"Are you certain he will be gone all morning?" said Quinton, his eyes darting nervously around the corridor.

'Positive," said Abby. "He's been going out around this time everyday for the past several weeks, and he never comes back before one o'clock."

"What's he up to, I wonder?"

"I don't know. What are you looking for exactly?"

"I'm not sure precisely. Anything that will make Bernard come to his senses. I believe I will know it when I see it."

"Is there hope then Quinton?"

"There is always hope, my dear."

"Be careful, Quinton."

"Thank you, Abby. Give my regards to your sister Judy."

As soon as the elf maid had skipped away down the corridor, Quinton opened the office door and stepped inside. It had been years since he had been in this office, but it strangely looked almost exactly the same. The present Santa had change very little about the décor, except for the damage he had done to the wardrobe, chair, desk and other furniture in periods of drunken incompetence. Shaking his head, Quinton set to his task.

Quinton looked through the desk and its drawers and found nothing. He was similarly unsuccessful in his search of the wardrobe. He was near to admitting defeat, when he noticed something out of place in the room. Hanging on the wall opposite the door, was a lovely painting of a young girl pouring a jug of milk, which Quinton did not recognize. Dubious that the holder of this office would have chosen such decoration, he approached the painting in question.

"Now, what's your secret?" he said the artwork. He grasped either side of the frame in his hands and gave the painting a gentle tug. It swung open freely, revealing the secret compartment behind it.

"Aha! There you are my gorgeous darling!"

This was Quinton's whispered exclamation, as he tugged a small chest from where it had been stored behind the painting. He sat in the massive arm chair with the chest in his lap. It was heavy, weighted with cargo, and poorly maintained, its wood warped and splintered. Still, Quinton ran his hands over its lid and caressed the many crevices of its cracked surface.

"Please, show me what I need," he pled to the chest, and with hope in his heart but braced for failure, he opened the chest. Inside were dozens of sheaves of paper, some in torn open envelopes. Buried beneath these, were two glass bottles of what Quinton had no doubt was some variety of alcoholic substance.

"Not how I would have chosen to store important documents. No matter."

He pored over document after document, always mindful of his time. Among the papers were over a dozen letters, all coming from the same location and all from the same person, a man whose name Quinton had never heard who lived evidently somewhere in the United States. Surprised that his master would engage in such active correspondence with this gentleman, Quinton began to read over them with great interest. By the third letter, Quinton realized that in his hands was the very ammunition he had been seeking.

"Good heavens," he whispered. "Good heavens!"

Trying to keep his breath steady, Quinton gathered all the papers and replaced the chest behind the wall. With a great effort, Quinton made himself appear composed, but inside, his heart pounded with the thrill of discovery. He gathered the papers, stored them inside his jacket and opened the door.

"Quinton!" a voice said beside him. Quinton gasped, certain that he had been discovered.

"Abby!" he exclaimed. "You frightened me."

"Sorry, Quinton," the young elf, lowering her voice. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes. I do believe I have. I need to go now. There's somebody who needs to have a look at these."

Lydia was quite displeased with her aim. She sighed as her arrow sliced cleanly into the target a good six inches north east of the center, mimicking the behavior of its last three predecessors. She knew well that when it came to shooting, consistency was, in the end, more important than a single accuracy, but she had been overcorrecting her aim for an hour now, and she had grown quite frustrated.

I'm just tired, she concluded. Indeed, she had slept little the past few weeks, her sleep interrupted by long hours of insomnia, where she sat at her window, peering out into the outstretching darkness, as though she was waiting for something, although she knew not what, like a lighthouse waiting for incoming ships.

Her anxiety had put her off food to an extent, and as a result, her form had lost the last vestiges of her childhood shape. She had grown quite lean, sinew prevailing where she had noticed little strength before. Mrs. Gregson, during a visit had remarked on the change, saying that few gentlemen would take for a bride a girl so thin and pale. William Hightower had silenced the impertinent woman with a glare, but he still looked upon his precious niece with concern in his eyes. Lydia found that she didn't care. She didn't know what she wanted to do with her life, but the idea of courting any of the young gentlemen Mrs. Gregson always threatened to push upon her did not appeal to her in the least. In fact, there was only one young man that ever crossed Lydia's mind with any affection, although she dared not speak his name. And now, she had lost him. So, she grew thin and pale and practiced her shooting.

Lydia knew she was lucky to have her uncle, though. All of the friends-of-the-family and wives of business partners who ever sought to take her in hand and make her a proper lady, he kept at bay. None of them knew about the bow, or they would have an apoplectic fit.

The bow fit nicely in the curve of her hand. Each time the weapon grew taut, only to suddenly snap loose as she released her hold on the knock, she felt a minute portion of her own tension release its hold on her neck and shoulders. She loaded another arrow and took aim. As she focused her sight down its shaft, her mind wandered, as it was wont to do these days. As a result, her aim went wide, and the arrow missed the target completely and flew into the woods beyond. She frowned and shook her head, trying to clear wayward thoughts from her mind. With a self-chastising sigh, she set off in search of the missing arrow.

It took some minutes, but she finally located the projectile, which had landed cleanly in a circle of mushrooms. She cast a bemused expression on the spectacle and after a moment's hesitation, picked up the arrow and stepped inside the circle. She entertained herself for a few moments imagining the appalled expression on Mrs. Gregson's face should she discover the girl standing in the fairy circle and holding an arrow, like a young Artemis during the hunt.

As she cleaned the dirt from the arrow head, rustling came from the woodlands beside her. An enemy, a friend, or merely a woodland creature? Determined to find out, Lydia took off into the forest, bow in hand.

Quinton belonged in a lab. He was not adapted to such wild conditions. He had been wandering in these woods for what seemed like hours, and he was certain that he had greatly misjudged his destination. Certainly the person he sought would not be found here. No one could live in these woods, with its dirt, moss, leaves and woodland animals of various size and food preference.

A twig snapped in the distance, and Quinton swallowed hard. He could battle anyone, human or elf, with logic and reason, but he doubted any of the creatures in these woods would be willing to listen to all the clear, rational reasons he could think of why they shouldn't eat him. And judging by the pattern of sound of foliage being disturbed, something worryingly larger than a squirrel was headed his way.

This is foolish. This is foolish, the logical part of her repeated again and again in her mind. Curiosity triumphed in the end however, and she kept on creeping stealthily through the woods. She knew her quarry to be nearby, perhaps only thirty yards away. It sounded large, and she suspected a prowler or an unfortunate creeping through the woods toward the house. Lydia knew the wise thing to do would be to alert her uncle to the undesirable presence, yet she could not force herself to turn away.

She was only ten yards away now, and she could see the shape of a person standing in a clear spot in front of her. She nocked an arrow into her bow and stepped forward silently toward the figure.

When she was a mere ten feet away, Lydia's legs were shaking and her heart nearly pounding out of her chest. The prowler was not tall, only am inch or so taller than herself, and he was carrying what appeared to be a satchel in which one might carry important documents. In any case, he seemed quite out of place amongst the surrounding trees.

She could not see his face, and his clothes were mostly obscured by shadow. She hesitated for a moment, telling herself that he might simply be a traveler who had wandered off the path and lost his way. Instinct, however, told her not to take the risk and with a deep breath, she leapt from her hiding place and drew back the arrow.

Later, Quinton would swear that he nearly choked on his own tongue that day. He could hear the sound of a large something creeping up to him in the woods, and the closer the something approached, the quicker his breaths came. He had tried to prepare himself for the coming danger, but being a scientist, there was little he knew to do in situations such as these. He could hardly wave a test tube in a bear's face and expect it to cower in terror. So when the young female jumped from hiding, the least he could hope for was that his resultant shriek that he was sure could have been heard in several surrounding counties was at least a somewhat masculine shriek.

Working in Research and Development, Quinton didn't see children often, and lately even the scouts, young elves sent to commingle with children and learn their wishes, had dwindled to a handful sent out only every few years. Even so, Quinton was almost always holed up in his lab, alternating between the frenzy of experimentation and the exasperation of keeping Curtis out of trouble. He rarely set eyes upon the very children he built toys for, let alone saw them grown. He hadn't prepared himself for this.

The girl he had met in the North Pole had been a battered but happy child. He remembered her bright pearlescent eyes, but now she pierced him with cold iron. The female before him was nearly a woman: lithe of figure, fierce of eye, and, most disturbingly, pointing an arrow in his direction. Quinton unconsciously exposed his empty, calloused palms in surrender.

"Ms. Hightower-Lydia," he said. "It's Quinton, from the North Pole. Do you remember?"

She looked at him as though he had walked out of a dream, as though he had materialized before her out of thin air. The bow fell to her side, and the arrow hit the ground harmless.

"Yes," she whispered. "I remember."

"Forgive me for startling you. I'm afraid I became a bit lost in these woods of yours."

Lydia shook her head as though chasing away a daydream.

"I'm surprised to see you here."

"I might say the same of you. I did not expect to find you tucked away in a forest. I take the liberty of assuming that you don't live here?"

Lydia smiled, and finally, she looked less like a wild-eyed huntress and more akin the girl he had known before.

"No, of course not," she said, with traces of laughter echoing in her answer.

"Do you often walk about unescorted?" Quinton said, eyeing the bow which had still not left her hand. Lydia raised an eyebrow.

"Do I detect a note of disapproval?" she said. A noticeable glint had returned to her eye, and Quinton found himself suddenly reminded of the presence of the bow between them.

"Not at all," he said, urgent to correct what Lydia had clearly perceived as judgment. "Only surprise."

"Well, I am sure Mrs. Gregson would be perfectly scandalized if she knew I was here."

"That seems likely. Who is Mrs. Gregson, if I may ask?"

"A friend of the family determined to mould me into a proper lady entirely against my will."

"I would wish her the best of luck, but she sounds positively dreadful."

"Believe me, she is quite horrid, which is why I've come here to evade her. Why are you here, if I may ask? Bernard made it perfectly clear that he did not wish to see me again."

"Bernard is a fool," Quinton said impetuously. "And it is not entirely on his behalf that I have come here."

"Not entirely?"

"Bernard may be a fool, but he is still my friend. Shall we?"

"I take it you know something of what has occurred between us?"

"Forgive me. It was none of my business, but I became concerned…."

Quinton trailed off, unsure of how the specimen in front of him would react to the approaching subject.

"How is he?"

"His usual surly self, if not a bit surlier. He stands above the streets most nights and broods."

I think he's thinking of you, Quinton wanted to say.

"He misses you."

"No, he doesn't."

"Yes, he does. I can see it in his face. He looks so terrible all the time. I don't know what to do."

"Why are you here, Quinton?"

"Something must be done, miss."

A/N: Sorry to cut it off there. This was originally going to be a much, much longer chapter, but I realized just how much I had left to write and figured I'd split it in two and give you a shorter chapter sooner, rather than a longer chapter later. This was the best place to make the split. What this means though, is that I'm already well into the second part of Chapter 10.

I really hope you guys (at least the half a handful of readers still following this thing) like Quinton. I've pretty much extrapolated his character from about three lines he has in the first movie. I didn't originally plan for his character to be this involved, but he has been an absolute blast to write. I just hope you all have enjoyed reading him as much as I've enjoyed writing him.

Thanks a lot to all the people who have stuck with this story.

Please Read and Review. It makes my Creative Gland happy.