Most of the characters in this story are the property of ABC TV and other entities, and I do not have any permission to borrow them. Not that I think ABC will notice; it certainly isn't taking very good care of them. However, no infringement is intended, and this story is not for profit. Almost all other characters are my property, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask me first. Feedback is most appreciated.

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She walked in a strange garden. This held none of the flowers she knew, no neat rows of tidy little plants, no bushes sculpted into clean geometric shapes. Here, blossoms ran riot, overloading leafy branches; here moss crept across worn flagstones that made bumpy, twisting paths among the greenery; here, fallen petals and dead leaves tangled among bold weeds. When she looked up, she could see trees in the distance, above some of the hedges--giant, twisted, dark trees that had seen centuries pass by. A forest, some quiet part of her mind suggested, and she agreed with it, and let the thought go. Her business was within the garden, not among the shadows of the trees.

She had no name because she did not remember that there were such things. She did not know how she had come to be in the garden, nor how she knew what she knew--the names of the plants that she passed (Lenten rose, forsythia, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, lady's slipper, foxglove, catmint), the goal that called to her from deeper in the garden. The varied scents--delicate, vivid--wreathed about her as she walked, and sometimes she had to brush pollen or petals from the sleeves of her blouse. The bushes and hedges were so untended that they formed a sort of maze; she could not see over them to see where the paths led. But her feet did not hesitate as she walked, and while she had never been there before, she seemed to know where to go. Hot sunlight poured down on the garden, and the air was so still and silent that her light stride seemed louder than it was. She passed fat bees humming drowsily from flower to flower, saw birds with half-closed eyes perched on inner branches; once she saw the puff of white as a rabbit took itself out of her way without haste.

It seemed that she wandered for a long time. She never walked the same way twice, and her path eventually wound tighter toward the center of the garden. Someone was waiting for her there. If asked, she would not have been able to say who was waiting, but she knew someone was.

Finally the flagstones gave way to plushy grass and she stepped into the heart of the garden. It was bigger than she expected, and tidier, though still wild. Hedges sprang away from the point at which she stood, and some distance away stood an old stone fountain, spraying water gently into the air. Bushes and small trees scattered the lawn, which stretched away into an orchard. She could not see the far side, and there was no one in sight.

She walked forward without haste, drawn to the fountain. The surface rippled gently with the falling droplets, but her image was clear enough when she looked down. And with the sight of her face, she knew her name. Sloan. Red hair curled around a wide-eyed face, and the lips smiled in pleasure.

With her name came a little more purpose. The person who waited for her needed her help. She had to find him.

The grass cushioned her feet as she walked. Fruit hung temptingly from the branches in the orchard, mixed with blossoms as out of season as the jumble of flowers in the garden, but Sloan did not pick any. Instead, she pushed gently through the small trees to the other side.

Here was a thicket of rose-trees, rioting with blooms in every shade imaginable and a few that no one had yet imagined. These Sloan could not resist, and she pulled one carefully from the tangle--white, with a pink-tinged heart. Sticking it haphazardly in her hair, she reached for another. And as the stem snapped on the blossom, she felt someone come up behind her.

A slender young man stood there, looking shadowed somehow even though the sun was full on him. He stared at her wide-eyed, apparently as startled by her as she was to find him. Dressed in black and brown, he seemed almost out of place in the lush garden; the dull colors of his clothing and his ice-grey eyes made him appear a personification of winter.

And what am I? Autumn? Sloan thought irreverently, smiling at him. He did not return her smile, but she knew somehow that he was glad to see her. "Hi," she said. "Where'd you come from?"

He tilted his head a fraction, an indecipherable expression passing over his face. "I'm not sure," he said quietly. "But I know who you are."

"Yeah?" Sloan glanced down at the rose she held--this one a velvety dark crimson--and held it out to him. It seemed the thing to do, somehow. "Then who am I?"

He took the rose and lifted it to his face to catch a whiff of its scent. "A friend," he said simply.

For an instant the image of him crystallized in her mind, and she laid it away in her deepest memories, to take out in some chilly future hour. There would be such, she realized. He stood easily, one lean hand clasping the rose with careful delicacy, and the angle of his head and the line of his body were grace incarnate. In that moment she saw that his eyes were not the ice they appeared; rather, they had the faintest hint of blue in them, like the hot edge of a gas flame. Then his lips lifted in a slight, bemused smile, and he reached out to tuck the crimson rose next to the white one in her hair.

She shivered as his fingers brushed her temple. "What are we doing here?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Finding each other, I think," he said finally. He dropped his hand rather awkwardly, as though he didn't know quite what to do with it, and on impulse she took it in hers, fingers sliding between his to clasp firmly. She was rewarded with a sudden, brilliant smile, one that made her grin back.

"Well, we have," Sloan said. "Now what?"

His face grew sober again. "What's my name?" he asked.

Sloan was taken aback. "You mean you don't know?" she questioned, then remembered that she had not known her own until she had seen her face.

He shook his head. "I can't...I don't..."

"Huh." Sloan's eyes narrowed in thought. "Well, let's go back to the fountain, then. That's where--"

She broke off at his frown. "No, Sloan," he said quietly. "You have to give me my name."

Sloan blinked, confused. "You know mine, but you don't know yours?"

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and his free hand traced the line of her cheekbone, the curve of her lips. His eyes never left hers. "You have to give it to me."

I don't understand this, Sloan thought, half mesmerized by his touch. And then, without knowing how, she did.

"Tom," she said softly. "Your name is Tom."

His eyes closed in relief, then opened again, and she felt herself drawn toward him by the strength of his gaze, by the gentle warmth of his hand.

And then the light dimmed.

* * * * *

Their heads snapped up as the sun vanished behind a cloud that came from nowhere. Tom tensed, noting the sudden appearance of a looming, unnatural thunderstorm overhead. A chilly wind snaked through the garden, tossing a few leaves into the air, stripping petals from the more delicate flowers. It was, he knew, a precursor to much more violent weather.

His grip tightened on Sloan's hand. "We have to get out of here," he told her, raising his voice to be heard over the rushing air.

Sloan's hair whipped around her face and she raised a hand to pull it out of her eyes. "What's the fastest way out?"

Tom thought a moment, then pointed down a path that paralleled the orchard. "That way." He refused to speculate how he had this knowledge; time for that later, when Sloan was safe. They hurried down the grassy lane, bowing their heads a little against the wind. Tom could smell moisture in the air--and, more alarmingly, lightning. The garden was dangerous; they needed to be under the shelter of the forest.

The sky grew darker as the clouds spread. The skirling wind pushed at them one moment and tugged the next, alternately helping and hindering their speed. Tom moved as quickly as he thought Sloan could, wanting to go faster. Something cold had invaded the garden, and it was moving toward them.

They found the source of the chill sooner than he had anticipated, or it found them. The orchard path led them through gaps in a couple of hedges, emptying out on a broad avenue that went straight to a silver gate, twice their height and thick with curlicues. It was open. Already rain was spitting through the air, stinging as it struck their skin. They hurried over the dampening grass, half-running; Tom could see the thick trees outside the gate, just beyond a swath of lawn. But they were yet a few yards short when someone stepped from the shadow of the hedge, barring their way.

Tom halted. He knew this man.

The figure folded his arms, supremely casual, knowing his power over them--they could not move beyond him. And Tom knew that the swelling storm overhead was the white-haired man's doing, too--that he meant to destroy not only them but the garden as well.

"I thought you'd never get here," Lewis said mockingly. He smiled, gesturing at Sloan. "Did you really think I'd let you get away with this, Tom?"

Tom's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, merely stepping in front of Sloan to bar Lewis' way to her. He heard her swallow hard, felt her fingers tighten on his before she let him go. He stood still, silently defiant.

Lewis raised one hand.

* * * * *

To Sloan's eyes, the man between them and the gate seemed made of ice. His hair was snowy, his eyes were glacier-hard, and the cruel smile on his face made her blood run cold. When Tom moved to protect her, she let him, rather than argue; the man frightened her badly, and Tom was far stronger and faster than she. She scarcely paused to puzzle over how she knew so much about someone she'd only just met. But as their adversary moved, she saw that his attention was reserved for Tom. She was only a handle, a gap in Tom's armor. It was Tom who was in danger.

Even as she realized this, the man's hand moved sharply. Sloan opened her mouth, but no sound came out; her throat seemed paralyzed, as in a nightmare. Light flashed, and a blast of intense cold hit her. She sucked in a startled breath and blinked furiously, trying to clear the dazzle.

Tom still stood motionless before her. But now he glistened, coated in a thin, shiny glaze of ice. Sloan stared in horror. Tom's eyes were open but blank beneath the gleaming shell, and when she snatched at his hand her fingers slid right off his stiff sleeve. She tried again, gripping harder, but instead of melting, the ice seemed to suck the warmth from her skin, leaving it aching with cold.

She whirled to face their adversary. "What have you done to him?" she shouted, suddenly furious, and still so frightened.

Lewis laughed, and she shuddered. "He's mine again," the man said. "I never let anything go." The gate swung shut behind him, shutting with a clang that made her jump.

"The ice will melt," Lewis continued, "eventually. I suggest you leave before then. He won't be very pleased to see you."

Sloan's stomach turned queasy at his expression. Lewis turned and walked easily away down the avenue, the way they'd come. Sloan wondered why he didn't finish her, and as though he heard her thought, he turned. "You can hide if you want," he said, almost carelessly. "It won't make any difference." Then he went on, vanishing between the hedges.

Sloan shuddered again, then glanced overhead. The storm was still moving, but it almost seemed as if the clouds were waiting. She hugged herself against the wind and studied the frozen man in front of her. All the other problems were secondary to this. She couldn't leave him, and she certainly couldn't carry him.

What was the ice doing to him? She had the sudden, bizarre thought that it was sinking into him, freezing him through and through. Sloan shook the thought off, but it persisted, and she tried to ignore it. If only I had some way to build a fire! That might do the trick. But the rain that even now was soaking through her clothes would not allow her to start one by friction, and she had no other way. And not too much time, she realized, looking up again. It was growing darker yet, as though the sun was beginning to set behind the roiling clouds.

She tried scraping at the ice on Tom's arm, warming his hand between her palms, even thumping her fist on his chest to see if the thin glaze would crack. But nothing seemed to affect it; he did not even rock a little in his stance. Sloan frowned, frustrated and angry and scared. I have to get him out of there!

She ran her hands through her dripping hair. Hey. The rain should either be melting the ice on Tom or freezing to it; yet it did neither, simply running down and dripping off as though the slick surface had nothing to do with water. Sloan began shivering in earnest. It's not natural. How did Lewis do that, anyway? It's almost like he...

Sloan's thought trailed off at the idea; then she shrugged. "Well, it's traditional, anyway," she said softly, and stepped forward until she was face-to-face with Tom. Taking his head in her hands and wincing at the numbing cold, she pressed her lips against the shiny hardness of his mouth.

For a long moment nothing happened, and despair welled up as the cold rushed up along her skin. Then heat exploded inside her, expanding to meet the cold, and the chill vanished. The ice beneath her lips disappeared; she could feel cool skin emerge against her fingertips; and in the space of a breath, the imprisoning shell was gone. Tom's arms came stiffly up to encircle her and he returned her kiss for a sweet instant; then he lifted his head, eyes wide with surprise, and began shivering almost too hard to stand.

Sloan half-laughed, trying to ignore the sudden tears in her eyes, and slid an arm around him as he staggered. "C'mon," she said breathlessly. "We have to get out of here."

Tom nodded, but pulled the other way when she started toward the gate. "Not that way," he said, shaking with cold. "It'll be locked."

Sloan hesitated a moment, then helped him back the way they had come, keeping a wary eye out for Lewis. "Is there another gate?" she asked, blinking away tears and rain.

"Probably," Tom answered, looking around at the sprawl of hedges and flowerbeds.

Sloan shook her head. "We don't have time to look. I have an idea."

They made their way to the tall green wall of vegetation that delineated one edge of the garden. Peering to her left, Sloan could just make out the dull gleam of the gate further on, but then she turned her attention to the leaves in front of her. Tom straightened away from her, still shivering but not as badly, and Sloan thrust her arms into the branches and pried them apart.

It took several attempts, but she managed to find a place where the hedge was not as dense. Tom pulled her out of the way then, and began tearing out the branches with methodical precision and astounding strength. Before too long he had cleared a narrow passageway of sorts, and they pushed and squirmed and struggled through, emerging scratched and breathless--but free.

Sloan had to laugh at the twigs and scraps decorating Tom's sweater, and he gave her a small smile and brushed leaves from her hair. "You still have the roses," he told her softly. "Let's go."

"What about..." Sloan gestured at the storm overhead, meaning Lewis as well.

Tom shook his head. "We'll worry about that later," he said, and took her hand. "Come on."

They ran for the shelter of the forest.