A/N: Hello, dearest readers! Another chapter, yippee! ;)

K: Aw, thanks. *blushes* I hope you like this update! :)

wkgreen: Hehe, I love your little speculations each chapter. :) I think you might be surprised about what happens, though. ;)

dagleek: Haha, I will never stop thickening the plot! ;) Oh, and don't worry, there's going to be lots more Brittana from here on out.

You want to know something that totally blew my mind when I was typing? Sure you do, don't even try to deny it. ;) Anyway, I realized that I have "regular" reviewers! Not that I don't love the others who have reviewed, but seriously, I love that you three (and you know who you are) seem invested enough to comment each time! It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. :) And, now, you are obligated to review each chapter after this because of that. ;) Lol, j/k! No, but seriously you guys, thanks. :)

Oh, and I sat down to start this chapter on Monday, but then realized I didn't feel like thinking, so I decided to watch D.E.B.S., which is a really good feel-good serious-spoof movie, if you haven't seen it. I personally love it. Anyway, the point is that I kept thinking throughout the whole movie, "Brittana would make this 20 times better." You know you are obsessed when you watch a movie visualizing Glee characters instead of the ones actually in the movie. I called the movie in my head C.H.E.E.R.I.O.S. and even made up a word for each letter. Anyway...I have absolutely no idea why I just told you all that. I thought it was funny. *shrugs* I might try my hand at a Brittana story that goes along with the D.E.B.S. movie sometime...I don't know.

Omg, I just finished watching "Yes/No." *Spoilers: for those of you who haven't watched it yet.* A few things crossed my mind. 1) *sigh* Yet another episode about Finn and Finchel. 2) Great, just what Finn's big head needs, an adult saying how much Finn's shown him what a man is. 3) Yay...more Brittana just holding hands... 4) Why didn't Rachel and Kurt apply to other schools? You'd still be in New York if you applied to Julliard or NYU or something! That's bad planning. 5) Why would you sing that song to Finn, Rachel, when he only cares about you when it's convenient for him? 6) For the love of all that is holy, SAY NO, RACHEL! I am happy for Emma, though, because she's adorable. :)

Well, I have taken up entirely too much of your time babbling on like Rachel Berry, so let's get to the chapter! Enjoy! :)

The kitchen was filled with salty, fragrant steam from the oyster pots. The chef had made candied sweet potatoes in addition to the usual array of vegetables, and the odor of cinnamon and nutmeg permeated the kitchen and the dining room.

Will Schuester hung his order sheets on the chef's carousel, and then turned to see David, one of the young assistant chefs, standing beside the salad-preparation work table and smiling, his hands flecked with green from making salads for dinner. "So, do you work this shift from now on?"

Will shook his head. "Tomorrow and Friday I work breakfast. Then never again, I hope."

David laughed. "You hate mornings, don't you?"

Will nodded. "And people acting like pigs at a trough." He turned to the wine steward to hand him the slip for table five.

Out in the dining room, Will arranged his face in a professionally pleasant expression. He straightened the snow-white linen apron tied around his waist, feeling content. After almost a year of working his way up through the ranks of the nearly 150 waiters at the Palace, he was about to get the second supper shift—the one he had wanted from the start. After eight o'clock at night there were fewer Americans. It was quieter, more civilized. The European guests knew how to spend a few hours over a fine meal talking and drinking wine, and then left gratuities big enough to matter. Americans were like country bumpkins, even most of the wealthy ones. They were as pleased to eat boardinghouse fare as real cuisine.

Will poured another glass of wine for a young man at one table, and then removed a plate emptied of oyster-stuffed mushrooms from another. A woman across the room laughed merrily. Her companions were all sharing the joke, whatever it was. None of them was hunched over their plates, eating the wondrous food too fast, nor were they ignoring it in favor of business talk. There were savoring the exquisite result of hard work and decades of experience on the part of the chef and his staff. As they should be.

Will turned to take the soiled dishes back to the kitchen and to check on the entrees ordered by the two romantic couples near the back of the room. One of the women was so pretty, it was hard to serve her without staring. Will sighed. Wealthy men so often seemed to have beautiful women at their sides.

"William? Party of three?"

Will turned and nodded at Cameron, the dining room host, and then looked past him. Damn. Americans, on man and two young women. In one practiced glance, Will took them in. There was a family resemblance between them. So, a father and his two grown children most likely. Very clearly monied, and just as clearly without even a semblance of real sophistication. The shorter of the two girls was pretty, but gawking about like an orphan child taken into some grand place. She was in awe of everything from the carpets to the chandeliers. No, Will corrected himself, watching her. She was looking at the other tables, at the other women's gowns and hats and shoes.

Will nodded, half-bowing, and gestured into the dining room as though it were his home and he was welcoming guests. "Please choose any table. I will be with you in a moment."

"Thank you," the man murmured, and then turned back to the taller of his daughters as they walked toward the far wall. "I want you to come along," he was saying.

Will couldn't hear the answer, but the woman shook her head, her eyes angry.

Will turned away before they could notice him watching them. Of course. A table of Americans, and they were arguing. He started back toward the kitchen, consoling himself. This isn't so bad—only one table of Americans in almost two hours. With luck, he could stay on this shift forever.

Brittany awoke early—before the train whistle or the first sleepy crows of Mrs. Sylvester's rooster. She got up, shivering, and peeked out her window. There was no fog this morning. She could see a few lights off toward the financial district.

She lowered her drapes, less uneasy than she had been the night before. She might not lose her job. Arthur might not report the book missing, since he would be ashamed of what was in it. And the girl's family might not report finding it because of the information it contained.

Brittany crept around her room, dressing quickly by candlelight, and then made her way downstairs, buttoning her coat. She would never have known that Rachel and her father and sister would be gone today if it hadn't been for Arthur's journal entry. It seemed too perfect…Arthur's own ruin was possible this morning because he had recorded that one entry.

Brittany lit a match and held it up to read the tall clock in the front room. Four-thirty. Perfect. She would have to go in the service doors, but once inside, she could take the service elevator up to the fourth floor, use her key to put the diary under Rachel's pillow, and then be back down the join the others in line before Mrs. Beiste even got there.

If anyone noticed her coming out of the elevators, she would say that she had left her pocketbook in one of the upper floor stock rooms the night before. It was true. She hadn't wanted to turn in her master key the night before. She was going to need it.

Brittany eased the front door open, and then closed it silently behind her. As she began walking, she glanced skyward and saw the sparkle of stars. No fog. A sunny morning and a glorious day. Deliberately, she lowered her head and looked straight down the block, thinking.

If she was let go because of this, she would apply for a job at the new Beaumont Hotel up on Nob Hill when it opened. They might not ask for referrals or references since they would be in a hurry to staff their new hotel. She could certainly prove that she was trained in hotel work. If she didn't get fired, she would keep cleaning rooms at the Palace for another six months or a year, saving every dime she could. Then she would try to find a position in a modiste's shop. With a recommendation from the Palace, maybe a shop owner wouldn't need to ask much more about her background. Her needlework was good enough to—

"Good morning, Missy."

The man's voice startled Brittany, and she instinctively veered away from it, glancing up. He was propped against the side of a building, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. He repeated his slurred greeting. She did not answer. Brittany saw other shadowed figures farther down the street and realized that the neighborhoods that she walked through every morning were different just one hour earlier. The people on the streets now were not on their way to work—they were on their way home, many of them drunk and swaying on their feet.

Three women wearing revealing dresses—and obviously without proper corsets—passed Brittany walking the other way. She lowered her head to keep from catching their eyes. She knew what they were, and she pitied them, but she didn't want to make polite conversation with them this morning.

Someday, Brittany promised herself, I will move out of the Mission district. I'll get a place in a respectable part of the city. She hurried her steps. The streetcars wouldn't be running until five o'clock. She would have to walk to the Palace today.

Finn Hudson rolled over in his sleep, reaching to put his arm around Elizabeth. When his caress fell on nothing but wrinkled sheets, he opened his eyes and blinked, patting at the empty bed as though he thought she was there just somehow hidden from him.

"Damnation," he grumbled to himself, sitting up.

The argument the night before came back to him in bits and pieces. He had been drunk. Elizabeth had been furious. She had threatened, again, to leave him—though God only knew where it was she thought she would go. Her father had died five years before, and her mother had become like a child in her grief. She was in a sanatorium out in Denver.

Elizabeth's lectures were wearying. Sometimes Finn felt like he could join in and recite them with her. Last night, she had gone through her suffragette nonsense yet again, trying to convince herself that she could live without his protection and help. She was attending entirely too many progressive meetings down at the schoolhouse. They all were. It was time the men of the community put a stop to all of this.

"Elizabeth?"

She didn't answer.

"Elizabeth?"

A hollow feeling gnawing at his stomach, Finn turned back into the bedroom. She would never actually leave, would she? He just wanted her to tone down all this progressive nonsense to a level a man could live with. He only played poker three times a week. That was not a lot of recreation for a man.

Finn got back into bed. Sometimes she couldn't sleep and she just took a walk down the lane and came back. That was probably it. She would be home before long. Finn turned onto his side. It was only then that he saw her note poking out from beneath her pillow. It was short and to the point.

I have gone to live with my sister in San Francisco. I will not divorce you, but don't bother trying to come see me. You have ruined my name and my life.

Elizabeth

Finn crumpled the paper in one hand, slowly and deliberately. So, she thinks she can just up and leave, taking all of her money with her, is that it? She would not get away with this.

Santana lay staring at the ceiling, wondering how long she would have to be in the city before the habit of waking before dawn left her. She was beginning to hate it. At home, she would dress and be on her way out to check the pastures, ride up to Raul's camp to make sure the new blood-stock bulls were coming along, or ride into Oakland to telegraph the marking in Chicago—something.

Here, in this grand hotel room, she spent three hours a day staring at the ceiling and thinking before Papa and Rachel woke up. She had tried rising to dress twice. Both times, Rachel had snapped awake and sat up, demanding to know what time it was and what was the matter.

Santana considered trying to go back to sleep for another hour, and then swung her feet to the floor and stood up. At least this morning, she didn't have to worry about Rachel, who had left with Papa the night before for Napa. So she could at least get dressed, sit in front of the bay window, and watch the sun come up over the city.

As Santana pulled on her skirt, she toyed with the idea of just going home, now, while Papa was gone and couldn't fight with her about it. Would Papa fetch her back, raging and shouting? It was the eighteenth of April. Calving was almost over. If Papa made them stay as long as he said he was going to, the best of the summer would be gone before they got back to the ranch.

Santana stretched, and then fastened her boots and slouched into the upholstered chair that she had dragged out from the wall and turned so it faced the big bay window the night before. The drapes were already open wide and the sashes on the side-angled windows were up. She was dying for fresh air here. The city smelled like people—like automobile exhaust and sewers and rancid cooking lard.

Santana gripped the arms of the chair. She imagined sending a telegram to her father in Napa explaining that she was in South America mining emeralds. Or in Texas starting her own ranch. Anywhere but here in San Francisco, doing nothing but eating and making polite conversation with people who bored her.

The whole overnight trip up to Napa was for Rachel, Santana knew. Papa didn't usually socialize with cattle buyers. But one of them was young, the second son of a Chicago meat-packing tycoon. He was obviously taken with Rachel, who was just as obviously oblivious toward him. But Papa was apparently hoping that fresh air, spring sunshine, and a long buggy ride would do the trick. Anything to prevent Rachel from spending every waking hour sighing over Arthur Abrams.

Santana shook her head. This whole junket could turn out very differently from Papa's intentions. Instead of finding a monied, well-connected man who would stabilize Rachel's wild whims and impulsive behavior, she might just wind up married to a well-heeled drifter. Arthur was unfailingly polite and respectful to Papa and very attentive to Rachel, but he seemed to come from nowhere, to have no family ties. Papa's interrogations had gotten him no solid information at all. Every question about the Abrams family led to a vague mention of growing up in St. Louis and being a self-made man.

Santana yawned and leaned back. So Rachel might choose a dangerous man instead of a safe one…as for herself, finding a husband seemed a distant possibility at this point. All the dances and expensive suits and handsome faces of the last few weeks had spun past her like gossamer on the wind. She liked dancing and flirting well enough, but marriage to a man whose suit cost as much as two good bulls and a year's wages for a cowhand seemed worse than foolhardy to her.

And none of the young men had really even taken her fancy. Santana sighed. She knew that Papa had fought for her to come along to Napa as well because he wanted her to see Joseph Harlan again. His family vineyard was in Napa, and Papa had found out from the Harlans that they had returned home from their brief stay in San Francisco the past weekend. Last night at dinner Papa had ordered Santana to come with them so that Joseph would be compelled to court her, but she simply couldn't.

She was angry at her father for not accepting the fact that Joseph simply did not appeal to her in a romantic way, at all. Papa just kept arguing that it was for the best and that she'd grow to care for him, even though she was adamant that she wouldn't. The whole fight made for a tense evening and an even tenser farewell when Papa and Rachel departed the night before.

Santana leaned forward in her chair. The sky was brightening now. She would take a long walk down along the bay and spend the morning straightening out her thoughts. Then, when Papa and Rachel got back, she was going to tell her father that this wedding-bell campaign was a losing battle.

Santana stood up and began to pace. All the young men she had spent time with since they had come to the city, with the exception of Joseph, were more than arrogant—they were pompous. The thought of marrying one of these men, or any at all, made her feel…apathetic. She simply didn't care. Maybe…Santana stopped pacing in front of the window, looking out over the city again. If I hold out on this marriage nonsense long enough, maybe I can convince him that I can run the ranch without a man by my side. If her father was worried about grandchildren, well, Rachel could provide those for him with whomever Papa approved for her.

Santana's thoughts trailed off. There was an odd scratching sound from outside the door. She stood, astounded, as it swung inward, silhouetting a woman's form against the low-flamed night lights in the hall. She saw a flash of her light braids as she came in and whirled to close the door behind her.

"What are you doing here so early?" Santana asked.

Brittany gasped and turned.

Santana could barely see her face, but she recognized the sweet old-fashioned hair style that had reminded her of her mother, her heart rate increasing ten-fold.

"I am terribly sorry—"

"Don't be," Santana interrupted her. "Did they tell you the room would be empty? My father and sister are gone."

She nodded, a nearly imperceptible movement, and then stood hovering just inside, one hand still on the doorknob.

Not wanting to leave the lovely girl's presence, but also not wanting to come on too strong, Santana smiled softly and said, "If you could just wait a few moments, I will clear out so you won't be bothered, Brittany."

"I'll come back," she said. Her voice was trembling, and Santana noticed for the first time how anxious she looked.

"Is something wrong?"

"It's just—you remember my name?"

She sounded so astonished, as though she was used to being unnoticed and ignored, that Santana smiled warmly at her, her brown eyes gazing deeply into Brittany's blue ones. "I remember everything," she murmured quietly, only realizing what she said after noticing Brittany's shocked expression and the presence of a faint blush on her otherwise pale features. "I-I mean, I remember everything about that day that I asked you for towels…" she quickly amended, feeling foolish and looking everywhere but at the blonde. After a brief second, Santana worked up the courage to look at Brittany. The look of surprise was gone, but it was replaced again with anxiety. The taller girl was visibly trembling. "Are you in some difficulty?" Santana asked her gently.

Brittany took in a quick breath, and answered, but Santana could not hear it. Her words were lost in a long, terrible groaning sound from outside. Stunned, Santana turned slowly to face the open windows. It sounded as though the Earth itself was being wounded. Beneath her feet, the floor jolted to one side, then back. She staggered, wrenching around. Brittany had fallen, and Santana tried to shout to her—to crawl toward her. The floor trembled like a live thing beneath her, and then jolted again. There was another odd groaning sound, as if the bricks were screaming. Brittany looked at her, and she could see the terror in her eyes. Santana began to drag herself across the floor.

A/N: Come on, how many of you thought that was going to happen? ;) That's why I set the story specifically in San Francisco in 1906. I love history. :) Anywho...you're just going to have to wait to see what happens to our favorite couple (who are not really a couple yet) next time! P.S. Finn is absolutely unimportant in this story. I just wanted to add more of him because I hate him so much and wanted to share more of his douchebaggeryness (totally a word) with you. ;) And, he deserves to be alone. Okay, I'm done. Bye!