God. What had happened to her own body, back in West Hills? Was it just… unoccupied? Had it gone into some kind of coma? What would happen to the kids? She hadn’t even gone in to kiss Kimberley good night, to see if her fever had gone down, or checked in on Justin and made sure he had his teddy beside him in case he woke up in the middle of the night. She’d been so tired, so fed up, so far over the top, that she’d put herself to bed and said her prayer and gone to sleep without a thought for her children.

No. No, something must have happened, the same way something had happened to make sure she spoke Latin. Somebody or something would look after Kimberley and Justin, at least till morning. Then -

Oh, God. They’d find her in a coma or worse. Would Kimberley know to dial 911? Would Justin -

She couldn’t think about that. She had to hope – to pray – they’d be all right. Her last prayer had been answered. Why not this one, too?

“Liber,” she whispered, “Libera, if you’re listening, do this one last thing for me, will you please?” Damn, she sounded like Nicole-in-the-office, asking Cyndi to do her a favor. Good legal secretaries sit at the right hand of God, every lawyer knows that, but it might not be strictly kosher to address a pair of gods as if they were the original administrative assistants.

She shook herself. It didn’t matter. “Just take care of them, okay?”

If she’d hoped for some sign, some feeling at least that she’d been heard, she didn’t get it. She caught herself smiling slowly, widely, and not at all nicely. If Nicole Gunther-Perrin wasn’t home anymore, there was no doubt at all who would inherit the kids. Frank and Dawn wouldn’t get much of a vacation. And Frank would finally, after all this time, be left holding the baby – literally. Twice over.

“There is justice in the universe,” Nicole said to the reek-rich air.

Her – servant, whatever, came back out of the shop carrying a chunk of bread, a small bowl, and a cup on a wooden tray. “Thank you,” Nicole said as the young woman set the tray down on a table just inside the door, where the light from outside was brightest.

“You’re welcome, Mistress.” The woman, whose name Nicole was going to have to learn soon or be in trouble, smiled another of those wide smiles. “Oh, you are kind today! Have the gods blessed you, then, Mistress? Is this a white day?”

Nicole stared blankly at her. The part of her that knew Latin knew that a white day meant a lucky day, marked in white on the Roman calendar. It still didn’t explain why the woman should be so transparently delighted to get a simple thank-you. Either Umma had been an ogre or something else was going on, something Nicole didn’t know enough to catch.

Her stomach growled loudly, drowning out the rattle of her thoughts. It wanted breakfast, and it wanted it now.

She pulled a stool over to the table, sat down, and examined her breakfast. The bread made her want to giggle. Had it been served in slices instead of a slab half a dozen slices thick, it would have done for Roman Meal: same medium-brown color, same coarse flour. She’d eaten a lot of bologna sandwiches on Roman Meal, growing up in Indianapolis. She tore off a piece and bit into it. It was fresher than any Roman Meal she’d ever eaten, and had a slightly smoky taste from being baked over a wood fire.

It was also grittier than any Roman Meal she’d ever eaten. She glanced at the stone quern beside the oven. Was that what had broken her front tooth, and what set the back one to aching whenever she wasn’t busy thinking about something else?

So she’d chew carefully. She was hungry.

When she’d taken the edge off her hunger with a good portion of the bread, she took time to explore the rest of the tray. The shallow earthenware bowl was full of thick, shiny, green-yellow liquid. She sniffed. Her eyebrows rose. Remembering dinners in fancy restaurants before Frank stopped taking her and started taking Dawn instead, she twisted off another piece of bread and dipped it in the bowl. She tasted again. Yes, she’d called it. Olive oil. They were still eating bread that way in Italian restaurants, eighteen centuries from now.

Olive oil was a fat, but God knew it was better than butter. This body didn’t look as if it needed to worry much about its weight. Even so, a lifetime of habit persuaded Nicole to push the bowl of oil away and investigate the cup. Again she sniffed. Again her eyebrows rose, but this time they rose higher. Wine? At breakfast? What was she supposed to be, an alcoholic?

Dammit, she needed to know her employee’s name. Rather than sing out Yo! or You there! she coughed. That did it: the young woman looked up from the two trays she was filling as she’d filled Nicole’s. Her eyes were wide, her face a mask of apprehension. All her emotions seemed to be broad, cartoonish, as if she were playing a role, and not too well, either.

Those emotions were real. Nicole would have been willing to bet on that. They were just… exaggerated. For effect? Or because she’d never learned to tone them down? “Is something wrong, Mistress? “ she asked anxiously.

“Yes,” Nicole said, and the woman’s face went white. Terror? Good Lord, Nicole thought. Umma must have been a raving tartar. She smoothed her voice as much as she could, though she couldn’t rid it of all the disapproval. That was too deeply ingrained, for too long, in Nicole’s other – future – life. “I don’t think I’ll be having wine this morning. Would you bring me some water instead?”

“Water?” The other woman’s eyebrows flew up almost to her hairline.

She was as astonished as if Nicole had asked for – well, wine. Or Scotch. Or creamed angleworms on toast. “Mistress, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Nicole hadn’t meant to snap so hard. She hadn’t meant to crush the servant – just to shake her loose from her incredulity and set her to fetching the water. The young woman looked as if she expected to be fired without a reference. More gently, as gently as she could, Nicole said, “I may stop drinking wine altogether. Water’s more healthy, don’t you think?”

“Healthy?” The servant’s eyebrows went up even higher this time. She was easy to reassure, at least; soften the tone even a little and she forgot she’d ever been snapped at.

Or else she really was too incredulous to watch her step around an employer she so evidently feared. Nicole had to be acting completely and shockingly out of character.

“Healthy?” she repeated. “Water? Mistress, your customers won’t think so, if you try to tell them such a thing.”

“What do you mean?” Nicole said.

Her employee stared at her. She had, she realized, just asked her first truly stupid question here in Carnuntum. The young woman retreated to the long stone counter, as if it represented some kind of refuge. Something in the way she walked, and in the things she’d said, made Nicole see it suddenly for what it was. It wasn’t a counter. It was a bar.

Not caring for an instant what the other woman might think, she hurried over to it and lifted the wooden lids she’d ignored before. Under each of them rested an amphora with a bronze dipper. The strong alcoholic smell of wine floated up to her nose.

Umma wasn’t running a restaurant. She was running a tavern. Nicole startled herself with the intensity of her revulsion and anger. How many men of Carnuntum would stagger home drunk to abuse their spouses and children because of this place? Any one of them could have been her father: face red with drink and rage, mouth open wide as he bellowed at his wife, hand swinging up to hit whatever, or whomever, got in its way.

“I will not,” she said tightly, “sell – this – “

The employee didn’t understand. “Mistress, most of it’s not Falernian, but it’s all the best we can get for the price. Why, you said – “

Nicole cut her off. She had to understand. It was very, very important that she understand. “I will not sell wine. “