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!"

"No, no, didn't you see the newsies? That's Malcolm Moore, the mysteriously wealthy time guide, and that's Margo Smith, Kit Carson's granddaughter. I remember it because it was a granddaughter he didn't even know existed. Made headline news on every network for an entire half an hour! I taped the stations I wasn't watching, just to compare versions. I can't think how you missed it. And that other woman seated with 'em? Just you take a guess as to who she is?"

"I-I'm afraid I don't recognize her-"

"You know all those Churches of the Holy Artemis that've been springing up all over the place? Well, that's Ianira Cassondra, the Living Goddess, an enchantress who knows the ancient ways. Lives here, now, to escape persecution."

The other woman's eyes had widened so far, just about all that remained of her face was eyes. "Really?"

It came out a kind of repressed squeal. "Oh, oh, where's my camera-?"

She fumbled a small, sleek camera and pointed it toward them.

Margo flushed red. Ianira looked merely annoyed. Malcolm just grinned, first at Margo, then at the ladies who'd been whispering so loudly; then he rose from his chair and bowed at the waist, tipping an imaginary tophat. The flash momentarily blinded Margo, catching Malcolm mid-hat-tip. Both women went white, beet-red, and hungry-eyed all in the space of two seconds. Then they beamed what they thought were seductive, or at least winning-smiles back at him.

"Hey," Margo said, wrapping her fingers around his, "you're took. An' don t you go 'round forgettin' it, now, or I'll hafta take a skillet to you!"

He chuckled. "Just part of the show, dear. Never know when it'll get you a rich customer. Besides, you're not allowed to hit me until after we're married." He lifted one brow, then. And just when. did you start learning Wild West lingo?"

"Oh, awhile back, I reckon."

He wrapped gentle fingers around her wrist and scowled his blackest, enraged scowl. "You two-timin' me, woman, with some no 'count cow-punchin' range rat?"