Hello? Is anyone out there? I haven't update in months (again) so my readership has probably dwindled. I just keep coming back to this story though. I hope some of y'all are still reading (and dare I wish for reviews?) and I hope even more that you like it! Much love, more syrup.

I was aching with the emotion of the day before falling asleep that night, turning over each part bit by bit. I began to contemplate just how challenging my adjustment back to real life had been. There were days when I longed for the lonely security and stagnant, routine life of the asylum. There, I rose every morning at seven, went to eat an unexciting breakfast at eight which I would stare at intently, avoiding the eye contact of the other wards. In the early months had so desperately clung to the notion that they were crazy and I was well, that I was different, that I was better. It was about halfway through my treatment that I realized I was far worse than the majority of them. They, after all, didn't stop speaking altogether for four months only to begin shrieking hysterically in the middle of a ball, attracting the scorn of the entire Upper East Side. The memory of that night made me cringe. Those people would understood why I screamed, why I couldn't stop until well after I was swept from the ballroom and back to my home, why I was crazy if they could have just seen the way he had looked at me.

Eliza begged I would come to a dress salon with her the following day, which I vehemently protested. I was uneager to see Mrs. Bedeau again, but Eliza invoked tears to counter my argument. Tossing her a handkerchief to dry her eyes, I noted how literally I was waving a white flag of surrender.

The car ride there was long and awkward. The tension of yesterday lingered uncomfortably around us. The Bedeaus' car was magnificent, but oversized for the streets. The driver clumsily wove through wagons and foot traffic, as we drew attention from onlookers. A car itself was a rarity, and the Bedeau's was a piece of mechanical art. I tucked my head down, never one to enjoy attention. Liza, however, beamed and waved, as if this was a one float parade in her honor.

We arrived the first dress shop where the saleswoman, tailor and proprietor all instantly dropped what they were doing to gush over Liza. "Who could imagine a more beautiful bride? Oh, Ms. Bedeau, tell us about your fiancé?" The saleswoman crooned as she ushered us to an arrangement of fluffy chairs adorned with dainty pillows. The tailor brought out tea and a colorful array of tiny pastries. Mrs. Bedeau scowled as Liza dithered on about the location, the bridesmaids colors, the menu, every detail she could.

"Yes, well, we aren't here to plan the wedding, we're here to find her dress," Mrs. Bedeau tutted impatiently, clearly eager for the appointment to get back on track. "Perhaps we should start."

Liza looked put out to have her discussion end so abruptly, and the saleswoman was briefly taken aback before regaining her composure. "Why, yes, of course, Madame." She smiled, expertly disguising the offense she had taken. "Let's discuss styles. What are we thinking?"

"Traditional."

"Glamourous!" The Bedeau women looked at each other, surprised by the others response. "Mother, don't you think I should choose the style?"

"Quite frankly, Elizaveta, I do not. You are not paying for it, or anything, so what I say goes."

"It's my wedding!" She exclaimed. The blood was beginning to boil and I felt even more uncomfortable, as was the staff.

"I am sure we can find something that meets both of your expectations," the storeowner smiled toothily. "Come, dear, let's try some dresses on."

The staff swept her into a back room and left Mrs. Bedeau and I in their wake. Silence pulsated between us, and I shifted uncomfortably, unexpectedly aching to be with my own mother. She concentrated sternly as stirred her tea with pursed lips. I rose from the plushy sofa and wandered to the window. My sudden movement only elicited a swift look from Liza's mother before she returned to stirring her tea with a great deal of agitation. Liza had embarrassed her, and I did not want to be the victim she took that out on.

It felt like an eon before Liza reemerged, but her entrance easily captured the room's attention, drawing it away from the lingering tension. She was a vision, a lace bodice floating atop a white cloud of tulle and bows. The collar wrapped delicately around her neck and the sleeves wove around her small arms. The only ruination of the perfect picture was the stony expression she sported.

"Why on Earth are you making that ugly face, Elizaveta?" Her mother barked.

"Because I wouldn't be caught dead in this dress!" She retorted bitterly. "It's a travesty, an abomination, a nightmare." I wrung my hands together, preparing to witness a gruesome battle.

"There's nothing wrong with it. We are not repeating your debutant. This is you wedding dress."

"No!" She cried, a truly organic despair in her voice. "Mother, no! I won't wear it. I won't!" She was shaking violently. "If you ruin this, Mother, I swear I won't marry him. I'll run away. I swear it, I will!" It was too late though; the money was being exchanged between a stoic Madame Bedeau and an uncertain shopkeeper. "Duffy, don't let her." Tears streamed from Liza's face as the attention turned to me.

I gaped, as conflict tore me up. "Mrs. Bedeau," I implored meekly. "It's beautiful, but perhaps Liza could try another-"

"I think it's time you went home Drusilla." She cut me off, her voice frigid. "We wouldn't want anyone to get hysteric now, would we?"

The jab was unsubtle and cruel. I stepped backwards and fumbled for the door. "Liza, I'm sorry," were the only words I managed to mumble before retreating.

"I hate you!" Liza shrieked at her mother, though I felt I deserved it more than she. I couldn't even stand up for her. I was a coward. I turned back to see Liza tearing at the dress, while the dressmaker looked on with horror.

I'd never seen Liza like this. She acted out often, undoubtedly, but not like this. There was a true disregard and a boiling anger in her. Malice did not become my best friend, and I didn't know how to help her. I needed the help of someone who would.

The wooden door was scarred and looked like it would dissolve after another summer storm, and perhaps that was why I knocked so gently. Half-praying it would go unanswered, I waited anxiously, internally acknowledging that my trepid knock was based in cowardice.

To my surprise an old man stood before me when the door opened inwards. "Ah. Hello, miss." He said, surprised by the unfamiliar face. "Might I help you?"

I stuck out a hand, and introduced myself. "Sir, my name's Duffy."

Taking mine he responded, "Pleased to meet you. I'm Kloppman. Come in, why don't ya?"

"Oh," I hesitated. "I was just looking for one of the newsies." I didn't want to go into the Lodging House alone. The idea of going into a building with no one but a strange man made my stomach turn. My heart pounded harder as the situation escalated to outright dangerous in my imagination. What if he pulled me in? No one knew where I was. Why had I come?

"Well, they're out selling papes now, miss. Who were you looking for?" A sudden protective edge seasoned his voice. "Whatdya need 'em for anyways?"

"Blink. I just needed to talk with him." I sputtered. "I can just come back another time. I'm really sorry to bother you, Mr. Kloppman, sir."

"I'll take you to his selling spot." A much younger voice offered from behind me. A slightly calloused and ink-stained hand stretched towards me. "How are you, Miss Diamantopoulos?" Skittery came to my side. "She's a friend, Klopp." He answered the old man's unspoken question and eased his defensive attitude.

"Just lookin' out for you boys." He tutted before turning back into the house.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to the punch. "Stop lookin' so damn scared of everything." He chided. "It makes people think you're an easy target."

I nodded my understanding as he turned to walk away. I followed and he continued, "What're ya doing here? Leave poor Blink alone. Leave me alone too while you're at it."

"Please. I don't want to bother anyone. I just really need help." My voice cracked with sadness and nerves in equal measure, as I stopped trying to keep pace. "Please."

He looked back at me and sighed. "What'd I just tell ya about lookin' scared? You can't be so doe-eyed in this neighborhood." He shook his head. "Listen, I'll take you to Blink if you tell me why first."

I met his request, and explained the situation and my fear for Liza. "I know you think she's a rotten little girl, but she's not. She's a complex person with just as much feeling as you've got and she's scared out of her mind. I can't help her, but I just know he could. She needs him so much right now," I concluded. His face cracked a little, as if he were seeing Liza as something more than the glittery object of his annoyance for the first time.

"Are you scared of me?" He questioned unexpectedly.

"Terrified," I confessed.

"I thought so. This is important to ya?"

"It's all I can do to help her."

"Fine." He conceded. "I'll take you to him, under one condition. No more crying. I won't yell if you don't cry." To both our surprise, his last demand made me laugh the kind of laugh that tingles through your spine. "You're nuts," he groaned. I shook my head to the affirmative and laughed a little more.