My beautiful readers! I have returned, and on a different page! I've lied to you...But it is in a good way. I said I would post my first chapter in April and here it is…the last day of March….so that makes it better!

As many of you may know, I post my chapters every Saturday night. Sometimes I post mid-week as well. So, you can look forward to that.

I hope you enjoy this project. I'm very proud of it. Here it goes…

Christmas Eve 2021

"Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail…"

Josephine read the passage with the fervor and charm of a Julliard scholar. The words breathed out like a melody that one could not do anything about but stop and listen. Images procured themselves from her words. Ebenezer, Marley, the fireplaces, the chains….

"…the mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot - say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance - literally to astonish his son's weak mind…"

Alfred was her audience tonight. He dusted the shelves one last time before the master would come home after his long journey. Everything needed to be in place. He would notice, but he would not say anything. Alfred was accustomed to this trait. After decades of service to the Wayne family, his ways were fixed. It was only with the arrival of Josephine that the home had become topsy-turvy.

Bruce Wayne's little ward of nine sat in her chair, one of Master Bruce's ties wrapped around her head.

She recited more of the passage.

"…Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas…"

"Alfred, I like this story. Why haven't we ever read it before?"

Her thinking aloud broke his cleaning ritual. "Master Wayne does not like to dawdle in the Christmas spirit for too long. He finds it distracts from his work."

"Christmas is what Bruce should find he has the most in common with. He does good works. Christmas is about charity and good will to men. He should be in the spirit more. Perhaps if I take him caroling? Do you think that might put him in good spirits?"

Alfred smiled as he dusted. "You never know."

She placed the book down.

"Maybe if we go after he gets back. Do you know he's giving me a Christmas present? I wonder what that is."

"I don't know, Miss Kane. Master Bruce should be home soon."

"I hope so. It's been so long waiting for him. I wish he would get here. I don't like for him to be gone so long on Christmas Eve, of all days."

"I miss him too, young miss."

He put away his cleaning and distracted her with little games they had found themselves playing for the three years she had been there. They passed the time with card games. Canasta was a favorite. Josephine was very talented at it. Although it was supposed to be more fun to play with three people, she had learned to enjoy only Alfred's company. On rare occasion, she could coax Bruce away from whatever he was doing to play a round but sadly tonight would be one she would have a new one.

Knock. Knock.

Josephine and Alfred glanced at each other simultaneously. She was curious and excited. His was a mix of curiosity and doubt. He smiled and quirked an eyebrow as he left the room to answer the door. The sounds of shuffling feet echoed as Bruce's voice echoed in the hall when Alfred greeted him.

"Master Bruce, we've been waiting for so long. How was your journey?"

"Difficult Alfred, but under the circumstances, you may see the reason. Come here."

"Master Bruce is he-"

"Yes, Alfred."

Josephine crept near the corner, ear pressed against the door. A visitor? There were hardly any visitors at Wayne Manor. Was this her Christmas present? She couldn't guess.

"Master Bruce, young master, come with me."

"Where is Josephine?"

"In the study, sir, should I go and fetch her, sir?"

"Not just yet, I might wait a little before-"

"Here I am!" Josephine bounded from her hiding place and unto Bruce. He froze for a moment with her arms wrapped around him, but returned the embrace somewhat unwillingly. "I'm so glad to see you, Bruce! You've been gone all this time and I hardly ever get to-"

She froze. Bruce stepped aside to reveal a boy around her age, maybe older. He was a queer little thing. His skin was olive, and foreign. His hair black and eyes the same. He stood as if he had a good deal of discipline and perhaps even a bit of abuse in his time.

He is strange thing, thought Josephine, but he is interesting. Why is he here at Wayne Manor?

"Josephine, this is my…son… Damian."

Josephine stood agape. She didn't know her guardian even had any children; apart from Dick Grayson and Tim Drake. But they weren't the type she was thinking. Bruce Wayne hadn't a child in the world. But here was this strange boy. She whipped her head towards Bruce.

"Is he my Christmas present?" She asked enthused.

Bruce worked his head side to side as he did whenever he couldn't make up his mind. "Yes, I suppose if that's what you want to call it. He can be your brother, if you'll think of it like that."

Josephine gazed back at Damian Wayne, who expression had not shifted from the indifferent scowl. She smiled at him. "He will be. I should like to have a brother. It's lonely here sometimes. I have Alfred, but maybe a brother will be nice."

She held out her hand to him. His eyes glanced down at it and back to her, still unchanged.

"Damian, shake hands with your new sister. This is Josephine."

Josephine stretched her arm farther. The boy was not encouraged. He still stared at her with his dark eyes. They stood for two moments before Bruce intervened.

"Damian, shake her hand."

"I will not," burst the youth, "I won't. She isn't worth her status."

"Damian…"

"Father, look at her! And she is supposed to be your daughter. Its isn't worth it."

He pushed past Josephine and ran up the stairs, leaving her in total confusion. She watched him go and felt the blow of rejection seep in. It was not something she cared too much to talk about. She stood there, feeling very lonely, in fact, much lonelier than ever claimed to feel before Mr. Damian Wayne's arrival.

"Damian! Damian, come back here!" Bruce made forth to go get him, bit Alfred held him off.

"Sir, that is not the way. Leave him be. He may come down again."

"That gives him no right to speak her mind like that." Bruce turned to his ward. "Josephine, I am so sorry for what he said. None of it is true." He pet her head, stroking the delicate strands in her long, brown hair. "You're not…unworthy."

"But why did he say those things? Why would he?"

"Listen, Damian comes from a line of very proud people. You mustn't take what he says to heart. It's not true. While he stays here, he will abide by the rules, but it will take time for him to completely surrender himself, understand?"

"Yes, I think so. But what about he said about being your daughter? Am I your daughter?"

"No, you are my ward. You are not my daughter. Don't ever associate yourself with that idea. You understand me?"

She nodded sadly. It was to be an epic battle raged throughout her story.

"Sir," Alfred stepped in, "why don't you go and speak to him? We will stay down here and enjoy some holiday cookies I made. Won't we Miss Josephine?"

She nodded, trying to be eager.

I'll be back in a few minutes, Alfred." Bruce disappeared up the stairs.

"Come, young miss," Alfred held her hand as he led her back to a warm fireside. But it was no hidden fact that Damian Wayne had dashed the holiday merriment for Josephine Kane. What is more, she could not understand his hidden hatred of her.

She would take the time to solve him, if it was the last thing she'd do.

December 21, 2029

A train whistle echoed down the indoor outdoor corridor of the train station. Passengers shuffled off the platform in earnest attempt for relief of the crowded cars. The types of citizens entering and exiting the platform varied in color and dress. The elder car held the fur coated, snappy dressers of the city, whilst the baby car held the more middle class earth tone aficionados.

Fog enveloped the evening tracks as the last passengers left the train, tugging his luggage cart close behind. It click-clacked over the span of tiles as the owner walked alongside the train for the taxis.

Damian Wayne was stern and pained. His father, the famed Bruce Wayne had sent him away for criminality. Misconduct in the Wayne home was not easily forgotten but this particular incident was not one to phone authorities over. For some reason, his manner of feelings had angered his father to an end to send him away. Naturally, it was the time in a man's life to go off to college. He understood and respected this decision made by his father. It was an institution of learning. He would attain great knowledge about the world and all its wonders.

He kept near the train as he passed the newspaper stand. "Get your news here! Big Stuff happening in Gotham! The elite are in a fix!"

Bystanders hovered around the booth looking over the latest. Damian turned his collar up on his black trench coat, so that no one could recognize him. That was the last thing he needed –to have someone holler at him for the story on the latest incident.

On that notion, he abandoned his affair with the train and walked near the newsstand where the latest papers were displayed. From behind his collar, he eyed the black and white pictures. The title was hard to miss. "JOSEPHINE KANE IN DANGER: WAYNE UNAVAILABE FOR COMMENT."

The picture on the cover mesmerized Damian. The grayscale photo did nothing for the girl he used to know. Instead of the brown, it was black. Her pale while skin was transformed into a moldy gray and upon closer inspection, it appeared her face looked asymmetrical.

He fished into his pocket and removed a gold pocket watch. It really made no sense for him to carry one but the time was not his meaning. With a click, the plate popped open to reveal a beautifully crafted clock from France. It was not the right hand side that attached him to the item –with the golden hands elegantly carved from the carpenter's hand –but the picture on the left. A smiling brunette illuminated the image. Her eyes had that familiar sparkle in them he always looked back on and had thought of so often in his months away.

It feels like so long ago.

He wanted to touch the image. He did so many times in the shelter of college, reminiscing. Here was not the place. Later.

He clicked it shut when a person behind him began to glance towards the precious jewelry. It was replaced in his pocket. He shouldered his way from the newspaper stands and out the double doors. The streets smelled the same. Everything seemed the same. Same old, same old. Gotham never really changed. He didn't raise his hopes too much, but it was all he could do to get himself to the manor.

To see her.

A/N: See you next week, my lovelies! Opinions welcome.