Mozelle wasn't exactly lurking in the hallway, but she couldn't bring herself to go into another part of the house. *It's not like he's going to fall in and drown,* she told herself, *but still...* She heard the whoosh of a flush, and relaxed a little. Till she heard a weaker whoosh... and a still weaker one... and a click and gurgle. "Once!" she said loudly. "Once, unless something is being stubborn, and even then... If I have to use the plunger and mop the floor, your life is going to be uncomfortable, believe me."

"Yes." Lupus' voice had that 'let's humor the slightly irrational woman' tone that set her teeth on edge, but she decided not to respond to it. He wouldn't understand why she was pissed, and what was the good of castigating someone if they didn't understand your point? He opened the door, and she folded her arms. "I didn't hear any water running." He gave her a questioning look. "Didn't you wash your hands?" He looked back over his shoulder, eyeing the toilet, and gave her a disbelieving look. "No! Good... Move." He stepped aside, and she went to the sink, turning the taps. "Hot, cold. Y'all didn't have running water at your home except in that bathing pool, but didn't you have it at, like, public baths?"

Lupus was dabbling his hands in the flow from the tap. "Yes." He tapped the round knobs. "Strange."

*I guess they had the handle sort.* She pushed a bar of soap into his hands. "Every time you use the toilet, okay?" she admonished. "Every time--quick tinkles included."

"Tinkles?"

"When you..." She sighed, then pointed at the toilet and made a hissing sound.

He frowned, then his eyebrows shot up, and he laughed. She felt a little jolt of emotion she couldn't readily identify, but he was nodding and agreeing, "Yes, every time. //Tessa would have had my hide if I didn't.//"

Mozelle understood, and had to smile. She had the feeling that there weren't many things that Lupus had ever been denied in his life, but his old nursemaid, as doting as she was, would have been strict in enforcing proper hygiene.

There was a moment of silence, during which they simply looked at each other. Mozelle was at a loss as to what to do now. She'd already finished the work she'd had planned for today, so there was nothing she had to do, but she honestly couldn't think of anything she wanted to do. *And I have a guest, if you can call him that. What do I do with him?*

Lupus apparently had some ideas. Feeling reassured by the shared amusement of a moment before, he dared hope that they were returning to what he saw as their natural relationship. He reached out, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. Her smile faded, but she didn't pull away. Encouraged, he let his fingers slide lightly down her neck, brushing over her collar.

She flinched, eyes widening, then flying to the mirror hanging over the sink (another marvel to Lupus. Mirrors in his own time were small, and made of highly polished metal). She shifted away from him, staring at her own reflection, and her hands came up, fingers curling around the simple metal band that encircled her throat.

Lupus blinked at the sharp flicker of emotion that passed across her expression, the raw pain. She'd been wearing her collar ever since she'd come to his family. Shouldn't she be used to it by now? Her fingers tightened till the knuckles were white, tugging at the circlet with a steady pressure, and he winced, seeing the hard metal biting into the soft skin. Then she made a sound... a low, keening moan, far back in her throat, and he realized that no, she wasn't 'used to it', and never would be. For a moment he imagined what it must be like to suddenly find your throat bound with cold metal, an ever present, physical reminder that you were not your own person--that you were not considered a person at all.

Then she dropped her hands and said grimly. "First thing--this shit comes off." She looked down at herself and made a face. "Second thing. First thing, I change clothes."

She left the room, and Lupus followed instinctively. He knew that he was behaving like a half-weaned pup tagging after its dam, but he honestly did not feel entirely safe alone in this alien place. She entered a room, obviously her sleep chamber, and he was pleased to see the size of her bed. At home, they had shared his bed, and it had been far too narrow to hold two comfortably.

When he came in after her, she said firmly, "Oh, I don't think so!" She pointed toward the door. "You just go sit yourself down in the living room and wait for me. Whatever you do, stay out of the kitchen, and don't go outside. You should be safe enough for a few minutes." She snorted. "It isn't as if I take a half hour fixing my hair and makeup."

Lupus, feeling a little disappointed, did as she'd said. While he waited, he tried to tell himself that he wasn't actually obeying the woman he had owned up until a few hours ago--it just made sense to take her suggestion.

When she exited the room--he goggled. That was the only word for it. She noticed his look, and examined herself quickly. "What? It's clean, there are no holes, and everything is covered that is required by law to be covered."

//"Mozell, trousers?// He sounded scandalized.

She snorted. "Blue jeans. You really must've been stunned if you didn't notice that half the women in that fast food place were wearing these. This is standard dress for women of this age, Lupus. No one is going to raise an eyebrow unless I try to wear them to an audience with the Pope or high tea with the Queen. Anyway, these are more modest than that shift thing you had me wearing. Admit it--my legs were hanging out all over the place."

//"All right, I'll admit it was a little too short, but this..."//

She enunciated slowly and clearly. "Deal--with--it. You no longer make the decisions concerning my life, Lupus. And speaking of trousers..." She eyed his clothes, then sighed. "I guess I know where the check for that article is going. There's no telling how long you're going to be here, and you can't keep wearing that set. Number one, people will keep looking around for the Society for Creative Anachronism troupe, and number two, it will either get very funky, or you'll have to hang around in a towel while it's being washed. I'm not up to dealing with either one." She gave him a not particularly nice smile. "You get to experience mall shopping on your first day in this world. Aren't you lucky?"

And it WAS a little less frightening. She stayed on quiet streets, so there weren't that many of the other noisy carriages, and those were moving at a much slower speed than the earlier ones. "Morning rush hour is over," she'd explained, and he'd nodded, thinking about the crush of people at the open markets early in the day.

The first place they stopped was on a street lined with what were obviously small shops. The one they entered had LOCKSMITH--HOME SECURITY painted on the front glass. There was an elderly man behind the counter, operating some sort of machine that whined and buzzed. Lupus rubbed his ears, thinking that his own era had seemed peaceful compared to this one.

When he saw them, the man stopped what he was doing, shutting off the machine, and came up to the counter, smiling politely. "What can I do for you folks?" Then his eyes zeroed in on the collar around Mozelle's neck, and he pursed his lips in an almost smile. "Don't tell me--let me guess."

She raised an eyebrow, then gestured at Lupus' garments. "We're in a play, and he lost the key."

The man nodded agreeably. "Sure." The smile broke out. "Miss, don't worry about it. You'd be surprised at what I've had to unlock for some people." His voice dropped confidingly. "You'd think that if someone was going to go through the trouble of having a chastity belt made to order, they'd make sure to get more than one key--just in case."

"R-i-g-h-t. So you can help me here?"

"Oh, most certainly." He turned to the back wall and began to critically examine the tools that hung there. "The question is, do you mind if it's broken, or...?"

"I do not mind."

"That makes it easier, of course." He picked up a slender pick with a tiny hook at the end. It looked like the sort of needle Mozelle's grandmother had once used to produce fluffy silk string doilies. He stepped around the counter, approaching her. "I'll need you to lean down a bit," he said apologetically. "You're not an Amazon, but I'm certainly not a Zulu."

Lupus muttered, //"I thought you might be an Amazon the first time I saw you. You were positively warlike."//

"I had a reason," she muttered. The proprietor had paused, watching Lupus with avid curiosity. "He's from Italy," she explained.

"Really?" He beamed. "Che zona dell'Italia provenite?"

Lupus looked blank. Mozelle said, "What I meant was he was visiting in Italy just recently. Actually he's from... Estonia."

"Oh, what a shame. I'd hoped to talk a little. It's been such a long time since I've been back. Now, let's see if we can't get you..." He'd inserted the pick and was fishing around with it. "No, I don't think this is going to do it. Ah, well." There was a pair of short bladed snippers on the counter. He picked them up and pinched the hoop of the lock in their jaws. "Now, stay still. These are pretty sharp."

"I'm a statue."

He must have done a lot of heavy work in his youth, because despite his age, he had little trouble shearing through the metal. The muscles in his forearms flexed, he grunted quietly, and there was a snap. "Got it." He fiddled with the lock, then tossed it on the counter and examined the collar. He blinked. "Oh, my, that's pretty tight. Weren't you uncomfortable?"

"You have no idea." Mozelle grabbed at the collar, straining, desperate to get it off, desperate to rid herself of this ever-present reminder of her former helpless state. It didn't want to give. She could vividly remember when it was put around her neck, how they'd used tongs to force the ends of the metal together while she struggled helplessly.

The locksmith was watching her struggle with rising concern. Then the young man with her said, "Mozelle, let me." He brushed her hands away, gripped the collar on either side, and strained. The metal wasn't meant to bend except under heat, preferably with the aid of a hammer, but he slowly forced it open till the circle was wide enough for him to slip it over her head. By then there were red marks on his fingers, and a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip, and the woman was trembling.

The young man gazed at her silently for a moment, then looked around. He spotted the half-full wastebasket beside the counter, and threw the collar into the receptacle so violently that it rang against the metal. He looked back at the woman and said simply. "Forgive."

She stared at him silently for a moment. Even knowing that it was seldom a good idea to comment on the private affairs of others, the locksmith couldn't resist. "He sounds like he means it, Miss. I'm sure he'll be more careful next time."

She reacted to the words 'next time'. In fact, she bared her teeth, and he thought he was about to be treated to a display of outraged ire. Instead she said simply. "How much do I owe you?"

"Oh, that was nothing. Say... five dollars." Normally he'd have charged at least fifteen, but this couple seemed to have enough tension between them as it was without adding finance to the mix. She paid, and they left. He watched them go, shaking his head. *I hope they work out whatever it is. They seem like a nice couple.*

He'd shivered again as they stepped into the air conditioning, and she made a note that she was going to have to get him long sleeves, or a jacket of some sort. Then she looked down at his sandals, and sighed, adding shoes and socks to the list. She mentally kissed the next computer upgrade good-bye. She headed directly for one of the mid-level clothing stores. She wasn't going to make him wear blue-light specials, but she darn sure wasn't going to spring for Tommy Hilfiger, either.

Shortly after entering the mall, she noticed that he wasn't tagging along with her. *Don't panic. I'll just go to security and tell them I've lost a twenty-something young man, dressed in a toga, who only speaks classic Latin. Right. Search in on.* He wasn't hard to find. He was only a dozen or so yards away, peering into the arcade with a dazzled look. "Oh, no you don't!"

She went to him immediately, and he pointed into the cave-like room, directly at a Mortal Kombat machine, where two teenage boys were waging battle. "Gladiators?"

"They'd like to think so. Come on, I'm not giving you any quarters."

One of the other teenagers who had gathered to watch the carnage glanced over and told him, "Your girlfriend is harsh, dude."

The next thing to make him slow up was a gaggle of teen girls dressed in nearly identical Daisy Dukes and crop tops, giggling together. Mozelle noted that they were all rubbing at goose bumps on their arms and were crossing and uncrossing their legs in a manner that indicated either cold, or a need to go to the restroom. The girls noticed his stare and the giggle-factor went up a notch. There was much whispering and preening of hair before Mozelle led him away. One of the girls raised her voice just enough to be heard clearly, and said, "Shame how some mamas can't let their little boys go."

Mozelle halted, turned around, and started back, eyes gleaming. The girls got very quiet, very quickly, eyes going big. The older woman stopped, glaring at them, then said sharply, "And it's a shame how some mamas let their little girls just go wild." She zeroed in on one girl who had a bulging backpack by her feet. "Did you change clothes at a friend's house, or in the restroom here?"

"I..."

"Your mama goes through the expense to buy you decent clothes, and you can't wait to get out of 'em. Well, I guess it could be worse--at least you were only getting out of them to look funky, not to actually have sex."

Mouths dropped open. "How did you...?"

"Lord, girl, do you think you invented being sneaky? And if she has a working brain, she's going to catch wise, so don't try to pull the same stunt too often." With that she turned and sailed away.

As they walked, Lupus said, //"Mozelle, are they streetwalkers?//

"I have no doubt that some of them are headed in that direction."

They finally reached the store, and Lupus was once again stunned, this time by the racks and racks of ready-made clothes. He had been born in an age where only the well-to-do owned more than one or two changes of clothing, and to him, this was almost unbelievable riches. He had stopped to finger what Mozelle referred to as a 'club top', a spaghetti strapped number with a deep neckline, made of black velvet with rhinestone accents. "Will you stop fondling that? Someone will get the wrong idea about you, and we'll have store security trailing us."

He touched one of the sparklies, eyes round. "Jewels?"

"Glass. C'mon, I can't believe they didn't have counterfeit goods in your time. They've just gotten a little more efficient at it. C'mon. The stuff we want is back here."

They made their way to the men's section. She stood for a moment, looking around. "Oh-kay, let's see, what first?" She thought while Lupus stared at the mannequins. Mozelle made a face. "Underwear. I'm not going to have you trying on clothes commando. That would just be gross."

The underwear section was nearby, and she started sorting through different packages, muttering, "Boxers or briefs, boxers or briefs? Jockeys? Size?" She looked at him. He smiled at her. "I guess we estimate. No way I'm asking a sales clerk to measure you for undies when you're not wearing any. I'll just have to try estimating so that you don't end up either singing soprano, or having them fall off."

She finally selected a single pair and paid for them, thinking, *This should give me an idea of his size, and I can buy a couple of multiple packs.* "He's going to put these on now, okay?"

The clerk blinked, then shrugged. "Sure, as long as you hold on to the receipt, just in case. Do you want a bag for the one's he's wearing?"

"He's not wearing any." Another blink. "Don't ask." They went to the changing area, and Mozelle, firmly ignoring the occasional funny look by a passerby, took the pair of white briefs off the little hanger and offered them to Lupus. "Go try these on." He took them gingerly, turning them over in his hands, then gave her a questioning look. "Oh, for... I didn't think I was going to have to do this unless I had kids." She took them again and shook them out, holding them open. "Like this. See the holes? You step into them, then pull them up. This... uh..." she examined them closely. "This is the front. I think." She looked down at them. "I'm assuming you find out the same way you do for panties--check to make sure the back shows through the leg holes, and..." He was cocking his head, and a little old lady standing nearby was giving her a very peculiar look. She spoke to the woman. "He was raised wearing kilts." The woman made an 'oh, so that's it' expression and went on about her business. She thrust the underwear back into Lupus' hand. Try them on in there." He nodded and went into the little dressing room. "And don't come out to show me!"

He came out a couple of minutes later, with a thoughtful look on his face. "What, do they pinch? Do you need a smaller size?" she asked.

He shook his head. //"No, I think they fit, but they just feel odd. It's really strange. There are no laces to tie, or hooks, but they fit snuggly.//

"It's called elastic. One of our better inventions. Okay, now I have some idea of size. Time to shop!"

The sales clerk, who had been eying them a little suspiciously, was soon having to refrain from rubbing his hands together as they selected a pair of jeans, a couple of pairs of casual slacks, and an assortment of shirts--from T-shirts to button-downs. He was a little amused by the woman trying to explain to the man that it might be better politics to wear a Dallas Cowboys windbreaker instead of the Detroit one he was set on. It seemed he liked the roaring lion logo. Then there was more underwear, and socks. He was happily counting commission while she led him to the shoe department for slip-ons and athletic shoes, muttering about 'thank God he wasn't afflicted with 'name brand-itis, because I'll be damned if I'll pay as much for a pair of fancy sneakers as I did for your entire wardrobe.' The clerk reflected that she didn't look like his personal image of a Sugar Mama, but you never could tell.

Once again Lupus took the new purchases into a dressing room (with the clerk's blessing). When he emerged, he wouldn't have earned a second glance from anyone--except women who had a fine eye for the finer specimens of men. He looked like a perfectly typical modern man, albeit a slightly shaggy one.

They were leaving the mall, laden with packages, and Mozelle was trying to explain the concept of a credit card to Lupus, who flatly refused to believe that people would just trust you to pay for goods at a later date. "You mean to tell me you didn't have credit in Rome?" she asked skeptically.

//"Not like that. For big things, yes. Shipments, supplies--but there had to be collateral. The penalties for non-payment were harsh. A creditor could demand enslavement of the one who owed. He could seize goods and property."//

"Oh, believe me, they believe in that these days, though the enslavement isn't actually on paper, and they call it 'making interest payments'. I think the only reason they don't demand first born children is that they haven't figured out a way to avoid having to pay to raise them."

//"There are a lot of things about your world I don't understand."//

She halted abruptly. "There sure is, and if you're going to be here for any length of time, there's at least one thing we have to do." She turned into a smaller, brightly lit store. It seemed to be stocked entirely by flat, rectangular objects, in various sizes. Many of them were ornamented by colorful pictures. He picked up one, and was surprised to see that it was actually a thick pad of some sort of parchment. The sheets were somehow stuck together along one side, and they were covered by what had to be tiny letters. He saw some that looked a lot like the alphabet he was familiar with. Curious, he picked up one after another of the brightly colored things. One made him pause.

Mozelle was standing at the counter with a thick stack of books, muttering to herself. "When did children's books get to be so expensive?"

The clerk who was ringing her up said cheerfully, "Yes, they cost a bit, but think of how you'll enrich the life of your little one. I love to see someone who'll take an active part in teaching reading."

Lupus approached, and showed her a paperback. "Mozelle, look!"

She peered at it. It looked like a standard romance. The cover showed a busty blonde, hair rippling down her back, bosom about to heave over a low neckline, being bent backwards by a muscular, intense, dark haired man. Then she blinked and looked closer. The book was titled ROMAN RAVISHMENT, and the cover models were both wearing some form of toga. The clerk was saying, "Oh, yes! Our time travel romances are very popular."

Mozelle gritted her teeth. "One person's fantasy," she said, taking the book and laying it aside, "is another person's nightmare. Just those, please."

The clerk finished bagging the order. "Thank you, ma'am, and good luck on teaching your baby to read."

Unable to resist, Mozelle gave her a tight smile and patted Lupus on the shoulder. "Thank you. Baby, carry those for Mommy." They left behind a stunned looking clerk, and Mozelle thought, *Yes, that was bad of me, but look at it this way--she should top them all with that story at the next company picnic.*