Two Ships in Passing

by BrookeLynnBridges

England 1843, Bruce Wayne has been sent to retrieve Lady Diana Princeton, who has been assumed dead these last 13 years, and bring her back to what remains of her family in England. However things don't go as smoothly as planned once the girl is on board his ship. How will things change as the pair get to know one another? And what does life hold for Diana back in England? BM/WW.

36. Chapter 35: Ghosts and an Angel

Well, Happy Birthday to Me Folks!

Here is the next chapter, finally!

I know it has been over a month but hopefully, I made up for it by this being my lengthiest update to date. And I am never writing such a long chapter again if I can help.

Oh, my word all the research...but I do have an impressive knowledge of Victorian and Georgian toys now.

Well, anyway, I hope you like it, more Bruce & Diana moments in the next chapter (which will be much shorter and should be updated on the normal weekly schedule again).

Enjoy, Thank You for Reading, and Please Review! :)

Chapter 35: Ghosts and an Angel

Hever House, St. James Square London England October 5th, 1844

—Diana Princeton,

Diana looked up at the large, terraced house from the open carriage, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders despite it being unseasonably warm.

Oliver offered her his hand, a reassuring smile on his face.

But she didn't see it as she tentatively stepped down to the paved stones of the sidewalk. Never taking her eyes off the enormous mansion that dominated her view.

Ollie gently guided her out of the way, so the others could exit the carriage. She continued to crane her neck gazing at the structure that was swallowing her in its shadow.

The pavement shook as Big Barda landed, launched from beside the coachman. Garnering surprised looks from the company, she came to stand directly beside Diana, a frowning bronzed wall.

Barda scanned the street with suspicion, glaring at anyone who blinked in their direction. The others debated how to persuade her to stop.

Diana took no notice.

Perhaps she was occupied with the imposing façade, or maybe she had gotten used to Barda being Barda.

The Queens were frankly confused at having to deal with Diana's maid at all.

It was assumed that, like all servants, she would stay at home. But it seemed wherever Diana went so did her exceptionally large shadow.

Oliver went to speak with the hired laborers, Dinah tried to dissuade Barda's impolite behavior, and Benjamin moved to offer some conversation to his niece.

"That's the Princeton Eagle, 'Aleky'." He told her, pointing at the proud marble bird carved, wings spread, above the grand door.

"What?" she asked, as if being pulled from the fog of a dream.

His floppy gray mustache fluttered, and kind eyes crinkled with his smile.

"Eagles, symbolizing inspiration, freedom, victory, longevity, pride, strength, and royalty. They have been the symbol of your family for the past five hundred or so years. A proud and noble legacy to be sure."

He looked wistfully at the representation, "magnificent creatures."

The short, plump, man looked up at her. His bushy eyebrows dropped, nearly concealing his eyes.

"Have you not heard of eagles before?"

"No, it's not that." Diana shook her head, her expression quizzical. "Why Aaa-licky?"

Benjamin's brows shot to the sky, his squished eyes doubling in size, and double chin multiplying to three, as his mouth popped open.

Diana's spirit fell, her emotions becoming stuffy. Was this a word she should've know?

"What is it supposed to mean, what is an Aleky?" She asked again, her words despondent.

A dull needle stung at her conscience as she watched Uncle Benjamin's smile return. Convincing as it was, he could not disguise the disappointment behined his eyes.

Disappointed in me.

"It's short for Alexandra. Your name."

"My name?"

"Your middle name."

Diana felt the air amassing in weight, making her body heavy. Her feet sunk in her shoes, pressure settling on her brain, and pulling down on her lungs.

She hadn't known she had a middle name.

"Hippolyta chose the name Diana. Did you know it means of the divine?"

She shook her head.

"But Zach wanted to give you a second name. It was becoming the fashion. He probably wasn't pleased with naming you after Lady Lennox either."

He gave a wheezing laugh.

"Your parents quarreled about it. She finally relented so long as he found a name they could agree on. He asked me for a suggestion, and I proposed Alexandra, meaning defender of mankind."

He beamed proudly.

"But you were much too tiny for such a big name then. So, I called you Aleky."

There was a bittersweet silence.

"The Divine Defender of Mankind." He mumbled affectionately. "That's really what your name is."

"In Persian," Diana began softly, "Diana means messenger of beneficence and wellness."

Uncle Benjamin nodded thoughtfully.

"Does it?"

"Yes," she became a little bolder, "and Alexandra means the same as in English, to protect or help, men or warriors…I think."

He smiled.

"I had perchance met Zach's cousin Alexandra just before. I found her an intelligent and admirable woman. The kind any father should wish his daughter to be."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She agreed.

The conversation was interrupted. Oliver sauntered over, and Dinah rejoined them.

Husband and wife shared a glance as they drew near.

Oliver had arranged for Hever House to be cleaned, top to bottom, expunging over five years of tarnish, dust, and neglect. But every single item, down to the smallest button, was placed exactly how it had been found.

Nothing was to appear touched.

The meticulous process had been overseen by a Mister Vic Sage. An obsessive personality known for his great skill of precise replication and eidetic memory.

The result was a perfectly preserved archeological site of the last day Zachary Princeton had lived there. A moment frozen in time.

Besides packing and sorting, Dinah and Oliver had an ulterior motive; to help Diana spark some old memories to resurface.

"Alright team," Ollie yelled, "here's the plan!" He was practically bouncing with excitement. "Everything inside is coming with us."

Oliver put a hand on Diana's shoulder, drawing her attention.

"All we need you to do little Diana, is go in and pick out anything you'd like to take with you to Riverfoot. Lady M. has agreed to store the rest for the time being."

She managed a nod; her tongue having become fused to the bottom of her mouth.

"You go in first Diana."

Dinah's warm voice hit the back of her head like a rock.

"An excellent idea, Prettybird!" Oliver gushed.

Diana forced her gaze back to the foreboding front door, biting her lower lip raw.

"Di, you go in, take your time, and decide what to keep. We'll all wait here till you're done."

Everyone gave a pointed look at Barda. She leveled each with a deadly glare, clearly not on board with the plan. Though, to her credit, she didn't protest…or decapitate Ollie.

"Then the movers can get to work."

Diana didn't hear anything else the world had gone silent.

From behind came a gentle push and she passed underneath the stone eagle's stare.

She became aware that she was inside the building when the door slammed behind her.

Her heart jumped, skin tingling, as it clicked shut.

She twisted the tassels on her shawl through her fingers.

It was dark inside, eerie, and oddly loud in its silence.

Light creeped through sheer drapes that muted the sunlight into a blue tinted mist that scattered through the space, letting one see but not move hastily.

Out of instinct she removed her straw bonnet and lace gloves, laying them on a foyer table.

Freed from the blinder of the hat she could move her sight feely. Turning her neck and head fluidly, she slowly rotated, taking in the foyer from floor to ceiling.

She halted.

Her vision caught a reflection in an enormous baroque mirror on the wall.

It was a girl.

She took a timid side-step towards it, afraid of scaring her off.

She was tall, with a Grecian profile, high cheekbones, a long slender neck, and fading tanned skin set against black eyebrows that were thick and politely curved.

Rich raven hair fell down her back, tied loosely away from her face with a white ribbon joining the cascade of silky curls.

Her face looked serene, her countenance demure, posture and bearing proper, the air about her noble and polite.

Even her clothes spoke of a delicate being, innocent, modest, with a demure gaze.

The girl wore a dress made from layers of diaphanous white cotton muslin edged with bobbin lace.

Though made from extremely lightweight cotton, typical for a daytime fabric, the wide scooped neckline and short, puffed sleeves cut along the lines of an evening gown.

The pleated "fan-front" bodice ending in a sharp V, natural waist placement, and tiered skirt were consistent of refined fashion.

The length of the skirt hid the wearer's feet, but the slimmest peak of pink could be seen at the white cotton's edge, telling of satin slippers concealed underneath.

A printed cotton shawl of pink primrose posies scattered across a field of dove gray draped delicately through the crooks of her elbows, held in place by folded hands.

This girl was a perfect English lady.

Oh,

She thought,

It's me.

What disturbed her about the likeness to the point of no recognition?

It was not because she looked foreign or out of place, but rather she fit so seamlessly in the portrait cast upon the glass. At first sight she could not comprehend it.

The image of herself held in her mind's eye was of a tan faced little girl, the shortest of her sisters, with unruly curls escaping a braid, and eyes too big for her face.

She dressed in bright colored silks, had bare feet that couldn't stay still, and wrists jangling with as many bangles as she could fit, to hear the pretty music they played.

It was a jolt to the senses seeing how much she had changed.

She touched her cheek, watching the reflected girl mimicked the act.

Her reaction wasn't sadness or anger, simply strangeness…perhaps curiosity?

How would the girl she saw now have fit, if she'd grown up here, in this house, in this world?

She drifted from room to room, through halls and corridors, unaware of her surroundings as chambers and rooms passed by, the rapidly erased blur of a dream.

She awoke from this slumbered wander in a vast gallery devoted to the arts and objects of a time long past.

Statues, artifacts, and paintings lined the walls in an endless hall, the end of which could not be discerned in the dim lighting.

There were no windows but a network of skylights, crafted in designs of constellations and stars, filtered the sun's rays through their clear glass to the black marble floor below.

From this pool of darkness grew tall Corinthian columns of white stone in double rows down the center of the hall, like wafts of mist climbing from the black river Styx, grave of fallen stars.

She didn't know how she'd come to be here, didn't remember which way she'd come, but now awake from sleep, her eyes drank it in.

Whoever amassed this collection had an affinity for ancient Greece; not just the mythology, though that was heavily featured, but its history and variety of cultures too.

Both classical and Minoan works, as well as replicas, were present.

Presented in a chronological display the pieces had detailed engraved plaques, hung beneath on their pedestals, categorizing each item as if this were some grand museum.

There were Spartan battle helmets, Athenian scrolls, Corinthian harps and lyres, Minoan stone works with restored paint, Thracian spears, and jewelry from across the Hellenistic world.

She spied a sword that her fingers itched to touch.

Even in the poor light she could tell by the warped liquid metal pattern that it was made of Damascus steel.

What Shayera wouldn't give to see this!

It was obvious that this weapon was not from the ancient era or lands of the other artifacts but had been inspired by those swords of old.

Despite the near painful desire to swing the ancient blade she didn't dare to touch it. Terrified she might damage such a priceless object that didn't belong to her.

Of course, technically it did belong to her now…but it still didn't feel right.

She kept walking, moving down the gallery. The echo of slippers' soft leather soles on marble was the only sound as she continued her exploration.

Behind the artifacts, which included a full set of leather and metal armor from the time of Alexander the Great, were huge paintings done in the neo-classical French style.

Telling the story of ancient Greece, the paintings began with historical scenes, starting at Alexander cutting the Gordian-Knot, and winding back to when the line between history and myth blurred, and the tales of mythology reigned.

She paused to look at one scene, Hercules meeting the Amazon Queen.

Hippolyta was depicted as proud and regal, dressed in full armor with a glittering crown adorning her yellow hair.

Diana smiled.

It was exactly how she'd imagined her to be.

Enthralled by the picture, she nearly missed the gold upper armbands that were displayed beneath it.

Curious, she carefully picked up one of the bands, rotating it in her hands, memorizing the motifs with the pads of her thumbs.

It had a depiction of the goddesses Athena, wearing a helmet, with a spear in one hand, and an Eagle resting on the other, and Artemis, bow drawn with an arrow poised and a crescent moon adorning her head.

The Warriors & Virgins band, the plague said.

She carefully picked up the other one, studying it closely.

On this one was the images of the Queen of the gods, Hera, wearing a crown and holding a pomegranate in her outstretched palm while gesturing to her peacock with the other, and the goddess Aphrodite, who lounged beside her own bird companion, a swan, while a flying dove brought her a bow of myrtle leaves.

The Mothers & Rulers band, she read.

She held the two bracelets together in her hands, contemplating.

Looking hastily around, as if afraid of being caught even though she was alone, Diana slipped her hand through the bands, deciding to take them with her.

Emboldened by her first decision she made another. Going back the way she came, to find the sword again.

Locating the blade, she bit her bottom lip as she eyed it, second guessing herself.

Tentatively she reached out and took hold of the hilt, lifting it off the stand.

It was heavier than it looked, but thanks to her months of training with Artemis it was not unwieldly. In fact, it felt almost natural in her grasp, like it was always meant to be there in her hands, made specifically for her.

Spying a leather sheath peaking from behind the stand she took it and hid the sharp blade inside.

Gripping the sword in her left hand, she walked further into the cavernous treasure trove. The gold bands jingling against one other, swinging loose on her wrist, and bouncing off the intricate hilt.

She passed more paintings and antiques, statues, both original and replicas, till she at last reached the passage's end.

Twin portraits hung on either side of a marble archway that led to a receiving room of some kind.

In front of the arch, also carved of marble and jutting out of its posts, were two statues meant to depict their subjects as beings of mythology while their portraits, hanging beside, showed them in life.

She glanced at the works on the left.

The portrait: a man lounging against a pillar with folded arms, dressed in a crisp court uniform wearing the robes of the Order of the Garter, looking out on the world with mischievous brown eyes and an amused smirk.

His statue was the depiction of Apollo, with a lyre in his hand, head turned, and gaze directed towards his companion.

Diana gave these pieces a curtesy glance, but her real interest lay with those to her right.

Like a hungry beggar, the girl crept closer to the painting, almost reverent in her fascination.

It showed a woman of breathtaking beauty seated on a velvet stool; hands placed elegantly in her lap. Her slim neck stretched tall beneath the weight of her rich golden tresses, piled high and adorned with a diamond scrollwork tiara.

Her chin was raised proudly, her azure eyes looked out with regal removal but keen intelligence. Her high cheekbones and rolled back shoulders gave the impression of an unbending nature, and perhaps a bit of haughtiness.

She didn't seem sad, like in the portrait Diana had at home, just uninterestedly observing.

The girl smiled up at her with pride that such a magnificent, commanding being had given her life. Simply put, the woman was awe inspiring.

Her gown was cut in the fashion of a late 1820s court dress of embroidered velvet in harvest gold against shimmering white satin lining folded back over the puffed sleeves, held in place by twin ruby and diamond brooches.

A waterfall of roped pearls ran down her bodice and a choker of diamonds gleamed at her throat.

Falling from her shoulders lay the crimson velvet train of an English duchess, edged with miniver.

Everything about her was perfect, her manner, her face, her clothes…absolutely perfect.

Diana moved to the marble statue, comparing its detailed face to the one in the portrait.

She was depicted as Daphne, looking to the side and slightly up, away from Apollo.

Her graceful slim arms stretched out as the carved face watched the tips of her fingers begin to sprout laurel leaves. Her hair fell loose and free, a simple chiton that appeared to be billowing in some forgotten breeze clung to her form as one exposed slender foot began to change into roots in the ground.

A small bird rested on her shoulder, as if waiting for a new tree to be born and for nature's Queen to take her throne. The marble face smiled softly, knowing she had won, and was blessed by the gods to outwit their son.

Diana reached up shaking fingers and gently ran them across the statue's cheek, trying so hard to remember what it had been like when this woman had breathed.

Had she looked at Diana like that, with a smile so soft and sweet?

Was her cheek smooth to caress and warm to kiss?

Had those graceful arms ever held her tight?

Did these vacant eyes once delight in her child being in their sight?

Try as she might to awaken her thoughts, they did not come…and this woman…her mother, remained a mystery to her memory.

She let her hand fall back to her side, tightening the shawl around her shoulders as she walked beyond the statues empty gaze and further into this house of lost secrets.

She climbed stairs and wandered halls until she no longer knew which way she'd come nor which way to go.

Each new room she passed seemed to beckon her in and scorn her away, bombarding her with questions and hopeful expectations.

Did this rug look familiar?

Might that chair have once seemed tall?

Was that a portrait of her pony…did she ever have one at all?

Surely something here must have been recognizable, some understood shade or scent. How could she possibly have been born in this place but have no recollection of the time spent?

Had there been laughter here, had she been happy, or loved?

She knew what those things felt like, had known them all her life. The comfort and joy of home and a mother's love. But was this place really a part of her if she couldn't remember a single moment passed in its' halls, or the ones left behind when she'd died?

She passed into another endless hallway, this one covered in dark royal blue wallpaper, carpets, and drapes all edged in shimmering silver, swallowing her up in its silvery murky abyss.

It felt like death here.

As if the old house were a crypt of forgotten souls.

Everything was so quiet and dark, silent and cold, like stone.

Yes, stone.

Even her bones seemed to slowly be turning to stone, stiffening, and hardening from within. Calcifying around her very heart till soon she would be nothing more than another statue, uselessly haunting the hall.

The silence was growing louder.

How was that possible?

It was closing in on her, as her feet became marble and her breath sharpened to crystal.

She had to get out of here before it was too late!

Seeking some place of solace, any manner of escape, she spied a door and ran toward it, ignorant of dropping the sword in her haste.

Once safe inside, she slammed the door, bracing her back against it, and squeezing her eyes shut tight, wary of certain attack.

Her lungs thawed, her stiff limbs melted, and as the seconds passed, she could once again breathe with ease.

The ticking of a clock reached her ears.

Its steady rhythm calming her heart and soothing her fears as she slowly coaxed her eyelids to open.

Surprised by what she found, her previous trepidation vanished, as she looked around the space with keen interest.

It was a study, but completely different from the rest of the house, which had a fanciful and royal quality. This room was shockingly simple and almost cozy in its decoration, revealing more of the nature of its owner then the grand galleries and salons she had recently passed by.

The colors, now muted and faded, were likely once rich and warm to behold, creating an intimate space to relax and study, and the scents of tobacco and peppermint hung musty in the air.

The floor was polished wood in a chevron parquet pattern. In the room's center it was covered with a Persian rug of brown, copper, and gold, of as superior a quality as she had ever seen.

On top of the rug were horsehair chairs in mustard yellow, whose seats and cushions had round circles where the color had all but worn away from use.

They were angled toward a marble fireplace that bore the Princeton Eagle and family words in its design.

"Habeo Fortitudo, Requiro Justitia, Tribuo Misericordia." Diana muttered, wondering what the strange words might mean.

(Have Courage, Seek Justice, Grant Mercy)

She spied a pack of matches and tin of tobacco on the mantle, as well as a simple varnished clock.

Backing away she almost tripped over a green tufted ottoman sitting beside one of the lounge chairs, causing her to look down.

It didn't fit with the other décor, like someone had brought it in to sit on and then forgotten to take it away.

Diana carefully maneuvered around it.

Painted walls of stripes in contrasting shades of canary yellow trimmed in white moldings were covered in drawings.

Some were simple pin and ink sketches, others painted in oil or watercolor, and still more in pencil and charcoal.

Many had been done on canvas, or fine parchment, but more than a few were just scribblings on old scraps of paper or torn book pages. And while most were hung in frames, some were simply tacked to the wall wherever there was room.

The works showed an artist of great skill and depicted a range of subjects from simple line works of the window view, to hastily sketched portraits, and moments preserved in time from the artists many travels.

Each one, no matter how humble or grand, had the date and description penciled at the bottom in a rushed hand, making some words all but illegible. One thing that was clear on each though were the initials ZP.

Diana went to look at one, a pencil and color sketch of a wild cat drinking from a stream. The description read: Cheetah seen at sunrise while on Safari, Africa 1807.

She moved to another, this one small but detailed, on canvas with oil paints.

A lady knelt in profile with folded hands before a priest in stately robes. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed.

She wore a gown of silver, embroidered at the bottom with eagles and lilies, the body and sleeves trimmed with silver lace. A train, also in silver lined with white satin, pooled behind her.

Yellow gold hair, elegantly yet simply arranged, with curling fringe framing her face. A sheer veil was anchored by a tiara sat low on the forehead and pearl drops hung from her ears.

The description said: Divine H. during the wedding blessing. Looks a bit like Emp. Josephine don't you think? 1818.

Diana stepped away from the picture, pained that, despite her pride in remembering her mother's hair, she hadn't recognized her likeness until reading the description, even though it was an accurate depiction when compared to the two portraits of her she had seen.

When she turned, something familiar caught her eye in the drawings.

A watercolor of a brick house on a cliff overlooking the sea.

Diana studied the drawing in wonder, for despite the much tidier and well-kept appearance in the pencil lines it was still clearly the same house she had seen every day this summer living with the Troys, and she knew it well.

Quickly she scanned the description and her lips curled into a smile.

Visiting Aunt A. Painfully boring but a nice view, Lancashire 1795.

She traced the outline of the house over the glass, wondering if she had ever visited it before, when it had looked so grand.

Dozens of other personal artworks covered the walls, but Diana was disinclined to look at them anymore. They brought up too many questions of things that might have been and speculations of what had been forgot.

Instead, she walked over to the desk.

It sat before a bank of bookcases but there wasn't a book in sight. Rather the shelves were laden with various items of sporting equipment; tennis rackets, polo mallets, and such, as well as bits and pieces of discarded art supplies, and strange mementos and clutter that might have held special meaning, or just as easily been neglected junk.

Ignoring the cluttered cases, she came to stand behind the desk.

The top was perfectly clean, so she began to open its quantity of drawers, pulling out whatever caught her attention and laying the items out on the desk's surface.

First, she discovered an unfinished ink sketch of a spaniel asleep before the marble fireplace.

She looked for the description.

Not finding one she flipped the paper over to see a doodle of a small flower beside a hastily written note. In honor of faithful Sgt. Pym, I'm sorry I didn't finish this one in time. RIP 1826-1837.

"1826 to 1837." Diana mumbled. "So, we lived here at the same time. Was this my dog?"

She turned the page over and concentrated on the drawing, trying to summon even the slightest bit of a memory.

"Did I like you?" she asked. "Did you like me?"

She tried to think of what color his fur had been.

Was it brown or maybe gray?

Did he bark loudly or prefer to sleep during the day?

"Pym." She recited, hoping hearing the name might bring him back to mind, but nothing came.

"I'm sorry." She murmured, returning the parchment to the drawer, not wanting to see it anymore.

Next, she pulled out a brass wax-seal-stamp.

It fit neatly in the palm of her hand and, of course, had a spread winged eagle.

She placed the seal on top of the desk and returned to exploring.

Her nail caught on something and she reached her hand deeper into the drawer to retrieve it.

It was a pair of oversized, horn-rimmed, round, eyeglasses.

Diana held them up to get a better look.

They reminded her of the pair Clark wore, except these were much bigger.

His fit smaller on his face and he occasionally had to turn his whole head to see through them. In fact, these were the widest lenses she'd ever seen!

They must have been custom ordered, the fashion seemed to be for spectacles to be as small and unnoticeable as possible. This pair was the antithesis of fashion, but Diana felt they were probably more practical for improving one's sight.

Intrigued she held them up to her face, turned them around, and slowly putting them on.

At first nothing seemed any different, but then she looked down at the seal stamp on the desk.

She gasped!

Never had she seen something that close to her face so clear before!

Diana grabbed the stamp and brought it to the glass lenses, fascinated to realize that the eagle had a small olive branch in its beak that she hadn't seen before.

Excited she turned to the bookcase, groaning when she remembered there were no books on it.

Having a different idea, she tore open all the desk drawers and began searching desperately for something with words on it.

Finding a pile of papers, she stood up and began reading them out loud, laughing with joy as each word appeared clear and crisp in her vision. As she finished reading one receipt she'd discarded it for another.

Had letters always been so precise?

She could hardly wait to go home and give those music sheets another try. She didn't see how she could possibly get the notes wrong now.

She was just ending the pile of papers, intent on finding more, when she froze.

In her hand was a neatly folded letter, crisp and stiff, like it had just been written, except for the slightly yellowing edges of the parchment. On the front was written one word, Hippolyta.

Turning it over in her hand she found the wax seal unbroken.

Diana took a shaky breath.

She recognized the handwriting from the drawings on the walls. Zachary had written this, and for some reason Hippolyta had never read it…no one had.

Suddenly nervous she dropped the letter onto the desk.

It landed in front of a simply framed drawing that she had failed to notice before. Picking it up, she brought it to her face. Her eyebrows knitted together as she looked at the strange picture.

It was of an old man, sitting on a mustard yellow chair, wearing a house coat and slippers, staring straight ahead while he held a pencil poised over a table beside him.

His white hair was unkempt, his mouth grim, a wrinkled forehead made it difficult to know if he was frowning or not, and hard brown eyes looked through a pair of oversized, horn-rimmed, round, eyeglasses.

The words beneath said: A self-portrait, how disappointing, 1838.

A shiver ran down her spine. She returned the picture and tightened the shawl around her arms. A cold wind seemed to have crept into the room and her previously adventurous spirit vanished.

Removing the glasses, she carefully closed the rounded temple bars, and wrapped them in her handkerchief, so they wouldn't scratch.

They only seemed to make a difference when looking at something up close but still they might come to be useful.

She took the unopened letter and wax stamp, before moving away from the desk and back to the middle of the room where she wouldn't be in the way.

Diana looked around the study one more time, taking note of everything and waiting to see if anything felt familiar.

It didn't.

It had been a fun moment, ransacking the desk. It was like a treasure hunt or mystery in a story book that she could enjoy without being involved.

But seeing that self-portrait brought reality crashing back down on her.

This wasn't a game, these weren't characters in a play, this was supposed to be…had been her home…and the people whose things she was now forced to scavenge through…she didn't know them.

It felt like stealing.

As she circled, she felt herself becoming stiff again, comfortably distanced as the things around her remained foreign to her memory.

It allowed the pressure to lift and for her mind to forget that she was supposed to have any ties here, and once again the people who had lived here could return to being imaginary.

She stopped, facing the fireplace, her blood turning to ice water in her veins.

Diana's eyes locked onto the painting above the mantle. Her whole body began to tremble, and she wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to hold herself still, as her lungs forgot how to draw air.

How had she not seen it when she first came in?

The game of pretend was over, and there would be no ignorant bliss to return to this time.

A portrait, beautifully done by a master, of an infant girl with a head of black curls and big azure eyes.

She was sitting on a cushion in the grass while a spaniel dog kept guard at her feet, his red tongue sticking out to lick the baby's cheek.

The baby girl, with rosy pink cheeks, matching the ribbons on her white gown, looked adoringly up at someone beyond the frame's gaze.

Plump dimpled cheeks framed a drooling smile, with two little teeth peeking out above her bottom lip.

She appeared so utterly delighted that you could almost hear the warmth of a baby's laugh echoing.

Chubby little hands reached up, in the left small fat fingers tightly gripped a bunch of purplish flowers, waving them to the invisible person, while her free hand stretched out to them.

At the edge of the frame, directly following the baby's gaze, a pair of hands lowered into the scene, to pick her up.

The hands seemed gentle and loving, but if they belonged to a man or a woman she could not tell, there was no jewelry or sleeve visible to explain.

But the baby was happy to see those hands, that was obvious, and her delight thrust a knife into Diana's chest.

That was me.

Her vision blurred, waves of guilt, confusion, and fear washed over her.

She shouldn't be here, everything about this felt wrong, like desecrating a tomb.

She wasn't meant to be here.

It was like she was dead.

Fleeing through the door Diana ran away, gripping her stolen treasures so tight her knuckles turned white.

She wanted to run from this house. To run and run and run until the unanswerable questions and hopeful family faces disappeared.

She stopped!

Taking deep breaths to calm her pounding heart and keep her quivering legs from collapsing, she observed the environment.

It was the same blue corridor from before, but she couldn't tell if this section was new to her or old.

Not knowing from where she'd come or how to leave, she went to the first door she saw and opened it, praying something good and familiar waited on the other side.

The hinges creaked and screamed as the door forced open, years of neglect had all but fused it shut. Stepping inside Diana felt the door begin to fight back and creep closed on its own. She pushed it the rest of the way with her hand.

As it shut everything was plunged into total darkness.

Feeling her way along the wall she stumbled along till her fingers caught the stubbly velvet of drapes.

With a mighty pull she threw back the curtains, flooding the room with light.

Diana hurriedly turned away from the window, blinking rapidly to try and banish the dark spots that burned her vision from the offending sun.

Once she was no longer blind, she took in the room that had become her latest hiding place.

It was a bedroom, somewhat small in size, but with grand features.

The walls were painted light sea blue boiserie paneling with gold gilded moldings of seashells and olive leaves.

The panels' lines expertly concealed several hidden doors for closets and servants, but there were also two more traditionally styled doors in white and gold with brass handles.

The first door, the one Diana had entered through, was across from the window where she now stood, a canopied four-poster bed standing between them.

The second, was along the far wall across from the foot of the bed and seemed just as unused and sealed off as the first door had been.

The bed covers and drapings were crème colored, but the underside of the canopy and curtains were lined in sky blue silk.

The bedframe was gilded and upholstered in the same light blue fabric. The canopy reached far above her head and had three ostrich feathers decorating each of the four corners.

Walking further into the space, Diana felt the bristle of the carpet beneath her shoes transition to smooth wood and watched the sunlight bounce off the various gildings and scatter dots of light over the floor like crystals.

She tiptoed over to the edge of the bed, frowning quizzically.

A dark blue riding habit lay on the comforter, a pair of boots sat neatly on the floor underneath, and a crop leaned against one of the bedposts, as if waiting their mistress's return.

A purple cashmere shawl was laid beside the outfit, with a gold paisley design along the bottom hems.

Carefully placing the letter, glasses, bracelets, and seal on the bed, Diana took off her own shawl and tossed it over the treasures before gently picking up the piece of purple cloth.

It was like a cloud in her hands, so soft, the rectangular fabric rippled through her fingers like water.

There were two tiny letters stitched into the design at one of the corners. Holding it up to the light, she read the initials: H. P.

"H.P." Diana whispered. "Hippolyta Princeton."

This was her mother's room, and this had been her shawl.

Diana smiled at the discovery, wrapping the purple Kashmir shawl over her elbows before heading to the dark wood vanity to see how it looked.

She turned in front of the mirror, smiling at the effect and wondering if she'd ever seen her mother wear this.

Something on the vanity caught her attention and she began exploring.

In one of the drawers, she found a diary of red leather with the initials H. L. P. embossed on its cover in fading gold letters.

Elated she added it to her collection on the bed, deciding to wrap all her discoveries up in her old shawl to carry.

Next, there was a tiny box with a note tied to it that said, From Mother to Hippolyta on her 16th Birthday, 1809.

Inside was a ring, its thin band made of platinum with a large, clear, pair-shaped diamond in its center, flanked on either side by three smaller diamonds in the shape of leaves.

Diana slipped the ring onto the third finger of her right hand. It was a bit loose, but she liked how she could twirl it around her finger with her thumb without it falling off.

Just as she was about to move on, she noticed a red velvet case sitting on a side table.

Intrigued she lifted the lid and let out an excited gasp.

She remembered this!

It was a diamond scrollwork tiara, and Diana knew she had seen it before.

But as she bent down to study it closer, her smile faded away.

She straightened back up.

This was the tiara her mother had worn in the painting downstairs…so did she remember it from her childhood, or was this just a quick connection to seeing it for the first time an hour ago?

Was the recognition false?

Her joy disintegrated as she slowly closed the case and gathered up her bundle of things.

Walking to the second door she turned the knob.

She wanted to leave.

The door transported her into an adjoining room that too had a second door leading back into the hall. But this one had been secured open to prevent it from ever being closed to the hallway.

Cautiously she stepped in, feeling a sense of calm and warmth envelop her.

It was a beautiful nursery.

Unlike the rest of the house this room was bright and filled with light. Velvet drapes were tied back with braided cord and sheer cotton linings fluttered before three full length windows that looked out onto the street below.

The walls were covered in rich chinoiserie painted wall canvas, depicting a garden full of pink, lavender, and peach hues as well as less subtle greens and blues, all framed with white molding along the ceiling, windows, and floor.

Hidden birds in trees, strangely dressed ladies lounging among the flowers having tea, swans on a lake, and distant figures of princesses and knights lay hidden throughout the intricate design.

It was like looking out a window at a magical world that you could almost walk through.

The floor was covered in pale pink carpet with swirling designs in silver thread, reminding her of blowing winds across a sunset starry sky.

One light fixture hung from the center of the ceiling, made to look like an opening lotus flower with candles rising from within the petals.

A plethora of every toy one could imagine was there, some carefully displayed while others lay strewn on the floor as if they had only recently been played with.

Diana carefully stepped over a wooden model of Noah's ark to get to a fascinating little Toy Theater made of paperboard and tinseling. It looked exactly like the stage from the opera house she had visited with Lois and Clark.

Kneeling on the floor she marveled at the incredible detail of the little theater.

There was a small script propped against its side that read Oberon, and paper doll actors on metal stands, all in costume, stood pinned into the stage floor.

Spying a crank handle on the toy's base she turned it and laughed with delight as the figures began to dance and move across the stage, performing a scene while the backdrops changed into position.

After playing the scene three times, she stood up.

She spied a doll house, made to look like a medieval castle, a small table and chairs set with a miniature tea set, several dolls of all sizes with painted porcelain faces wore fancy dresses and silly hats, some worse for wear than others.

A big painted rocking horse with a red saddle and chipping paint on the ears was surrounded by several smaller wooden horse toys, like they had all been corralled.

There was a yellow wagon on the floor, turned over on its side, with several dolls spilling out, one of whom was dressed like a Russian soldier and had a smashed head. The rest resembled a variety of ethnic backgrounds; an African prince, a Chinese lady, a French queen, an Indian Raj, his wife, and several she couldn't identify.

Diana almost tripped on a blue ball as she went to a line of shelves beside the wall of windows, where most of the toys were housed.

A platoon of tin soldiers in British red stood in a line ready to face an opposing force of Frenchmen in blue.

Next to this army, some of whom had bent and twisted limbs with little bandages made of fabric scraps, was a set of carved figurines, six in total. They were mice in various positions and sizes, meant to be mimicking humans, as one had a tiny pair of wire spectacles on his long nose and a paper scrap tied to his paw to look like a newspaper.

Diana smiled as she picked up each figure, reading the name painted on the bottom. Mr. Mousington, Mrs. Mousington, Felix, Harriet, Minny, and Aunt Poppy.

She returned the little family and walked to a dusty, pink, stuffed, armchair sitting in a corner.

On the chair's seat a book lay open.

She turned her head to try and see it right-side-up.

The opened page showed a picture of a King with the name Alfred written below.

The pages were stiff and yellow, so she didn't dare touch it and instead left it be, moving on.

In the center of the room was a white, wrought-iron, cradle decorated with white cotton bedding and adorned with pink ribbons tied into bows along its rounded top.

Set on a frame the bassinet swung freely, making the ribbons sway with the rocking motion meant to calm a sleeping child.

The stand curved up and over into a shepherd's crook, over which a diaphanous lace canopy hung over the cradle with pink streams of ribbon running down.

A mobile of crystal stars circled a golden sun and blue glass moon above the little pillow that would've held the baby's head.

She ran her fingers over the cold metal and brushed the lace aside to look inside.

A small bouquet of dried purple flowers hung from the mobile.

She touched the crisp petals with her finger, wondering who had left them there and why?

There didn't seem to be anything special about the flowers, she had seen them many times while living in Kent. In fact, they were the same type of flower as was painted in the portrait she'd seen in the study.

What were they called again?

Diana racked her brain trying to recall the word Clark had used when he'd picked a few to bring back for his mother.

"Violets!" she cried.

Yes, that was it, these were called violets.

She smiled at her victory, but the corners of her mouth soon fell as she again tried to remember the significance of such an ordinary flower.

Nothing came to mind; they were pretty though.

Giving up on yet another mystery she looked down into the cradle.

Among the frothy lace edged blankets and white cotton sheets sat a little stuffed friend, almost hidden among the pillows.

Diana reached in and freed the little creature, bringing it over to the window to have a better look.

It was an animal, but not one she had ever seen before.

Hand sewn in soft brown velveteen and stuffed with cotton, it had wide flat feet, a long face, big ears lined with sunny yellow satin, one of which no longer stood up straight but flopped over, black button eyes, a fuzzy white belly made from an old piece of fur muff with a little pocket sewn into it, and a thick tale that helped her sit up.

The pads of the stuffed toys hands and feet were also yellow satin but were thinning from where they had been held too much.

She turned the toy over in her hand, she felt a kinship to its odd self.

On the bottom of its side was stitched the words Jumpa the Kangaroo.

"Well Miss Jumpa," Diana said, smiling at the stuffed toy. "I don't know what a Kangaroo is, but would you like to come with me?"

She giggled at the ridiculousness of asking a toy's permission before slipping it inside the bundle of treasures.

The last thing left to see was a tall chest of drawer on the wall with the second door. It stood across from the cradle and was the simplest item in the room.

She started at the bottom, working her way up through the various drawers. They were filled with carefully pressed and neatly folded baby clothes and accessories.

Finding nothing remarkably interesting in the drawers she looked at the top of the chest and saw a plain wooden box with a little crank on the side like the toy theater had.

Curious Diana turned the crank until it stopped and then let go.

The lid of the box lifted, and an Automaton emerged, no bigger than the length of her hand.

A Greek maiden, with porcelain skin and long raven hair wearing a light green chiton, Persephone the goddess of spring, arose on a plane of emerald grass and jeweled flowers.

She began to play a tiny flute of golden pan pipes while mechanical birds rose and fell around on thin wires in mimicked flight.

The figurine danced as she played, and a tinkering tune began to sing from deep inside the box.

Diana watched in silence, listening.

This song, did she know this song? It felt familiar.

Her frustration grew.

The notes playing held a reminiscent sound to her ear.

But was it familiar because she remembered, or because she so desperately wanted to?

Diana looked away from the dancing doll and scanned the beautiful, perfect, nursery one more time.

Whoever had designed this room had done it with extreme care. It was obvious from every detail that the child who it had been made for was dearly loved.

…I was loved…

Everything from the cradle, to the toys, the music box, and the book left open to the last page that was read shouted of that devoted love and deep longing.

A love she couldn't remember…no matter how hard she tried too.

She could imagine what it was like to live here, to sleep in this room, or to love a toy. But was that really how it was, or was it just her imagination?

"I don't remember…I don't."

She slowly backed away from the music box.

As it's plinking lullaby continued to play, she whispered, "I'm so sorry," before sinking to the floor in a pool of white muslin.

The bundle of relics dropped somewhere by her side as she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and lowered her head.

The music faded, time stood still, and her mind gradually went numb.

She was floating deep beneath the ocean's surface, pulled down by the pressure yet floating. The density blocked out all the rambling thoughts and noise, allowing her to be still.

A muffled voice was calling to her through the deep waters, fighting against the thick haze, but she couldn't make out what it said.

A hand touched her shoulder…who was here?

St. James Square, London England October 5th, 1844

—Bruce Wayne,

Bruce Wayne strolled through St. James Square; he'd planned to be here sooner. Though he hated being late he was pleased with how his morning's errands had gone.

Lucius had met him first thing this morning to finalize any unfinished business with payments, salaries at the company, allowances for Alfred to run the house, etc.

Even though Bruce had postponed control of his inheritance until he was 30, Lucius had made sure to get the young man's input on all matters and keep him as informed as possible on the state of his affairs.

Mister Fox had begun this process soon after the previous Duke's death. Taking on the responsibility of training Thomas Wayne's successor to be a prudent and fair businessman that his father could be proud of.

This did not mean Bruce had always paid close attention to Lucius's teachings, quite the contrary. For most of his early years Bruce had been consumed with other things that Lucius didn't wish to dwell on and had only listened out of courtesy.

But recently the young aristocrat had taken a more intentional interest in his inheritance, much to Lucius and Alfred's great relief.

After his meeting with Mister Fox Bruce had checked up on the progress of renovating his London House. A special project he'd begun soon after proposing to Selina.

He'd spent the early hours going over plans with the architect, adding final touches and discussing any issues that might arise while he was away and how they should be dealt with.

Now of course he was running about thirty minutes behind schedule to meet Diana and the Queens.

He quickened his step, glancing at his pocket watch.

Thankfully, his was only a short distance from Hever House, being in the same neighborhood. He could also take comfort in the fact that he had given no definite time of arrival, only the early afternoon, so it shouldn't be too inconvenient.

Bruce caught sight of his house on the left as he crossed the tranquil street, smiling at the scaffolding and hum of work.

The new wing was coming along nicely. Hopefully, it would be finished before long. They might even be able to move in upon his return.

Bruce had designed it himself, ordering a complete restructure of the old building, which was in a bad state of neglect.

The new Gotham House would hold no resemblance to its predecessor and include several expansions as well as a new entrance that was less formal and more relaxed, leading directly into the receiving room instead of a grand hall. This last feature had been something he'd observed while in Italy and he was intrigued by the idea.

He wanted the exterior to be in the Gothic Revival style.

It would be completely different from the Tudor austerity of Queene's Abbey or the Medieval/Jacobean/Rococo hodge-podge of styles that made up Wayne Castle.

Something unique, something for husband and wife to make their own.

Speaking of his wife, Bruce hoped Selina would be pleased with the surprise he had arranged for her, and possibly ease her distress at his departure.

He had never been a man gifted with expressing emotion with words, he preferred to demonstrate his feelings through actions.

Though the exterior and renovations were to his specifications, he was giving her a free hand with all the interiors to do with as she pleased.

In fact, he had just finished discussions with the decorator to be sure all sketches and samples were first sent to Selina for final approval before anything was done to the inside of the house.

He found he didn't know what her personal style was, realizing she hadn't had much opportunity to demonstrate one beyond her dress, but it didn't matter to him. Bruce could just as happily live in a tent as a palace, so long as the rain stayed out and he could get a good cup of tea.

Let her have her way, and if it turned out his young bride had unfashionable tastes then he wouldn't have to suffer a horde of nosy guests admiring his house.

Yes, hopefully this would help smooth things over, and when he returned their unfortunate episode would have resolved itself.

He truly felt the best thing for them both right now was to take some time to self-reflect after their first disagreement, and this unexpected absence might yet be a blessing in disguise. Never rush in, always analyze, and plan before acting that was his philosophy.

On the topic of departure, he noticed Hever House was already in his sights as he rounded the gardened square.

He was glad he'd have an afternoon to spend before saying goodbye to Diana. In all the chaos before leaving Kent he'd nearly forgotten his promise to stop by. Now, unexpectedly, he had some extra time to help before departing.

The house now loomed as he walked briskly to the group assembled in front.

An uneasy edge settled over him as he came to a stop in front of Oliver, something wasn't right.

Where was she?

Bruce did a quick head count. Ollie, Dinah, Captain Lance, the Queens' driver, the movers, and that mammoth of a maid, but no Diana.

His senses were on high alert, taking in every detail of his surroundings.

Oliver smiled cheerily at his cousin, Dinah waved, Barda glared, and the movers' boisterous chatter filled his ears. Bruce ignored all of them, twisting his neck back and forth trying to find a certain teenager.

She must be here somewhere.

Had he missed her somehow?

The hairs on his neck bristled, worry starting to settle in the pit of his stomach.

"Bruce, you're just in time to work!" quipped Oliver, slapping his hand on the man's shoulder.

"Where's Diana?" Bruce bluntly asked, ignoring his cousin's jovial discourse.

"She's inside." Dinah answered, giving him a welcoming smile.

Bruce quickly scanned the group again, taking note of who was present.

"And who may I ask is with her?" His voice lowered.

Oliver and Dinah looked at one another, confused by Bruce's urgency.

"We sent her in alone for a moment." Captain Lance answered him.

"You what?" Bruce growled.

Ollie quickly retracted his hand.

"Diana went inside alone to decide what to take to Riverfoot." Dinah stated in a cool voice, frowning at Bruce's abrupt accusations.

He clenched his fists.

"So, I take it you're responsible for this brilliant plan? I put too much faith in your intelligence, Dinah." His voice was deadly calm.

"Why are you making a big deal out of nothing?" Dinah fired back.

"Now let's all just calm down." Oliver tried to interject. He should've done like Benjamin and Barda and moved to the safety of the sidelines. "We thought that maybe if Di had some time to herself it might help her rememb—"

"You idiots!"

"Hey, hold on!" Ollie defended. "We didn't want to crowd, show some respect, give her a minute by herself."

"Do you realize what you've done?" He shouted.

"Do you realize you're overacting?" Dinah bit back, standing her ground while her husband flinched.

Bruce gave Dinah a cold glare which made her second guess debating with him.

"I'm going in, do not follow."

Leaving the others stunned, Bruce marched towards the house, barely catching the bemused humph from behind him. He wasn't certain, but the deep droll led him to believe it was most likely Barda.

He ripped the top hat off his head as the heavy door slammed behind with a resounding ring.

Immediately Bruce picked out the bonnet trimmed with wax orange blossoms and crème ribbon, and lace gloves resting on a side table.

He snatched up the hat, inspecting it for clues to which way she might've gone. It gave up no secrets.

He stuffed the lace gloves in his coat pocket, placing the straw bonnet on his upturned hat.

Noticing a small shadow distorting the reflection on a mirror further down he moved toward it.

It was the smudge of a handprint on the silver tarnished glass. Long slim fingers reaching out.

Choosing the nearest doorway, he hurried on, scanning for any sign this was the way she'd come, calling her name.

"Diana, its Bruce!"

Missing artifacts in the gallery confirmed he was on the right course and spurred him forward.

"Diana, are you here?"

Cresting the stairs, the trail of tampered items ran cold.

"Diana?" he called again.

No answer.

Bruce swore under his breath.

Why wasn't she answering?

Where could she be?

Kneeling, Bruce put his face on eyelevel with the blue carpet running down center of the hall. Watching the faint light catch on the pressed and bent fibers, a path of footprints appeared.

Back on his feet, he followed the trail.

"Diana, where are you?"

His pace quickened with every second he didn't hear her voice, matching his raising fury.

How could they send her in by herself, were they blind to all her nervous cues?

The way her accent got thicker, how she became unfocused on a conversation, fidgeting with her clothes or hair, clamming up and becoming shy around familiar faces, constantly biting her lower lip, avoiding eye contact, or trying too hard to appear relaxed and happy by introducing multiple new topics of conversation.

Any one of those things should have sent off a chorus of warning bells if even one of those fools had been paying attention!

"DIANA!"

He was going to strangle Ollie.

Bruce was becoming frantic, fear building as he continued to search, his mind conjuring a variety of emotional triggers she might have found, and none of them led to the happy ending Dinah and Oliver were hoping for.

He was running out of footsteps; the trail became muddled.

Had she circled back?

Was she lost?

Where were you going, Princess?

It felt like this hall went on forever. Then he saw a sword, dropped hurriedly in the middle of the floor.

He picked it up.

It was a fine antique, he could see why she had taken it, especially after learning of her conversation with Alfred. The question was, why had she dropped it?

He spied a door flung open at the corner of the hall.

He judged it was open too far for her to still be inside. No, if Diana had entered that room it would've been hesitantly. But if she had left it in a hurry, then she would have flung it wide.

Bruce rotated slowly, locking eyes on each doorway, trying to see any evidence that she might have entered.

Around the bend of the hall, he thought he saw a shaft of light.

Hastening, he followed it.

"Diana?"

He was getting nearer, but she still wasn't responding, making him worry this was another dead end.

The frame rushed toward him; the door was secured open leaving a clear view inside.

Bruce stopped himself, bracing his hands on the side of the doorframe, halting his running legs.

He took a deep breath, calming his racing heart and rising panic.

He'd found her.

She sat on the floor in a pool of white muslin, the incoming rays of light from the window shined through her long curls and brought out raven highlights. Her knees were drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, whilst her forehead rested on top, hiding.

A purple and gold shawl hung loosely from her arms and dripped into the pool of cotton. A small bundle, tightly wrapped in gray and posies, bobbed on the pink carpet at her feet.

She was a lonely figure, surrounded by things of childhood and nostalgia, but drawn in and cowering from what once brought joy.

Softly, so as not to startle her, Bruce crossed the soft pink floor.

He set the sword down beside her bundle. When she didn't seem to notice his presence, he added the top hat and bonnet to the pile and crouched down, settling on his heels.

"Diana?" he called; she made no response.

He just needed to see her face, to make sure she was ok. She could never hide her feelings on her face.

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, giving a subtle shake.

Her head raised.

The anxiety he had battled during his search came back tenfold upon seeing her empty features and expressionless eyes.

Her face was blank.

"Diana, are you alright?"

It felt an eternity before she recognized him. Her normally red lips, now concerningly colorless, parted and in a quiet voice answered.

"I don't remember," she said.

She was calm, eyes clouded and dull.

He nodded his head.

"I know, Princess. I know."

She looked through him. Her voice maintaining that disturbing monotone quality.

"I tried; I really did try…but I can't."

"Hush, its ok," he soothed, "it'll be alright."

Her face was still emotionless, like she was frozen, and that scarred him more than anything else.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I failed."

"What?"

"They deserved…but I don't…can't…I have failed them."

"No Diana!" He fiercely protested, gripping her shoulders.

She didn't appear to hear him, as she continued rambling.

"They deserved better…I've failed everyone."

"Stop it!" he snapped, shaking her shoulders violently.

She stopped, blinking at him, stunned.

He relaxed his grip on her shoulder but didn't let go. Dropping the harsh edge in his voice he spoke calmly but fervently.

"Listen to me, Diana."

He paused to be certain she was hearing him.

"You have nothing to be sorry for…Do you understand? Don't blame yourself…You have done nothing wrong."

Her expression remained blank, but she gave a barely perceptible nod.

His grip relaxed a little more, the muscles releasing a fraction of their tension. The lack of emotion in her response was still unnerving though.

He had seen her angry, he had witnessed her cry, he had experienced her joy, and knew how she behaved when afraid. But this? This was unlike anything he had ever seen from her before, and he was at a loss.

She was simply silent.

There was nothing, no fight, no tears, no frustration, or questions. She was empty…empty and silent.

He'd never seen her like this…it was frightening.

She was normally so vibrant, tempestuous even, in both her joys and sorrows. What did she need?

She liked hugs, right?

Found them comforting?

She was always impulsively assaulting others with enthusiastic embraces. In fact, nearly every greeting he'd ever received from her had involved a tackling death grip with her arms thrown around his neck.

She was obviously a physically demonstrative person, though how that was a person's natural response Bruce struggled to understand.

Hesitantly, afraid she might break, he folded her into his arms.

She was stiff.

His mind began running like mad, trying to discern what a "correct" amount of time was before breaking a hug; long enough to be reassuring but not so long as to feel suffocating.

He started a mental timer, deciding 30 seconds should be sufficient.

She suddenly eased her posture, resting her head against the stubbly velvet of his frock coat.

Bruce released the breath he'd been holding.

Impulsively he held her closer. Wrapping his arms around her protectively, as if he would keep out the forgotten ghosts that crowded in.

She didn't move, didn't fight, passively accepting the embrace.

She said something, but it was hard to hear.

He deciphered a semi-audible "I'm sorry," but he didn't know if it was intended for his ears or the family and long dead ghosts, she felt she'd let down.

His heart clenched.

He unconsciously rested a hand on her head.

Seconds passed into minutes.

Bruce released his arms.

Standing to his feet he gathered their hats, the sword, and a small bundle from the floor.

Looking down at the ethereal waif staring blankly at nothing he side-stepped into her view.

He extended a hand.

She turned her face slowly up, blinking those magnificent big eyes.

"Come on, Princess. Time to go."

He led her back through cavernous abode and out into the bright afternoon sunlight.

After quickly handing off the sword and bundle to Barda he gave some brisk instructions to the others.

Bruce ordered them to collect all the Duchess's jewelry and any books on poetry or folktales, though he doubted there were any books in there. These items would go to Riverfoot, the rest they could pack up for storage.

Having dispensed with assigning tasks he announced he was taking Diana on a walk thru the park for some air and immediately ushered her away before the rest could bombard her with their concerned curiosity.

They walked in heavy silence.

She was like a moving doll.

Diana took no notice of the trees, passersby, small lake, little animals, people walking dogs, or Bruce.

He attempted to draw her into conversation, but the most of a response he received was a stiff nod and he soon gave up.

At least her expression eased the further away from the square they walked.

The two were deep in the park now.

Bruce noticed her eyes hesitantly start to take in the scenery and he felt himself relax a little.

He was about to try distracting her by talking again when he noticed a man dressed in livery waving at him from the other side of the path.

Bruce frowned, putting a handout he brushed Diana's shoulder, bringing their walk to a stop.

She looked at him, he wished he could call the look curious, but it was more like a faceless soldier awaiting orders.

Bruce looked back over his shoulder to be sure he hadn't missed the caller, but the man was still there, patiently waiting for the young Duke to approach.

He made a clicking sound with his teeth, not liking being pulled in different directions but knew he couldn't ignore the man who had sought him out. He swiftly turned back to Diana; it didn't take a detective to tell she wasn't up for introductions right now.

"Diana, I need to speak with someone for a moment. Will you be alright until I'm back?"

She blinked.

"I'm fine." She said like a trained parrot.

Bruce gritted his teeth but knew he had no choice but to believe her.

"Don't move." He instructed firmly as he started walking back down the path. "I'll be right back, so wait here."

He left and Diana turned back, suddenly aware of her surroundings and momentarily wondering when they'd gone to a park? She had already been there for roughly a quarter of an hour.

St. James Park, London England October 5th, 1844

—Diana Princeton,

She stood alone but soon began to feel restless standing in the path, watching others walk by.

Diana moved into the grass and gazed at the shallow lake. Her toe bumped a stone. She picked it up.

Holding the smooth rock between her thumb and pointer finger she flicked her wrist and watched it skip across the shiny water. She looked down for another one, skipping it like the first.

Moving a little further she chose another, then another, oblivious to how far she'd wandered.

Forgetting Bruce's warning she managed to walk nearly to the ponds end, skipping stones absentmindedly into the water.

She picked up a rock that was too big for her sport and, without thinking, discarded it, throwing it ahead with ease.

But, as the rugged stone slipped her grasp, she saw a red coat come into view, leisurely walking directly into her path towards the pond's edge and realized her mistake.

Horrified Diana watched as the rock hurdled in slow motion towards its unsuspecting victim. She opened her mouth, desperate to yell at him to watch out, but it was too late.

The rock flew true, striking the man square in the back of the head, sending his hat flying and knocking him face first into the lake.

Diana gasped as the man landed with a smack on the water, sending an impressive spray into the air.

Allah forgive me, I've killed him!

Dropping her shawl, she raced toward the water, running in without a second thought, the cotton skirt weighing her down as it took on water.

She reached him in seconds.

The water was almost to her knees.

He was sputtering and dazed from the amount of water he'd swallowed and was struggling to get to his feet, slipping on the muddy floor then tumbling back into the water, this time landing on his backside.

Diana grabbed onto one of his flailing arms, pulling him to his feet.

But the man's boots had sunk in the muck.

The force of her tug sent him to his knees with another splash, spraying her in the face as she sought his arm again.

Latching on she began to drag the poor soul back the few feet to the bank on his knees, coughing and hacking up the murky water from his lungs.

Crawling onto the grass the man flopped on his back, taking in big gulps of air, closing his eyes as the pain in his skull registered.

Frantically Diana knelt beside him, hovering, and wringing her hands over her would be victim.

"Are you dead?" she asked.

He opened his eyes, trying to suppress a sputtering cough.

Their eyes met.

He blinked, his mouth gaping open as he stared at her face. Diana began to worry he had suffered a serious head injury.

"If I'm dead," he said in a reverent hush, "I don't mind."

She tilted her head, confused. How hard had she hit him?

"I am so sorry about hitting you with that rock."

"Don't be, I'd say it's the best thing to happen to me all day."

He smiled up at her, the headache completely forgotten.

"I respect a woman with a strong arm. I'll be fine."

She didn't understand what he meant by that, except maybe he thought she had thrown it too hard and hurt him on purpose!

"I promise sir I did not mean it. I was completely in a fog and didn't notice you walking there. Please believe me, I would not lie!"

"Nor would I ever think you would. Not to worry, I'll be fine."

His laugh turned into a stifled groan as he tried to sit up. Diana quickly assisted, standing, and pulling him to his feet.

Somehow, in the chaos, the man had managed to save his hat from a watery grave, though it now lay smashed and soggy where Diana's knees had crushed it.

She yelped upon realizing and picked it up, looking in dismay at its sorry appearance.

"Sorry about your hat." She apologized as she handed the ruined thing to him. "It was a nice hat."

He shrugged and gave her a charming lopsided grin.

"It was hideous. Actually, this might be an improvement."

He put the hat on his head. It made a sad squishing sound as more dirty water rained down over his eyes and the fabric flopped over his ears. He tilted his head back, the grin still firmly in place.

"Well, what do you think, fetching no?"

Diana couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at the corners of her mouth at the ridiculous sight. His smile grew even wider as he removed the ruined cap from obstructing his view.

"Most charming," she replied, "I'll pay for it."

He waved away the offer gallantly.

"Nonsense," He gave her a wink, "when an Angel saves your life, giving up your hat is the least you can do."

St. James Park, London England October 5th, 1844

—Captain Stephan Trevor,

When Stephan Trevor had found himself launched into the lake, he had known someone was attempting to help him but was unable to see who.

As he laid on his back, trying to catch his breath, he could sense his would-be-savior watching over him.

He opened his eyes.

Stephan had expected to see a man, or at least a boy, given the strength of their grip and balance in the mud.

What he hadn't expected was to be gazing up into the concerned face of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Dark Raven curls fell like a veil around her face.

High cheek you could cut a diamond on, thick black eyebrows swooping down in concern over large azure blue eyes, clear and bright, framed by dense black lashes that were so long they curled back on themselves.

In all his 18 years of life, he had never seen eyes that shade of blue, it was mesmerizing.

Her complexion made him think of an English Rose dipped in salt water.

The healthy pink bloom in her cheeks against soft white, but her skin was also tan with an underlining current of blue and green coursing through the veins rising to the surface, reminding him of the sun on the sea.

A well-proportioned mouth sat below a noble, straight nose that proudly stood out from her face, while ruby lips twisted in worry as her alert gaze scanned his face.

The vision threw a portion of her rich mane over one shoulder, allowing him to glimpse one adorably large ear and a long thin neck.

Wow, he thought, an Angel.

Stephan Trevor had always been skeptical of the concept of guardian angels, but for the rest of his life he would believe wholeheartedly.

The celestial being helped him to his feet.

Words were exchanged but for the life of him he couldn't remember what they had said, except that he had tried to make her laugh.

When silence fell, after a failed attempt to draw her amusement with his ruined hat, he found himself mesmerized once again by her beauty.

Removing his hat, he tried to ring the water out of it, still looking at her face, completely unaware of how long he had been, rather blatantly, staring.

Her cheeks were growing flushed under his admiring gaze and she ducked her head shyly.

Realizing he was making her uncomfortable he tried to stop staring, nervously clearing his throat a couple times. How does one talk to such a beautiful being?

He opened his mouth, but no words came out, only a hoarse croak like a thirsty frog.

She gave him a quizzical look, her lips pursed like she wanted to question the noise but thought better of it.

Steve's face burned a thousand degrees.

Mortified, he silently cursed himself for being tongue-tied before such a refined creature.

She must think I'm a complete simpleton and a fool to boot.

He chuckled at his own assessment.

At least her view of me would be an accurate one.

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

"I am glad you are not hurt Sir?"

With her words he found his tongue and all previous nerves vanished at the note of hesitation in her voice.

If there was one thing, he was good at it was helping others forget their own nerves.

"Trevor," he answered, giving her a gracious bow. "Stephan Trevor, but my friends call me Steve. I would be honored if you would too Miss Angel."

He looked at her hopefully.

She bit her bottom lip but couldn't hold back the curving of her lips into a shy smile as she nodded.

His entire world lit up with that smile and he swore he would see it again if it were the last thing he did.

"I am glad you are not hurt…Steve."

His warm boyish laughter sang in her ears again.

"It'll take more than a bonk on the head and a puddle to do me in."

Steve's heart raced, blood pounded in his ears, he felt like he could swim the channel and then run the road all the way from London to Edinburg and back again.

He was disappointed that she hadn't introduced herself in turn, but figured it was a girl's prerogative to be wary of a new gentleman.

The hesitant silence that often befalls new acquaintances settled between them, a mixture of excited expectations and wary nervousness.

He smiled again; he just couldn't seem to help it.

She wasn't paying attention to him though as she had begun to wring the water from her skirt. Thank goodness cotton dried quickly and there was a warm breeze.

Steve noticed a change in her now that she was no longer worried about his wellbeing.

He couldn't discern why, but something about her struck him as…sad.

That was it, she seemed sad, and it was heart breaking.

He looked around, for something that might cheer her up.

A small pushcart came into view and Steve's face spread into a child-like grin.

That ought a do it!

He turned to the girl.

"Have you ever had a Penny Lick Miss Angel?"

She shook her head no, eyes brightening, and her eyebrows arched, curious.

His smile grew.

"Then would you allow me to buy you an ice cream as a thank you for saving my life?"

He gave another theatrical bow and her lips tugged into a small smile again.

She nodded.

Steve offered her his arm, which she took, ignoring the dampness that still clung to the fabric, as he led her towards the vendor's cart.

While they walked Steve made another observation.

She was tall, probably a little taller than him if he weren't wearing his boots.

And unlike other girls, who tended to take tiny steps and duck their faces demurely behind their fans, she walked with her head held high, shoulders back, confident stride set to her own pace, never copying the gate of others.

This confidence naturally attracted the attention of others as she breezed down the center of the path without hesitation, clearly expecting everyone else, to make way for her.

Most girls who behaved in such a way were constantly looking over their shoulder for the reactions around them, smugly enjoying the attention.

But she didn't even notice the stares or whispers, weather in awe or annoyance, they received not even the slightest acknowledgement from her.

It was like she had been trained not to see them. Like this was natural deference to her station and the reaction or very presence of others was of no interest to her.

Steve watched in wonder at her confidence and supreme command of herself. Nothing forced, nothing overthought, just natural grace and regality.

She walked like royalty!

The vendor smiled as they approached.

"What can I get fer ye Captain?" the elderly man asked, his calloused hand rubbing his trouser leg to clean it.

"I'd like to buy a penny lick for the lady here." Steve said and smiled as he noticed the Angle peering curiously into the cart. He wondered if they had ice cream in Heaven?

"Of course," the vendor replied, turning to the girl. "What'll it be Miss?"

She looked blankly at the man, biting her lower lip.

"I-I don't know…what would you get?" she asked him, and Steve watched the other man's heart melt.

He gave her a toothy smile, all crooked, cracked, and yellow.

"Parmesan's me favorite Miss. I'd stake me reputation on it, no finer in all London town!"

He puffed out his narrow chest proudly and she nodded her consent.

The man quickly filled the penny glass and handed it to her as Steve gave him his last penny.

She sniffed the dessert, her brows knitting together in concentration while Steve and the Vendor waited expectantly.

"What am I supposed to do?" She asked.

"Ya lick it!" the old man laughed.

She squared her shoulders and gave the cold ice a quick lick.

Instantly her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped open. The old man snickered as her face lit up with joy and she began eating the desert with relish.

"Good?" Steve asked, trying to hold back his own laughter.

She turned her face to him, the first real smile he'd seen on her face radiating with wonder.

"It's wonderful!" she exclaimed, finishing the last few licks of the bowl before handing it back to the vendor, and saying, with absolute seriousness, "you should be very proud."

This time Steve couldn't hold back and laughed joyously as the vendor became misty eyed and thanked the girl, taking back the glass.

"You should be proud!" Steve concurred, waving back to the man as he led her back to the pond.

The sadness was gone, and her delighted smile shone bright.

Yes, Steve thought, that was the best penny he'd ever spent. Trading his last bit of money for a real smile was worth it.

"May I ask you a question?" he ventured.

She nodded and waited expectantly.

"Why is your voice like that?" he asked, "Your accent I mean, where did it come from?"

Her expression became wary and she raised her chin proudly in the air.

"What about your voice?" she countered. "I haven't heard any other English man talk like you."

He gave a hearty laugh.

She was taken aback by his reaction, she'd expected him to be offended and storm off, but his open demeanor didn't seem fazed by her blunt rudeness.

"You're right about that Angel. That's because I'm only half English, the rest of me is American, at least partially grown."

He gave a proud smile and she laughed, completely relaxed in his presence.

"Why did he call you Captain?" she asked, this time catching him off guard. "That is not your name. Do you have boat perhaps?"

"No, I'm a Captain in the army, or at least I became one today."

They came to a stop by the lake's edge and she turned around to look at him, curiosity written all over her face.

"That's actually why I'm here. I just received my commission and I wanted to thank the man who arranged it for me, Captain Lance, but he wasn't at home."

She tilted her head.

"Captain Benjamin Lance?"

Steve's face snapped up.

"You know him?"

She nodded, an amused smile on her red lips.

"He is my Uncle."

"Really!" Steve exclaimed, excitedly grabbing her hand. "Could you please tell him that Stephan Trevor wants to thank him for the opportunity?"

Caught up in his excitement she happily agreed.

"Oh, this is wonderful!" He shouted, clearly relieved that the man would know of his gratitude. "I would never have been able to be commissioned if it hadn't been for him. He paid for it you know after seeing me drill down at Sandhurt."

"I'll tell him." She said, delighted in how the corners of his blue eyes crinkled with his smile and showed of straight pearly teeth. She took a moment to admire his dirty blond hair as he brushed it out of his face.

"Miss, you truly are an Angel! I was so worried I wouldn't get to thank him. I'm heading to my post at the base just outside of Gotham and this was my last day in London. But now it's all been solved, thank you so much!"

She laughed, "You're most welcome."

They were so caught up in the moment neither noticed that they were still holding hands.

"Did you say you were going to Gotham?" she ventured.

He nodded.

Her smile blossomed.

"I live near there!"

Steve's face was shocked as he looked up to the sky and spoke.

"Lord, for whatever mischief I've caused in my life, thank you for not holding it against me!"

She didn't understand why he was talking to the sky when she had told him something, so she tried to be more direct.

"I said I live in Kent, near Gotham. I live with my Aunt Lady Kent at Riverfoot Hall."

Steve looked like a giddy little boy.

However, just as he was about to reply another voice thundered through the air and drew their attention away from each other.

"DIANA!" a deep voice bellowed.

Steve turned and his jaw swung open at the sight of The Duke of Gotham marching in his direction.

His dark green frockcoat flapped behind him as he took long strides towards the two, and the dark scowl on his face matched his black hair when he spied the two of them, hands still intertwined.

Steve instinctively dropped her hand and took a step back.

The much taller man shot the 18-year-old soldier with a warning glance, prompting Steve to take an extra step back, just out of precaution.

Satisfied for the moment the man turned his attention to the girl.

"What happened, why didn't you wait like I told you, and why are you all wet?"

Steve was suddenly stabbed with an accusatory glare as the Duke quickly scanned her for any sign of injury or harm while he hastily removed his coat and placed it on her shoulders, all the while managing to continue glaring daggers at the stranger.

Steve gave his most charming smile to the man, trying to hide his shaking knees.

Diana shrugged off the coat and tossed it back at him, earning her a glare that she promptly ignored.

"I'm fine Bruce, I was just talking to my new friend!"

Steve suddenly had mixed feelings of elation and fear at being singled out as her friend to the clearly infuriated man.

Taking the initiative, he stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Captain Stephan Trevor, Your Grace."

The Duke didn't even glance at the hand but took a deliberate step forward, placing himself between Steve and the girl. His dark blue eyes narrowing to slits as Steve became certain the man could see into his very soul.

"Captain," he growled, sending a shiver up the boy's spine as he slowly retracted his hand.

Without taking his eyes off Steve, he addressed the girl.

"Lady Diana, it's time we were going."

Steve's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he picked his jaw off the ground.

"L-Lady Diana?"

He turned to the girl who was glaring angrily at the back of the Duke's head.

"Did he just call you Lady Diana?" he asked her.

She blew a stray curl out of her face and looked back at him with an apologetic smile before giving a shrug, letting him know that was her name.

"It's pretty, but I prefer Angel." He blurted out without thinking.

She blushed.

"I don't mind Angel," she said giving him a bright smile.

The Duke growled in annoyance and if looks could kill Steve had little doubt he'd be on his way through the circles of hell at that moment.

"Diana," the man said, his voice wasn't as harsh but left no room for negotiation. "It's time to leave."

He redirected his gaze to Steve, offering him the first semblance of a polite smile, though the boy wasn't blind to the clear warning beneath the thin veneer.

"My Godmother has requested we call on her. You understand?"

Steve found himself not as afraid this time. After all, Diana liked him so why should he be intimidated by this man?

Flashing a dazzling smile, he replied, "Of course, I hope you have a pleasant day Your Grace." Then, without giving the older man a chance to react he swiftly grabbed the girl's hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "Lady Diana." He smiled up at her as she clearly tried to contain her laughter.

The Duke took hold of her elbow and promptly guided her away down the path.

"May I call on you in Kent?" Steve shouted.

She looked over her shoulder and gave him a brilliant smile.

"Of course!" she yelled back before her guardian quickened the pace.

He watched in a rosy haze an Angel fly away, oblivious to the spectators drawing near.

"And what would you be gawking at Stevie boy?"

A fellow soldier, not much older than him, dressed in red and white regimentals slapped him on the back, a mischievous grin on his face while a second stood a little apart, arms crossed over his broad chest and brown eyes watching the younger man skeptically.

"The girl I want to marry." Steve said.

He immediately regretted it at the sound of the other man's laughter.

"Steve's in love!" He cackled, gesturing towards their fellow soldier with the dark black hair. "Prince did you hear? Stevie boy has found himself a girl!"

The other man nodded, "I heard ya Billy."

Billy looked back to Steve, scanning the younger man's line of sight for the mystery maid.

"Which one is she Trevor? Don't be selfish now, who's the new lucky lady to catch yer eye?"

Steve groaned but knew better than to fight his friend's curiosity.

"The Girl walking with The Duke of Gotham." He answered, gesturing to the pair who had slowed their pace down the path.

"Ah!" Billy exclaimed approvingly, "What's her name?"

Steve frowned for a moment, thinking.

"Lady Diana…Lady Diana…Something."

"Princeton." A deep voice said behind them and the two men snapped their necks to look at their friend who was watching the raven-haired girl grow smaller in the distance. He could still see her thanks to his unusual height.

"Lady Diana Princeton." He repeated.

Billy frowned.

"How do you know her name, Prince?"

The other man shrugged.

Billy ignored this and tried to catch the last fleeting glimpse of the girl; his arm draped lazily over Steve's shoulder.

"I've heard of her, but nobody's seen her."

Prince nodded his agreement and Steve suddenly whipped around, surprising his two friends who raised their eyebrows.

"Now listen you two, we're friends right?"

"Of course!" Billy assured him while Prince shrugged and gave a begrudging "Why not."

"Then as my friends, swear you won't try to pursue Diana. At least until she's had a chance to reject me first."

Billy laughed and slapped him on the back.

"It's a promise from me lover boy. I'd never be the one to stand in the way of true love."

Steve breathed a sigh of relief before turning quick eyes on the other man.

"Prince?" he asked.

Billy gave a snort and Prince's lips twitched in amusement as he and Billy shared a knowing look at their friend's expense.

"What?" Steve asked.

Billy wiped a tear from his eye and Prince took a step away to try and control himself.

"You don't need to worry about Prince. He'd rather gather chestnuts than young ladies' hearts." Billy said with a wink.

Steve wasn't entirely convinced and continued to insist his friends give him a chance with the girl without interference.

Finally, in control of himself again Prince gave the younger man a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Not to worry Trevor." He said, "I'm pretty sure there are laws against it."

Neither of the two men understood what he could mean by that but decided to ignore him.

Steve had gotten his promise and that was good enough for him, besides, Billy reminded them that they were running late and had best get a move on.

As Billy and Steve ran off Prince lingered behind. His face solemn, mouth downturned, and brown eyes intently focused, as he cast one last glance back at the girl with raven curls.

St. James Park, London England October 5th, 1844

—Bruce Wayne,

Bruce gripped his top hat in one fist, his shoulders tense as he listened to be sure that impertinent simp wasn't following them.

He'd been out of his mind with worry when he'd come back to find Diana gone, and then to find her damp, covered in muddy grass stains, and flirting with a complete stranger did nothing to lower his blood pressure!

Though in all fairness he doubted Diana understood what flirting was, let alone that she had a natural knack for it.

He didn't know why it had infuriated him so much to see her relaxed and laughing with that boy, except maybe the sting that every attempt Bruce had made to lift her spirits had failed whereas that blond buffoon had managed to bring back her smile.

Well, whatever the reason he didn't want to dwell on it, except that he was still seething with rage at that flirtatious little pretty boy who probably made a habit of misleading unsuspecting young girls.

He should've put the fear of God in him when he had the chance.

Bruce relaxed slightly when there was no sign of Trevor trying to pursue Diana with him present.

"That was rude." Diana said as she walked beside him.

Pulling the purple shawl higher up her arms, she clutched her bonnet tightly, nearly smashing one of the orange blossoms.

"Agreed." Bruce gruffly replied, still seething with indignation. "How dare he address a lady so casually?"

Diana glared.

"I was talking about you."

He avoided her eyes.

"I don't have any idea what you mean. I was perfectly polite."

Diana scoffed. Bruce snapped his head to the side.

"Sure, you were," she chortled. "You are the very picture of warm and welcoming."

Bruce turned back to the path, keeping his face stoic.

He didn't need to defend himself. Diana didn't understand how many unsavory characters there were in the world. He was looking out for her.

As if she could hear his thoughts she responded,

"I'm not dumb. I can look out for myself, and I don't need a mother hen in trousers to hover over me."

"I'll believe that when you start having a care for the kind of people you befriend."

"Steve was perfectly nice, and much better behaved than a certain someone I know."

Bruce smirked at her jab.

"People aren't always what they seem, Diana."

"But you'll never know if you don't give them a chance first!" She passionately retorted.

He sighed. It was obvious she wasn't going to listen to him. Stubborn girl.

"Captain Trevor will have ample opportunity to prove himself if he wishes to see you again."

Diana's eyebrows swooped down.

"What do you mean by that?"

He picked up the pace to try to avoid her scrutiny. But she matched him stride for stride. Damn growth spurt!

"Don't you walk away from me Bruce Wayne!" she yelled, causing others to stare.

He stopped before she drew more attention to them.

"What I mean," he ground out through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice low, "is that I am not going to allow anyone near you without making sure they don't pose a threat."

Diana's eyes doubled in size before hardening into blue ice.

"Allow?" She hissed, her accent becoming dangerously pronounced.

He'd messed up.

"You, Your Grace,"

Bruce tried not to wince. She never used his title.

"Do not have the right to allow me to do anything."

"I am only looking out for your best interests." He tried to explain, his own anger growing.

How had they even gotten into this conversation?

"Well, your services have been refined." She said, raising her chin into the air.

"I believe you mean Declined."

Her nostrils flared, she clenched her fists, hot indignation burning in her veins.

Bruce smirked.

"Khara `aleik!" she yelled, throwing up her hands.

[You're treating me badly & I'm angry with you]

She began cursing at him in Arabic, painting the air with colorful slurs as his smirk fell away, replaced by a dark scowl.

She moved from simple curse words and was now on a tyrant of something about paranoia and trust issues, but Bruce was only able to catch about every third word.

He'd forgot how fast she could talk when she was angry.

Diana's voice grew louder as he tried to guide her away from the gathering crowd of spectators, who no doubt thought he was harassing her and were giving him suspicious stares.

Bruce snatched her wrist. He needed to lead her away from the onlookers, but she wrenched free.

"Ini`le` `an wijhe!" she screamed. [Get the hell out of my face!]

Bruce grabbed her upper arm, yanking her back and bringing them face to face.

"Not going to happen." His acerbic undertone bit in her ear.

Diana opened her mouth.

Bruce covered it with his hand, muffling her insults.

Instantly he became aware of how bad that looked and dropped his hand, releasing her arm as two gentlemen in his peripherals took a step toward him.

He nodded to the men. Their wives were sending him dirty looks from a few paces away. Unfortunately, Diana had not run out of things to say and was gearing up for another round.

Bruce cut her off before she could start.

"Would you mind keeping your voice down before we get locked up for disturbing the peace?" He hissed through smiling teeth.

Their eyes locked, stern disapproval meeting righteous fury.

Thick black lashes flicked over azure. Diana took a step back, finally noticing their audience.

The group of watchers began to disperse, deciding the young woman wasn't in danger.

Bruce drew a ragged breath.

Diana shot a warning look, telling him this was far from over.

Bruce avoided it by rolling his eyes to the heavens, from whence cometh thy help.

He admired that tenacious quality of hers.

He respected her independent spirit, though he feared its consequences. Her passion for fairness and belief in people's inherent good was inspiring, if rather naïve.

Despite their different instincts, Bruce thought Diana was one of the most good-natured people he knew, among the ranks of Alfred and Clark.

A smile ghosted across his face.

The fierce glower softened as Diana brushed a few blowing curls out of her face before putting her bonnet on.

Taking a deep breath, she spoke, in English this time.

"I know in your heart you are a kind and compassionate man, Bruce."

He faltered, stunned by her noble view of him.

Had she forgotten the part he'd played in taking her from her home?

Bruce would never forget the guilt he shared in destroying Diana's once-happy life. He was the one who had physically removed her from her family, mother, sisters, and her people. One day he knew she would realize that.

Focused on tying the ribbon beneath her chin, she was oblivious to his reaction.

She tucked a few loose hairs into the hat before looking up, instantly concerned at his expression. It was the same look she'd seen on the ship when she'd asked about his family, full of guilt and pain.

Schooling his features, Bruce retrieved her gloves from his coat pocket, returning them.

She accepted the gloves, slipping them on her hands, but never looking away from his face.

He was increasingly uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Clearing his throat, he looked to see if the carriage had arrived.

There was a gentle tug on his sleeve. He glanced at lace gloved fingers holding tightly to the fabric.

Her voice was gentle, devoid of its previous anger.

"I don't know why trusting others is difficult for you, but if you treat the world with mistrust, it will never see you as the man I know."

Bruce gently removed her hand from his arm, holding the tips of her fingers for a second before letting go.

"I'm not a perfect man, Diana." His tone was solemn.

"But you are a good one."

She tilted her head, looking at him with complete trust.

"When you send good out into the world Bruce, someday it will find its way back. Good will always be repaid, sometimes it just takes a while."

"Who told you that, Princess?"

"My Ami."

He nodded.

Looking at this innocent, beautiful, girl full of noble ideals, he wished trust were that easy or the world so forgiving, for her sake.

"Your mother is a wise woman."

She fiddled with the ring beneath her glove.

"Kattir kherak." [Thank you—May God multiply your good deeds.]

He took her hand, placing it in the crook of his arm.

"The carriage is here."

He led her towards an open-air carriage waiting at the edge of the park.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He placed his top hat on his head then helped her into the carriage.

"To Marlborough House."