Author's Note:

I've abandoned this series for so long it's terrible and I don't even have an excuse because this installment's been up on AO3 since August.

I have a total of 7 or 8 pieces planned and I have the last one written already (it's an 13,000 word one-shot, joy).
So this is the Court of Owls installment. Most of the Court of Owls stories I've read are really angsty like it's just an excuse to torture poor Dick. I don't intend to do that. I had the boys kidnapped before knowing who kidnapped them and then had to look up potential culprits. The Talons looked suitably steampunk and terrifying on google images so I researched it more and decided to use them.

All that great history info is at the end if you're interested.

Again, please leave a review if you like it and/or have some constructive criticism.

Part 1

She arrived at precisely eight o'clock in the morning on a Monday with a punctuality that gratified Alfred. The young masters had not yet woken up but master Bruce was drinking a cup of coffee in the kitchen while Alfred tended to breakfast. He let the girl in and she stepped inside, head lowered in demure submission. Master Bruce stood and took her hand as she entered the kitchen. "Miss Gordon. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." She curtesied deeply and gave a light laugh that rang out like bells. "I assure you, sir, the pleasure is all mine." She glanced around the kitchen, seeming more at ease now that the pleasantries were out of the way. "I apologise if I have interrupted anything, Mr Wayne, Mr Pennyworth, I can return later if it's more convenient." Her voice was raised in question and master Bruce shook his head with a chuckle. Alfred moved back to the stove where the bacon had fried to a perfect texture. The eggs, too, were almost ready and he asked Bruce to wake the boys. He rose with a groan as it pulled his aching knee. Miss Gordon looked askance at their informality and once they were alone Alfred explained. "In future, ensuring the young masters are awake will be one of your duties. Master Bruce, however, has been doing this for as long as they have lived in the manor; one more day will not harm him." He began to split the food onto five plates and instructed Miss Gordon to lay the table.

Barbara and Selina got on like a house on fire and it worried Bruce. Not because he had any reason to be suspicious of the young Miss Gordon, she had been hidden away from her father's evil, but because Selina would most likely be a terrible influence on the poor girl. The boys adored her too. Dickie because she was pretty and close to his age (and that was something else he would have to worry about, in later years), Jason because she also appreciated literature (what a shock that had been, that his middle son could not only read but knew the classics), and Timmy because she remained perpetually calm. Alfred, though he would never admit it, appreciated the help. It was only him that suspected a plot. It centred around Barbara and Selina.

Batman, Robin and Magpie were working a case in the warehouse district. The darkness of the streets masked their movement and the crashes of construction covered their discussion. Robin hung upside-down from a metal railing. "It won't be the Falcone's. You put 'em away last week." He wasn't wrong: the Falcone's, a family of mobsters and arms dealers, had finally been caught in the early hours of Thursday morning after an epic chase through the side streets and alleyways of lower Gotham. It could not be them that had organised the hit on old Mr Cobblepot. He paced for a few minutes, watching Robin swing out of the corner of his eye. The poor man had been alone, living in the grand townhouse just north of the city proper that he had inherited some thirty years ago from an uncle. He had lived there ever since in moderate comfort and made sure to keep out of the way of the political machinations of the Gotham elite. He had been found two days ago with his throat slit. No weapons were left at scene, no footprints, not a hair nor a scrap of cloth. Only the feather of an owl.

In the end, the case was abandoned in favour of a warm bed and an early start the next morning. There was a gala that night and the boys needed to be prepared, after their lessons of course. Barbara was there to help them, to tie their ties, to straighten their collars, to ensure they'd thoroughly scrubbed behind the ears. Then she would help Selina with her beautiful gown and her hair and makeup. They had to be united in their perfection. Bruce was old enough and experienced enough to do it himself but Lord knows how the women managed without a maid and his boys, love them though he did, were hopeless. One would have thought that Timmy, the well raised, more civilised of the trio would understand the process of such an event but it had evidently slipped the mind of whoever taught him manners. He was a quick learner, and polite, so Bruce was sure that he would be able to charm whoever deigned to speak with him. Dickie would have no problems with the guests attending, he was sure. The boy's bright smile and ever-present laugh lifted the spirits of any who encountered him. It was Jason who worried him. Loud and brash with none of Timmy's wealthy polish or Dickie's affable nature, he was not afraid to argue with those he disagreed with, and Gotham took offense so easily. It appeared he need not have worried, however. The trio stuck together, targeting guests they knew had children of their own and striking up a conversation, about their new education primarily. By the time dinner was served, three guests had complemented Bruce and Selina on the boy's behaviour. But when dinner ended, and the dancing began, the boys disappeared, although Bruce was far from concerned by their absence - they were in his house after all - and instead decided to take Selina for a whirl around the dance floor.

The house was scary at night. The Drake house may have been cold and lonely, only a hint of the bizarre to brighten it, but Wayne Manor was haunted by the ghosts of the past. Thomas Wayne's spectre lingered in his library, forever flicking to whatever page he thought most interesting with a sudden gust of wind, and the piano in the darkened music room tinkled with gleeful laughter when Martha wanted a word. It was difficult to be there alone. Timmy knew that, with so many guests downstairs in the ballroom, the ghosts and shadowed corners shouldn't bother him but there was something in this night that sent shivers down his spine and had him jumping at any creaking floorboard. Something was stalking the night, something dark, something dangerous and mean. He feared for their safety and longed for Dickie and Jason at his side, the three musketeers, or even for Bruce and Alfred to scare the monsters away. But he was a big boy; he didn't need them.

The chandelier had been off limits since Dickie had attempted to teach Jason to swing from it with such disastrous consequences as a sprained wrist, bruised pride and smashed crystal like tears scattered across the floor. Now, with Alfred preoccupied upstairs, he had free rein over the second floor chandelier in the hallway. He could have used the gymnasium on the first floor, at least there was proper equipment there, but the taste of rebellion was sweet on his tongue and the clink of metal chains reminded him of home, strange though it may seem. To and fro he swung, heedless of the damage to his suit, singing the song of his people: "He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease, the daring young man on the flying trapeze," and there he went, flying off the chandelier with one, two, three somersaults in a row. He landed lightly on his toes and bowed low, left and right, as if to an audience for there had always been an audience (to fly without a spotter was to risk death but he had always been more daring, or perhaps more foolhardy than his late ancestors). He had not expected an audience's applause tonight.

Jason heard Tim's muffled scream and started to run. It was perhaps his better judgement that he'd become quite so close to the little squeaker, but when you see a kid on the street and you're all lenten you don't ignore their growling stomach just to feed your own. Turning the corner, he cursed the long, sprawling corridors of Wayne Manor, longing instead for the tight and familiar streets of Gotham. And there, at the door of the library, was Timmy, bound tightly by a man at least twice his size. A kidsman or a bludger most likely. Jason had only ever been a tooler, a lowly pickpocket. Even now, roaming the night as Magpie, he was not allowed to take on the more dangerous criminals Batman faced. "You gibfaced foozler!" he cried as he aimed a sharp kick at the man's knee. He hadn't been expecting such a sudden attack and let Tim go with a yelp, but then he was back with a solid metal knuckle duster on his hand. Jason couldn't dodge quickly enough and took a blow to the side of the head. He was aware for long enough to see Timmy launch himself at their assailant with a shriek.

"How wonderful to see him perform, the Gray Son of Gotham." Dickie spun around, searching for the source of the voice. "Ah, I see you recognise that name. You already know the truth. Now it is time for you to claim your destiny." Snarling, Dickie turned again. He knew that voice: it echoed in the darkness of his memories before, a thin and rasping whisper in his nightmares. "Show yourself!" he cried in barely suppressed terror but the voice only chuckled. How could he remain so silent and hidden in the faint shadows of the hallway? That tremulous, abrasive voice was audible again, hissing a melodious little rhyme. "Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed. Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the Talon for your head." He barely had the time to glimpse the figure in black with glowing gold eyes before the unseen knife made contact with his temple and he passed out.

It was Alfred who noticed something amiss. Bruce was deep in discussion with a potential business associate about the direction in which Wayne Enterprises was headed. Many had speculated how Selina would influence his initiative, given her position as a wealthy philanthropist and women's rights campaigner. Alfred gave him a significant look as he passed with a tray of champagne flutes and Bruce inclined his head in acknowledgement. He finished the conversation, asking the man to write Mr Fox with any questions he had, and moved across the room towards where Alfred had disappeared. The older man appeared harried, a concerned frown deepening the wrinkles on his forehead. "I haven't seen any of the young masters in over an hour, Master Bruce. Would you like me to search the manor for them?" Bruce wracked his brains, trying to remember the last time he'd seen his wards. He recalled Timmy tugging at his sleeve before escaping to the library, Jason following behind, but he had hardly seen Dick since supper. He nodded to Alfred. "Timmy went to the library with Jason. You could start there." The ball continued and Alfred searched for his master's children alone.

The library was empty and Alfred felt the first inklings of concern. Master Timmy was certainly not one to lie about his intentions and Master Jason adored literature so much it was hard to believe that he would choose to leave once situated. The rug in the hall was disturbed. It was the first sign of a scuffled. Had the boys fought over something? There was a splash of blood on the door frame, still wet. Fresh alarm coursed through him as he straightened. He had to tell Master Bruce. But first he would search for Master Dick, the circus child had no interest in reading and would most likely be upstairs somewhere. Something malevolent had filled the air with a terrible, suspicious charge and Alfred was determined to find out what it was. He almost crashed into Miss Gordon coming down the flight of stairs from her rooms in the East Wing. She was frantic, eyes wide and hair pulled almost free of its neat bun. "I thought I heard a scream. Are the children safe?" Alfred didn't want to cause her more alarm and yet there was no way to avoid the truth, horrific though it was. He told her of Masters Timmy and Jason's disappearance from the library, of how Master Dickie was unaccounted for. She took the news as well as could be expected, offering to join the search. They strode down corridors and peered into empty rooms but the boy was nowhere to be found. It was Barbara who found the single white owl's feather on the floor beneath the chandelier.

Wayne Manor was not meant to be silent. Barbara Gordon prowled the corridors, not in search of trouble, but in search of answers. There was something fragile in her eyes, a trembling, anxious fury, that made Bruce pause in his slow descent to the basement. They had found the clues, found signs of a struggle, but had not found his boys. Young Barbara paced outside their door, for lack of anything better to do. "Miss Gordon?" he queried and she stopped to give him a short curtesy, awaiting further orders. "I believe Selina would appreciate some assistance. She has retired to her rooms for the evening." Barbara walked away, skirts swinging in agitation.

Mistress Kyle, Selina, was sitting at her dressing table, returning a pair of priceless pearl earrings to their box. She was dressed only in a thin nightgown, her dark hair loose and tumbling down her spine. Barbara had never seen someone more beautiful. "I was like you, once." She stopped short and kept very still. The mistress was not a woman to be trifled with, fierce and unpredictable, she reacted to threats with the speed and grace of a cat. "I had very little money and a family I was supposed to be ashamed of. Performing, lying, was in my blood and I would do anything to get ahead. I suppose that Dickie and I are alike in that sense. Now, I do not need to but there are those that do so I fight all the more. In a slightly more refined way, of course, but it doesn't mean I don't enjoy the thrill of the chase, the song of roaring blood, the dance of death with those who wished me harm. It is a strange thing to miss but you understand, don't you, Barbara? You want to do all the things your father did but you want to do them right. And I know how you can." She waved a hand at the dark sheath of fabric on the bed. Barbara had assumed it was the mistress's dress but now she saw it was a different colour: a dark navy riding habit with charcoal breeches and tall black boots of a leather softer than Barbara had ever dreamed of. She picked up the habit in one hand, marvelling at the quality of the fabric. "Is this for me?" she asked and when Selina nodded she stare at her incredulously, struck dumb by her kindness.

"Welcome to the family...Batgirl."

Author's Note (continued):

And so begins the Million Dollar Debut of Batgirl! (do you appreciate my references?) You'll see more in the next chapter which has been finished for ages so maybe next week.

I'd like to thank MissScorp for her review that actually reminded me I hadn't posted this yet! You're comments were really insightful and it's great to know that someone who actually know Holmes quite well thinks I'm doing a good job (sorry he doesn't show up in this). I am planning a Holmes vs. Ra's type installment for further down the line, so watch this space.

Now, it's time for the research findings, people!
So, this time it'll mostly be language notes because Jason's slang is impossible to understand without a dictionary (I should know).
In order of appearance:
- Squeaker means 'small child'
- Lenten means 'starving'
- Kidsman or Bludger should be fairly self explanatory. Think Fagin from Oliver Twist or a common thug
- Tooler means 'pickpocket'
- Gibfaced foozler (my new favourite insult) literally means 'ugly clumsy person', gibfaced being a jab at the person's looks, foozler being someone really clumsy.
More will appear with the next installment (I have a list of Victorian slang words attached to my draft).