When she opened the box, Lisa Ochai hadn't been sure what she would find, or who it was from. The package that had been left on the doorstep had been hand-delivered, that was certain, but they had come and gone like a thief in the night.

 Now she knew the answer to both questions, and for a moment, she could only wonder how he had found it; she had buried it deep in a muddy field the night she left, unable to wear it any longer. She could have traded it, perhaps, but it would have felt like too much like she was still reliant on his charity, so she had knelt in the rain and buried it with the last of her love for him.

 And then she realised that the collar in the box was thicker than hers had been, and it had the clean shine of fresh-minted gold. A replica then, but made by someone who'd seen a torq before.

 Lisa was only a breath away from hurling the whole cruel prank into the trash right then, but a moment of nostalgia got the better of her. She lifted it out, unaware of the expression on her face, a mix of wonder and pain.

 The torq was a bent circle of metal that could be wrenched apart where the two ends met, a simple necklace that had been a sign of success and wealth in Bronze Age Britain.

 It had been a mark of her slavery, once, though she hadn't viewed it as slavery at the time. Her manacles had been lies, her cage bounded by foolish devotion. She had worn the torq with pride, showing off her soulmate's riches and status: even his slaves were chained with gold.

 But...

 She frowned. He had attached something to the front of it with a link of gold chain that looked like-

 It was. Her locket: the silver was green with age, and it was no replica.

 She felt shock at seeing it, as if he had flung a corpse at her feet, raddled with mud and mould.

  Her breath trembled against her lips, her certainty stolen by this trinket of an old life. He had kept it - he must have picked it up from the ground where she had thrown it. And all this time, all the lives he must have had, changing like a kaleidoscope, he'd taken it with him.

 What had compelled him to keep it? He'd had no need for it.

 Perhaps because it was the only piece of her he still had. Perhaps a sign of his triumph, or failure, however you wanted to look at it.

 The locket had been a gift from Alexandros, a gift that commissioned from Asian silversmiths during the last glory days of the Empire, before Rome's power began to wane, before dissent trampled democracy. It was Nightfire who had sent him to Nubia and to her, but it was the Roman Empire which had sent him to Britain, where she discovered the man her soulmate really was.

 It was an isosceles triangle, no longer than her thumb, hinged at the base. When she'd been given it, it had been engraved with symbols for protection and long life by a witch.

 Well, those long life spells worked a charm, but the protection spell was a dud. It certainly didn't protect me from Alex.

 She tried to open it, but it was held shut by the dirt. That puzzled her, and kindled her anger. Why drag it the world over but never bother to scrape off the dirt?

 Probably because he didn't have anyone to do it for him, she thought sourly.

 It had been more than a lover's token; it had had to be. No one could suspect his slave was more than a warm body with deft hands. She had worn it on a thin leather cord around her wrist, and told the few observant enough to spot it that it was a souvenir of her homeland, a reward for her loyal service. Only one man had dared ask further, and his questions had been quickly stilled.

 For lovely as it was, the locket had been filled with poison, for those who Alex could not charm, bribe or threaten into obedience.  Suspicious warlords ringed themselves with spearmen and made sure her soulmate brought nothing dangerous into negotiations, but no one thought to question a slave.

 And so when Alex had come up against a foe he could not move, he would send her a telepathic whisper, light as a cobweb, and a pinch of the powder would go into that man's drink as she refilled it, unnoticeable in the strong alcohol. A few days later, when they were long gone, he would begin to sicken. And weak men did not last long in a land being ripped into bloody pieces by the British and the Saxons.

 A deferent murderess, she had moved among them almost unnoticed. If they looked at anything, it was at the colour of her skin and the riches that hung on her arms and neck, and they soon tired of seeing both.

 Lisa could not say now why she had done it. If he hadn't been a werewolf, she would have said Alex had bewitched her, but he had only claimed to love her; it had been just as potent as any hex a witch could cast.

 Sometimes she tired to justify it to herself. She always failed.  

 ~*~

 She detached it from the torq, and found an old bottle of cleaner. Slowly, she began to scour the dirt from it as if she was stripping off the years, reducing them to grime on a rag.

 That was odd...underneath the initial layer of dirt, the silver was burnished and smooth. He had cleaned it, and then covered it in loam and dust. Why?

 To fool me, she thought. Because he knew if it had been clean, I would probably have thrown all of it out. He still knows something about me, even though a dozen civilisations have come and gone since we last spoke.

 There's something he wants me to find.

 Anticipation sharpened her senses; chemical cleaner wafting through the air, an expectant - or so it seemed - silence in the house, and her locket, restored to simple beauty. She eased a fingernail under the top of the triangle and opened the catch.

 She half expected poison to fly out at her, and was startled to find she'd turned her face away.

 But there was only a small folded piece of paper. She pulled it out. Modern paper. The top of a newspaper from the looks of it, just the margin and-

The date. Two days ago.

 He'd written in Latin, in the same brusque style he'd always had.

 Oh yes, he wants me to know it's him. I was wrong - this isn't a prank. This is all for real.

 She read the words over and over. Even the brief effort of trying to think in Latin again could not diminish the impact of his words:

 In the sunlit room, she shivered.

Lyrics from The Calling's song "Wherever You Will Go"