Over dinner that night, we talked about what to see in London that wasn't pure consumerism. Well, I tried to lead the discussion in that direction, anyhow. Emmy and the two girls more or less just steamrolled me, while Jeremy kept quiet, just giving me amused looks every now and then. Finally I just gave up and accepted that it was going to be a week of following Emmy, Cecilia and Dulce around with shopping bags in my hands.

It certainly could be worse, I thought. At least Emmy was in a good mood, talking about all the boutiques and shops she wanted to take the girls to experience. If it made her happy, it made me happy.

As we got ready for bed, I reminded Emmy that I was going to have lunch with her father on Tuesday. "I expect I'll be back in time for dinner," I told her.

"Dinner? Why would lunch take so long?" she asked, puzzled.

I lost my train of thought for a moment, just watching her slender, graceful figure slip between the vivid golden sheets.

"Why do you think you will be out so long?" Emmy repeated, but with a sly little smile. She knew she'd sent my mind off the rails.

"Um, travel time," I replied. "It's probably going to take me six hours each way if I drive."

"Drive?" Emmy asked, her brow furrowing.

"I probably should just take the train, but that's still realistically four hours each way anyhow," I told Emmy as I climbed into bed beside her.

"You are going to drive all the way to Paris for lunch with my father?" Emmy asked, sitting up. "That seems a bit ridiculous."

"It is," I admitted. "The thing is, I need to talk to him in person about some stuff. Things that can't be discussed over the phone or by email. I don't want to ask him to come to London-"

"Why not? My mother is coming on Thursday," Emmy said.

"Um, O.K., well, maybe that changes things," I admitted. "Let me give him a call tomorrow to see if he was planning on coming to London, too. If so, it saves me a trip." A trip I was actually looking forward to, at least a little bit- but I didn't say that.

"I understand that you would rather not babysit two teenaged girls all week, but you did agree to bring them to England," Emmy reminded me. "Yes, you spent today with them, but another day or two won't hurt you. Cecilia is going to be living with us in a few more months, so you will have to get accustomed to having her around sooner or later."

"Yeah, I know," I groaned.

"I think she will be easier to live with than Grace was," Emmy said, turning on her side and pushing up against me so I'd spoon her.

"Grace was only a challenge the first year, really," I said. "After that she pretty much took care of herself."

"Yes, that is true. She did grow up very quickly during that time," Emmy agreed. "But I think that a very large part of that is that we treated her like an adult. I suspect that her parents only saw her as a child."

"You're probably right," I admitted. "I think Cecy is a bit more grounded than Grace was, and I can't imagine we'll have the whole 'new-found freedom' thing that Grace had. After all, Mamá and Papá aren't anything like the Hanshaws- for which we're all grateful."

After a long pause, Emmy asked what I thought we should all do the next day.

"Go shopping," I guess," I said, making my voice sound as despairing as I could, which got me a laugh.

"I am not certain how to ask this question, but did Dulce's family send money with her to spend?" Emmy asked.

"Yeah, they did," I confirmed. "Her family has money- they aren't poverty-stricken, by any means. The whole family went to Disney World for vacation last year, after all. I'm not sure how much spending money they gave Dulce, though. I figured that we'd pay for all expenses, but she would be on the hook for anything she wanted to buy."

"The coat, hat and gloves today- she bought them?"

"No, I paid for all that," I confessed. "It would have been very awkward to just buy a coat for Cecy but not Dulce, too."

"I understand," Emmy agreed.

Spending a couple of days shopping and sightseeing with Emmy and the two girls turned out to be a better time than I'd expected. Of course Emmy bought the girls some clothes that they were probably never going to wear back in Cartagena, but Cecilia and Dulce were good about it. Neither of them seemed to expect us to spend any money on them, and were appropriately grateful when we did.

The girls spent their own money on trinkets and some things to take back for gifts- including a Paddington Bear plush for their friend Maria. They both bought themselves some of those red Swedish backpacks all the kids their age in London seemed to be using for school, too.

Mostly, though, the two just acted like what they were- girls seeing a famous world capital for the first time. They took pics of themselves on the river tour boat with the Tower Clock in the background, pics of themselves in front of The Eye, and so on. Typical tourist stuff times typical teenage girl stuff equaled a ton of happy chatter and roughly four point seven million photos.

We had dinner at my favorite Indian restaurant that night, and once again the lamb biryani reminded me why I made sure to eat there when I could. I hadn't found any really great Indian places in Los Angeles- not nearly as good as my favorites in the Bay Area, anyway. This place, though, was at least as good as my favorite back in San Jose, if not just that tiny bit better.

Back home that night, Emmy and I found ourselves relaxing in the upstairs sitting area, enjoying some wine and admiring the view of London's western half. Jeremy was doing something in the kitchen and the two girls were down in the living room, holding some sort of video call with friends back home in Colombia. All in all, it was nice and domestic, and pleasant in a mellow, comfortable way.

"Who have you been texting so much today?" Emmy asked me as she leaned back against me.

"A lot of people," I groaned.

"It has seemed that way!" Emmy agreed with a laugh.

"Some are good, but most…" I said, sipping my wine. "You remember Harry Powell? We met him at the benefit party when you guys played here in London."

"His daughter is our neighbor," Emmy confirmed.

"Right. Well, he'd said that he had a connection to fast-track our UK residency, and so we've been trying to set up a meeting time to get that ball rolling. Looks as if that might happen on Friday."

"But Friday is when the auction will happen!" Emmy said, sitting up and turning to look at me.

"Don't worry, I haven't forgotten," I assured her. "The auction starts at two in the afternoon," I said. "I'm setting up the meeting for the morning- hopefully ten, maybe eleven o'clock. Christie's is in Mayfair, and our meeting will be on Haymarket, just a few blocks away. Worse comes to worst, we might have to skip lunch, but that's it."

"Mr Powell's texts don't seem that bad…" Emmy said.

"No, those were some of the good ones. I was also texting with your dad, to find out if he was coming with your mom on Thursday. That was also good, since it's saving me a trip to Paris. The, um, indifferent, or maybe yet to be determined if they're good or not texts were from Colonel Bridger, suggesting we- that is, me and him- get together to have a chat."

"What does he want?" Emmy asked.

"Probably nothing, really. I'm mostly sure the real message was that he knew when we arrived in the UK. The wanting to have tea thing is probably just a way to let me know he's keeping an eye on us. I mean, I'm sure he'll have something to want to talk about, but it probably isn't anything important."

"Tell him that you do not appreciate these games when you see him. Tell him you understand that you are a person of interest- as am I- but that is understood and needs no further reminders," Emmy commanded.

"Yeah, that was more or less my plan," I agreed.

"If those were the good and the indifferent texts, what were the negative texts?" Emmy asked.

"Ugh," I groaned. "You know that Madison's race season starts this weekend, right?"

"In Alabama," Emmy confirmed. "I am sorry that I have kept you from attending."

"No, that's alright," I said, giving her hair a kiss to show that I really didn't hold it against her. "The problem is that the spares package that we were supposed to have well in hand by now only just today arrived at the dealership in Hollywood, so I've had to arrange for a couple of guys to drive a truck to Alabama with all the stuff so the team can have it for the first round. Chances are none of it will actually be needed, but I'd rather they had the spares and not need them than not have them and need them. So, yeah. Hollywood Porsche doesn't have any vehicles that could do the job- I mean, we're talking more than would fit in the back of a full-sized pickup- so I'm having a couple of guys from Temecula BMW drive up to Hollywood, load all the Porsche race parts in a Temecula BMW-logoed toy hauler and then drive non-stop for two days to get the stuff to Barber Motorsports Park in time for practice on Thursday."

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Emmy laughed at the thought of the minor scandal a BMW team truck would cause at a Porsche Cup race event.

"Yeah, it is funny," I admitted. "But an incredible pain in the ass, too."

"Why do you have to be the one to deal with it? You have a team director- is it not his job?" Emmy asked.

"This comes back to the truck thing and Reggie not having the authority to make it happen, and also not having the budget to be able to pay for it all from team funds," I explained.

"Will the parts get to Alabama in time?" Emmy asked.

"They should," I said.

"Then you have solved that problem," Emmy said, with a nod. Sipping her wine, she leaned back against me. "If that was the big crisis of the day, then things were not too bad."

"No, they weren't that bad," I admitted. "But it did take a lot of texts back and forth."

"Yes, it did," Emmy agreed, settling against me a little bit more comfortably. "It seemed to me that you had your phone in your hand constantly."

"It wasn't that bad, was it?" I asked, giving her a little squeeze.

"Perhaps not," Emmy admitted. "But it was unusual to see you texting more than the two teenaged girls."

This got a laugh from me, as I'm sure she intended.

At the gym in the morning, a tattooed, muscular guy came over to talk. "Davey said you merciless. He said you take him apart. I want to give it a go."

"Are you a better fighter than Davey?" I asked.

"Yeah, man," the guy said with a laugh, sweeping his dreads back over one shoulder. "Davey got nothing."

"And you've got something?" I asked.

"That's what they tell me," he said, laughing again. "My name's Malcolm. And what is the name of the pretty lady who gonna rock my world?"

Amused by Malcolm's ridiculous flirting and confidence, I couldn't help but smile. Just then Gabe, the gym's manager, came over.

"Is Mal bothering you?" he asked me.

"No, he just wanted to talk to the one who worked Davey over. He asked if we could maybe spar," I replied.

"You know the rules," he cautioned me.

"What rules she know?" Malcolm asked, looking back and forth between me and the gym manager, wondering what he'd missed.

"You know, just the standard MMA rules," I said with a shrug. "The usual."

"So, are we gonna get busy?" Malcolm asked.

"Sure, why not?" I replied. "I just need to gear up. I can be ready to rock in ten minutes."

"Today?" Malcolm asked, surprised.

"Yeah, right now," I said. "You've got me in the mood to throw fists."

"Well, alright then!" he said with a big grin.

"Full gear, light contact, ninety second rounds," Gabe said.

Less than ten minutes later Malcom, Gabe and I were in Ring Two. Gabe did a quick gear check on both of us, and once he was satisfied he called us into the center.

"Mal, Liz here is a real fighter. You might be heavier and stronger, but she's taller, has more reach and is faster than anybody I've ever seen. Don't go in thinking you'll take it easy." Turning to me, he said, "You know the rules."

Sending us back to our corners, Gabe gave us each one last look, then dropped his hand to signal the fight was on.

Malcolm moved towards the center with an odd, somewhat crablike gait, his stance unusually wide- almost like a squat as he swayed side to side.

I stepped forward hesitatingly, but not close enough to engage. It did the trick, though, and encouraged Malcolm to try a quick low kick. He followed it up by dropping low and trying to sweep my feet out from under me, pivoting on his right hand on the canvas.

This was a big, committed move, and it opened him up for a serious counter. Of course I recognized the technique immediately, since Ruben Da Silva had taught me how to counter all the classic capoeira moves, and the scissor takedown was near the top of the list.

His front hook met nothing but air as I jumped to clear it, so his back leg spin left him off-balance. I came crashing down on him leading with a knee to his hip and a solid downcut to the side of his face, dropping him to the mat.

I was up and off him just as quickly, stepping back to give him room. Malcolm popped up in a quick kip, back on his feet immediately. It was flashy and great for the crowd that was gathering to watch, but a needless expenditure of energy.

Once he set himself again, I drove in on him. I staggered him back with a quick forward kick, following it up with a flurry of jabs, which he did a poor job blocking.

I stepped back again, giving him room. This was just a spar, after all.

The fight went on like that for a bit, but when I trapped a mid-kick and laid a straight cross right on Malcolm's unprotected face that was it. Gabe called it over, and honestly, I was ready to be done. I'd been hoping for a new challenge, but Malcolm just wasn't the guy who was going to do it. Still, it was almost ten minutes where I had nothing else to think about other than hitting the other guy more than he hit me, and that was good.

"You aren't even breathing hard," Gabe said as he checked me over. "I guess I shouldn't be too surprised- I seen your workouts. I still don't understand how you can be so fast, though."

"It's a gift," I told him, and he just rolled his eyes.

Back home, we had a relaxing late morning, then a nice lunch. The girls opted to stay at the apartment rather than go with Emmy and me to see the Gilmour guitar collection that was up for auction. When they said they were going to use the building's pool, I gave them a little lecture about being careful, but really, I wasn't worried for their safety. The only real rule I laid down is no leaving the building, and they were fine with that.

"Why do you keep saying we have an appointment to view the guitars?" I asked Emmy on the drive to the auction house. "From what I read, they were on display in New York for two weeks before they came here, and they've been on display here in London for over a week. We could check them out any time we wanted."

"It is a special arrangement," Emmy said, playing coy.

Of course the doorman at Christie's recognized us immediately and ushered us right in, but really, Emmy was among the most recognizable people in the world, so it was to be expected. What was a surprise was the auction house employee who guided us to the room on the third floor with the collection. He was saying something to Emmy about what an honor it was to be able to offer Sir David Gilmour's extensive collection and so on, but I wasn't paying attention.

What immediately drew my eye was the wiry, middle-aged guy who was conspicuously not wearing a Savile Row suit, busily setting up an amp and effects board.

"Ah, Ms Lascaux!" he said when he noticed us.

"You must be Bill," Emmy said, taking his offered hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine," Bill replied, sweeping his thinning long hair back from his face. "It's the blue Fender you're interested in, but Dave said you can try any of them," he said, waving his arm to indicate the nearly three dozen guitars of various kinds on display.

"In that case, I absolutely must give the Black Strat a run!" Emmy said, her eyes lighting up.

"I thought you might," Bill agreed, nodding knowingly. "Will you be bidding on it?"

"No," Emmy said with a little dismissive wave. "It should go to a museum, or a collector who will display it. I am not that person. I want a guitar that I can play, not merely admire from afar."

"Ha! Dave owes me twenty quid!" Bill said with glee. "I told him that I didn't think you'd have any interest in any of these for a collection. I told him you're too much of a musician," he said, taking a well-worn black Stratocaster from its display stand under the watchful eyes of the Christie's security staff.

He handed the guitar to Emmy and the two had a quick discussion about tuning, but I was paying more attention to the other guitars in the room.

Hearing the buzz of the amplifier when Emmy plugged the guitar in, I realized that a decent crowd had gathered to watch, and Bill had a camera set up on a tripod to film the whole thing.

Emmy strummed a few experimental chords, listening closely to the sound, getting a feel for the instrument. Satisfied, she nodded to someone in the crowd and said, "Sorry if I mess this one up. I do not think I have played this song since I was ten years old," getting a mixture of chuckles and other mutterings from the crowd.

Emmy closed her eyes and started bobbing her head to a beat only she was hearing. After a few seconds of that she played a fat, crunchy chord and sang out, "I am just a little boy, a stranger in this town."

She ran through the whole song, and if she varied from the original recording in any way I sure didn't notice it. The two solos were perfect from what I could tell, and looking at some of the others in the room, it was clear none of them found any flaws, either.

"That was not the first Pink Floyd song I learned when I was little, but it was one of my favorites," Emmy said, looking down at the guitar in her arms. "It is a true joy to play it on the very same guitar that was used to record it."

Playing a clear, smooth chord, Emmy started in on the solo from 'Comfortably Numb', but this time she didn't play it exactly like the album. She used the original as a launch pad, taking off and soaring with it. She ran for at least five minutes, and although it was unmistakably hers, it was also very much in the spirit of Gilmour's playing. It sounded as if it could have been from a live Floyd concert sometime, and not just something she made up on the spot.

"I love this guitar's tone," Emmy said when she finished. "This is a joy to play."

She played several other Pink Floyd solos, some straight and some with her own spin. Finally, she unplugged the cable from the guitar and handed it back to Bill.

"That was wonderful," she said, giving the guitar one last caress. "It is truly a piece of musical history."

"The blue '57?" Bill asked.

"Yes, please," Emmy replied, still in a subdued mood from parting with the black Stratocaster.

Bill handed over a pretty blue Strat with gold hardware, and Emmy took a moment to examine it before looping the strap over her shoulder and plugging it in.

Checking the tuning and the sound, she nodded in satisfaction. Looking around at the crowd, she said, "As much as I loved playing the Black Strat, this is what I'm here for."

Without any warning she tore into the guitar intro for 'Killer In The Dark.' No scream, no vocals, just the ripping, shredding guitar.

"What a lovely, fat sound!" Emmy said when she finished the song. "This is exactly what I was hoping for!"

Emmy played the intro and two solos from 'Speed Kills' next, blending them into one long, seamless flow.

"Yes, this is what I have been missing," Emmy said to herself, only pausing briefly before launching into heavy blues riff which she played slow and slinky.

"There's a red house over yonder, that's where my baby stays," she sang.

Looking around at what were mainly older men in the crowd, I saw quite a few whose hands were unconsciously twitching as if they were the ones with their fingers on the frets. Amused, I didn't think much of it.

Emmy played 'Crazy Train' for her last song, causing quite a stir when everybody recognized it, which was almost instantly.

Handing the blue guitar back to Bill, she thanked him, then stepped forward to take the hand of one of the older guys, who I suddenly recognized as David Gilmour himself.

"Thank you very, very much for the chance to play these guitars," she said. "It was truly a joy."

I couldn't really hear his response, but he was smiling, so I figured it had to be positive.

"How did you arrange that?" I asked Emmy on the drive back to the apartment. "It sure looked as if all that was set up specifically for you."

"It was," she replied. "I reached out to David and told him that I was very interested in that blue Stratocaster, and asked if there was a possibility of trying it out. The rest was all his doing."

"Everybody there seemed to enjoy watching you play those two guitars as much as you liked playing them," I said. "That bit about being ten when you learned to play that song from The Wall- was that really true?"

"Yes!" Emmy said, her laughter like bells. "I still had not discovered my own sound, my own technique, so I learned to play so very many of the greats, to try to understand their phrasing, their tonality. Doing that helped me form my own technique."

"I think I was learning long division when I was in fourth grade," I said, shaking my head in wonder.

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