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replied, “so that wouldn’t do. But”—he drew out the leather pouch and opened it—“you can take this.” He handed Danny the smallest of the nuggets.
    From his coat, Danny took a small snow-white linen handkerchief trimmed in cobweb lace. Carefully, he placed the nugget in the exact center, tied it up, and returned it to his pocket.
    “A satisfying lump, it is indeed.” He grinned. “Good night then, Hugh, Mr. MacLeod. I think I’ll slip this beneath my pillow, and have fair golden dreams.”
    After Danny left, the two older Immortals were alone in the night. Fitzcairn sat on a nail keg, enjoying his pipe, watching his old friend watching the sea.
    MacLeod, he knew, was considering Danny’s story, considering how much alike they all were, all Immortals. Such deep silent thought was MacLeod’s way. Hugh Fitzcairn’s way was to give voice to thought.
    “So, here we are, we three. MacLeod. Fitzcairn. O’Donal. And none of us true sons to any man.”
    “Aye. Nor bastard sons, either. Though that’s been said of both of us, now and then.”
    “Many a time. And I’ve, a time or two, been accused of bringing a Fitzcairn marked with the bar sinister into the world.” He shook his head ruefully. “And what does it say about a relationship when a woman will take your word as a gentleman that you will not tell her husband of her trysts, but won’t believe you when you insist that the child she is carrying cannot be yours?” Affecting a bluff heartiness, he continued, “Well, my dear, I regret to tell you that you shall, in the fullness of time, be giving birth to a legitimate child. Buck up, now, woman. Some of England’s finest men have been legitimate. Not many. But some.”
    Duncan laughed.
Good,
Fitzcairn thought.
He is much easier to talk to when he is not in one of his damn dark Scot’s moods.
Fitzcairn wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. The night was getting chill.
    Duncan leaned on the rail and faced Fitz. “He’s still very young, Hugh,” he said quietly, “your Danny O’Donal. And so”—Duncan spread his hands—“he’s had so little and wants so much. Is it good to
need
so, I wonder?”
    “Highlander,” Fitz said, rising, “when you were but a young lad, you were still roaming the forests and mountains of your misbegotten land. You couldn’t read, you never bathed, and you wore a skirt.”
    “And you, you Brit twit—”
    “I never wore a skirt. And I did bathe. On occasion. But my point, which I would have sooner made had you not resorted to name-calling, is that in time we became the fine specimens of Immortal manhood that we are today. Time, MacLeod, is the one single thing we all have a wealth of.
    “We learned. Danny will, too. He’s a good man, with a good heart. And if his golden dreams don’t come true this time—well, if a Scot can learn to wear trousers, anything is possible for an Irishman.”
    MacLeod sputtered. Over the centuries Fitz had realized that Duncan hadn’t the true gift for insult that he himself possessed. It kept a balance in their friendship.
    “What’s possible right now is that I might throw ye in this ocean, Hugh Fitzcairn. As I recall, ye can barely swim. It might be amusing to watch ye bob up and down a while.”
    Fitz laughed heartily and clapped his friend on the arm. “Look now, MacLeod.” He pointed toward a faint star. “The North Star. We’re headed straight there. And I’m”—he began moving away—“headed belowdecks. Whether we’re changelings, pookahs, or the bastard sons of some distant god, we sleep as mortals do. And,” he added softly, “perchance we all do dream.”

Chapter 3
    “MacLeod!” Fitzcairn shouted. “Behind you—jackass!”
    For a split second Duncan thought that Fitz was referring to the North American Trading and Transportation Company booking agent. They had been arguing with him for over a week about their reservations aboard the steamship
Portland.
It was due to leave for Alaska in four