When Rosalie Falcone was six years old, she learnt the difference between herself, and all of the other children in her class. She sensed somehow that it wasn't her, really, that was different. It was more of an odd awareness that she wasn't called on as much to answer a question, yet she still received excellent grades. More of a knowing that she wouldn't be rapped on the palm with a ruler if she took more than her share at snack time. There was one other student in Rosalie's first grade class that was bright enough to recognize this difference : Rachel Dawes, a perky little child who was never afraid to express her opinions, half-formed as they were at the age of six.

"I don't think it's fair," Rachel complained to their teacher. "She shouldn't be treated any different than the rest of us."

Rachel's proclamations never moved the elderly spinster that was in charge of the first grade, who knew that Rachel's parent had little influence in Gotham – the gardener for Wayne Manor. Everyone knew that Rachel only attended the private institution because she was friends with the only child of the house, and so treated her accordingly. The children took their cues from their teacher, and treated Rachel with a less-than-impressed demeanor. It was whispered that Mr. Dawes had been involved in distasteful activities, and that was what had led to his gory demise. What the death had involved was never mentioned, only that adjective – "gory." It made the first-grade teacher shiver with the delight of a scandal, and gave her further fuel to dislike the spawn of it.

Every child, except Rosalie Falcone. It was odd that the two children were drawn together, one favored above the others, and one looked down on. It was Rachel's influence on Rosalie that communicated to the child that she shouldn't take advantage of the unfair treatment, and Rosalie's influence on Rachel that made the girl realize that she shouldn't treat herself like the entire first grade did. It was an unspoken arrangement that Rosalie would speak up for Rachel, and vice versa.

The two girls switched play-dates with each other – Rosalie's turn was always some sort of outing, riding on the elevated train that ran through the city with Rosalie's mother, Mrs. Giulietta Falcone, who was very soft-spoken but extremely devoted to the pair. Picnics, trips to the zoo, sunny days by a public swimming pool – these things ran the play dates of Rosalie.

But Rachel had the better attraction, in Rosalie's mind. The grounds of Wayne Manor were a wonderland for the two young girls, who would flit about, pretending to be faeries among beautiful landscaping and colorful flowers, playing hopscotch with round, flat pebbles by one of the huge decorative fountains. When they were forced to go inside, they would walk together through the myriad halls of the Manor, playing damsels in distress in the darker hallways, and being queens in the sunnier ones. The novelty of a butler with an accent added greatly to their play, and Alfred never failed to say something that made the pair giggle in wonder at how another human being could speak so differently.

The first time Rosalie met Bruce Wayne, the two had been parading around draped in expensive fabrics, which had been pinned into elegant dresses by Mrs. Dawes. They were admiring the way the dresses trailed behind them as the walked down the hundred stairs to the main garden, stepping slowly and regally onto each shallow step. They made their way to a large weeping willow, were Alfred served them juice in the most beautiful and dainty tea set on a miniature table, his long, lean frame folded onto one of the miniature chairs.

"More tea for Milady Rose? A biscuit for Milady Rachel?" He said in his most proper voice.

"Yes, please, Alfred," Rachel deigned to answer as she grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the plate. She munched on a bite thoughtfully, then opened her mouth again. "Milady Rose?"

"Yes, Milady Rachel?" Rosalie answered.

"Rosie?" Rachel asked again, putting the remains of the cookie on her saucer.

"What, Rach?" Having dropped out of the fancy behavior, Rosalie set her teacup down and put her elbows up on the table.

"Why don't we ever go to your house to play?"

Alfred couldn't help repressing a small noise at the question, and he pressed his lips together, gritting his teeth, then forced his face to relax before he turned to Rosalie to hear her answer.

"Uummm…" she began. "It's not as good as this." Rachel looked at her through hard eyes, and Rosalie knew she would have to come up with a better explanation. "No really. You wouldn't like it." Still searching for a good reason, Rosalie reached out for the truth. "My mama says that it's better if you don't come, I don't think she likes being home very much. Plus it's really small," Rosalie added as a last entreaty.

Neither of the girls saw Alfred's eyes soften as he watched the Falcone heir grasping for the right thing to say to her best friend.

"It can't be that bad, if you live there," Rachel began to reason.

"Well, I don't think it's so bad, I mean there's Angelo the cook and he's really funny, all the kitchen staff are really nice to me. But I think they sort of… have to be." Rosalie said this all very matter-of-factly, and looked down at her teacup. The observation came from the same sort of perception she had picked up at school, and she knew Rachel would understand that. "It's kinda weird sometimes."

Rachel sensed her friend wanting to leave this conversation topic alone, and so she nodded quickly before picking up her teacup and raising it to toast Rosalie.

"It's not weird here," she proclaimed, once again resuming the attitude of a snobby noble, "so that's okay. Right, Milady Falcone?"

Rosalie beamed. "Right, Milady Dawes." Before she could pick up her teacup and clink it with Rachel's, a strange voice spoke from above them.

"Falcone!" The trio looked up, and the first to speak was Alfred.

"Young Master Bruce! Get down from there, your arm's not yet healed!"

A cross look crossed the boy's face as Alfred stood up and retrieved him from one of the lower branches. Rosalie noticed that one of his arms was in a sling, and narrowed her eyes at the unwelcome intruder.

"Bruce! That's not very nice, to listen in like that!" Rachel stood up swiftly, and Rosalie thought she looked like a real queen as stood tall to rebuke the boy.

"If you knew who she was, Rachel, then you wouldn't care about it." Now on the ground, the boy stared stiffly back at Rachel.

"I do know who she is, dumbhead. She's Rosalie, she's my best friend." Rosalie felt a burst of warmth go through her at the statement.

"No she's not. Her parents are…"

"I don't care who her parents are! She's the only one who doesn't care about mine!!" Rachel was practically screaming now, and the boy backed up a few steps.

"You'd care if you knew who they were, Rachel. Her daddy's Carmine Falcone!" he shouted back triumphantly, and Alfred made the same unidentifiable noise before saying loudly, "Bruce. Wayne!"

Rosalie jolted at the name. She had not yet encountered a member of the family that lived in the beautiful house she loved to play in. And if they were all like this… she didn't care to meet another. She stood up, too, and walked dangerously close to Bruce.

"So what's wrong about that?" Rosalie asked in a voice of dead calm.

"He's only the biggest mob boss in Gotham," the older boy said sarcastically. "Or didn't you know that?"

Rosalie's eyes widened at this, and she began to tremble all over.

"That's not true! It's not true, you're lying, you're a mean, nasty liar and I'll never listen to anything you have to say again!" Rosalie rose her voice for the first time.

"It's not true?! You haven't even found that out yet? You live with him!"

Rosalie kept saying, "Not true, not true, not true…" over and over again, and she turned to Alfred, who knew all, in a panic. "Alfred, that's not true, is it?"

The butler stared down at the nearly hysterical girl, willing himself to open his mouth and lie, to say, "No, it isn't true, I don't know where Bruce heard that," but he couldn't. So he shut his mouth again.

"… then it is?" Rosalie stared wildly around, her eyes searching for Rachel. She found her friend, sitting cross-legged on the ground. "Rachel… are you okay?"

Rachel lifted her head slowly, her eyes meeting Rosalie's. "Rosie… Carmine Falcone killed my daddy. I heard the Waynes talking about it with… with my mom!" Rachel burst out into tears, and Rosalie knelt beside her to comfort her. "Don't touch me!" Rachel shrieked, shuddering away. She got up from the ground clumsily, and ran toward Bruce, who sheltered her with his unhurt arm. He gave Rosalie a look of triumph over Rachel's shaking head.

"Alfred, the mean girl is going home now."

It was a long ride home for Rosalie. Her mother had been called, and she had arrived in some thirty minutes to see her daughter sitting on the front step of Wayne Manor, dressed in an odd creation of forest green, her head in her hands.

"What happened?" Giulietta Falcone asked as she seated herself beside the small crying child.

"I found out about Papa, so did they."

"Oh, la mia princepessa," Giulietta murmured as she brought her daughter into her arms and whispered her pet name into her ear – princess.

They sat together there as one form as Rosalie let herself be comforted by her mother. Neither of them heard the front door gently open.

"Mrs…. Falcone?" A deep, measured voice inquired.

Giulietta looked up suddenly to answer, and replied in just as calm of a tone, "Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

"Please, it's Thomas."

Giulietta nodded slowly, then replied with dignity, "Giulietta. Juliet is probably more easier for you." She wasn't as good with English as her daughter or husband, but her voice held sincerity.

"Juliet. I'm very sorry about this, somehow our Bruce got it into his head that he needed to tell Rachel…. I'm sure that the girl will be alright after a matter of time, it's the shock, you know."

"Yes, I know. Our family seems to have a… talent for to give it out."

A rather startled laugh came bubbling from Thomas Wayne's lips, and he continued on. "I would like to drive the two of you home."

"We will take the train, thank you but no."

"It isn't any trouble for me, really."

"Thank you, but we will take the train. We will still have the blessing of your charity, if we take the train." Giulietta stood up with immense dignity, holding her heavy six year old on her hip as if she weighed nothing.

"It's not charity, ma'am."

Mrs. Falcone looked into Mr. Wayne's face, and her eyes softened a bit. "You may drive us to the station, if you would like it."

"Thank you. I'll be right around with the car."

The drive was quiet except for the sound of Giulietta making small comforting sounds to her daughter, who had ceased crying but was still clinging on to her mother. Rosalie had begun to fall asleep within the safe grasp when the car stopped at the nearest station some fifteen minutes away.

Giulietta politely gave her thanks for the ride, and prepared to climb the stairs to reach the platform.

"Juliet, if I may?" Thomas Wayne had quickly opened his car door and was now standing beside the woman with her precious burden, who stopped and turned at the words.

Thomas Wayne leant down, in order to look into Rosalie's face. "Rosalie?" he said quietly.

It was enough to wake Rosalie from her restless sleep.

"Rosalie, you can't help where you're born, but you can help where your path takes you from there."

Rosalie stared at the tall man for a few seconds, then turned her head into her mother's shoulder.

"Thank you, Thomas," Giulietta murmured. "Now, we need to be getting back." She stuck out a free hand for Mr. Wayne to shake, and he did so, then watched the two make their way up.

It was a month later when the news came quickly, after it happened. Thomas Wayne and his wife had been murdered in The Narrows, coming out of the stage door of an opera house.

Only their son, Bruce Wayne, had survived.