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The Pessimist's Daughter

Written by Mark H. Huston

The Gardens, December, 1634

"I found every last one of those sons-of-bitches. Every last one. Do you have any idea how much money that son-of-a-bitch spends on those sons-of-bitches?" Staunton Bell took a deep swig of pilsner beer, emptied the mug, and slammed it down with a victorious bang. "Could Tony find them? Could he?"

"No, he couldn't. Not at all. Not in a million years." LaDonna Marshall nodded into her beer mug in sympathy. She then straightened in her chair, chugged her mug down, and banged it on the table next to Staunton's. "We need more beer."

"But I found them. That is why I should be running the Department of Economic Affairs. Not friggin' Tony Adducci. He doesn't even have a degree in accounting. But they got him running the friggin' department." Staunton realized he was being loud, and tried to tone it down to a stage whisper. "He doesn't even have a degree!" He wobbled as he stood up and pushed back his chair, waved his mug, and shouted. "More beer here, wench!" He paused, noticed a few patrons glancing his way, glared back defiantly, and growled. "Sonofabitch." Seeing no challengers, he added a triumphant "Ha!" He sat back down with a self satisfied flourish, and looked at his co-workers.

"Staunton, be quiet. People are looking at us. This is supposed to be a little after work Christmas Party." Greta Greenwald felt tipsy, but not nearly as tipsy as the other three at her table. Her fellow down-time clerk, Katarina Zingerly, was a big woman who could drink. LaDonna Marshall, their up-time boss, appeared to be holding her own. Greta looked at Staunton Bell, and shook her head sadly. There was a man who could not hold his liquor. Drunk on his ass, as they say. Staunton was winding up again.

"Nasi thinks he is so damn smart. But he missed the first rule. Follow the money. That's what I did." He stood up again, knocking his chair over in the process, and announced to the room, "Follow the money!" A few heads turned to glare at him; he looked back through a pilsner induced haze, and met their glare defiantly once again. "Sonofabitch. Ha!" He then sat down hard on the floor, as he had not picked up his chair. Most of the room gave a quiet chortle.

Greta watched as LaDonna and Katarina helped the skinny and balding accountant back to his chair. It reminded her of two children with a pet ferret. She shook her head. "You should get home to that wife of yours, Staunton. And you should stop drinking. Before you get into trouble."

Katarina agreed. "You should go home, Mr. Bell. We think you've had enough for now." She started to whisper. "You did real well to find all of those hidden accounts of Don Fernando Nasi, you should feel good about the job, but you should not drink. It doesn't agree with you."

"That's right. I found it." He stood up. "Nobody else" he shouted. The glares returned. He returned them in kind. "Sonofabitch. Ha!" He checked for his chair, and sat.

Greta leaned across the table toward Staunton. "You shouldn't talk about work that way, Mr. Bell. Not that loud. You can get us all in trouble. You know we're not allowed—"

"That guy's just another Jew bastard who thinks he can hide his shit from me. I tell you they're all the same. They're all like that." He waved his arm clumsily. "Can't trust them to a man. Just like back up-time. Same shit. When I did taxes up-time—"

"Mr. Bell! You shouldn't say such things." Greta eyed Staunton from across the table. She had a good twenty pounds on the man. She figured she could drag him out of the Gardens if she had to. "We're supposed to be professional. We're auditors. And auditors don't do this, at least in public."

"Professional? Professional? Th-that is ridiculous." He belched loudly. "I have an antique computer that can barely run the software we use, and I use quill nib pens. With a friggin' inkwell, fer chrissakes. Some professional organization that is. Where the hell is my beer?"

LaDonna added her support. "God, I'm shitfaced. I haven't drank like this for a while." She looked around the table, smiled, and then unexpectedly turned green. "Uh-oh. Sh-shouldn't have eaten that—that sausage and ch-cheese. Excuse me pl—" She ran off, unsteady.

Greta looked at Katarina and rolled her eyes. "Up-timers can't hold their beer. My husband told me, but I didn't think it was this bad."

Katarina rolled her eyes too. "My husband said the same thing. I didn't believe him at first . . ."

Staunton looked like he was winding up yet again. "I bet Tony will take the credit for this. I know he will. I find out how the Jew is paying his spies, including some of his relatives, which is illegal as hell. At least it was." He shook his head to clear the fog. "Tony will take the credit. I know it. That's the sort of thing that just pisses me off."

"At least he wasn't shouting this time," thought Greta. The waitress put another round on the table.

Staunton turned to her. "About time, bitch."

Greta watched as the down-time waitress looked at the two beefy down-timer women and then looked at the ferret-like man. "This idiot a friend of yours?"

They both looked at Staunton, and then back at the waitress a little sheepishly. "We just work with him," replied Greta, "He's our boss."

"I'm sorry for you." She turned and walked away.

"See if she gets a tip," growled Staunton. "Bitch."

"Watch it, Bucko. You keep talking like that and I'll kick your ass." LaDonna had returned. "She better get a tip."

He glowered at her as she sat down, and they all started drinking again. The girls talked quietly for a few moments about their families, Katarina's husband's job in the mine, anything but the office. Finally, it appeared to Greta that Staunton could contain himself no longer. "Did I tell you how I found the first one?" He started much too loud. "Nasi wrote him a friggin' bank draft. A bank draft! I can't believe the guy is that stupid! Once I had the account, then it was pretty easy to find another. From there, it really took off." He sat back into his chair and folded his arms. "Damn, I'm good."

"I suggest you be quiet, Staunton." Greta was startled by the calm and direct voice of Dennis Grady. She looked at his powerfully built body, and recalled hearing before he came to their Department of Economic Affairs, he had been a police officer. At the office it was not noticeable. But right now, well, Greta was glad she had been quiet. She turned to Staunton, who she expected to shut up. Greta felt her eyes go wide when the little man stood. Defiantly.

"I don't work for you, Grady. I don't have to listen to you. And we are not at the office. So just fuckoff." Staunton rolled his shoulders as if flexing to fight.

"Sit down' Staunton." Grady's voice was low. "Now."

"What if I don't, what are you going to do about it?"

Grady just looked at him with no change of expression. "Whatever I have to."

Greta did not fall off of the turnip wagon just the other day. She had been around more than one drinking establishment in her thirty-nine years. She slowly moved her chair back, in case things got messy. She sensed the rest of the bar feeling the same way.

"You're an asshole Grady. I'm the only real accountant your 'auditors' have." He snorted. "Professional Department of Economic Resources, what bullshit. None of you could find your ass with both hands if I wasn't there."

Greta inched back a little more.

"I'm the one who found the Nasi files—"

Greta really didn't see the punch from Grady. She was already ducking. She sort of felt it go by, and then sensed Grady straightening. When she opened her eyes, Staunton Bell was just starting to bleed in the area where his nose formerly protruded from his face. It was now turned to the side. His eyes were glazed. He teetered for a moment, and then fell like a stone to the floor, his head catching the edge of his chair on the way down, and laying open his scalp.

"Sonaofabitch," exclaimed LaDonna.

"Ha," added the waitress.

May, 1635, Grantville, High Street Mansion, SoTF Government Building

"Hello, Ursula." The up-time woman smiled from her office, as she had done for nearly every afternoon for the last two years.

Ursula Volz dropped her plain eyes to the worn wooden floor, nodded her head imperceptibly, and mumbled a quiet, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Carstairs," as she came into the back hall.

Ursula rapidly stepped by the lady in her office, past a large kitchen, and then threaded her way through a narrow hallway, arriving at the front foyer of the old mansion.

There was a guard station in what used to be the front hall. The regular night guard, Marcus Sauber, was sitting in a chair behind the desk. He was positioned facing the front of the building, where the public would normally enter. Ursula had entered by the employee and service entrance, at the back of the house.

The guard turned in his chair. "Hello, Ursula."

"Good evening, Herr Sauber."

"Right on time as always. Here is the note from the office manager, she tells me someone spilled coffee in the second floor hallway, and it needs to be cleaned up tonight." He handed her a note. "It's always something, isn't it? Spills or messes to be cleaned up. Night janitor is never a fun job, right Ursula?"

"I don't mind it, Herr Sauber." She paused at the desk and signed in on the log book which Marcus Sauber kept.

"Good afternoon, Herr Sauber." Keeping her eyes turned to the floor, she turned to the staircase to the left of the desk, and headed toward the back stairs leading to the basement, taking a candle from the side table and lighting it as she went. There were no offices in the basement, because there were almost no windows. She went down the gloomy and musty stairs, and looked around. Something about being in a cellar always bothered her. The only things down here were storage for files and the cleaning supply closet, which was near the stairs.

Ursula gathered up her things from the supply closet, and trudged up the stairs. She usually started on the first floor, in the public spaces, and then moved to the offices in the later afternoon and evening. She began her work in the Lobby, by the guard station. It had rained during the day, and people had tracked mud into the hallway. With a mop and bucket, she started to scrub.

It was a good job, and Ursula liked it. It was quiet, especially later in the evening when everyone went home. It was interesting working at the High Street Mansion. It was built back when Grantville was a "boom town," owned by a man and his family who made toilets. When Ursula had seen it for the first time, she could not believe it was only for one man and his family. It took her almost a week to learn all the rooms. It was broken up into even smaller areas for more offices and rooms. The home was mostly empty when it came through the Ring of Fire, no one living there, and most of the contents had been auctioned off. Since it was big, and had plenty of light and windows, it was appropriated by the government as offices. Nobody bothered her much at this job, and she liked that too. The only thing a little bit irritating was—

"Ursula! Oh, I'm so sorry I'm late. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I got delayed at dinner with . . . umm . . . my mother. Aaand . . . she wanted to talk . . . about her new boyfriend."

Margit. Her co-worker. She finally arrived. About a half hour late, as usual. Ursula sighed. Margit always had excuses, and some of them were very entertaining. But tonight, Ursula was not in the mood. "I will finish this, you can start on the back hallway."

"Don't you want to hear about my mother's new boyfriend?"

"Not especially, Margit. And you used that excuse last month."

"Oh."

"Back hallway, Margit?"

"Okay. Let me get my stuff from downstairs. Back in a minute." She turned and half-skipped down the hall, humming a little tune. Ursula smiled just a little as she watched her disappear around the corner.

After finishing the public spaces and the offices on the first floor, they started up the stairs to the second, where more offices and desks were packed into rooms. Margit leaned over to Ursula. "Are you going out after work tonight, Ursula? You never go, and we have so much fun." Margit turned and bounced mischievously in her stride.

Ursula looked at her and shook her head. "I need to be home and to sleep so I can help my mother with the sewing as soon as it gets light."

Margit frowned. "Ursula, when are you going to have some fun in your life? How do expect to meet anyone if all you do is work here in the afternoon, go home and sleep, then sew with your mother from first light until you come to work again? You are what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?"

"I'm very plain, Margit. Who would ever want me? My father is a casket maker. He has no social rank."

Margit stopped on the stairs and blocked Ursula's path. "How many times have I told you it doesn't matter here? It must be a thousand times by now." She changed the tone of her voice, deepening it with authority. "Ursula, it doesn't matter here." She changed back to her impish grin. "There. One thousand and one."

Ursula paused. "Twenty-five. Almost twenty-six."

"What?"

"I will be twenty-six in two months."

Margit's hand went to her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Ursula. I had no idea you were ahhh—were that—ummm . . ." Margit stuttered some more, and after a pause she half-heartedly added, "You look remarkably young for your age . . ." Margit turned red behind her grimace.

Ursula looked at her with a frown. Margit was almost a full head shorter than she, and here on the stairs they were eye to eye. Margit always had several boyfriends, she was always talking about them. Ursula sighed.

"There was a boy in Magdeburg, before the war. But my father said he was not worthy. Since then there has been no real time or stability—we moved so many times to stay ahead of the wars."

"Wait just a second, Ursula. You've been here for two years. And you've been working this awful schedule that prevents you from meeting anyone. You've had plenty of time to meet someone." She turned coyly. "Or even several some ones." She finished with a girlish giggle.

Ursula had little patience with girlish giggles. "Life is what it is, and life is what it shall be. And that's all there is to it. No more. No less. That's all life is." She shrugged and began to climb the stairs.

She trotted past Ursula and once again blocked her path. "That's your father talking. The famous Eeyore Volz. The man with the darkest disposition in town."

"He's a very practical man, Margit. He's provided for us even in the worst of times, since before Magdeburg. You know he got my mother and me out of the city before the siege. He sold everything, cancelled his lease, and moved away. He had the foresight to act before . . ."

Margit grew quiet. "I had a cousin and an uncle there."

"My father is very smart, Margit. We were in three different cities and towns before we moved to Magdeburg. In each one of them, we moved out before something terrible happened. Papa was able to figure it out, before it happened. We think he is very smart, and that has kept us alive and together as a family."

"But he never smiles. I have never once seen him smile. People stay away from him."

"People don't talk to Papa very often. Mr. Blackwell, who owns the funeral home where Papa works, said most people won't talk to you much when they find out what you do. I'm sure that's why. And we never really had many friends, no matter where we lived. Papa said that suits him just fine, too."

Margit put her hands on her hips and looked Ursula in the eyes. Her short red hair and freckles made her look far younger than she really was. "What am I going to do with you, Ursula Volz?"

"There is nothing you need to do. Things are just fine the way they are."

Margit turned and began bouncing up the stairs. "Maybe. Maybe not." She turned and looked back at Ursula. "But I am not going to let you be an old maid without getting you to have some fun." She skipped off around the corner.

Ursula stood on the stairs for a moment before heading up after Margit. Together they found the spill in the hallway, and then, as usual, Ursula continued to the third floor of the mansion, where they told her the "ballroom" used to be.

Rolf Burger, the night guard was at his post. He had a tiny desk and chair with a logbook where people signed in and out. His post at the top of the stairs put him between a heavy door and the hallway. Ursula was never really sure why they had the extra guard up here. The Department of Economic Affairs had something to do with money, she supposed from the name. Although she never saw any money there. As he saw her coming around the corner, he was already taking the keys off of his belt.

"So how is my fine, beautiful Ursula Volz this evening?" Rolf Burger was pushing sixty-five, had no teeth, and a twinkle in his eye. A mixer. That's what Ursula's mother had said when she described him. A mixer. Mostly harmless.

"I am fine, Herr Burger"

"What's a beautiful girl like you doing in a place like this?"

"Working at her job, Herr Burger." She signed in on his log book. As he let her in, purposely he brushed against her as he backed the door open. He grinned a toothless smile at her as she stepped back. She cast her eyes at the floor and went into the hallway. There was a long hall with a half-dozen doors on both sides. She sat about her tasks as quickly and efficiently as possible, methodically working through one office at a time. Trash, feather dust, sweep, repeat. She settled into a calm rhythm, so when she opened one of the doors to what she thought was an empty office, she was startled to see a huskily built man hunched in front of one of the computers. The screen cast the only light in the office.

"Oh. Excuse me. I didn't know you were here. I can come back later—"

"No. That's quite all right. I don't think we've met before. What's your name?" He stood.

Ursula was still surprised by the up-timer forwardness. The man was very friendly; all up-timers seemed to be. At least the ones she had met. She quickly looked at his hand to see if he had one of the up-time marriage bands. She was relieved when she saw he did. When her eyes went back to his face, they were observing her carefully. She immediately felt the blush, and looked at the floor. "Ursula Volz, sir"

"My name is Grady. Dennis Grady. Nice to meet you, Ursula. I'm sorry I startled you. I was just finishing up some work. You can just skip my office for tonight."

"Yes, sir." She backed out of the room and closed the door. In a few more minutes she had completed the floor, and she headed for the guard station. She opened the door to find Rolf sipping a hot beverage, with an up-time device steaming in the background. "Cup of coffee?"

Ursula's eyebrows raised. "Where in the world did you get that thing?"

"One of the ladies in the kitchen gave it to me. She said it was broken, so I took it to the tinker. You know we have one here now? He fixed it. The original glass is broken, so I use this ceramic mug. It only makes two cups at a time. This is the first night I have brought it to work."

"That's nice, Rolf. It smells good, too."

From behind her a masculine voice spoke up. "It sure does, Rolf. Smells darn good." Dennis Grady inhaled through his nose, enjoying the aroma.

"Hi, Mr. Grady. Do you want some too?"

Grady looked at the mug wishfully. "Going to have to take a pass. I need that stuff in the morning, not last thing at night before I go to bed. Sure smells good though."

Rolf's rubbery face lit up, and he turned to Ursula. "I have made this for my Ursula tonight, too. She knows I am in love with her, but she will never acknowledge it."

Ursula blushed and looked at the floor, as the old mercenary soldier flirted shamelessly. "Herr Burger, you are full of—poop, as the Americans say." She looked up at him and smiled, like she usually did. "How is your wife at home? I hear she was feeling ill last week? And your grandchildren, how are they?" She quickly glanced over to Herr Grady, and he smiled at her. She blushed again.

Rolf put his hand to his heart and looked crushed. "Oh, Ursula, what am I to do? You are about the only person who comes up here to see me at night. You never ask about how poor old Rolf is doing, you ask about my wife, my grandchildren, but not poor old Rolf. What am I to do?" His rubbery face was pouting and grinning all at the same time.

"Herr Burger. I ask about your wife and grandchildren to remind you it is not polite to flirt with younger women, especially single younger women. One of these days I will tell your wife how you are a shameless flirt with me."

The active rubbery grin left Rolfs face, and left only a pout with twinkling eyes remaining. "She already knows I'm an old goat, my dear." He laughed. "Just don't tell Eeyore, he might look at me and after a while I would jump off the ring wall cliff, I would be so depressed." He continued to grin.

Rolf seldom mentioned her father. Her mild irritation with the old guard was usually playful, but tonight, between him and Margit, Grady, and the spill, she'd had about enough. "My father is a good man who provides an important service to the town. He is not this 'Eeyore,' he is wise. And you should remember that, Herr Burger."

He looked hurt, his pout disappeared, and his eyes softened. "I meant no offence; it's just he is always so pessimistic. So sad. And it rubs off on you too, my dear, you are too young for that. Live a little, have some fun. Soon you will be old like me, and your life will be gone." He brightened and sat with mock suggestiveness on his stool. "However, I am not dead yet, my dear. Come and sit on my lap and . . ."

She turned on her heel and stormed down the stairs, leaving the two men. She was headed for the basement where she could cool off and put her equipment away. She knew she shouldn't let Rolf get to her that way, especially in front of an important up-timer. When she came down the first floor steps, she saw Margit sitting casually on the guard's desk, swinging her feet. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked at Margit. Happy, carefree Margit.

And she was old stick-in-the-mud Ursula.

Ursula thought.

She made a decision.

Quickly, before Ursula could change her mind, she stalked over to where Margit was sitting, still swinging her legs like a ten-year-old. "Tonight," she whispered darkly to Margit, "we go out after work."

As Ursula walked away from Margit and Marcus, she turned and looked back. Both looked stunned.

****

"Hey, everyone. I want you to meet my friend Ursula. Everyone, say hi to Ursula!" The little Sycamore Street Pub erupted in smiles and "Hello, Fraulein Ursula" from everyone who was there. Margit pushed Ursula from behind, and she stumbled into the room. She hadn't been in a place like this since she had been asked to fetch her father from a pub like this when she was a girl. She couldn't have been more than six or seven. She remembered the smell of the stale beer spilled on the coarse wood floor, the almost choking cloud of tobacco smoke, and the close feeling of the air inside. She hesitated again, and began to turn toward the door. Margit grabbed her and spun her back around.

"No, you don't, girl. You said you were coming in here with me, and I am making you keep your word."

"I have kept my word. I have come in. Now I want to leave."

"Not until you have had one drink, and meet my new boyfriend. I know he has friends here tonight. He is sooooo cute. He's French, you know. I think he's a spy." Margit giggled at Ursula. "C'mon, just one drink."

"Why would you go out with him if you thought he was a spy?"

"Don't be silly. Almost everyone in here is a spy. For one side or the other, sometimes three or four sides at once. Good Lord, Ursula, if they threw all of the spies out of Grantville, there wouldn't be enough men to go around."

"But, spies, Margit? It doesn't seem right to fraternize with the spies."

"Follow me." Margit took her in tow, and dragged her toward a table in the back of the dimly lit bar. "I want you to meet someone."

"But-but—"

Margit dragged her to the table which had three men sitting around it. One was older, maybe in his mid-thirties, tall and with a handsome face. At least the amount of face she could see in the dim lighting of the lamps. The other two were younger in their early- or mid-twenties. They were dressed in plain clothing. Not something a laborer would wear, but more like traveling clothes. Practical, and not fancy. They all knew Margit. One of the younger men stood as Margit approached.

"Here you are, my dear Margit. Who's your most charming friend? Is this the beautiful Ursula we have been hearing about?" Ursula was glad it was dark, as she could feel her face glowing with embarrassment.

"Francois, this is why I love you. You are the consummate male."

"Is it because of my French accent, or my other—'special powers of love' that makes you love me so?"

Margit drew herself up to her full five feet, and presented the Frenchman with a visage as haughty as a diminutive German farm girl could possibly make, and said. "If you think you are ever getting into my knickers without a betrothal, Francois, then you have not been paying attention these last two months." The other two at the table laughed out loud, and Francois looked hurt.

"I only have eyes for you, Margit."

"Nice try, Francois. The answer is still no."

The other men within earshot laughed as loud as the two who were at the table. Margit grabbed a chair from nearby, shoved it up to the table between the older man and Francois, and pushed Ursula unceremoniously onto the seat. "Sit here, girl. You have met Francois, across from you is Pitor, and next to you is Ian." Ursula recovered enough to respond with a bit of dignity. "Herr, Ian. Herr Pitor, how very nice to meet you both." She turned to Margit. "Can we go now?"

Margit plopped herself down on Francois' lap and put her arms around his neck. "Not yet. You promised to have a drink first. Who's buying it?" She looked at Ian and nodded. "I think its Ian's turn at the bar."

Ian nodded in her direction, and replied with a subtle hint of sarcasm. "Of course Margit, anything for you." He turned to Ursula. He seemed a little more reserved than the other two, and he had a distinguished-sounding English accent, very different from the up-timers. "Ursula, what can I get for you?"

His gaze was gentle but penetrating. His voice had a lyrical quality which surprised her. Masculine and wise. Not wise like her father, but wise is a different way. Worldly, strong. She caught herself blushing, and instantly felt like a duck out of water, awkward and stumbling around on webbed feet. She desperately tried to think of what she should order. She felt rising panic. Then he spoke again.

"Tell you what. I'll get you what I think you might like. I'll order for you. Will that be all right?"

She was certain her blush would be illuminating the room, and everyone at the table could hear her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Then she thought of Rolf, the guard at the mansion. Ursula was determined not to be an old maid, not if she could help it. She took a breath, found the will, and looked up at Ian. "Th-thank you. That would be very nice."

"No, I don't think so Ian," interrupted Margit. She turned to Ursula. "The last time he ordered for me, he came back with a tankard of some homegrown redeye made by the Haygood clan. Almost knocked me off of my chair with the first drink."

Ian looked rather betrayed at the accusation. "That was a drink for you, Margit. This lady is obviously very different, and respectable. I was going to get her one of the house pilsner, like the Yanks drink." He stood and turned to go to the bar, subtly winking at Ursula as he rose from his seat.

Margit shifted in Francois' lap. "Did he just say I'm not respectable?"

"I'm sure not," replied Francois with a grin. "However you may remember the Haygood Redeye was meant to be sipped. As I recall my love, you took a prodigious swig the first time he gave it to you." He turned to the others at the table. "It wasn't pretty."

Everyone laughed, including Ursula, who gasped when she realized she was having fun! Her! Ursula Volz, the one who never had any fun. The daughter of Eeyore Volz. She was still frightened, shy, even overwhelmed . . . but. She was having fun. A gleeful and satisfied smile was creeping onto her face when she turned and looked at Ian, returning to the table with their drinks. Her heart started thumping again, quite on its own accord.

June, 1635, Grantville

Karol Volz was not feeling like a happy man. That, by itself, was perfectly normal. Karol Volz was never happy. But today, very early in the dark of the morning, he was more unhappy than usual, to the point of upset. Over the past two months, his daughter Ursula had been coming home later from work than was normal. It started out just once in a while at first, then it became more and more frequent. Now, for the first time, she had stayed out for five nights in a row. She always helped her mother with the sewing, just as she should, without fail. She always made it home, but she smelled of pipe smoke and beer. Karol knew she was meeting friends after work, at a small pub called The Sycamore Street Pub, which as one could tell from the clever name, was located on Sycamore Street. Karol harrumphed. This wasn't the sort of thing a woman should do no matter how old. She said she was with her co-workers, and staying out late was an American tradition she needed to follow. But enough was enough. He had not suffered and wandered war-torn Germany to bring his daughter to a place where all she did was drink and carouse. It was not right. Behaving in such a way was weak, and could lead to complacency. His family was not weak, and they would never be complacent. Not as long as he was alive.

Granted, the two years spent in Grantville have been the best in many years. It was comfortable, they had enough to eat, and he had steady employment building elegant wooden coffins which occasionally challenged his talents as a cabinetmaker. He was well paid. Central heating in their tiny apartment. Plumbing from the twenty-first century. It was very comfortable.

They had no friends, only knew a few people, and he liked it that way. If you became too settled, you became weak, which led to being complacent, which inevitably led to tragedy. Always vigilant, always prepared to survive. That was the struggle of life in this time, and anyone who thought differently was a fool.

He heard the sounds of conversation at the door in the hallway. Quietly he picked up the sputtering candle and moved to the door. He put his head against it to listen.

". . . nice time as usual, Ian. Thank you for walking me home again. You don't have to do it though. I was walking home for two years before I met you."

"As always, it's my pleasure to do so." There was a pause.

Karol opened the door and looked at the two of them. Ian was holding his daughter's hand and was bending to kiss it. The candle held below Karol's countenance made it look as if his disembodied head was floating in the darkness. Both Ian and Ursula jumped back, Ian dropped her hand.

"Papa! This-this is a surprise."

He responded with a small grunt.

"Papa, have you ever met Ian? Ian, this is my Papa, Karol Volz. Papa, this is Ian. He is a-a friend."

Another small grunt. He looked at this Ian fellow, slowly, up and down. Karol didn't like the way he was dressed, the way he stood, or the way he smelled. He liked nothing about the man. He sounded foreign. Foreigners are never a good sign.

Ian tuned to Karol and extended his hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Herr Volz. I've heard many things about you. Your daughter says you're a wonderful man, very intelligent."

Karol let the man's hand hang in the air, and raised his candle to the man's face to get a good look. He was handsome in a way. Which made it all the more improbable his intentions toward Ursula were honorable. Karol gave a slightly more definitive grunt which registered his displeasure, then looked at his daughter and tossed his head in the direction of the door. She immediately went in, leaving him and Ian alone in the doorway. Karol gestured for the Englishman to come closer, and he whispered a monotone into his ear.

"If you do anything to hurt her, you will pay."

Karol leaned back and again put the candle up to the face of the Englishman, and watched for a reaction. The fact there was none told Karol all he needed to know. He's masking his reactions, his intentions are far from honorable. He is a skilled liar. Karol kept his face passive as he read the man's reactions. As he brought the candle back to his face, he said simply and flatly. "Understand?"

"Perfectly." Ian then looked past Karol, into the darkness of the apartment where Ursula was waiting, out of sight. "I will see you on Monday night, Ursula. Thank you for a wonderful evening."

"Thank you," replied Ursula timidly from the darkness, as Ian retreated down the hallway.

Karol closed the door and grunted again, softly, with worry. He held the candle below his drooping face, and turned to seek out Ursula, who appeared out of the shadows. Without changing expression, he simply said, "I forbid you to see him."

Ursula whispered angrily. "You can't do that. Not here. Not in Grantville. Things are different here. I am different here."

"There is no discussion. I forbid you to see him."

"Papa. I am old enough to make these decisions for myself. It's important I keep seeing him; I'm enjoying life for a change, Papa. Can you understand?"

Karol stepped toward Ursula so quickly, she retreated a step. He whispered harshly. "That man is false. He will hurt you."

"So what? So what if he hurts me? That's my choice, not yours. You don't think I know he's full of-of—poop most of the time?

"Keep your voice down. You'll wake your mother."

"Do you understand why this is important to me, Papa? I need to do this. I need to do this now. Here in this place. Grantville. This is our home now, Papa"

"Our home is where I say it will be!" His voice was barely contained. "We're staying here for now. It's comfortable. Too comfortable I think, for our own good. It has clouded your judgment. The evil world is still out there, Ursula. And it can come roaring down the street any time of the day or night, like the horsemen of the apocalypse. We need to be prepared to move on at a moment's notice, fleeing before whatever army or plague is coming next. There is always an army or a plague coming. Being involved with people only slows you down. It clouds your judgment. Stay separate from the community, and live off of it. You must not become attached."

"I don't want to be a parasite on where I live. I want to live here, not just exist. I want to be part of this community, to grow. This is a special place."

"Special? All you do is pick up people's trash in the evening."

"You just don't understand, Papa. You just don't understand."

"You are wrong, Ursula. I do understand. I understand perfectly well what you wish. It's you who fail to understand the consequences of what you wish for. You know I'm right. We've escaped from how many towns before they were destroyed? Three? That boy, back in Magdeburg. Is he alive now? No. He is dead in the ground. Rotting flesh, if there was any flesh left from the fires. What would have happened if we—or you—had stayed behind because of a feeling of fondness for him? Or his family? Or our neighbors?" He paused and looked at the candle, the single source of light in a very dark room. He took a breath and looked his daughter in the eyes. "There are two states of being. Life and death. Don't give me any religious crap. When you die, you go to the same place you were before you were born. Nothingness. So if we flee, if we live like parasites, it is because we must. To survive. To live."

He could see Ursula's eyes full of tears in the dim light, and she snuffled. "There's got to be more, Papa. There's got to be more . . ."

He placed the candle on the table, and put his strong arms around her. "There is no 'more.' Only family, and to survive. Stay away from him, and all the other entanglements and snares in this place. We must be able to think clearly."

"I can't, Papa."

"I will not leave you behind."

"You won't have to. When and if the time comes to leave, I will be there with you and Mama. You have my word, Papa. My solemn oath. But I must keep seeing him. It is very important."

Karol broke the embrace, and looked at his daughter. Her features were difficult to make out in the light of the fading candle. "Is there something you are not telling me?"

"No, Papa."

"You are not with child?"

"NO, PAPA!" she gasped. "I would never. We would have to sue him for support for the child. That would be an entanglement."

"Go to sleep now. In the morning, in the light of day, this won't seem so bad. I have an errand I want you to run in the morning."

"Yes, Papa."

He grunted his goodnight.

****

Ursula squinted against the bright sunshine as she made her way into the heart of Grantville. Ollie Reardon's machine shop was easy to spot. It was one of the largest in town, near where the railroad tracks used to be, before they were torn up and used for the ironclads. The large metal sided building was confusing, and she did not know where the office was located. There was a group of men outside one of the big roll-up doors, who looked to be taking a break. They all squatted on the ground, or perched on various pieces of scrap in the side yard of the shop. She timidly approached one of the men standing away from the others, reading.

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where to find the office? I have some hinges from my father . . ."

The man looked up from his reading, a thick book with very small printing. It looked to be some sort of a technical book, and he had been studying it closely. "Of course. It's right through the door here, and to the right, follow the path with the yellow lines, the office is just past the line boring machine and the old . . ." He stopped and looked at her expression. "Never mind, just follow me."

"Thank you, sir."

"No need to call me 'sir'". My name is Heinrich. Heinrich Fremd. Haven't seen you around town before."

They walked toward the door. "My name is Ursula. Ursula Volz. We have lived here for two years."

Heinrich got a twinkle in his eye. "That is a shocking name, Miss—it is "Miss" isn't it—Volz?" She nodded, blushing slightly as they passed into the shop. "I guess you hear that joke all the time."

"What joke is that, Heinrich?"

"You know, Volts. Shocking? Volts can Hertz you? There have got to be a million of those up-timer jokes." The expression on her face must have given it away. "You have no idea what I am talking about, do you?"

"No, Heinrich, I don't."

"Seriously?"

Ursula felt mortified. If it had been two months ago, before she started going out after work, stretching herself, she would have fled this embarrassing encounter in tears. But today: "Heinrich. I-I . . . You are embarrassing me." The last part came out stronger than she meant it to, and poor Heinrich looked stunned.

Heinrich stopped and turned to her in the middle of the quiet shop. He was blushing. "I'm terribly sorry. I assumed you were an old Grantville hand after two years. Please forgive my forward behavior. I apologize, I'm not that sort of an oaf. Although I'm acting like it." He bowed at her briefly, as a courtier might, in the middle of the machine shop. "I must make it up to you. We need to start over. Could I buy you lunch tomorrow as an apology? Please?"

She saw the office door just ahead of her. "Thank you Herr Fremd. I appreciate the guidance. But I can make it to the office by myself now."

"And lunch? Tomorrow?"

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob to the office, and turned to him. "Why not? I'll meet you at Billy's Diner tomorrow at noon." She really liked the cute expression on his face, a combination of embarrassment, happiness, and now worry. What on earth could he be worried about? She went into the office and closed the door behind her, a quick glance told her he was still standing in the aisle, with the same dumb-cute look on his face.

****

The end-of-break bell rang, and men started going back to the machines. The bell shook Heinrich out of his trance. "What in the hell did you just do, Heinrich? You idiot." He started walking back to his machine, shaking his head slowly.

"Hey, hang on there a minute, Heinrich. You sure were nice to that young lady. Although she looked like she wanted to run away for a moment or two." His foreman, Grant Matowski, was flagging him down. "What did you say to her?"

"I made a stupid joke about her last name. It is Volz, so I made a very lame joke about volts and hertz—"

"Her name is Volz? Holy shit, it's true. Eeyore does have a daughter. Wait a second. You didn't ask her out did you?"

Heinrich shifted uncomfortably. "I had to, after I embarrassed her. Lunch is all. Billy's Diner tomorrow. And who is E-hore?"

Grant started laughing. "EE-Yore. You know, the melancholy donkey? Surely you know Eeyore Volz, the saddest man in town? Oh, I remember now. You don't go to funerals. Or church."

"Let's not start that again, Grant . . ."

Late August, 1635, Grantville

Elsa Volz looked at her daughter across the kitchen table which doubled as a sewing table in their small apartment. The apartment, while very tiny, had one major advantage, the large south-facing window in the kitchen. The large window allowed Elsa and Ursula to sew from dawn to dusk. Elsa looked carefully at her daughter. She seemed very tired, her eyes were red, and there were circles under her eyes. He hands were steady, so Elsa knew it probably wasn't alcohol. She had lost weight. She came to bed late, and awoke before anyone else. Elsa leaned back from her work and looked out the window.

"You look tired, Ursula. Have you been feeling well?"

"I'm okay."

"Have you been sleeping well?"

"Enough."

"I see." Elsa went back to her sewing for several moments, the only sound was of rustling cloth. She put it aside again. This time she looked at her daughter, not out the window.

"Your father says you are 'dating' three men."

Ursula flinched. "Ouch. I stabbed myself with a needle. Silly me." She popped her thumb into her mouth, sucking on it to stop the small blood flow.

The room was very quiet now, and Elsa leaned forward toward her daughter. "Care to explain to me how you are dating three men? At the same time?"

"I am not 'dating' three men at the same time. Daddy is overreacting. I have only seen two, and one of them only once. I don't know where he gets the third one."

"Go on."

"Well, you know about Ian. He's just a friend from work. He doesn't work there, but he hangs out at the place we go after work most of the time. We're just friends."

"Your father said he caught him kissing you?"

"That's silly. On the hand, yes. But he's English. They do that sort of thing."

"And what does this Englishman do to make a living?"

"Mother, it is not like I am planning on marrying him or anything. He's a student of sorts, and he does research about Grantville, and he corresponds with his home."

"So he has no normal job?"

"His job is not normal."

"And this mystery man from the south? The one who has a regular job at the machine shop? Who says his name is Fremd?"

"Has Daddy been following me?"

"He heard you went to lunch with him. Is this true?"

"Yes, Mama. It's true. But we met at a public place, and he just bought me lunch, he wanted to apologize to me for embarrassing me at the machine shop. He's really very sweet."

"Do you know he's not married, yet cares for three children? Three he 'adopted' after Magdeburg."

"He told me about it at lunch. He positively dotes on those children."

"Parents are known to do that now and again." Elsa trailed dry and loving humor through her last remark.

Ursula finally looked up and smiled. "I have heard that now and again, about parents."

They both went back to sewing ...