A/N: I hope you're all enjoying this little tale so far. Friday is now my official update day for this story, so you are within your rights to flame me if I'm late getting the next chapter up. From here on out, the present parts will be told from Kitty's point of view. Well, here's the next chapter.

Stroke of Midnight

= Chapter III =

The moment I passed through the doors they swung shut behind me and closed softly, but did so with a solid finality. There was no turning back now. I looked around. The hallway strangely wasn't as dark as it had been when I first entered the castle, but I couldn't detect any additional light source. I tucked my flashlight away since it was no longer needed. Also, the hallway seemed less dusty and rank. Cobwebs still hung from the paintings and the carpets were still stained, but the absolute dreariness seemed to have been wiped away. Through the stained glass window at the end of the hallway, I could still hear the pattering of raindrops as the storm continued to thunder outside.

Then I cursed. "My notebook!" I turned back to get it, but the doors were once again locked. Feeling slightly concerned, I turned down the hallway towards the stairs. I walked far longer than I expected to, until she found myself back outside Anna's bedroom doors. I had gone in a circle. Now worried, I tried every door along the hallway but none would budge. There was no way out!

"Easy Kitty, calm down. This happened in the bedroom as well. Let's just try and figure this out," I said to myself.

So I walked down the hallway again, much more casually this time, glancing about for clues. Then a golden wavering light caught my eye and drew it to a mirror on the wall. It was showing the same fiery letters as in the bedroom mirror, but here there was no fire to reflect. Beneath the mirror on a small, decorative table laid my notebook. It had followed me?

Approaching to take it I saw the letters in the mirror realign themselves into another set of words.

"Time stands still

While faces mixed.

Find father's will

Once order's fixed."

"What the…" was all I could say. "Could you be a bit more specific?" Surprisingly, the mirror cooperated.

"These noble ones

Must rearrange.

The dates, move none,

But portraits change."

So the mirror was telling me to rearrange the paintings on the wall? I stepped back to look at them. There were many of them all the way down the hall. Below each painting was what looked like a solid gold plate with several inscriptions engraved on the surfaces. But there were so many of them. How was I supposed to fix them all?"

The mirror once again decided to take pity and gave me a clue.

"Key to masters

Long at rest,

'Twixt pages lie

The answers best."

Now I thought she was getting the hang of this. The answer to this riddle could be found in a book. So I proceeded to scour the hallway up and down for anything that could help me in the mystery.

There was only one bookcase along the walls. Balancing a small wobbling chair precariously against the towering wooden frame, I scanned the shelves, drawing out each volume and perusing it carefully. Pulling out one particularly thick tome with gold-embossed lettering, I opened the pages. Finding it promising, I read attentively. It was inscribed in several different languages, so I searched for the English translation.

Since the founding of our father Guilds, under the direction of the immortal Candra, the genealogical records of the high families and Guilds masters has become a revered tradition. Lest we forget the deeds of our leaders, past and present, the official scribes preserve the lines of masters through every branch of the Guilds. In additional dedication, our ruling fathers are depicted in their official portraits to be hung in every central house. They are identified by name, date of instatement as Master, their branch among the enterprise, and the dedicated name bestowed at death that represents their deeds in life. Further detail on the leadership under each master can be found in the private volumes held exclusively within every Guild house.

"The guy wasn't kidding when he mentioned these people being crime families; they were spread all over the world." I looked up from the book. I moved closer to the wall to examine the gold plates and the writing on them.

Philippe Chevalier, 1872, Thieves' Guild Paris, the Righteous One.

Alexandre Dimur, 1799, Thieves' Guild Bucharest, the Hammer.

Eduardo de Vez, 1810, Thieves' Guild Belem, the Leopard.

Each portrait had plates like this hung below them just as the book had said. Now knowing what to do, I set to work.

"Thank goodness I'm good at history. And fashion." Using my extensive knowledge of different eras and their clothing styles, as well as several convenient hints within the portraits themselves, I began to rearrange them. When I correctly set the first painting, it seemed to glow. The colors turned vibrant once again, the picture was clear, and all traces of dust were removed.

Even with the clues I had gained, it took me ages to properly set the pictures. At last, with sweat trickling down my neck and a crick in my back, I was down to one last portrait. I couldn't help but examined it. The portrait was a magnificent portrayal of a regal man. He sat, erect and poised, in a fine armchair. His long hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck and he had a well-trimmed mustache. The gray eyes were keen even in a painting. He seemed like a man who could command attention with just the slightest word or gesture. In the picture with him were two small boys curled up asleep at his feet like puppies. The man's gaze rested on them with a stern but deep affection. The plate beneath where this portrait was meant to be hung read

Jean Luc Lebeau, 1828, Thieves' Guild New Orleans, the Father.

"Okay, let's see what happens now." The painting was fitted to the wall among its equals.

I jumped as chimes boomed out again, beginning to strike twelve times again.

"What the heck? It already struck midnight." But my bewilderment was cut off as another light like back in the bedroom began to take form. This one wasn't Anna though.

February 2nd 1863

The young man strode down the hallway that was hardly inhabited normally, but his feet drew him there instinctively. This place called to him in a way that he almost believed that if he were to come here at the right time, he would find Anna waiting for him. He tugged uncomfortably at the formal clothes he had been forced to wear for the ceremony, wishing again that he could speak to the lovely girl. She had been there when his world had been tipped from alignment before, and Remy didn't doubt she could offer him guidance in this even greater alteration to his world.

Even if Remy hadn't had the best relationship with his foster father, Jean-Luc had always been a constant in his life since he had been brought among the Guild ranks. His disciplinary and strict ways, despite rubbing the rebellious Remy the wrong way most of the time, had been an anchor for the young man in ways he hadn't known until now. He couldn't quite believe that the regal Guild master was gone.

He was glad to be alone now. The funeral had been too solemn and stifling for him. Remy was especially glad to escape the scrutiny of the many Guild dignitaries and important figures attending. When they received the news that Jean-Luc had died of heart attack while on a hunting excursion, Remy hadn't seemed to have reacted much. He went through the motions: preparing the burial ceremony, settling the affairs along with his brother, and accepting the words of the many mourners and colleagues. Jean-Luc had been patron of his Guild for over thirty years after all, and he was well-known. Remy's behavior of seemingly uncaring had attracted many inquiries, people wondering why he showed such little reaction to his father's death as they offered condolences. The reason was something he could never explain, so he avoided the question and escaped when he could. Only his brother could claim to at least partially understand how he felt, but no one fully understood…except for her. But she was far away, and for now, he was on his own.

Remy sighed faintly and leaned back against the wall, one heel propped up against the wooden border. He pulled a bundle of papers from an inner pocket of his expensive jacket and began to rifle through them: his father's final business. Most were letters for gratification of service, payments of several debts, and bequeathals to various heirs. Then he uncovered an envelope of expensive parchment, sealed with red ink and his father's personal seal. It was addressed to him.

Remy's interest raised a little and he began to open it. It was probably last minute instructions or lectures that his father hoped to cram into his head before the late master was laid to rest for good. He withdrew a letter written in Jean-Luc's firm and elegant script.

"My beloved son,

Since you first came into our family, I have taken great care in planning your future, and it is with great pride that I propose my last arrangement for your life.

I have spoken with Marius, and he has agreed to offer you his daughter's hand in marriage. Upon watching you dance at the New Year's ball, we are certain that you will be happy together."

Remy's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline and a delightfully surprised smile threatened to break out over his face. He remembered that dance three years ago. He recalled the shapely figure that he had held in his arms as they danced. Remy's focus drifted as he fantasized about rich amber hair with streaks of ivory, and of eyes as bright and beautiful as emeralds.

At last he managed to shake himself out of his reminiscence and he continued to eagerly read the letter.

"Once Belladonna reaches the age of 21, please carry out my wishes and unite two ancient families, long known as rivals, as one.

Your Father,

Jean-Luc"

Remy's heart, so light and giddy just a moment before, dropped to his toes as his mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide in horror. He dropped the letter as if it burned him.

"Belladonna…" he trailed off quietly. How had this happened?

He straightened up abruptly, the letter forgotten on the hall table beside where he stood. Pivoting on his heel he strode swiftly down the hallway. He needed to find his brother.

The Present

I watched as the light formed into the same young man I had seen outside. Since I knew more of the story, I was positive this was Remy, the one Anna had written her letters to. True to my assumptions from my previous brief glimpse, he was very handsome. His shape was a good deal taller than me, with long and fine hair and the kind of face any woman would swoon over. Despite the pale discoloration, I could tell that his hair was russet colored and his skin was well tanned.

As the scene unfolded, the man's image leaned up against the wall and absently began to read various documents, his attention wandering periodically. Then the eyes of the man snapped to attention as he opened and read a particular letter. His face suddenly lit up like that of a child on Christmas, before the expression almost instantly dropped. It was replaced with a horrified mask of disbelief. He continued to stare before dropping the letter and spinning about to disappear down the hallway and out of sight.

I stood motionless until a flash from the mirror revealed new words.

"Father's will must be obeyed."

My eyes fell to a piece of paper lying on the end table that hadn't been there before. It must have been left by the vision. Picking it up, I read the words.

So this was the cause of Anna's distraught letters. The name of Remy's wife-to-be was named Belladonna. I was now fully absorbed into the castle's tale. I turned to look down the hallway where Remy had disappeared. The mirror flashed again.

"Remy has much more to tell."

Tucking the page of the will into the pages of my retrieved journal, I followed the path of the echo to the next stage.

"Much more to tell I'll say; and I want to hear more."