speakers looked out of place in the open floor area. As Eberbach entered, they coughed and began booming with something that was meant to be music: the officially unofficial personnel were having their own party, which promised to be much noisier than anything the career diplomats would expect.

The pretense of official work had nearly ceased, but he located someone with the authority to sign him out a motor-pool vehicle. Mr. V could be seen fiddling with the sound system as it tested several numbers, all at ear-shattering volume. Klaus resigned himself to searching for his briefcase in a din of sound as he turned back to the displaced desks and asked the nearest person, "Can you tell me where…" He was interrupted by another deafening squawk from the speakers.

Agent S materialized, distracting Klaus from the captured clerk-or-whatever. "Good evening, sir." The speakers were momentarily silent. "Do you need something?"

"I am looking for my briefcase. I shall want to draft a report on today’s mission…"

"…Von Himmel hoch," intoned a synthesized voice, to a disco beat.

Mr. S pointed his head at the outer office door. "I know where it is," he shouted, and followed when Klaus dragged him toward the anteroom.

"O Eng-lein, kommt!" sang the patently inhuman voice.

Outside, where the music was less of an impediment to thought and hearing, S said, "Do you mean you’re going to write a report now?" The lights in the room with the music faltered and dimmed.

"…kommt, singt und klingt…"

"This evening, yes," growled the Major. Motion and renewed noise from the doorway suggested that the erstwhile office had become a full-fledged dancehall.

S shrugged and led the Major to a cabinet which contained Eberbach’s briefcase, overcoat and hat. It was evident that S, and no doubt the other agents, would be happier spending their Christmas Eve with strangers than with the Major.

"…kommt pfeift und trombt!"

"Speak to Mr. Z as soon as possible," said Klaus.

"Yes, sir, he caught me a moment ago. We’re at liberty, within Great Britain, until the day after tomorrow," recited S. He didn’t seem dismayed in the least.

"…mit Orgel und mit Saitenspiel!" squalled a new, equally inhuman voice.

"Will this place be cleaned up by then?" demanded the Major.

"Er, yes, sir." Mr. S managed to look apologetic for a moment.

"…Alleluja…" blasted heartlessly from the inner office.

"I see," said Eberbach, knowing he had no reason, even if he’d had authority, to stop the noisy revelry. He was off duty for the next day and a half. The mission was over. Cancelled by some asshole bureaucrat. "Good night, then. I’ll see you and V and W day after tomorrow."

"…Alleluja…"

"Sir," said S woodenly. "Good night. Happy Christmas to you."

"Alleluja!" screamed a machine engineered to sound slightly human.

Eberbach managed not to scowl in response. His agents also were off duty and stranded here at someone else’s whim. "I wish it were." He stalked out into the passageway that led, he hoped, to the garage.

It led first to a set of doorways where men in formal dress and their female companions could be seen, sipping drinks and gossiping about the fates of nations. The soundproofing was excellent; no hint of the unofficial disco in the office suite was audible here. The inevitable "Stille Nacht" played in the background, but at least it was being sung unaccompanied, by a respectable choir on a decently muted recording.

Klaus took his time putting on his outdoor garments, wondering if it wouldn’t be best to attend the official reception after all. He might not know the people but he heard Bonn accents. He knew what they would talk about and what to say to them, however boring it might be.

The figures in the doorway shifted, and he saw that one of them was familiar, a friend of his father’s who had often been at Eberbach in years past. The man would want to know all the family news, and after he’d heard it would want to introduce Klaus to everyone here, particularly the young women.

Klaus didn’t want to talk about Marie, didn’t want to have to avoid talking about her, and didn’t think he could remain polite while meeting someone’s—anyone’s—unmarried, hopeful, eligible daughter. He’d never really had to court Marie, and had no idea how it was done. Perhaps that had been the problem.

He jammed on his gloves and hat and walked quickly past the reception room. The car he’d been assigned was waiting, and he asked the guard for directions to the nearest Roman Catholic church. "Happy Christmas, sir," said the man, logging his departure.

Klaus growled and pulled out into the street.

Compared with the Dom zu Köln, anything was nondescript. Klaus von dem Eberbach found an empty pew in the relatively nondescript St. Mary’s and contemplated the sins of the world until it was time for the evening Mass. Sancta Maria. Marie. The crèche tableau he had passed was too sharp a reminder of this year’s failures.

A priest gave the service in English, and Klaus longed for the simple universality of Latin, from his boyhood when sin had been simpler and more easily forgiven.

"This day you shall know…" A pure alto voice echoed amid the stone arches in solemn song.

He hadn’t disobeyed his father. That was none of his doing.

"…the Lord will come and save us…"

He’d devoted himself to duty. Even today, when it was undone by others, his own performance had been precisely as ordered. And afterward, when he’d left his subordinates on their own at the embassy, the Major was sure he’d done everything he could, left nothing undone, for their best interest and NATO’s.

"…and in the morning you shall see His glory."

Klaus knew his attention should be on the imminent miracle of Christmas, away from the sordid frustrations of the world he dealt with daily. The temporal powers more often dropped him in shit than saved him.

There was a long reading in measured cadences by the priest. Klaus let it roll over him, not listening to the words but only to the soothing sound and the removal it gave from the mundane world. He did not understand religion; it was not his place to understand it. It was, however, something he felt could be relied on not to change in essence. Forms and languages changed; the meaning of God did not.

Klaus stood, and knelt, and stood, and sat. The sanctuary echoed again to a choir of worshipful voices, to the rustle of the attendees’ movements as the final words were pronounced. Most were in festive clothes for the holiday, a few garbed as casually as propriety allowed. Klaus did not rise or collect his coat immediately, reluctant to leave the timeless calm of the sanctuary. When he finally walked out with the last of the stragglers, he saw the underpriest give his hair a glance.

Klaus wondered why he kept the longer style, and shrugged in the chilly night. It was familiar, and of no more importance than that. He was not so young that it could be thought a mark of radicality, not yet old enough to feel that it was out of place. He was of an age to make his own decisions and bear his own responsibilities; why then did it seem so difficult to be allowed to do either?

He climbed back into the car to get out of the piercing wind and wondered where to go. He’d had little rest and less sleep in the past two days; the reasonable course was to find the hotel room whose address and key were in his pocket and catch up on both.

A hotel would be comfortable, but he was still aware of unspent energy after the failed (cancelled, he reminded himself, not failed) mission. What could he do?

There was nothing that he was required to do, no one who needed him or even wanted his presence. NATO and the people he knew were the things he wanted to escape from, just now.

He had the car. He could go anywhere in Britain. He could drive until he fetched up at Dover, or until he could bear the thought of turning back. No one would ask where he was until day after tomorrow, and then only because they couldn’t go home without finishing the paperwork—and that was because someone in an office in Bonn was afraid of the Major’s sense of duty.

He started the car. The sky was dark with the starless, moonless sky of overcast, confirmed by the occasional snowflake drifting in his headlamp beams. The streets were quiet; the motorways, if he could find one, would be uncrowded this late on holy eve. The Benz had a full tank and was built for speed as well as luxury; Klaus could drive anywhere on the island if he chose.

He found directions to a highway of some kind labelled as southward and left Edinburgh behind in the wind and the dark. Left-side driving came back to him effortlessly as he let the automobile consume pavement on long stretches of clear, smooth road. He had to slow for villages, but between them he drove with full concentration at a speed he did not trouble to measure.

An hour of the barely-checked speed helped his mood. The road had changed numbers mysteriously at some point, but it still aimed south and still presented him with the occasional lights of a town: churches and houses and restaurants flashed past, meaning no more than a brief slowing and then return to the speed that left everything behind. He supposed he was in England rather than Scotland now, though the distinction held no interest for him.

The wide road became boring; he turned off of it and found another, deserted and barely lit, that challenged him to navigate the hilly countryside without a map. He would have to rely on memory and night vision to find his way back, but at this moment Eberbach sought nothing but distance between himself and the society which counted him a member.

The impetus to lose himself drove him for another hour, but finally it wore down to a vague curiosity as to his present whereabouts. Speed, and later mere motion, had sated the urge to run, and Klaus let the Benz drift to a stop at the crest of a hill. He turned off the motor and lights and let his eyes adjust to the night where the only lights were a tiny village, perhaps no more than a crossroads, a few kilometers away in the valley. The threatening snow had begun to fall at last; Klaus lit a cigarette and watched the landscape slowly blur into a gray mist.

His thoughts were likewise undefined. He wanted nothing at the moment but to sit here letting the tobacco smoke fill his lungs now and then, watching his surroundings disappear. He did not notice cold or hunger, though he’d last eaten early in the afternoon. Such things could not be allowed to rule his life—but what did rule it? What was he, that no one wanted his company and he was, in his way, content to have it so?

It was a question that seldom occurred to him. The pursuit of NATO’s enemies sufficed to fill his life. All else, such as marriage to Marie, was peripheral, inessential. But what good was catching East German spies, in Edinburgh or anywhere else, so that NATO could let them go again? What good did it do to lead his team on a fruitless mission where they spent their holiday in a strange city? Were they laughing behind his back or did they simply pity his dedication?

The dedication to duty was Klaus’s way of life. The question of whether such a thing could be changed, for his own convenience, or the wishes of Marie, or even the NATO Intelligence Department policy, was not one he could bring himself to consider. He therefore sat in the driver’s seat of the cooling car and watched snow slowly cover the countryside with shrouding paleness, watched it drift lightly onto the Benz’s hood and windshield. He couldn’t see more than a few meters now, nor did he want to.

The wind must have picked up, for the snow fell in little flurries, capriciously thick for a moment here, then there. It made a soothing, meaningless variation in what he saw, as he gazed absently and rather sleepily out the window.

The storm around him shrieked and Klaus started, coming back to awareness in the freezing-cold automobile, a burned-down cigarette dead in his fingers. The snowfall had stopped, but it covered everything including the windshield. The side window gave a view of a still-recognizable roadway leading down from the hilltop to where the lights had been in the valley.

What was he doing here, dreaming nightmares alone in the dark? He was annoyed and discouraged by the ending of his latest mission, but the loss of its prize was nothing he’d done or failed to do, merely an instrument of NATO’s policy. The Major, familiar with the vagaries of Intelligence policy, knew that his role had not been useless. He’d been the heavy, the evidence that NATO was serious. But the politicians played their serious game with his life. He was no more than a pawn to them.

That was his job. To run through whatever chases NATO deemed necessary, whether he understood the reason or not. It was the job he had sworn to do, the job he’d done today and yesterday. Did he really believe his superiors would be less careful than he in carrying out NATO’s purposes? Klaus was sure they were meticulous. But he had no way of testing it.

He tried the car’s engine, wanting to get himself off this dark, cold road and back within sight of some human habitation after the strange dream. That crossroads village must have an inn, or at the least a telephone.

The engine whined and died without turning over. Surprised, Klaus glanced at his watch and felt a further shock of surprise. It was hours since he’d started driving. He’d been sitting here motionless for far too long, however long it had been. If he’d dreamed, he must have slept, unlikely as that was.

He was cold, very cold. He tried the motor again. It didn’t make a sound this time. Klaus sprang the hood, searched for and found a flashlight, and investigated. Everything looked normal. The leads were whole, the oil still fluid enough to smear his fingers and handkerchief, the gasoline tank more than half full. The antifreeze was still liquid, the hoses and fanbelt all in place.

Klaus returned to the driver’s seat and tried the car again. No response. It was dead and he was cold and this was no place to spend a snowbound night, holy or otherwise.

He had an overcoat, a gun, a flashlight, local currency and a command of the local language. He’d been in much worse predicaments. It was Christmas Eve and not yet midnight. Someone in the village he’d seen must be awake. He could borrow or rent shelter for the night; there had to be warmth and food where there were people. Klaus assembled his assets, took a bearing on the dim cluster of buildings he hoped marked the village in this snow-covered landscape, and started out toward them.

The snow beneath his feet was smooth but not so deep that it obscured the road, and a line of hedges showed the way as well. Klaus felt the stiffness of his long vigil working slowly out of his legs as he walked. Had he dreamed? How could he have slept without intending to, in an unlocked car on a public road?

The clouds overhead thinned to haze with faint stars, and presently he was walking through cracking-cold air, gloved hands deep in his pockets. What was he doing here? Why had he left the city? Because, he remembered, anything had been preferable to seeing his agents ignore the futility of their mission, and anything at all had been better than having to explain to Herr Beck that he was not to marry Marie von Eisler as everyone in both their families and all their acquaintance had expected for years. That Marie preferred not to marry him. And that, most puzzling of all, it made nearly no difference to him even though he knew it should.

The village fell out of sight as he followed the curving road, and Klaus plodded through the gloom, thinking. What could have been wrong with Marie? She was entirely suitable and attractive as well. Her father had quite approved. Marie herself had welcomed their formal engagement last spring; only later did she complain that he was too driven by his job, more devoted to NATO than to her. Klaus had agreed, not thinking it an impediment to marriage. And Marie had looked at him with disappointment in her eyes, and said that she wanted something more than that in a husband. Something different, Klaus assumed. Whatever it was, she was free to seek it elsewhere and he continued to dedicate his life to playing out Intelligence games in the belief that they meant something.

He had walked for what felt like a long time when he began to wonder how far it could be to the now-invisible buildings. The path from his vantage on the hilltop had seemed direct, if not geometrical. Had the road forked somewhere so that he’d missed a turnoff? The road here had trees on either side, bare trunks leading up to bare branches. The sky shone with bright points of light, completely clear and empty, and he was colder than ever; his feet were burning, and Klaus knew the warning was an early one, but a definite sign of danger.

Village or no village, there must be houses somewhere. Klaus determined to find the next indicator of humanity—mailbox, wall, whatever—and follow it to its source. He couldn’t wander in the night forever.

He must have been walking in straight lines, for he did not see the road’s next curve until his knee hit the wall hidden in a snowbank at the edge. It would be some farm’s boundary or some house’s outlying defense. He had to find the house, for even his fingers were tingling with cold too sharply for comfort now.

He was tired. He’d been running after a spy for two days, caught the man, and waited while NATO disposed of him. He’d been walking in the cold and he wanted to sit down for a moment now that he had a wall to follow and a hope of finding warmth. He needed a rest.

No he didn’t. He needed to stand up and follow this line of squared-off stones to a place where there would be fires and telephones. Klaus pushed himself to his feet and trudged beside the wall up the curving lane.

What had Marie wanted? The much-repeated thought led nowhere useful.

Sancta Maria, holy mother, the rose that grew in winter. Marie had left him alone. Why? She’d have been able to take care of Eberbach Castle, to give it life as his mother had before she died.

The lane’s wall was at a convenient height, and Klaus sat down on it, just to rest for a moment.

No. He stood up. Don’t rest. Don’t sit down until you find the house that a wall leads to. Don’t stop chasing the goal until you reach it. Even if it means nothing afterward.

Would it harm anyone if he went to sleep here? The cold was lulling him to sleep and the snow looked soft in the white starlight.

No. Don’t sleep in the cold. It gives you bad dreams.

Damn the lost mission. Klaus sat down again. Damn NATO and its tricks. They only wanted him as a gamepiece, running back and forth across Europe to carry out some invisible policy. If he stopped here, what difference would it make? No one expected him back tonight, neither NATO nor Marie nor anyone else.

He heard a voice. "You!"

Was it aimed at him? Klaus looked up and around, and noticed that he was sitting down. Perhaps he should sleep after all.

"Don’t stay there. You’ll freeze."

Klaus was freezing. He nodded.

Motion against the background of stars and dark trees and light snow became visible, and Klaus saw the owner of the voice. It moved again, and was revealed as a stout, overcoated and mufflered man who now held a flashlight.

Klaus had a flashlight, he remembered. He closed his fingers around it in his pocket with difficulty, and pulled it out. Another painful movement turned it on, and he looked at his discoverer. It was a red-faced man of medium height. The face was a common type; he might have seen the man before, or he might merely have seen a hundred others with similar bone structure.

"You can’t stay out here," said the man. "You’ll catch cold, and the master wouldn’t like that. Come with me."

His fate seemed to have been decided. Klaus allowed himself to be helped to his feet and followed the master’s man down a lane, up a narrow path, and onto the lantern-lit front steps of a stone house. His guide thumped on the door with a heavy hand. "You know it’s me, you fool!"

The door opened. "Yes, I know it’s you, you fool." The voice echoed strangely in Klaus’s memory. The open door spilled light and music into the cold night. "What did you find?"

"One man, m’lord. He was sittin’ on the rock wall in the lane, and he came with me without sayin’ anything." The man waved at Klaus. "I’d say he’s cold."

Klaus saw the doorway and the person addressed as "m’lord," outlined in the door’s light as a tall, slim shape in velvet and fur. His numbed mind abruptly recognized the voice.

It couldn’t be. He was, of course, in the British Isles, but out of all the estates at all the minuscule villages in England, why should he have suspected the existence of this one, or that it would be in use today?

"Bring him in, Monty. Anyone outdoors at midnight in Northumberland needs help more than we do, or else he’s too saintly to mind anything we do." The host, the "m’lord," came forward to welcome his unexpected guest. "Come in, whoev—" When he moved, the light from the doorway fell directly onto Klaus’s face.

"Major?" said Dorian Red Gloria in an astonished whisper. "What are you doing here?"

Klaus stared blankly at him, wondering if this was another delusion of the night and cold. It was enough to make one think of fate. But whose? Finally he said, "Nothing. What are you doing here?"

"Celebrating the season. I didn’t feel like London this year, and the shooting lodge is comfortable. Is someone chasing you? Or are you hunting someone?" His eyes gleamed, perhaps with amusement.

Klaus stood on the threshold and thought about the questions. "No one is following me. Why do you ask?"

"Because," said Dorian, hands on hips, "you look like hell’s after you. Come in and let Monty close the door, for God’s sake."

For God’s sake and Monty’s, Klaus stepped into the warmth of the entryway. "Perhaps it is," he said, a little shaken. "But I’m not on a mission. I’m here by accident."

Dorian’s eyebrows rose. "Didn’t you just drop in because you were in the neighborhood?"

Klaus was beginning to wake up. Dorian and his house, however improbable, were real. The welcome was sincere. "If I’d known which neighborhood I was in, I’d have found another one. But beggars can’t be choosers." The warm air carried, as always near Dorian, the scent of roses.

Dorian, arm around Klaus’s snow-wet shoulders, gave him a sparkling glance. "What have you come to beg, Major?"

"Lord Gloria, I would like to use your telephone, since my car has chosen this area in which to fail. I will not trouble you further." It did not seem worth the effort to Klaus to remove himself from the embrace at this moment.

"Nonsense, you fool. You’re freezing and it’s the middle of the night. Come in and get warm and I’ll find you a place to sleep."

Klaus, shivering now with the chill that the warmer air told him he’d been feeling for hours, shook his head. "I can’t play your games. I’ll leave as soon as I’ve made arrangements."

The entrance hall led into two well-lit rooms from which gusted odors and laughter and two contesting lots of music. The Earl opened a cupboard and groped in it for a towel, which he handed to Klaus. "No games for you tonight, Major. You’re too tired and I’m too busy. But you’re welcome to stay here. Happy Christmas."

Some kind of counted shouting in alternating voices, interspersed with cheerful remarks, was going on in one of the rooms. "I am not in a position to refuse your hospitality, Lord Gloria," said Klaus after a moment. "Thank you." He discovered that he was dripping onto hardwood tiles and rubbed the towel over his head to catch the worst of it. Dorian helped him take off his coat, and Klaus wondered where his hat might be. Perhaps he’d left it in the car, with his briefcase. It didn’t seem to matter.

Dorian looked thoughtful. "The southeast room will do," he said, directing the remark to Monty. "Lee won’t mind sharing with Marcus. I’ll take the Major to the kitchen first."

Monty looked up from a second cupboard, whose open recess showed lights and switches, and nodded. "M’lord." He closed it carefully and took himself away up the stairs.

When they were alone with the party noises, Dorian said quietly, "Major, are you really safe? I hope you’ll stay, but tell me now if you need more than a roof. I may be able to help."

Smells of food and more eddies of laughter wafted from the farther room, which seemed to have a majority of the partiers and a strong, if off-key, bass singer whose grasp of Latin pronunciation was imperfect. "The mission I was on is finished. No one will bother you to reach me," said Klaus. "And I’m perfectly well." Standing in the warmth of Dorian’s house, wracked with the pain of returning life, Klaus felt that the words were more a prediction than a lie.

The concern on Dorian’s face eased. "That’s good. Come with me." He wrapped a proprietary hand around Klaus’s arm and urged him past the right-hand doorway where the perfume of flowers and pine was strongest and where the shouting and counting still went on. Klaus could make no sense of the words.

Someone popped out of the doorway as they passed. It was, Klaus saw by the calculator, James. "M’lord, was the—" He lapsed into abrupt silence as he saw the Major.

"As you see," said the Earl, beaming into the dismayed scowl. "A Christmas surprise. I’ll just get him settled before I come back. Take care of the paper games for me." He slipped his free arm around James for an absently affectionate kiss. "With your Casio-mini there they won’t even notice I’m gone." Neither man seemed to consider that Klaus was watching, and Klaus, as a guest, had no idea what to say. He said nothing.

"This way," said Dorian, giving James a shove back into the first room, where a decorated tree glittered behind a circle of hilarious scribblers-on-pads, Klaus recognized the next two shouted words as obscene before he was pulled past and into the left-side doorway. Here nearly all the people were on their feet and odors of pastry and spiced ham warred for attention with the spectacle of Bonham in a Father Christmas suit, singing. "The boar’s head, In hand bear I…" Bonham’s hands were empty except for an amber-filled shot glass.

A dark-haired young man in a Christmas-red sweater wore a blindfold, while the group around him watched and avoided his path, laughing as he groped for them. Dorian, passing with the Major, failed to dodge away quickly enough and was captured. "Caught you!" said the blindfold-wearer, patting at his double prize.

"…bedecked with bays and rose-mary."

"Don’t tell me," said the young man, who was taller than Dorian and athletically graceful. "Ah, it’s Castor and Pollux. But which Castor and which Pollux?"

The Earl flashed Klaus a glance of apology and released his arm, while laughter, but a careful silence as to spoken information, enveloped them. All right, the Earl had other guests. Obviously.

"And I pray you my masters, Be mer-ry…"

Dorian caught at the searching hands and carried them to his hair.

"You’re…" hazarded the blindfolded one, "…Dori—"

The Earl cut off the word with a kiss that was neither absent-minded nor quickly over. It became, in fact, a rather lusty embrace, and the Major could see by the onlookers’ grins and snickers that it was no surprise to them.

"Quod estis in con-vi-vio."

This, Klaus had no trouble guessing, was Dorian’s current bedmate. It was hardly likely that Dorian wouldn’t have one, and that he wouldn’t be part of a Christmas house party. It was Klaus who was out of place here.

"Ca-put apri defero…"

Disentangling himself at last, Dorian whispered something into the locks of dark hair over the creature’s ear and left him to return to the Major. "Once Giles caught me I had to play along, but I can take care of you now."

"Redens laudes do-mi-no!" finished Bonham, with more enthusiasm than tune. He and the others in his corner—Klaus supposed they were off-limits to the blindfold players—cheered at each other and, waving their glasses, began to sing about a wassail. The one in the lead was very nearly on key.

"Who are all these people?" asked Klaus, as he was guided, finally, into a warm, relatively quiet kitchen. Two men in huge white aprons were arranging food on trays, but they were neither singing nor waving their arms. Nor did Dorian find it necessary to kiss them.

"Oh, friends, household, friends of friends—the usual," said Dorian vaguely. "Sit down, Major, you’re exhausted. How long were you out in the cold?"

"Does it matter? I was in Edinburgh and felt like a drive."

"Edinburgh’s over seventy miles from here." Dorian set a mug of something that smelled of hot coffee and chocolate in front of him. "Whiskey? Rum? Brandy?"

Klaus tried and failed to make a decision. "Yes." Seventy miles was more than a hundred kilometers. Far enough to put it at a distance, he supposed.

Dorian added a generous tot of whiskey to the mug. "Drink this. How long have you been walking in the snow?"

Klaus looked at his watch. It was nearly one a.m., but that wasn’t the point. "Why do you ask?"

"You’re chilled through. And tonight’s weather isn’t a spring thaw. You’re walking well enough, but you’re a little…" he gave Klaus a close look that really did not seem to be a leer, "subdued. That’s not like you."

"I’m fine," snapped Klaus. No one else would have noticed, or bothered to ask him. No one but Dorian.

"You’re cold," said Dorian. "You’d better eat something." He gestured at one of the apron-wearers and was given a plateful of smoking-hot sliced ham, with various adjuncts.

Klaus stared at it, realizing that he was, indeed, very hungry. Silverware followed the plate, and he picked up a fork and knife. "Is this the boar?"

"Eh?"

"The boar’s head…" recited Eberbach. Could it be coincidence?

Dorian laughed. "No relation, I’m sure. Though Bonham does have a good sense of timing." Klaus did not want to inquire further into that. "Is there anything else you’d like to eat?"

The smell and taste of food had wakened Klaus’s stomach. "Beer."

"You’re going to be okay, I can tell. Yes, we’ve got beer. Andy!"

The second apron-wearer came over to them, listened, and soon brought a big glass of the bitterest, thickest beer Klaus could remember tasting. He drank it while he ate, concentrating on the food until he realized that Dorian was still watching him, the blue eyes soft for once instead of sly and suggestive.

He chewed, swallowed, and asked, "How did you happen to send someone to find me? I don’t think Mr. Monty was just out for a stroll."

"You were on my land," explained Dorian. "The perimeter alarm signalled. Even on Christmas Eve, I don’t neglect such things."

"Wisely, I’m sure." Klaus felt recovered enough to make it ironic. Evidently Dorian had no intention of letting anyone else do unto him as he did unto others.

"Well, actually, Major, we rather hoped you were Saint Nicholas come to visit."

Klaus stared at him in pained disbelief. "Who?"

"Ni-klaus. Klaus…" said Dorian, mischief edging his tone.

"I’ve heard it before. And I’ve never cared for my given name."

"Oh, I won’t mention it again," promised the Earl, glee waking behind the golden lashes. "That is, if you’re good."

"Don’t be stupid, Eroica."

"I’m not stupid, Major, but I’m very good."

This, rather than the solicitous host, was the Eroica that Klaus knew. Dueling with him was a simpleminded pastime, and Klaus always won. Even tonight, it wasn’t a real threat. "Good at what? Stealing from fools who don’t know what hit them? You don’t need any Christmas gifts—you’ve provided for yourself all year."

The Earl laughed again. "I’m an anti-Nicholas," he agreed. "Your perfect opposite. Absolutely," he was still grinning too broadly, "perfect." He waved a fur-cuffed arm. "But we’re on the same side often enough. Perhaps opposites attract."

Klaus had no intention of admitting it. "That’s what you want, isn’t it?" The habit of resisting Dorian’s advances was far too well ingrained for him to do anything else. "But it’s unlikely." They were indeed opposites: Dorian surrounded by light and warmth and friends, Klaus lost in the cold night.

"Oh, I wouldn’t say so. For instance, I’m all for peace on Earth. Can you disagree with that?"

The phrase was familiar, and after a moment Klaus identified it. "In terra pax," he said, before picking up his knife and fork again. It was a word game and he could win it. "I can hardly disagree with the principle. I fear you are beforehand, however. NATO is still quite busy."

"You did say you’d been on a mission, and I’m sure you’d never be away from that adorable castle with all the artistic ancestors at Christmas otherwise. So I don’t suppose there’s good will towards all men yet, is there?"

"Except as you practice it." Klaus thrust a fork in the direction of the party room.

Dorian giggled suddenly. "Gloria in excelsis, perhaps?"

Klaus choked on his beer.

"You may not hold anything sacred," he said at last when the napkin-blotting was over and a little of his dignity had returned, "but you might try to use good Latin."

Too late, he recognized the provocation his words implied. Dorian, however, merely said, "I suppose that puts me in my place. Not that I stay in one place." The golden head shook and all the curls bounced.

"You’re always the same," said Klaus, thinking about the passages of wits, the chases and escapes from danger that he had shared with Eroica. "Anywhere you go is the same place to you."

Dorian smiled, this time wryly. "You mean you always think the same of me. You have a very consistent vision, Major. It’s one of the things I love."

The words sent a shock through Klaus, and he stared at Dorian for a moment before he thought to say, "I can change my views. I used to think you were a posturing idiot. Now I think you’re a posturing thief."

"That," said Dorian calmly, "is progress." He rose from his chair, all rich velvet and slender grace. "Monty will take you upstairs to a bedroom. Sleep well, and we’ll see to your car in the morning."

Klaus couldn’t believe the Earl would fail to make the most of their being in the same house. Dorian must have seen his hesitation for he sighed, "The room will have a lock, Major."

"Since when," asked Klaus, "does a lock keep you out?"

"Never," said Dorian, sweetly. "I’m a thief, remember? It’s not the lock that will keep me out tonight."

And to that, Klaus did not find any reply.

* * * * *

Dorian walked out of the kitchen before he said anything he’d regret. One could always say it later and regret it then. What had that last frown from the fine green eyes meant? Frustration at not having a crushing retort? At not knowing whether he wanted to make a final retort? Was that too much to hope for? Even the frown was better than the haunted darkness that had gripped the Major when he first arrived. Dorian had been afraid of real injury or pursuit. NATO—and the Major—had some very determined enemies.

He looked better now; but Major Eberbach always looked remarkably good to Dorian. Dorian didn’t entirely know why, and the man could hardly be said to encourage him. However, there was other male beauty and even love within easy reach, and Dorian saw no reason to disdain either on its own merits.

Giles and the others were still playing blindman’s bluff, Giles on the opposite side of the circle from the current blindman. Dorian came up behind him and wrapped both arms around the red-sweatered waist. "I can make you a better offer than he can," he murmured into a receptive ear.

Giles leaned back against him. "Yes? What do I hear?"

Dorian found that he meant it literally when he said, still murmuring gently, "Let’s go fuck. Now."

"Yes?" breathed Giles.

"In my room. Get away as soon as you can and meet me there." Dorian let him loose and strolled out the door that led to the entrance hall and the staircase.

His room occupied the northwest corner and it was not many minutes later that the door opened. "I believe I’m expected," said Giles.

"Anticipated," said Dorian, "with pleasure. Lock the door, will you? I don’t always disapprove of traffic in the halls at night, but there are times I don’t care to be interrupted."

"Seconded," said Giles. A moment later he came over to where Dorian was sitting cross-legged on the bed in Edwardian velvet and Restoration lace. "You look like a painting."

Dorian glanced down at himself, assessing the light. "Dark," he agreed. "Rembrandt." He looked back up at Giles. "You look like a Van Gogh. One of the saner, earlier ones. Want to be a nude study?"

"Half of one," said Giles, pulling off the sweater. Dorian watched him and began unbuttoning his own fitted velvet, not quite hastily.

When Giles was naked, Dorian wrestled him into a kiss on the bed and continued it until Giles drew back, panting. "Who, ah, studies whom?" he asked, all energetic, Van Gogh sunshine.

Dorian wondered how Giles could seem so young when there were only five years between them. He smoothed the thick, dark-brown hair and thought fleetingly of Klaus von dem Eberbach, by now probably asleep in his chaste bedroom. But the unattainable hardly mattered when present company was so likable. "If that means I have a choice, I want you," Dorian curled a hand around a half-hard erection to squeeze it hearteningly, "in me."

Giles grinned back at him. "I think I can put up for that."

Dorian squeezed again. "I think you can, too."

An engrossing while later, Dorian looked down at his lover’s strained face and wriggled gently, cherishing not only the huge sensations of being impaled, but also the sheer intimacy of feeling. He knew every tremor of Giles’ arousal before he gasped or groaned, even before his face showed need or pleasure or pain.

Dorian held himself perfectly still until Giles’ eyes opened. "Don’t just stop," the young voice husked. "Do it again. Or do something else. Anything."

"I rather like you like this. And I believe you’re enjoying it too, you big butch thing, you." His weight was too carefully balanced to let Dorian toss his head.

Giles groaned, this time only three-quarters in lust. "That was old twenty years ago!"

"How would you know?"

"How would you? Were you even in school?"

"No school," said Dorian, and moved carefully, infinitesimally, on the fullness that occupied him. "Not then. Tutors at home."

Giles gasped again, but he wasn’t too far gone to hear the words. "Private tutors?"

"Not what you’re thinking," said Dorian, shifting his weight by tiny degrees. The pressure inside became more intense, impossible to hold in stillness. "Now, put your hands to good use." He let undulation develop into a slow thrusting and neither of them spoke in words for some time.

Much later, resting in the dim, Rembrandtesque glow, Giles said, "I think you must have been at Greenhurst when my cousin was. Oliver. Maybe ten years ago."

"Greenhurst?" said Dorian. "Maybe. Oliver Ducard? I don’t think I knew him well…"

"He remembers you."

"Oh, no." Dorian tried to remember what, if anything, of interest had happened at Greenhurst.

"Did you really smuggle—"

"Giles, darling, whatever he says I did, I’m sure I did three times over. I can’t remember now. Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

Giles shrugged and fell silent. Dorian rubbed a hand along his shoulder and back. "Please do stay. You were lovely, and I’m sleepy."

* * * * *

Monty took Klaus to a neat bedroom supplied with everything a sudden guest might possibly need, and left him after pointing out the intercom system on which he was to call for anything else he wanted.

The door had an inside bolt.

Klaus wondered if all the bedrooms had them. On second thought, he didn’t care. He took a hot bath, noted that all his toes were still healthy, and fell into the bed without further thought for the cheerful revelry going on below.

Or rather, he didn’t mean to think about it. But exhausted sleep did not claim him before he heard someone giggling—two people—behind a connecting wall. Neither voice was Dorian’s. The Earl’s household, and party guests, were all male—should Klaus be surprised? It was, of course, shocking and unprincipled; but it was more than clear that no one in the house disliked the idea. Except Klaus, of course. They all had come here for their own pleasure, trusting Dorian as their host and friend. More than one of them loved Dorian, whatever they meant by that.

The giggles died down, and Klaus fell asleep before any other noises could disturb him.

Klaus woke, gasping, knowing that he’d been dreaming of sex. It happened. At least he was alone. The house was unfamiliar around him, but quiet now, not even the distant reverberations of music and merriment to be heard. He listened carefully for any hint of an intruder in his room. Nothing. He was undisturbed, as Dorian had promised. And dreams were only dreams; he had learned not to fear them. It was safe for him to go back to sleep.

Sunlight slanting through a gap in the curtains woke Klaus the second time, and still the room was warm. Klaus thought of the party, the pairing off that must have happened last night, and it occurred to him that the bedrooms here might be kept heated to make it more comfortable for couples. For Dorian and that boy in the sweater…Giles?…who probably had…

Thinking about any such thing, and no on more evidence than a warm bedroom instead of a cold one, was impolite and irrational speculation, nothing more. But what else was there to think?

His uneasy musings were interrupted by a knock on the room’s door. "Herein," he called, before he remembered, and stumbled out of the bed and hastily into a robe to open the door and confront whatever person it was.

It was Monty with steaming pots and dishes on a tray. "Happy Christmas, sir." He set the tray down on the small table near the window and opened the curtains. "Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee," said Klaus, and watched as Monty poured it out.

"The Earl would like to speak to you before breakfast. May he visit you here, or would you prefer to meet him downstairs?"

Klaus wondered why. "Here, in half an hour. If he pleases." He need not fear Dorian, any more than he feared himself. His dreams, however embarrassing, were his own.

He had time to dress and shave and comb his hair as well as consume the coffee before a tap at his door announced Dorian in person. "Come in."

The Earl’s clothing, for the first time Klaus could remember, would not have excited comment among his social peers. "You needn’t look so surprised to see me," he said, walking into the room and closing the door.

"One doesn’t expect the Earl of Gloria to wear ordinary clothes," said Klaus. If one expected anything of him, and a wise man did not. Besides, no style, however conventional, could make Dorian look ordinary.

"I revel in the unexpected. Would you care to attend church with me this morning? It’s Christmas."

Klaus stared. The unexpected. Very well. "You’re an atheist."

"With Anglican leanings. It’s in the blood, I’m afraid. Besides, I like the show." He waved a gesture that would have looked more dramatic with a colored scarf, which reassured Klaus that Dorian was still himself. "The music, the stately procession of priests, the proclaimings and pronouncements, the inferior wine made holy…"

"If you want to argue about transubstantiation, I can’t oblige you," said Klaus, "but I’ll come to service with you. I trust you’ll behave while we’re there."

"Like an angel," promised Dorian.

"How soon?" Klaus glanced out the window where snow multiplied sunlight. "It won’t be morning for much longer." His watch confirmed the angle of the sun.

"We’ll have to leave in half an hour. Breakfast before or after?"

"Now," said Klaus, and followed Dorian downstairs. There had not been a single identifiable lewd suggestion during the entire exchange. Perhaps clothes made the man. What would Dorian be like without them, without the glitter and rainbow dazzle of his usual wardrobe and without this morning’s mask of convention?

Three others were already in the breakfast room, including two who were obviously dressed for church, and Giles who obviously was not. "Good morning," carolled Dorian to the room in general. "Major, these are Marcus Levering and Lionel Sanderson, and this is Giles Ducard." Giles, this morning in a Christmas-green sweater, sat playing with a cup of dark tea, but the other two men were in the midst of eggs and toast. "The breakfast things are over here," said Dorian, pouring himself tea from the buffet. He sat down across from Giles. "Major Eberbach will be coming to church as well."

Klaus served himself with ham and bread and coffee and found a place at the end of the table where he could see everyone at once. "It’s a pleasure to meet you," he said politely, nodding at the three strangers, Giles last. "Didn’t I see you last night?" He stared coolly at the young man Dorian had kissed so passionately.

Giles smiled back. "You’re the lost traveller in the snow? How lucky that you found the Earl’s lodge here."

"Yes," said Klaus. Finding Dorian had been luck, chance or fate, but he could not say whether it was good or bad. "I hope you slept well."

Klaus had meant it only as the next remark due in the inane exchanges necessary at breakfast in company, but Giles flushed, in pretty contrast to the green sweater, glanced at Dorian and then stared down at his teacup in a manner that removed any possible doubt as to where he’d spent the night.

"The Major had a spot of car trouble last night," said Dorian amiably, to everyone. "We’ll see him out of it by this afternoon, I should think. Isn’t it lovely to have the snow out of the clouds at last?"

"Much better," agreed Marcus hastily.

"D’you think they’ll have the runways clear at Gateshead by tomorrow?" wondered Lionel aloud. "I promised you a spin if the weather cleared off, didn’t I, Dorian?"

"Do you fly?" asked Klaus, seizing on the neutral topic.

"Small craft," said Lionel. "Purely for sport."

Giles looked up from his tea. "Do you fly, Major?"

"Only when I have to." Klaus buttered a piece of roll. Both air passage and piloting were sometimes necessary, seldom enjoyable.

"Whereabouts, Major?" The tone was still of polite interest.

Klaus did not want to account for himself to this creature of Dorian’s. "In the air. I think that’s usual."

"Prop planes, jets, helicopters, giant birds?" hazarded Giles, smiling insouciance. "Gliders, dirigibles, parachutes…"

He broke off as Dorian gave a choke of laughter, tried to stop, and caught Klaus’s eye. Klaus glared. Dorian went on laughing.

"Anything at all," Klaus said coldly, raking a glance over Giles and Dorian as if they were erring subordinates. "I don’t think it’s a laughing matter."

Giles looked from the glare to the laughter and back. "He does."

"And do you do everything he does?" Klaus rapped out the question without thinking to soften it.

Giles flushed pink again, looking uneasy. "It’s not…"

"It’s not your business, Major," said Dorian, sobering.

Klaus raised his eyebrows at Dorian, too slowly to let it be thought he was surprised; but he knew Dorian was correct. Why should he care who Dorian slept with? And it was beneath him to bait any of Dorian’s guests. "My question was ill-considered," he said, formally, to Giles. "I regret it."

Giles nodded at him, no longer smiling. "Forgotten."

"And I apologize for laughing," said Dorian, all contrite grace. "Not everyone knows the joke." He included Klaus in a final glance of amusement before he turned to Giles. "I know you’d rather have coffee than that tea, so go fetch yourself a clean cup."

Giles obeyed, not looking at the Major.

"If the wind isn’t too frisky," suggested Lionel, "tomorrow should be a good flying day. Will you still be here, Major Eberbach?" He started to detail the features of a small propeller airplane.

Klaus hated flying with someone else, and preferred large jets with electronic cockpits to risky vintage craft. "I must return to Edinburgh tonight. I’m sure the Earl will enjoy the outing."

Dorian nodded vigorously. "I’m going to love it." He made one of the sweeping gestures that needed a scarf, deftly missing Giles’ coffee cup as Giles returned to sit beside him at the table. "You won’t get out of taking me up for anything less than a blizzard, Lee. Are you bringing Marc?"

"I don’t know," said Lionel, eyes going to the man beside him.

"Yes," said Marcus.

Lionel produced a smile of triumph. "First times are so exciting, aren’t they?"

"At anything," nodded Dorian dulcetly. Giles flushed again and Klaus looked at his plate and sighed. He couldn’t have phrased the remark, but he’d known Dorian would say it. Somehow. Perhaps he should be embarrassed, but constant innuendo from Dorian was no longer startling.

Klaus finished his breakfast, and noticed that Giles remained as silent as he.

The comparison annoyed him for a moment, but he was more occupied in worrying about Marcus Levering’s aircraft. Eroica was perfectly sincere in playing the daredevil. He played at all of life and didn’t care that he was playing at death as well.

As they got up from the table at last, Dorian fell into step beside Klaus. "I’ll send two men to dig out your car and try to start it, if you can let them have the keys,"

"You’re being very helpful. That’s not like you."

Dorian gave him a sidelong glance. "Nonsense, I’m always helpful to my friends. Major. Does it make you uneasy?"

Giles was out of the doorway, too far away for eavesdropping. Klaus said, "Of course not! Why should I be uneasy?"

"No reason at all," said Dorian smoothly. "You’re in need of help and I can provide it. I ask nothing more of you."

That much was true, today. "Thank you, Lord Gloria. I have much for which to repay you."

One of Dorian’s eyebrows twitched and mischief gleamed for an instant from that eye. "You’re welcome. But the car?"

Klaus reached into a pocket for the car keys and handed them over, reflecting that anyone Eroica employed could doubtless hot-wire an ignition in minutes, if not seconds. If necessary. "It’s a black Mercedes-Benz sedan, license number…" Klaus paused and dredged the license plate number from his memory. "It’s at the top of a hill." He tried to remember how the road had lain. The night had been moonless, even after the clouds cleared. "It’s on a road that leads into this valley, and it’s at least three kilometers from your door, perhaps more. I walked along the road—a road—until Monty found me."

"I see." Dorian looked as though he wanted to ask more questions, but he only said, "The car for church will be at the front door in a few minutes," and left the room.

Klaus, aware that his state of mind was more confused than reverent, wandered into the smaller front room and was confronted by an evergreen tree in a large pot, its branches thickly decked with tinsel and baubles: a Lutheran Christmas tree. In Dorian’s house it would be an Anglican tree. In Dorian’s house, Klaus was a guest, and Dorian’s guests were his friends. And Dorian’s friends were…Giles, for instance.

Beset by a suspicion that this train of thought might make sense, Klaus welcomed the sound of footsteps in the hallway and turned to see Dorian, all freshly-groomed elegance. The hair, while it could not be called subdued, was as orderly as Klaus had ever seen it, and even the rosebud on the Earl’s lapel was a restrained pale pink. "Ready?" inquired Klaus’s host.

Klaus swallowed. "Of course." And could not take his eyes off Dorian until Marcus and Lionel arrived in the entranceway and everyone began putting on coats.

The drive to church took a route Klaus did not recognize from his wanderings last night, but the picturesque quality of the snow-covered countryside was very evident. Klaus let it hold his eyes until Dorian broke the four-fold silence in the limousine. "Enjoying the scenery?"

"It reminds me of Eberbachstal in winter," said Klaus, honestly. The slope of the land and the scatter of forest and fields were very similar.

"I’ll take that as a compliment to the country here," said Dorian. "Have you seen Wales? Marcus wouldn’t trade his hills for the Garden of Eden."

Marcus was quick to confirm this in nearly poetic terms, and eventually asked if the Major appreciated Scotland. Klaus had no memory of seeing Scotland. It had been dark when he was there.

The Anglican service was scarcely less elaborate than any Klaus would have expected in a cathedral, and after modern German and English rites, he had no quarrel with the dated phrasings of the English tradition. Even if it wasn’t Roman it quieted his confused and questioning soul. The music was ornate as well: "Rejoice," sang a woman’s voice, while the organ flourished and trilled. "Rejoice greatly, oh daughter of Zion…" Klaus watched Dorian, who sat listening in devotion so convincing that he had to be evaluating the performance. Or the altarpiece.

"Shout, oh daughter of Jerusalem…"

Did Dorian’s guests know what Eroica did and how he did it? Did they know half of what Klaus knew about him?

"Behold…" rang out in Baroque splendor, embellished at length.

Would they care? Would they still flock to his house, court his favor, give him their trust, if he was known to be Eroica?

"…thy king cometh unto thee."

Perhaps Giles would.

"He is the righteous Saviour…"

James knew everything about Eroica and stayed with him nevertheless.

"He shall speak peace unto the heathen…"

James was a fool. Did Eroica love him or merely use him?

"Rejoice…" the voice rose again into arching flourishes. Did Dorian love anyone? "Rejoice greatly! Shout…" He’d said once, in Rome, that he loved Klaus.

"Behold…" That had been for an audience. And what did it mean, to Dorian?

Klaus caught himself. Why should he care what it meant to Dorian?

"…thy King cometh…" The notes were long and slow, an emphatic declaration, until the voice rose like a trumpet, "…unto thee!"

Klaus sat, hearing the song’s final flourishes, unable to conclude his thoughts.

The music progressed logically and harmoniously through its cadences until it reached silence. Then the priest spoke again in his measured words and Klaus could listen to those without having to think.

After the service, after Dorian had spoken charmingly to the singer and turned down two invitations and said hello to the vicar’s wife, Bonham appeared with a two-seat sports car. "Ah, yes," said Dorian. "I want to take the Major around the valley, to see if he remembers the road he was on last night. Bonham, you go back in the limousine with the others. We’ll be at the lodge in time for dinner."

He motioned Klaus toward the smaller car. "Get in, and wait for a moment with me."

"Wait? For what?"

Dorian smiled mysteriously. "Nothing you can object to."

Klaus, overcoated and gloved, sat beside Dorian in the car with the windows down, and waited. Presently the bells in the churchtower clanged, one by one and then in discordant chorus. The sound settled into a steady rhythmic din that beat on the ears, sound in which a melody might have been buried but which defied any search for it. Klaus listened for a few minutes, then stared a question at Dorian. Speaking would have been all but futile.

Dorian grinned, and shouted. "It’s called change-ringing. Very English. Have you had enough?"

Klaus shouted in turn: "Does it last long? Can we get away from it?!"

Dorian started the car and drove out of the churchyard, but before the turn onto the main road he stopped again. The bells still rang, muted and sweetened by distance. "It’s a scheme of ringing every possible combination of pitches," he said. "They do it for special occasions. It’s not supposed to have a tune."

"It’s noise!"

"Oh, yes. But it has a kind of pattern. Isn’t it exciting?" He started the car again, as Klaus rolled up his window and hoped Dorian would take the hint. He was glad to see Dorian switch on the car heater and close his window as well. "You’re looking much more the thing today. May I assume you’ve taken no ill effects from your little walk last night?"

"What you assume," Klaus growled, instantly on the defensive, "is your business."

Dorian turned onto the road, but not in the direction that would take them back to the house. "I assume that I have a duty toward my guests," he said mildly.

That reminded Klaus of the breakfast table. "Including Giles?"

"Of course," said Dorian. "He’s a nice boy, and a friend of mine."

"Friend?" asked Klaus, annoyed by—he thought—the euphemism.

Dorian drove unhurriedly through postcard-pristine scenery. "He spent last night with me; you saw that at breakfast. That doesn’t mean he’s not a friend."

"Is that what you call it?"

"I’m fond of him," said Dorian. "He’s very sweet and he adores me." The tone remained mild, patient.

"Nothing more?" Dorian’s openness could no longer shock Klaus, but the unemphatic statement was still startling.

Dorian shrugged his for-once-respectably-tailored shoulders. "He doesn’t know anything about art, or about my really exciting capers. He doesn’t live with me."

"Then why him?" Klaus recalled the dark hair, the tall, lean body. "Did you choose him for his looks?"

"Perhaps a bit. I like him for other reasons, but…" Dorian glanced over as he changed gears for an upslope, and his eyes widened for a moment, "…he’s not a substitute for you, Major. Your presence cannot be counterfeited."

"My presence?" A hint of warmth had invaded the car and Klaus’s body. He took a deep breath, trying to will it away so he could think. "What do you mean?"

Dorian waved his head and the curls rippled. "I like to see you at work: Mars in action. It’s so awfully exciting. I like to feel I’m part of it. Even when you push me away, you always stay just outside reach. Is that what you want?"

Klaus took another deep breath, trying to resist Dorian’s inescapable charm. "I don’t want anything from you. I am grateful for your hospitality last night, and that is all."

"Ah," said Dorian, as a new vista of forest and farms appeared between snow-laden hedges. "Is that why you noticed Giles so quickly?"

Unfamiliar emotion threatened Klaus. "He diverted your attention. He was nearly the only thing that did." The memory of Dorian kissing Giles shot through him, and he did not want to name the pang that followed it. "I made the obvious deduction."

"I see," said Dorian.

Klaus heard innuendo in the noncommittal words: Dorian believed that he, Klaus, was jealous of Giles. It became necessary to explain that he had no vulgar desire to displace Dorian’s chosen companion, but only an inexplicable and totally impossible envy of something Giles was not.

"I didn’t keep you away from him," he said, thinking his way between pitfalls.

"No," agreed Dorian, and shifted again for the slope down the other side of the hill, "but you didn’t mind having me look after you myself. Or did you?"

Even at the time, Klaus had liked the feeling that Dorian welcomed him above his other guests. "It was most considerate of you," he finally said.

"It was self-indulgent," said Dorian. "I had to see you were safe before I could bear to do anything else. You are very…you are not someone I want hurt."

The words recalled Klaus to the warmth rising through his body. He couldn’t speak, but already Dorian was continuing, "So don’t resent Giles if he has something you don’t want."

With that the warmth focused into heat and centered itself in Klaus’s groin. That was what Giles had of Dorian. "I don’t know what I want."

Dorian occupied himself in steering around a tiny circus so that the car pointed back the way it had come. He did not speak as he put the car into motion again through the sun-silvered landscape, and Klaus sat beside him as frozen as the leafless trees. What could he want from Dorian? Was it even possible?

As they reached the top of the slope again, Klaus said cautiously, "You have tried, in the past, to put me into Giles’ position."

Dorian said easily, "Oh, yes. You’re a fascinating man, and I can’t help wondering what you’d be like if you weren’t fighting me."

Even when they should be cooperating on a mission, it seemed impossible to avoid arguments with Dorian. And it was always immensely undignified. His subordinates never fought with Klaus, nor did they offer any other signs of personality. They knew better. "I can’t have friends in connection with my work."

The road here was a gentle and unchallenging curve, but Dorian concentrated, frowning, on steering the car as he asked, "Why is that?"

"Security, of course. Possible conflict of interests, or favoritism," Klaus recited. The warmth receded, but did not go away.

Dorian glanced at him. "Right out of the book, I’ll bet. Does that mean you can’t have any friends at all?"

"It seems to be difficult. Except for old connections through my family."

"Old? Your parents’ friends?"

What could Dorian know about Klaus’s parents? "Yes, people my father knows. And some relatives. And there was Marie."

"Marie?" said Dorian sharply. Then, "Was?" He slowed and opened his window, chilling the car and Klaus and letting in a faint discordant din of change-ringing church bells.

The snow-cold air brought back a flavor of last night’s hopeless, introspective search through the dark. "You might as well know. I was to marry a woman—Marie—but she’s broken off the arrangement."

"Recently?" asked Dorian. "Did she say why?"

"A few weeks ago. She disliked my work, or so she said."

"Are you unhappy about it?"

Klaus stared out at a field of unblemished snow. "It was a disappointment to my family." It had disrupted Klaus’s plans, but not his emotions.

He could hear Dorian’s headshake. "To your family? What made you ask her to marry you?"

"It was appropriate. I’d known her since we were children. Her father and mine both approved."

"What about her?" The car must be nearing the church again, for the noise of the bells was louder. "Was she pretty? Was she attractive to you? Had you…were you close to her?"

"It was a betrothal, not a marriage," said Klaus stiffly. "When she said she wished to be free, there was no reason to argue with her. I had no desire to hold her against her will."

"Just as well," said Dorian. "But if she hadn’t stopped it, would you have gone through with the marriage?"

"It would have been disgraceful not to."

"But would you have wanted it?"

They were at an intersection Klaus recognized, where the endless unmelodic bells clamored just within the bearable range of hearing. "I don’t know." He looked at Dorian and saw the quicksilver face at its most serious. "I don’t know what I wanted." He let himself look again at the extravagant hair, the shining dove-gray silk of Dorian’s suit jacket, the still-crisp rosebud, the bare hands caressing the steering wheel. "Aren’t you ever cold?" he asked, more in wonder than irritation.

Dorian rolled up the window and let the bells fade behind them. "Hardly ever. Does the cold bother you?"

"Occasionally," said Klaus. The air in the car warmed slowly and the road took them through a stand of trees, gray trunks and interlaced bare branches obscuring everything beyond. Klaus didn’t know what he wanted with Dorian—but it was wrong. He shouldn’t want it.

The next upslope took them out of the trees, and onto a route Klaus recognized, even travelling the opposite direction and in full light. At the crest of the hill there was a car-sized patch of clear ground; tiretracks beside it in the snow proclaimed that Klaus’s car had been rescued already.

Dorian stopped just short of the disturbed area. "Is this where you were last night?" He peered at the marks for a moment.

Klaus looked at the road, at the valley where the land fell away below. "Yes." This was where the dark visions had haunted him: soldiers and agents now dead; some who were still alive. Which was he?

"You must have stopped there before the snow began."

"Yes." Clean snow covered everything now, daylight brightness erasing the vision’s ghosts of despair. "I thought I saw a village. Lights." Tiny buildings were barely visible in the distance. "There."

Dorian backed and reversed the car and stopped it again so that Klaus could stare out the windshield at the view he’d seen so differently in the dark.

"It’s a long drive from Edinburgh. What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," said Klaus. It had been cold and dark and the car’s motion had taken him away from everything he wanted to avoid—toward Dorian.

"Nothing?"

"I’d just wrapped up a mission and I thought a drive would be soothing."

"On Christmas Eve," sighed Dorian. "One of us was very lucky yesterday evening, but I’m not sure which."

"I didn’t know you had a house here. I thought I was lost."

Dorian’s voice beside Klaus said, "I didn’t know you’d come knocking at my door."

"But you let me in."

"Well, of course," said Dorian, and returning warmth began to wipe out all thought of the cold visions in the falling snow.

Klaus stared fixedly out the front window. "You didn’t try to seduce me."

There was a rustle of surprised motion. "Would you rather I had? Last night?"

"No," said Klaus. "Not last night." What he felt now was wrong, but it was very warm.

"Ma—Klaus?" said Dorian’s voice, close beside him. Klaus sat motionless, knowing he would have to answer it if he wanted an answer. He heard only breathing, his own and Dorian’s. He unclenched the hands which were gripping each other in his lap and turned, slowly, to reach for one of Dorian’s hands, keeping his eyes focused on it and nothing else. He fumbled his gloves off and touched the warm fingers.

Dorian let him pick the hand up, let him take his time examining it. When Klaus finally looked up, Dorian’s face was as set as if he’d been holding his breath, but he was breathing rapidly and his hand flexed to grip Klaus’s.

"This is wrong," said Klaus softly, and leaned to close the gap between their faces to kiss Dorian. He did not know how it would end or even quite what he meant by it, except that it must be done.

The touch of mouth on mouth was warm; when Dorian’s lips parted and the kiss became intimate, he tasted sweet and strong. The contact aroused Klaus further, feeding the warm glow between his legs.

After a long moment Dorian’s free hand cupped his jaw, and only after several minutes more did the awkwardness of the small car’s seating force them to break apart. Dorian smiled shakily. "What was that?"

"I shouldn’t do this," said Klaus distinctly, clutching at the hand he still held in both of his and making no move to withdraw.

The answering smile became less shaky. "I hope you mean that."

"What?"

"This," said Dorian, reaching down to touch the swelling heat in Klaus’s crotch. "If you meant it about being seduced. Today."

"Today?"

"Come back to the lodge with me, and let everyone think we’re out driving until dinner. Or stay tonight." The hand stroked lightly, hotly, over Klaus’s heat.

Klaus stared at him, mind racing to avoid thought and react to the offer as best he could. He caught the stroking hand by its wrist, hard. "Stop. Yes. Today, at your house. Take us back there."

"Right away," said Dorian, but he delayed long enough to run his fingers up and down the side of Klaus’s neck, and smiled at Klaus’s startled jump. "It won’t take long."

The drive from hilltop to house occupied a very few minutes and took them to a back door that led into a tiny spiral of private stairs. Unquestioning, Klaus followed Dorian up and into a bedroom which—given the house and the staircase—had to be Dorian’s.

Klaus looked around at the broad, smooth bed, at the two discreetly locked doors, the curtained windows. The air temperature was a comfortable summer afternoon’s, and he shed his overcoat and scarf without hesitation. Then he stopped and looked at Dorian.

Dorian was undressing with rapid efficiency, but paused in shirtsleeves and loosened collar to cross back to Klaus. The white shirt, as smoothly and simply tailored to his body as the suit had been, presented yet another contrast with the frills Klaus expected of Dorian. But the tumbled waves of gold hair were familiar, and the bedroom’s faint scent of roses, Dorian’s signature, reassured him. Dorian brushed both hands through Klaus’s hair, stroking it back from his face, sliding his fingers through it. The feeling was pleasant, a little distracting, and—like everything—both improper and instantly desirable.

Dorian helped him out of his jacket, kissed him and let Klaus prolong it until he was temporarily satisfied, and then began unbuttoning and unfastening. Klaus nearly flinched back then, but Dorian’s touches were light and enticing. Seductive. "This is wrong," Klaus murmured into a rose-pink ear as he found Dorian’s belt and unbuckled it.

Dorian copied the motion. "No, it’s good. You want me; I’m here and I want you." He sat Klaus down on the bed and worked off his shoes. Blue eyes peered up at Klaus from a flushed face. "We’re going to be good." Socks followed the shoes.

"It’s wrong," insisted Klaus, as he was urged upright again so that trousers and pants could come off under Dorian’s hands. And Dorian’s clothes were as easy for him to remove. He straightened and put both hands behind Dorian’s head to hold him for another long kiss. The heat glowing in his groin flared when Dorian’s arms went around him, hands kneading his buttocks and molding their bodies together with delicious pressure. Finally he had to pull his mouth away to breathe while he tried not to lose any other contact with Dorian.

"Good," whispered a voice in his ear, while hands rubbed at his lower back. "Come and make love. Love is good, isn’t it?" Dorian guided them both the half-step to the bed and pulled Klaus down on top of him.

Sprawled over Dorian and then straddled above him on hands and knees, Klaus did not have to think as long as he could lose himself in touching Dorian’s body. Each new, shocking sensation suggested others, which had seemed impossible before. When he tried to copy what Dorian did to him, he heard a gasp of reaction, felt himself burn higher with arousal when Dorian moaned. He knew it was wrong. He revelled in the feelings.

He tickled Dorian’s abdomen just above the hairline and heard a moan turn into a giggle. Klaus stopped immediately. "You’re laughing at me."

"Oh, no. It’s just so good." Dorian wriggled under him. "Please, go on. Further down." He wrapped a hand around the corresponding location on Klaus in illustration, then loosened the touch and began teasing him with the lightest of strokes. The effect was white-hot but intermittent, and Klaus squirmed, wanting more. "Go on, do it to me," said Dorian.

Klaus watched him, paralyzed with desire for the direct pleasure that was being withheld, and saw Dorian’s head arch upwards to brush the erection with soft lips. The kiss electrified him; and then it stopped. Klaus found that he was able to touch Dorian’s penis where it reared out of short gold curls: it was not at all unpleasant, but warm and quiveringly responsive when he grasped it, when he stroked and, a moment later, when he tasted it gingerly. Dorian gave a very satisfactory breathy moan and Klaus continued without any more urging.

The sensations were repeated on him, fed on themselves and became elaborately multiplied, until rising heat was all but unstoppable. Dorian moaned again, more loudly, the note different enough to alert Klaus. Klaus did not think of pulling away, only of wanting to see Dorian’s climax. He cradled and squeezed the hard shaft almost reflexively, feeling the body beneath him gather tension, hearing the high-voiced cry that accompanied the final convulsive release.

Dorian gasped voicelessly as his muscles relaxed; the blood still beat hard and high in Klaus, too hot to be forgotten but—briefly—ignored in this new, other excitement. "Ohhh," sighed Dorian after a few hard-pressed breaths. "Good."

A moment later his hands found Klaus again. "Don’t let’s stop on my account." The warmth that took in Klaus’s erection was wet and overwhelming, and Klaus did not try to resist, however wrong it was.

He opened his eyes afterward to see Dorian’s blue gaze locked on him. "Yes," said Klaus and closed his eyes again. There was nothing he could say except that he shouldn’t have done it; but he was alive and warm and that was Dorian’s doing and he hadn’t been sure of either life or warmth until now and Dorian felt good and it was wrong. He didn’t think he could explain it so that Dorian would understand.

When Dorian put a hand on his shoulder, Klaus found the strength to reach up and take it and pull him down so they lay together, Dorian blanketing him with comforting warmth. Dorian kissed his neck and whispered, "Good," very softly before Klaus drifted into an uncertain doze.

He woke to warm hands rubbing his chest. "We have to get up now for dinner," said Dorian prosaically. "It would be artistic to get dressed in our old things and bring the car around to the front."

Klaus supposed that it would. "Will it fool anyone?"

"It will let them know you and I wish them to be fooled."

"Will that help?" asked Klaus, more out of habit than any calculation for the future. He still felt too warm, too wrong and sleepy to care.

"Yes," said Dorian. "From parts of our talk earlier I surmise that you might want our… friendship…to be confidential."

Klaus sat up abruptly, feeling as though he’d been showered with ice water. "I wasn’t thinking," he said, and the shower became a chill that threatened to freeze him solid. Not thinking was the worst error an agent could commit; taking unconsidered, emotional action was nearly guaranteed to ruin an operation. Or anything else. "I came here because I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want to think."

Dorian sat down beside him, and Klaus noticed that they were both naked in the warm bedroom air. "Life is acting on impulse," said Dorian. "It can be a lot of fun, even between impulses. Now, if we take the trouble to arrive at the front door of the lodge for dinner, those of my friends who are clever enough to see through it, will be clever enough to take the hint. Can you live with that?"

Klaus tried to think amid the disordered bedclothes. He wasn’t sure he could live with being Iron Klaus, the NATO officer whose fiancée deserted him and whose subordinates disliked him. Iron Klaus had driven into the night and snow with no plans to stop or return. But neither could Klaus live as Dorian did, as an ornament to society, parasite and empty thrill-seeker. Klaus’s runs across Europe for NATO, whether frustrating or successful, were not meaningless. One must believe that.

"Klaus?" Dorian was looking at him anxiously.

But Dorian’s life here was a different game from NATO’s and Dorian was a player, not a pawn. However NATO worked its games, Dorian and his guests would go on playing by Dorian’s rules, and private matters would remain private. If he could believe Dorian.

The agent in him recognized, as well, that appealing to these people by their own rules was the best strategy to avoid drawing more attention than necessary. "It will do," said Klaus finally and found a smile, of sorts, for Dorian. It was not at all similar to any expression he had directed at Marie.

All while they washed and dressed and returned by the clandestine stairway to the little car, and drove by a roundabout path to the valley road and up the stone-walled drive to the main entrance of the lodge, all the time they greeted the houseful of curious people and exclaimed over Klaus’s car which had been restored to working order, Klaus thought about Dorian’s games. Giles and James and Monty and Bonham knew Dorian’s rules. What would they expect of Major Eberbach?

The evening was oddly unsettling. There was the same roomful of guests as last night, the same friendly chatter that drowned discordant notes. It had as little to do with him as it had before—but he could see new meanings in it. Was James, divested of his calculator for the occasion, casting dark looks at him because the Major might drag Eroica halfway around the world without even paying expenses, or because Klaus had a claim on Dorian’s affection? Lionel Sanderson and a sailboat owner named Rupert discussed the Hebrides Islands, gesturing widely of wind and water currents. Were they really looking for unmonitored exit routes from Britain, or indulging in simple play? Giles flirted shamelessly with Dorian, who had returned to flamboyant draperies in highly unrestrained colors—was he a silly distraction or a threat to Klaus’s equanimity?

When Dorian flirted back, Klaus tried not to be shocked. Then he realized that it was another move in a game: when Dorian flirted in that overdrawn way, it was for show. Klaus remembered being enraged by it in the past, but now he saw Dorian using the exaggerated mannerisms to give Giles a subtle refusal.

Giles knew the game well enough to understand. Presently he began flirting with Marcus instead, in the same style that was no more than social pleasantry among these people; but his laughter was a little forced and his eyes were puzzled.

It was after dinner, during coffee, that Giles sauntered smiling to Klaus’s side of the room and placed himself within conversational distance with an artfully aimless step or two. The Major gave him points for the approach, which would look casual to anyone else. "I’m glad your car is fixed up," said Giles, with a good display of concern. "It must be worrying to your people that you’ve been delayed over Christmas." Klaus gave him another mental point for opening with a gambit that could hardly be misunderstood.

"Not really," said Klaus, trying to resolve two ways of seeing Giles and Giles’ curiosity. "My people don’t question my whereabouts."

Giles’ eyes opened wide in unstated inquiry and speculation. Klaus summed him up and counterattacked. "Lord Gloria has the most unusual habits, does he not? I was a little disconcerted this morning. Please forgive my behavior then."

"Of course," said Giles, the wariness of jealousy changing to an entirely different caution. Klaus gave himself all the points back. "Were you surprised at us?"

"Very much," said Klaus. "My opinions have been narrower, in the past. But Lord Gloria explained to me that his household is run on his own principles of personal freedom. I shall not interfere." He met the challenging young gaze. "He assures me the same courtesy will be shown to me by all his guests."

"Ah, of course," said Giles. "Surely no one has annoyed you?"

"I hope not," said Klaus, and sipped at his coffee, enjoying the warm, fragrant steam. He could see Mr. James circling toward them and he waited, wanting to know if James and Giles were reconciled to each other in the Earl’s household.

"Excuse me," murmured Giles suddenly, and retreated toward the far side of the room. Klaus carefully did not let his flicker of amusement show, for James was arrowing in to confront him.

"Why are you here?" asked James flatly.

"Pure bad luck," said Klaus, glaring back at him. With James, the familiar hostility need not alter. It was very nearly a comfort.

"The Earl has said you will stay one more night."

Klaus had not said so to Dorian. He realized he was being given an opportunity to back out gracefully, but he was in no mood to retreat. Perhaps it was wrong to stay here with Dorian. Perhaps he didn’t care how wrong it was. He certainly didn’t care to concede anything to James. "I’m not expected in Edinburgh until mid-morning tomorrow," he said. "Do you object?"

James glowered, but before he could say anything more Dorian swooped down on the two of them, all dashing splendor in his wide-sleeved brocade. "James, darling, I know you’d love to talk to people but I want you for a moment in the study. That’s where your calculator is. Major, do excuse us, please." And he dragged the unprotesting James away under the eyes of the company.

Klaus looked down at his coffee. So Dorian wanted him here for the night, and Klaus would stay. It was wrong, as Eberbach understood things, but he would do it. He would play Dorian’s game, with Dorian. He was on Dorian’s ground, here, and he did not yet want to leave.

* * * * *

Dorian knocked on the door of the southeast bedroom. What Klaus would think or want by now, a few hours after abandoning his righteous chastity, was a mystery. It was probably a mystery to Klaus as well, but he’d agreed to stay the night. Even if he regretted it, he deserved a chance to tell Dorian in person.

"Come in," said the hard-edged voice—Klaus always sounded as though he were giving orders—and Dorian hastily slipped through the doorway and closed it behind him. Klaus sat in the desk chair, writing pad and pen open in front of him, his briefcase propped at his elbow.

"Working?" ventured Dorian, curious about every facet of his long-pursued Major.

"Not to speak of," said Klaus, folding the pad away. "Routine. It should…" He stopped and frowned, then looked directly at Dorian. "It can wait if you have something of importance."

Dorian’s heart leapt at the colorless phrase. "Only me. Come to bed with me, Klaus."

Klaus nodded slowly, his body unmoving, his face frozen, only his eyes alive. Then the ice cracked and his smile startled Dorian by being neither hard-edged nor self-conscious. "Now. Yes."

It was as though Klaus had to forget all but the simplest thoughts and words to let himself feel anything, but it was a very short time before he was on the bed with Dorian, arching up into Dorian’s hands and kiss, asking without words for more of the fire that Dorian had managed to spark into life at last. Dorian wanted it as much: this was the Klaus he had seen under the Major’s ice for a long time, this man thrusting with needy heat against Dorian’s body, crying out as he was pushed to a fast, hot climax.

Klaus turned over and buried his face in Dorian’s curls after one choked cry, clutching at Dorian as if to pull their bodies into one. Dorian was more than willing to cling to him, still on fire and nearly at the peak. It took only a few frantic moments of writhing against the taut strength to finish what they’d begun, to be able to breathe again and feel the other heartbeat slow in time with his own.

"Dorian?" he heard, in a voice that did not really sound as though it were giving an order.

"Yes?"

"I have to leave in the morning." Now it did.

"I know."

"I don’t know if I can come back. This is wrong." By which Dorian could understand that it was outside Klaus’s concept of propriety, and probably of his previously imagined limits of pleasure. It did not mean that Klaus wouldn’t want to return; more likely it meant the opposite.

"I’ll give you a map." He kissed Klaus’s neck with slow deliberation, working downward.

Klaus sighed and let Dorian finish, but as he sighed again his breathing evened and slowed and he shifted off Dorian to lie flat, as if he knew no other way to sleep in a bed. Perhaps he didn’t. Dorian stroked the dark hair a last time and curled against Klaus’s side, stretching a possessive arm over his lover’s waist. Until morning, Klaus was his.

He came to awareness some time later in the night as Klaus stirred. Dorian loosened his arm, not sure that Klaus, who had clearly slept alone in the literal sense all of his life, would be comfortable with it if he woke. But the sleeping man moved to fit himself back against Dorian, his breathing a faint, dreaming mumble that smoothed into quiet. All was still in the bed except for the slow warmth spreading through Dorian’s body as his heart sang. Klaus had found something he wanted; Klaus would find it again no matter where it was.

END