Oh, I cannot believe I wrote this of my own volition, but I felt it was needed. My reviews have been rather open to the idea of my getting around to using Harley more, so this chapter takes place when the Deeds are about, eh, five or so. I tried to write this without being too cliché, but somehow, I don't think I succeeded. Any thoughts would be appreciated.

Also, anyone who can catch the two references to the Justice League and Batman TAS episodes get a chapter dedicated in a suggestion and in your honor.

There was once a suffering dreamland…I was born there.
-Felidae.

Memory Not Lacking-:-

The candle that smelled like denim cleaned and fresh out of a dryer was lit up and cast its lights and therefore its shadows across the room the twins shared at the top of the stairs of Harley's house. It sat on the mirrored table the twins shared (and would continue to share once they were old enough to use makeup) and because of its proximity to the reflective surface, the light crossed over and about the room even more.

The door opened for what seemed to be the fifth time that evening—a regular occurrence as the girls tended to run room to room for fifteen whole minutes, rushing from their bedroom to get their pajamas, to the bathroom for teeth brushing, downstairs (in Delia's case to see if she could snag one more cookie) and back into their room again, each pouncing into their beds.

Delia, in her short and frilly red dress pajamas and with her still wet from her bath hair that reached her shoulders, was through the door first. As always, she twirled twice like a petite ballerina and did one cartwheel until she was at the foot of her bed.

"Ta-da!" She chirped, arms waving outward like the ringmaster at a circus to present herself before the two other ladies of the house.

Deidre, in her white dress pajamas that made her look even more delicate and with her hair dry from the accepted blow dry administered by Nanna, clapped her tiny little hands at the show. It was an awkward maneuver, seeing as her arms were wrapped around the stuffed penguin she had possessed forever, but manageable.

Harley herself hobbled up from behind the younger twin, without her cane and drying her hands from the water residue always the result of washing the girls with a light blue towel. She wasn't very happy about Delia doing that, seeing as she could slip and skin her knees on the hardwood floor or hit her head on the hardwire frame of the bed, but still smiled in her own attempt to be supportive.

"Very good cartwheel, Little Princess," Harley finally sighed out, setting the towel on the knob of the door and steered both of them into their beds, that favorite nickname she had given the elder twin earning her an even bigger grin from Delia, "Now tuck in and bunker down. What story would you two like to hear this night?"

Deidre wiggled into her crisp white covers with the tiny black figures of crows outlining the corners and the middle, the stuffed penguin in her arms being set beside her; Delia bounced twice on her own bed, finally shuffling about the deep red covers with the light green leaves in groups of three like she was trying to fall asleep on a cloud, her own stuffed animal—a battered crocodile—being clutched in her own arms.

"Oh, can we hear the one about The Island of Felidae?" Deidre asked hopefully, the candle's light flickering along the iris of her eyes.

"Or what about The Amazon Plague?" Delia chirped, even more excited at the prospect of an action story before bed.

Harley rolled her eyes, a bit of hair falling across her brow as she tilted her head back and gave a wind-withered chuckle that was more suited to a witch's cackle—nothing she could help, though, her lungs and vocal chords were old and dried out—and pulled one of the little chairs from in front of the desk out to sit on. It served her right to think that the two could ever agree on what type of story to have; Delia always wanted exploit and excitement and Deidre wanted something more mellow and somber. She hoped, maybe sometime, they'd grow out of this habit.

Sitting comfortably, Harley reached an old, withered hand into the pocket of her red dress, clutching at a silver dollar she had been carrying around for upwards of ten years; ever since Harvey Dent died. The slashes cutting across one side of it prickled her fingers as she positioned it for a flip, the face that was clean looking up at her.

"Pick a side," Harley suggested, not giving the twins a chance to think about it as the coin rang out with its flipping.

"Bad head," Delia called first; with Deidre answering in turn with, "Good head."

The coin landed in Harley's palm—like a robin away from its next flying back and perching in its nest once more—and ugly slashes and strokes upon a chiseled face looked back up, metal glinting in the room's light.

Harley felt as though she should chuck the thing out the window for taking Delia's side eight times out of ten, but can't bring herself to get rid of the thing. Instead, she gives a small apologetic nod toward Deidre—who is disappointed for the third time in as many days, but doesn't let it show—and a congratulatory smile to Delia; the elder twin waving her arms above her head like a boxer in the ring after winning a champion fight.

Slipping the coin back into her pocket and trying not to let a frown slip, the old, old woman sighs, exasperated and waits until Delia is done gloating to get on with the words in her head that form the stories she has been reciting since she knew she'd be taking care of the twins by herself so long ago, in the hospital nursery when Harley's daughter didn't come back and she had to name them herself after she received that call from the coroner that worked downstairs in the same hospital the girls were born in.

"Now, settle down," Harley scolded a little, Delia finally letting up and bringing her red, red, red covers up around her shoulders and near her ears, Deidre doing the same, but turning on her side to watch the candle as well as the old woman.

Air and breathing circled into Harley's lungs for a moment, and she began the tale chosen by Delia, the details fuzzy as she hadn't told it in a good long time—months in fact—but not so out of reach as a star in the heavens. Rather, she could call on the memory as well as picking apples in the orchard not far off from this house they lived in.

"There was once a woman who lived on an island with long-lived women that took her in after saving her from storms and war and something that the long-lived women did not speak of with anything other than malice and distrust…"

Both the little girls near held their breath in apt attention. There was nothing in the world like Nanna Harley's stories—they were always so full of detail and cunning none of their story books possessed. All of Nanna's stories out-classed Grimm and Anderson without ever getting tiring.

They could almost believe that what she talked about had actually happened in real life.