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knew how to love long.
    But the brief snatch of conversation I’d overheard gave me plenty to think about. Idunn had implied that the two of them were cursed with infertility, and their current behavior implied that they couldn’t wait to get rid of that curse. Moreover, it implied that they were still in love. Mortals never got a chance to see if their love would last for centuries, but clearly Idunn and Bragi’s had. At first I felt a bit envious, and then heartachingly so for the memories it stirred.
    There had been a woman in Africa once whom I loved for more than two hundred years. Upon returning to the fringes of eastern Europe with the hordes of Genghis Khan, I’d quickly ascertained that there was little to be gained by staying there. So I crossed Arabia instead, a strange infidel in the Caliphate, then delved deep into the African continent and lost myself in that wondrous land of savanna and jungle and desert. I did not reemerge until the fifteenth century, happily missing the Black Death in the process. Even more happily for me, Aenghus Óg lost track of me for that whole time; were I superstitious, perhaps I’d assign the credit for that to my love. (More likely I had made enough progress on my amulet to shield me from his divination, and until he thought of new ways to track me, I was safe.)
    The source of my long attraction to Tahirah had been perfectly matched chemistry, of course, the same frisson that clearly existed between the Norse gods now snogging behind me. Her sharp wit kept up with mine, and her soft dark eyes soothed my restlessness and chained me willingly to her side. Her low musical voice entered my ears like new velvet, and her laugh was so pure that it struck a tuning fork against my bones and gave me shuddering chills down my spine. She was the last person with whom I’d shared Immortali-Tea. Over the two centuries of our marriage she gave me twenty-five children, all of them a joy; I regretted nothing. Perhaps we would still be in love today, still making babies and trying to keep the young ones from inadvertently marrying the descendants of the old ones (I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t marry him. He’s the great-great-grandson of your brother, you see, who was born back in 1842). I would never know; the Maasai war party we stumbled across ended our chance at eternal love.
    The renewed scraping of the chair leg interrupted my reverie and I heard footsteps fading away deeper into the hall, along with some panting and a few wanton giggles.
    That was opportunity knocking.
    Rising slowly from my crouch, I peeked carefully over the windowsill. The hearth drew my attention first, off to my left. It was heating the contents of an iron pot craned over the flames, which Idunn and Bragi were apparently willing to let stew for some time. Directly in front of me was the kitchen table, a wooden bowl of fruit on it. There were pears, plums, and peaches—but no apples.
    Imaginary Kirk spoke up. » Do you dare to eat a peach? «
    » Of course I dare, « I whispered.
    » May I remind you that we are here for a golden apple? « imaginary Spock said. » We should not be distracted by superfluous fruit. « I reached my hand through the open window and selected a plum from the bowl, figuring there would be no time to enjoy an entire peach. It was ripe and slightly soft underneath my fingers.
    » Attaboy, « Kirk said as I took a bite. It was absurdly tasty.
    I grinned impishly and hoped it was a sign I could go with Plan C. I’d planned obsessively for this caper, plotting courses of action based on various contingencies all the way up to Q (but unfortunately hadn’t included a duel with the Norns in any of them). Plan C involved leaving a note behind at the scene of the crime. Now the note was taking shape in my mind as I chewed on the plum; all I needed to do was find the apples.
    I silently buried the plum pit underneath the window, with a whispered command to the earth. I untied the drawstring to