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Is it a blessing or a curse to be reunited with those who are gone?

The question has been much on Kate's mind since she returned to this place and found her Harry here, seemingly alive -- and yet, as he told her, trapped in this purgatory, unable to move forward or back. So Kate finds herself in a position no widow has ever been in: she may have the enjoyment of her dead husband again, but not the keeping of him. Should she leave this place at the end of the world, he dies to her again. And she's not sure she has the strength to lose him more than once.

They're heavy thoughts, but she can cast them off for hours at a time in Harry's bed. They only begin to creep up on her when she slips out of his room while he sleeps. (He looks too much like the dead Hotspur of her nightmares, then, still and quiet. She used to love sleeping beside him; now she prefers him awake and laughing.)

So evening in Milliways finds her in the common room, dressed again in her mourning black -- the only clothes she has here -- and splitting her attention between brooding glances at the fire and fascinated people-watching.

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She pulls him close, setting a hand on his cheek, and gives him a long, sweet kiss.

"Ah, my dear, my lord, I love thee more than you can know."

"Could we not give it a try? The more we know, the more we know we do not know, or so the sages tell us."

"Aye, well, the sages speak in riddles." She drops her head on his shoulder with a sigh. "Know that I love thee."

"And I you, gentle Kate." A beat, while he snuggles closer. "Not least because you're quite warm at the moment."

He is not wearing his customary amount of clothing, after all.

She laughs, then, and reaches up to pull his hair gently.

"Go to, rascal, go to."

His voice drops, that friendly growl at the base of his throat. "Back to bed, unless you've other thoughts."

One hand has found its way to the inside of her thigh.

"My lord!" She thwaps his wrist. "Do you never tire?"

"Aye, of being here and not there!" He nuzzles her ear. "Let me take you away from all this, Kate."

Somewhere, at a far corner of the bar, it may be noted that Hal has finally received a bottle with which he is satisfied.

Who's noting Hal at this point? Kate has much better things on her mind than a stripling king.

"I would think you had been at sea, the way you rise to the occasion."

"Have you not heard the stories, love? Harry Hotspur gets his appetite from his labors on the plain of Mars."

Other side of the bar: cue elevator music, Hal blithely taking up two glasses and the bottle, strolling -- thoughtfully -- back to their table.

"Oh, my Hotspur, I know the truth of those stories better than any--"

Which is about the point that, over Harry's shoulder, she spots Hal.

"--oh God's balls."

"Tush! Such language from a well-born lady!"

Not that he couldn't continue the conversation in that vein.

"Peace!" she hisses. "Do you love me, Harry?"

He frowns. "Must you ask?"

She's just going to take that as a yes.

"Good." She grabs his shoulder. "Under the table and not a word from you."

"I--why, Kate, if you insist--"

He can think of a few good uses for that.

Zounds, though, she needn't shove and hold him under so hard.

If he gets overly friendly while she's drinking with the king she will kick him someplace squishy, and that is a promise.

"I prithee peace," she whispers again, just a touch desperately.

Just in the nick of time, for Hal has finally returned with a smile on his face and a bottle he intends to see the bottom of.

"Well! It took some haggling, but I managed to secure the appropriate vintage."

The table, perhaps, gives a startled lurch from below.

Kate stomps her foot down on something that feels like a thigh.

"And what vintage is that, majesty?"

He holds out the bottle, which lacks a label. "Aquitaine, 1376. We served it when my brother John came into his majority. I have very fond memories of that night."

Under the table, Harry is breathing hard and, not gently, gripping Kate around the ankle with one hand.

"You remember it," she says drily. "A good sign."

He gives her a rueful little smile. "I went out to Eastcheap after. The rest of the evening is a bit more of a blur."

He slides into the seat opposite. Harry instantly finds himself shrinking back to avoid Hal's knees--and God's blood, must he sit with his legs so far apart? And wherefore is his Kate drinking wine with his own killer, whom if he had but his sword, he might finish his work right now--?

"Your nights there must be coming to an end."

"Ended since we went to Shrewsbury, if I am an honest man. It something loses its luster after such stark life and death." He pours for them both, then holds up his glass. "A toast, my lady of Northumberland."

Harry grits his teeth, and tries to decide whether it's more important to follow his lady's directive or to foil this scoundrel prince.

Kate can and will stomp on him again if she deems it necessary.

She takes the glass, takes a breath, and lifts it.

"Long live the king," she says, slow and clear. "God save Harry."