“No,” Mary replied. “Not a descendant. A passenger. And I’ll tell you—I was awfully happy to get out of England and over here to Plymouth Colony.”
He toyed with her empty glass. “You didn’t like England? Probably my fault. I was a minor functionary in King James’ court in the early seventeenth century.”
They giggled together over it. Titus stared at her, his pulse pounding harder and harder. She stared back. Her eyes were smiling.
“I didn’t think there was another one,” she said afer a while. “It was so strange, never growing old. I was afraid they’d burn me as a witch. I had to keep changing, moving all the time. It wasn’t a pleasant life. It’s better lately—I enjoy these little poses. But I’m glad you caught on to me,” she said. She reached out and took his hand. “I guess I would never have been smart enough to connect you and Leslie and Sam, the way you did Sharon and Ginger and Lorraine. You play the game too well for me.”
“In two thousand years,” Titus said, not caring if the waiter overheard him, “I never found another one like me. Believe me, Mary, I looked. I looked hard, and I’ve had plenty of time to search. And then to find you, hiding behind the faces of three girls I knew!”
He squeezed her hand. The next statement followed logically for him. “Now that we’ve found each other,” he said softly, “we can have a child. A third immortal.”
Her face showed radiant enthusiasm. “Wonderful!” she cried. “When can we get married?”
“How about tomor—” he started to say. Then a thought struck him.
“Mary?”
“What…Titus?”
“How old did you say you were? When were you born?” he asked.
She thought for a moment. “1597,” she said. “I’m nearly four hundred.”
He nodded, dumb with growing frustration. Only four hundred? That meant—that meant she was now the equivalent of a three-year-old child!
“When can we get married?” she repeated.
“There’s no hurry,” Titus said dully, letting her hand drop. “We have eleven hundred years.”