I feel like an actor in a pageant. Against people armed with flint-tipped arrows and bronze spearheads, though, this was high-tech weaponry.

"We had the paint on hand, and it wasn't any great effort to bake on the enamel," Leaton said virtuously. "And it'll keep it from rusting, too."

Alston grunted noncommittally. She bent, twisted, squatted, rose, did a few long low stances to test the equipment. Heavy, of course, but she'd carried far more weight less well distributed on camping trips, and it was no more awkward than practice armor for a kenjutsu bout-very similar to that, in fact. This was flexible enough not to impede movement much, too. She did a slow forward roll and came to her feet with a grunt, clattering a little. Have to wear this a lot to get used to it. Then she settled on the helmet and snapped the chin strap.

"Cool!" someone said. "Just like the ones in Star Wars!"

Alston gritted her teeth, and bit back Lucas and I both copied from the same source.

"It'll do," she said. "But plain green for the rest, if you don't mind. How many, how quickly?"

"Thirty a week, given the priorities the Council's set," the engineer said. "Scaling up to a hundred."

"You, sir, snore," Martha said, sipping at a cup of hot herb tea.

"Well, a man can't tell his fiancee everything," Jared said reasonably. "Or his bride. Not before the end of the honeymoon, at least. Where's the romance and mystery in that?" They'd anticipated the parson, of course, but not by all that much-and never actually slept together before moving in after the wedding.

She gave a dry chuckle. "Unsuspected depths; even a sense of irony. What will it be next?"

They looked at each other and smiled. Well, we're neither of us nineteen, he thought with satisfaction. Forty and fifty-plus-six-months, in fact. She set her cup down on the kitchen table and sat on his lap; not what you'd call well upholstered, but damned pleasant nonetheless. We suit, that's the best way to put it, he decided, and grinned.

"A penny for them. Or a pound of dulse, in our barter economy."

"Thinking of how different I felt about a woman on my lap in the morning thirty years ago. Not," he added hastily, "that it doesn't-"

She put an arm around his neck. "Jared, from puberty to their thirties men aren't human beings. They're hormones with feet. I prefer one with enough functioning mind to be interesting… which you are."

A few minutes later: "But the hormones still seem to be functioning, too. Not on the kitchen table, dear, and not before breakfast. The griddle cakes, I think," she went on, slightly breathless, sliding away to her own seat. "You didn't tell me you could cook, either."

Functioning indeed, Jared thought, with a slight trace of smugness. "I was a widower for five years, and a hunter for twenty-three. Breakfasts I can do," he said, getting up and going to the counter.

"Have to look into making baking powder-we'll be out soon," he added, as he got out the jar of oil and the frying pan and wound a cloth around his hand to open the wire-handled oven door to check the coals.

"Mmm," she said, watching him.

He poured a little oil into the iron frying pan and set it to heat, mixed the dry ingredients and beat the wholewheat flour into the water and eggs, and added some of the syrup to make up for the lack of richening milk. The oil was ready when a drop of water flicked off the end of a finger hopped and sputtered. One big spoonful three times, and you could do three at a time.

"Baking soda…" she said thoughtfully, straightening her bathrobe and hair. "Sodium bicarbonate and an acid. Cynthia at the high school might know. I'll look into it."

"These'll be better when the blueberries ripen in July," he said mildly. "Here we go."

He edged the spatula under the crackly, lacy brown-rim of the griddle cake; the top surface was just browning a little, and spotted with bubbles. He slid the first three onto a plate, covered it with a dishtowel, and put it on the warming tray at the rear of the cast-iron stove. When there were enough for two he took the lot back to the table with the crock of maple syrup. Now, all we lack is-no, by God, we don't. There was a little bit left of the wedding present from Angelica.

"Here you are," he said cheerfully, putting a tray with a lump of butter the size of a peach pit down beside the pancakes and removing the cover with a flourish. "Luxuries of the island elite; welcome to the ruling class."

Martha looked cheerful herself, in her subdued way, as she loaded her plate. Right up to the moment she raised the first forkful to her mouth.

"Oh, dear," she said then, swallowing and staring at the syrup-laden pancake. "Oh, my. Oh shit."

Her fork clattered to the plate and she bolted from the kitchen. He sat frozen for an instant, fear tasting of acid at the back of his mouth. Then he levered himself to his feet and followed her; she'd made it as far as the small downstairs bathroom, and he could see her kneeling in front of the toilet. A hand waved him away.

All right, then, he thought, a little of the fist that was squeezing under his breastbone relaxing. Bad fish? They'd had problems with that. He padded back into the kitchen, his slippers scuffing on the floorboards, and got a dry towel, a damp one, and a glass of water-there were a couple of large buckets sitting on the counter, filled during the hour the town mains were running. He carried the glass and cloth back into the small washroom after a discreet pause, and found Martha sitting on the closed seat lid of the toilet, breathing deeply.

"Here," he said. She rinsed, spat into the sink, and wiped her face gratefully. "Shall I go get Doc Coleman?"

His wife shook her head. There was a little color back in her face again. "Later. It's not urgent."

"It isn't?" he said, puzzled. "Food poisoning can-"

"It isn't that… I think. We'll check with Coleman, but I think the bunny just died."

"The… oh, sh-, ah, oh dear."

Her smile flickered wan; she stood, bracing herself with one arm against the wall. He gathered her to him, lips shaping a silent whistle over her shoulder.

"What was that saying on the tombstone?" she asked. "I expected this, but not so soon? At our ages..'. and on this diet, I've been irregular anyway, thought it might be early menopause coming on…"

He nodded into her graying brown hair. They'd discussed the possibility, but only in an abstract sort of way. This…

"Sort of risky," he said after a moment.

"At my age, you mean?" she replied. "Jared, we're in the year 1250 B.C. Risk…" She sighed and shrugged. "Risk has assumed a whole new meaning. Let's go talk about this. There's still some RU-486 if that's what we decide, but let's go talk." A moment. "I'm even hungry again."

"Turnabout's fair play," Alice Hong said, pouting.

"Nope," William Walker said, pulling on his trousers.

"Well, untie me then. I've got roomies, remember."

"I believe in spreading the joy of life."

He looked around the room. A little untidy for his tastes-he was a man of fastidious neatness-but not bad. A series of Escher prints, and others he didn't recognize, heavy-metal varieties with a lot of skulls, candle flames behind their eyes, and people tied up with barbed wire, pentagrams, bat wings, real symbolism. A good modern bed, not the four-posters so common in this antique-happy town. Alice Hong was lying on her stomach in the middle of that bed, ankles lashed to wrists behind her back with padded ties. A number of her other toys were scattered about. She squirmed over, which left her arched like a bow and spread-eagled. He admired the view; she was deeply into this stuff, and it had its points. Probably tedious as a full-time diet, but not bad as a change. There was a full-length mirror opposite the bed; he admired the view in that, too. In even better shape than I was, he decided smugly. Washboard stomach carrying a full six-pack, broad shoulders, narrow waist, every muscle moving just so under tanned skin. A heavy investment there, but worth it. William Walker had to live in that temple, after all. He smiled at himself.