14 January 1987

Vieux Carre, New Orleans

"It be war," Remy whispered to himself as he looked at the streets.

To the casual tourist, the streets of the French Quarter would have seemed unnaturally quiet, like the vibrant town had taken a siesta. Remy, attuned to the subtle undercurrents, knew that this was not the case. The atmosphere was thick with tension. Awash with fear, expectancy and anger, the air moved like a sluggish river, permeating the stones of the buildings and the souls of the people.

"Maybe it won't come ta that," Rogue suggested, "Maybe they'll find a peaceable way ta solve their problems."

She was curled up next to him on the window-seat, sharpening a wicked-looking knife with a whetstone. The tip of her tongue stuck out of her mouth in a tiny pink point as she concentrated her attention on her task.

"I doubt it, chere."

"Yeah, so do Ah. Who was this Belladonna?"

Remy turned to look at her, suppressing the doubt that rose up in his chest.

::She be good wit' daggers . . . . Jus' like de one dat killed Bella. Poignard even said it - 'ya be more dan a match f'r any assassin'.::

"De heir apparent t'de Assassin's Guild."

"Did ya know her, sugah?"

A girl with a sunny smile and golden hair. Her intriguing, violet eyes as she looked at him., beckoned and ran into the garden. Mon soleil, he had called her, my sunshine. They had been twelve at the time. The peace between Assassin and Thief seemed to be cemented, since their two councils had met and exchanged gifts. Unfortunately, the promises made in the First Convention of the Guilds had crumbled under the rigors of ancient hatred. One could change the official policy, without changing the status quo. Once the street-fighting began again, the two children were forbidden to see each other. They never thought to question their parents' ruling, or, if they did, never acted upon their doubts. Mon soleil had been eclipsed by the mightier force of tradition and hatred.

"We used t'be friends."

"Ah'm sorry," she replaced the dagger in its sheath, putting it on the table beside her.

"Oui," Remy shrugged, moving instinctively closer to her, "Hope I don' lose anymore o' m'nearest an' dearest."

She placed her hand in his, resting her head on his shoulder. Tentatively, he encircled her with his free arm, feeling the gentle curve where waist swelled to hip.

"Family means a lot ta y'all," she said at last, "Ah mean, ta ya an' ya clan."

"As I said, chere, love be de only t'ing worth dyin' for," his voice was low, "Be it romantic or filial."

The tension swelled, becoming unbearable, filling the spaces in their conversation, straining the seams of politeness.

"Ah think Ah'm startin' ta understan' what ya mean, hon," Rogue replied, expectancy coloring her features.

::Maybe I'll regret dis t'morrow, but it be better dan certain regret 'bout not doin' it.::

Cupping her cheek with a hand, he leant over and kissed her squarely on the mouth. She smelt of soap and flowers - a fresh fragrance that leant the moment innocence. Rogue started, eyes wide with surprise, but placed her arms around his neck. A loose strand of white hair tickled his cheek, bringing with it the rich scent of apple shampoo.

She broke the contact, touching her lips with a nervous hand, laughing uneasily. The moment hung between them in tenuous perfection, needing nothing else to make it complete. Yet, nature could not hold it and it became absurd.

"I'm sorry . . . . I shouldn't have done dat," Remy muttered, fidgeting with his gloves.

::But I'm not an' I should have.::

Smiling mischievously, Rogue kissed him, and the moment regained some of its symmetry.

"Now we're even, leBeau," she teased, challenging him to make the next move.

"I t'ink dat . . . ." he stopped, horrified, "Dieudedieudedieu. . . ."

Remy released her, pressing both palms and nose to the glass in order to see more clearly. On the streets, two figures were dragging a third limp one into the Guild Hall. A smear of red marked his painful passage, and he did not appear to be breathing.

"What's wrong?" she reached for the dagger on the table, and came to kneel next to him.

"C'est Denis (It's Denis)," Remy murmured, "Il est mort (He is dead)."

Cimetaire des Assassins, New Orleans

Sarabeth O'Connor reverently placed the knife in front of the Bordeaux's crypt. Made of expensive creamy marble, the family crest was carved into the heavy door. A well-tended flowerbed, filled with roses, bordered the tomb on both sides. On top of the crypt, a beautiful seraph stretched her six wings to heaven, holding up her hands to the sun.

Dressed in green velvet, Sarabeth's pale-gray eyes were filled with tears. Her curly, auburn hair shone like fire against her ghost-pale skin.

"I did it, Bella," she choked, "I killed one of th' leBeaus f'r ye, lass."

As a tribute, the blade seemed incongruous among the wreaths and bouquets that littered the tomb. Sniffling slightly, she plucked some hardy flowers from the garden and arranged them around the bundle, framing it. Lovingly, she stroked the icy gold of the plaque that marked Belladonna's burial, reading the words: 'Too soon was she taken from us. Too soon was our sun dimmed.'

Street outside Vitemain leBeau's home, New Orleans

Rogue pulled her thick jacket tighter around herself as she made her way along the street. Her breath misted in the cold evening air and the icy rain of a few days ago had gone to flurries.

::Almost there, sugah.:: she encouraged herself, feeling in her pocket to check that the letter was still there.

Jean-Luc leBeau had given it to her to deliver to his brother, Vitemain, telling her that it was a matter of vital importance. He had thought that the assassins would not recognize her and therefore perhaps let her pass unhindered.

She stopped before a graceful house, whose antebellum architecture harked back to older, more glamorous days. The single lamp burning by the door cast a pool of light over the doorstep. Shivering, she knocked on the mahogany door.

Presently, it opened a fraction and a buxom brunette peered out through the crack. Her dark eyes were frightened with the abject terror of the ignorant.

"Si, senorita? (Yes, miss?)"

"Ah've got a message for Vitemain, from Jean-Luc."

"Wait. "

Without a further word of explanation, the door slammed shut. Through the thick wood, Rogue heard muffled voices, arguing and pleading by turn.

" . . . Killed Belladonna. Her fault . . . war . . . assassins."

"Jean-Luc . . . know . . . ."

". . . Be set-up. . . . chica . . . working . . . Eternal. . . ."

". . . If is . . . be . . . pleasure . . . killing . . . fille. . . ."

Rogue leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Her knees wobbled beneath her and she was scared that they would fail her. Horrified understanding blossomed in her chest.

::They think Ah did it. They think Ah killed Belladonna.::

The door swung open again and a wiry man exited. His thick, red-hair extended onto his cheeks in two sideburns, framing a hawk-like nose and wintery eyes. He smiled at her, thin lips quirking upwards.

"Ya be Rogue. Jean-Luc has told me all about ya."

"Yeah," she nodded her head, "He sent me ta give you this."

She rummaged in her pocket for the letter, noticing the wariness on his features. Vitemain LeBeau looked like he wanted to bolt.

::Does he think Ah'm gonna pull a gun on him?::

Favoring him with an ingenuous smile, learnt from Remy, she handed him the crumpled piece of paper. Not taking his left eye off her for a second, leBeau scanned the paper with his right one, before placing it in his pocket.

"Ya know what dis paper says, chere?" he said at length, fixing her gaze with his, "It says dat anotha t'ief die soon, 'less we do somet'ing 'bout it. De assassins tell Jean-Luc dat if we don' turn Bella's murderer over t'dem by t'morrow evening, dey kill another o' our children. One f'r each day dat her killer remains on de streets."

::Lawd, Ah don't like where this is leadin'. . . .::

His lips tightened, "I say, salope, why take de chance? Why not hand her - ya - over now? Let justice be done . . . ."

Rogue was suddenly aware of dark-clad figures surrounding her in the narrow street. Appearing from every shadowed crevice and corner, they carried a motley assortment of weapons - staffs, bottles and baseball bats - and wore a standard grim expression.

::Jean-Luc set me up.::

Jean-Luc leBeau's office,

Thieves' Guild

New Orleans

"YA DID WHAT?" Remy's effulgent eyes flared as he turned on his father.

Jean-Luc regarded his youngest son with tenderness. In some ways, he was so innocent, so vulnerable to the changing tides of politics and relationships. leBeau needed to set the matter before Remy, as it had been set before him. After yawning inelegantly, the leader sipped his double espresso and motioned for Remy to sit.

"Let me explain . . . ."

"Explain what?" Remy interrupted as he angrily pulled out the chair and sat in it, "Dat ya delivered Rogue inta de hands o' de assassins? Dat ya signed her death-warrant?"

"Ya be actin' like a selfish marmot (brat)," his voice rose slightly. He was exhausted and did not enjoy having his decisions questioned. "She be de killer an' she deserves everyt'ing she gets."

"She ain't a killer, pere."

Jean-Luc smiled wryly at him; at his sense of morality. His son had grown up among thieves and urchins, but his outmoded, misplaced honor had remained intact. How was that even possible? Surely someone as intelligent as Remy would recognize the necessity of Rogue's sacrifice, if it was explained correctly.

"Dat don' matter, son. Rogue is thought t'be de killer. She be de only one dat de assassins will accept," he placed a hand over his son's ones, "Sometimes truth be what ya need it t'be."

Remy shook his father's hand away, as if it was detestable to him, then stood, disgust written plainly on his face. Jean-Luc leBeau looked at his son in horrible pity, understanding something for the first time.

::Il s'aime. He loves her.::

In his confusion, he reached for an apt cliche that he knew would mend nothing between them. Too tired, too afraid, to broach the heart of the issue, he girded it with aphorism.

"De needs of de many must outweigh de needs of de few, or one. De assassins said dat dey'd kill one of our children f'r each day dat de murderer remained on de streets. It could be ya . . . George . . . Charmaine . . . Henri next. I had no other choice."

Wearily, he repeated it, because he wanted so much to believe it.

"Je n'ai pas un choix."

Remy smiled at him; a smile that had gone to the edge of hope and knew that nothing lay beyond.

"Nor do I, pere."

Vitemain leBeau's home,

New Orleans

Rogue drew the thin dagger from a sheath at her waist, thanking whatever suspicious instinct had caused her to wear it. The shadows solidified into men, women, students with whom she had trained and laughed.

There was no humor in their eyes now as they approached, encircling her. Rogue fought the panic that rose in her chest, remembering Mystique's advice and repeating the calming exercises which her guardian had taught her. Breathe in and out and in and out and in and . . . .

A tall, gaunt boy was the first to strike, lashing out at her with a stout iron bar. She easily dodged his clumsy attack and elbowed him in the face, sending him careening into two of his compeers. The next attacker, a brawny youth wielding a baseball bat, was dispatched with a swift kick to his gut, followed by a knee to his chin. Breathe in and out and in and out and . . . .

Numbing adrenalin - the combatant's anaesthetic of choice - coursed through her veins, and a thin film of sweat covered her face. There was no time to rest; to regroup; to recover. Breathe in and out and in and out . . . .

Grunting, Rogue clashed daggers with a petite brunette, causing sparks to shower into the night. Off-balance, her opponent was easy to upend with a single right-cross. Breathe in and out and in . . . .

Something crackled behind her and she spun to face her incautious assailant. A broken bottle gleamed wickedly in his left hand, matched by the smile in his swarthy face.

"Now-I-have-you . . . ."

"Thinkagain," she drove the dagger deep into his shoulder, causing him to swear and drop the bottle. In one fluid movement, she picked up the fallen weapon and swung it into the face of the person behind her. Breathe in and out . . . .

::Ah can't keep this up fohever. Eventually, th' law o' averages will prevail and then . . . ::

Rogue grinned, remembering something. Taking advantage of a momentary lull in the battle, she stripped off her thick gloves and stuffed them in her jacket pocket. She had not used her mutant powers for many years, after Mystique had taught her how to control them through psychological disciplines. Breathe in and . . . .

She struck, like a cobra, wrapping her hand around a fair-haired youth's face. She vaguely recognized him - one of Remy's innumerable cousins. Rabbit? Lievre? Lapin?

::Oui, je suis Lapin. (Yes, I am Lapin)::

The power coursed through her veins; renewing her strength; bringing with it strange memories as bitter as dark chocolate.

::It was f'r de good o' de Guilds, Julien. De needs o' de many outweigh de needs o' de few - or one.::

Rogue tamped them down - she would deal with them later - and concentrated on the task at hand. There were ten assailants remaining, and they seemed to be hanging back in the shadows, waiting for her to make the next move. Breathe in . . . .

::As if any student o' Mystique's would fall foh that ol' trick.::

"Watch ya back, chere," a voice called from behind her, and she heard the sickening thud of wood meeting flesh. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Remy standing over a prostate body, quarterstaff in his hand.

The part of her mind that belonged to Lapin recognized him as Sanchez. Second only to Remy in stealth, he was praised by 'Ombre' deRheims as being more silent than a thought. Breathe . . . .

"That's twice you've hauled mah butt outta th' coals, leBeau. Ah owe ya."

"Dat was one o' de oldest t'ief tricks in de book, belle," he grinned crookedly at her, "Sanchez deserved it f'r using somet'ing dat . . . cliche. Maintenant, t'dispense wit' de rest o' dis trash . . . ."

Stooping down, he retrieved some loose pebbles from the street. Eyes luminous in the dim light, he held them up to the sky. To Rogue's surprise, they began to burn, glowing like coals against his hand.

::Ah knew he was a mutant, but . . . . ::

::Pas un demon . . . .:: Lapin finished for her, and she could feel his irrational, animal dread. Breathe in and out . . . Supress his mind, his urge to flee, to runrunrun until he was far away from this place fichu (damned).

Her assailants cowered a little way down the road; crossing themselves; touching forehead, heart and collarbones.

::Je vous salue, Marie, (Hail Mary) full of grace, savior of the human race . . . .::

Scowling, she pushed Lapin's mind out of her body. He was becoming more hinderance than help, but, with the loss of his energy, her exhaustion and burning muscles returned. Breathe . . . .

"Un. Deux. Trois," Remy threw the pebbles into the air, where they exploded.

The night was lit for one brief instant, and the streets filled with the red glow of a false dawn. The boom of the explosion echoed through the Vieux Carre, causing lights to come on in the windows of every house.

"Qu'est-que c'est?" Lapin murmured groggily, massaging his head.

"I t'ink we should go, Rogue," leBeau said insistently, "Dey'll send reinforcements soon enough."

::If'n he's leadin' me inta a trap, Ah can always take him down.::

She nodded her assent, hating herself for distrusting him.

"Stay close, belle."

Her legs protested the movement as she began to run, following Remy into a shadowy alleyway. Left into a busy street, where tourists congregated, experiencing their version of New Orleans. Right into a small, sad lane where a beggar held out his cup and whined for money.

"Where we goin', sugah?"

"A friend's house."

"Can he be trusted?"

"Oui, *she* can."

Remy stopped before a small, neat house, freshly whitewashed. Petunias grew in a windowbox, serenading the night with their rainbow-colored trumpets. Running a hand through his russet hair, he grinned at Rogue.

"Here we are, cherie."

He knocked on the door and it was opened by a plump, short African-American woman with skin the color of ebony. She was ensconced in a large, purple dressing-gown and slippers.

"Remy?" she sounded concerned, "Come in."

"Tante Mattie," he said gratefully, "I'd like ya t'meet m'friend, Rogue. Rogue, dis be m'aunt."

"Pleased ta meet ya, ma'am."

"Heavens above, chile, call me Tante Mattie," Tante Mattie nodded at her, "Now come on in an' I'll fix ya both some cocoa."

The door opened into a small, crowded living-room. Ornaments and carvings of every description covered most of the table surfaces in the room. Mobiles, strung from the ceiling, swayed gently in the breeze, complemented by the gentle tinkling of wind chimes. Rogue sat nervously on the edge of one of the over-stuffed marroon chairs, while Remy sprawled on the divan.

"Sugah," she started, "Ah . . . Ah want ya t'know how much . . . . well, how much what ya did meant ta me. Ya went against yo' family foh me, an' Ah know how hard that musta been ta do."

He smiled at her from his perch, "Love be de only t'ing worth dyin' for."

::WHAT?::

She continued, words tripping out of her mouth in an attempt to cover her discomfort, "Ah didn't do it - Kill Belladonna, Ah mean - or plot with . . . with the External ta start a clan war."

::He loves me?::

"I know, chere," he said simply, "Wish I knew who did."

:: Remy loves me. Can Ah tell him? It would mean revealin' mah secret. . . . Oh, Ah don't care.::

"Ah do," she replied, avoiding his glance, "It was Lapin leBeau an' Julien Bordeaux."

"Those be some pretty strong accusations, chile," Tante Mattie commented as she reemerged holding two mugs of steaming cocoa. She handed one to Rogue. It smelt of rich chocolate and cinnamon, and she sipped it thankfully.

"I think someone else should hear this," the elderly woman said thoughtfully, "Could ya come in here, Jean-Luc?"

The slender leader of the Thieves' Guild came into the room from the kitchen. He wore an apologetic grimace, his eyes darting nervously from her to Remy and back again.

"Bonsoir, mes enfants (Good evening, my children)."

"Pere," the young thief looked surprised, "How did ya know dat we'd be here?"

"When Vitemain tol' me dat ya'd escaped his death squad, I knew dat dere was only one place in de whole o' dis city dat ya'd be safe," he gestured ineffectually with his hands, trying to encompass the room, "Ici (here). Dat don' matter though - I owe ya an apology, mademoiselle."

::He ordered me ta be killed. . . but he had no choice. He did it foh his clan. For his family. Foh Remy, Lapin an' Denis. Love is th' only thing worth killin' foh . . . .::

Rogue held out a hand to him, understanding Jean-Luc leBeau for the first time. He was weak, despite all the power he wielded. At the mercy of public opinion, he lacked the moral fortitude of his son; Remy's belief in absolute right and absolute truth.

::Can Ah blame th' river foh flowing with th' current?::

"It's fine, suh. Ah understand."

"Bien," he smiled at her, "D'ya have proof of ya accusations, chere?"

She paused, instinctively seeking Remy's support, knowing that he would understand her dilemma. The memory of Lapin's fears were still fresh, despite his mind's absence.

::Un demon. Hail Mary, full of grace, savior of the human race . . . .::

"Ah'm afraid that y'all only have mah word foh it."

"How did ya find out, cherie?" the young cajun asked gently, coming to sit next to her.

::He knows.::

"Ah'm a mutant, like Remy," she explained, head bowed, "But mah particular gift is slightly different. Ah guess ya could call me a thief o' sorts - Ah steal people's memories, powers . . . . Everything that makes them individual."

She stopped; tear-blinded; unable to continue; unable to look up and see their faces. She was all too familiar with the look of disgust and fear with which people regarded her after learning her secret. She could not bear to see it on the face of the youth who had been so kind to her.

::Freak. Vampirefreak. Mutiefreak. Freakfreakfreak.::

Remy's hand found her bare one and he squeezed it reassuringly. It was a gesture of trust, placing himself at the mercy of her powers, believing in her control of them. The action touched her deeply and she smiled shyly at him, painfully aware of her own burgeoning feelings.

::He loves me? In spite of what Ah am?::

"So dat's what happened t'Lapin," Jean-Luc hissed, "Vitemain tol' me dat he was knocked out in de battle. Serves de salaud (creep) right. I have t'tell dis to de council - I have a feelin' dat dey aren't goin' t'be too happy wit' m'nephew, Lapin."

Assassins' Guild Council Chambers,

New Orleans

"What we did, we did f'r de good o' de Guilds," Julien Bordeaux proclaimed, slamming his fist into the mahogany table, "De peace between t'ief an' assassin was a sham - it woulda been broken at de first sign of trouble."

The councils of the Thieves' and Assassins' Guilds were collected around the round table in Marius's conference room. The remainder of the Guilds thronged around them, congregated in the hallways, peered through the tall windows.

Jean-Luc leBeau looked at where the two boys, Julien and Lapin, were sitting. Despite their heinous crimes, they were little more than disillusioned adolescents, trying to find a quick solution to an ancient problem.

"And how did ya t'ink dat killin' our . . . our children would help?" Marius boomed, his face purple with rage. Notoriously mercurial, the leader of the Assassins' Guild looked as if he would like nothing more than to rip them into shreds.

"People come t'gether in times o' war. We needed t'find a common enemy - in dis case, Candra," Lapin explained, "We decided t'set someone up so it looked like dey were workin' for de External. Stokin' de flames o' de feud so t'speak. When Rogue arrived, we found our scapegoat. She was a stranger, an' fortunately skilled wit' daggers."

Jean-Luc glanced at the slender girl, standing next to his son. Her green eyes were filled with a strange pity as she watched the proceedings. He saw her whisper something to Remy, who nodded and made a face.

"If Rogue had not arrived?" He prompted, curious.

"Den we were goin' t'frame Sarabeth O'Connor," Julien answered, unashamedly, "Her ability wit' knives is famous throughout our Guild."

"You sod!" a red-headed girl, who he took to be Sarabeth, exclaimed angrily, "Bella was my best friend. I would never ha' killed her."

"ORDER! ORDER!" Marius banged the table with his gavel.

"Why did you choose the External?" Pierre leBeau asked, his thin face wrinkled in consternation, "She has been nothing but good to us."

"Ya old fool," Lapin said, contemptuously, "She demands exhorbitant tithes, an' den leaves us t'live like paupers off the pennies which she throws our way. De feud is her way o' keeping us weak; keeping us silent. If our Guilds were ta unite, we could overthrow her, take what is rightfully ours."

Marius Bordeaux stood, mopping his face with a large handkerchief. He seemed calmer now, almost resolute. Sipping his glass of water, he regarded his son and Lapin.

"I have heard enough. Julien Bordeaux and Lapin leBeau, ya have been judged guilty of treason, murder and conspiracy t'murder. For dis, ya must pay de ultimate price."

Jean-Luc saw terror flicker in the two boys' eyes, before becoming despair.

"For your crimes, ya are exiled from de Guilds and stripped o' ya family name. We disown ya."

The council repeated his words solemnly, "We disown ya."

As Jean-Luc watched them being escorted out by four burly assassins, only one emotion remained at the forefront of his mind. The same emotion as in the eyes of the slip of a girl who they had attempted to frame. It was impossible, but he pitied them.

Their misguided love for their clan had driven them to kill their own, in the same way that it had driven him to sacrifice an innocent. Fortunately, he reflected, Remy's love for Rogue had redeemed them both. How different was child from mother! Rogue's pure understanding had allowed his son to reclaim part of his identity - she was teaching him how to control his mutant powers; teaching him how to embrace them by embracing them herself. It was a love that built and repaired, while Raven's love was tendentious. Jean-Luc smiled as he saw them standing behind Pierre with arms wrapped around each other.

He turned to Henri and said: "De ol' Creole Proverb is true - tell me who ya love an' I'll tell ya who ya are."

1 February 1992

Jean-Luc's Study

New Orleans

Jean-Luc smiled at Rogue as she entered the room. Five years had filled out the boyishness of her figure and lent beauty to her face. She was dressed in a thin, cashmere sweater and denim jeans; her streaked hair taken back in a chignon. Even in the dim firelight, Jean-Luc could see that she had been crying.

"Ya called, Jean-Luc?"

"Sit, chere."

She complied, seating herself in one of the high-backed chairs - a relic from a bygone age. Nervously, she played with the gold paperweight on his desk, and he was reminded so much of the girl she used to be.

"I know what t'day is, belle," he told her, "An' I grieve wit' ya loss. I too loved Raven."

"Why'd she have ta go on that damned suicide mission five years ago?" Rogue replaced the paperweight with an angry thud, "Didn't she know that there was no way in hell that she coulda succeeded?"

"She did it because she loved de cause," he said slowly, "An' . . . ."

"Love is th' only thing worth dyin' foh, Ah know," she interrupted, tears streaming freely down her face, "But Ah loved her. Why didn't mah love protect her?"

Jean-Luc handed her a starched, white handkerchief and she blew her nose noisily. She was calmer when she spoke again.

"Ah'm so scared, Jean-Luc, that th' same thing will happen t'Remy. That Ah won't be able ta protect him neither," she toyed with the emerald ring on her right hand.

They had become engaged to be married a few weeks ago, and he recognised the nervousness of a new wife in her words. How could you protect your loved one when he or she insisted on risking himself daily? Remy was commonly acknowledged as the best thief in the world, but still was compelled to prove it to himself. The nature of the missions he undertook was always dangerous, and all it required was one mistake . . . .

"I can't promise ya dat not'ing will happen t'him, but I know dat he will do everyt'ing in his power t'return safely t' ya each night. He loves ya more dan I will ever know."

She nodded, evidently accepting his cold comfort. He continued:

"Chere, de reason I called ya in here was dat I felt it was time t'give ya somet'ing dat has always been rightfully yours."

Jean-Luc opened the drawer of his desk and removed a long, blue-velvet case, handing it to her. Rogue's green eyes filled with awe as she undid the catch and the lid sprung open.

"They're beautiful . . . .", she murmured, holding a necklace of perfect, white diamonds up to the light of the fire. They sparkled in her hand, like a galaxy of tiny stars, as they had twenty-three years ago in his.

"Dey're called de Stars of Africa," he informed her, "Raven an' I stole dem from a rich merchant in Paris. I had dem made up int' a necklace when I heard dat ya were comin'."

Rogue ran them through her fingers, examining them thoughtfully. Did she disapprove? Unlikely, she had been a practising thief for a number of years, and, while not as skilled as his son, a proficient one. She had recently turned in her lockpicks to tutor the mutants in both Guilds in the use of their powers.

Suddenly, she turned to him, pleading: "Can ya tell me 'bout what happened in Paris? How ya got these gems?"

Jean-Luc nodded, knowing that he had found the one person to whom he could tell the story. Rogue would not judge Raven and he could not stand to see her condemned. Any pain he experienced would be reflected in the face of the other. He took a sip of his coffee and began his story for the first time.