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more for you sweet people.
Lord Roxton stood in the doorway of Summerlee's old room, where Malone had laid the girl he'd found outside the tree house. She was a pretty little thing, but in bad shape, with bruises and dried blood all over. Something about the serene innocence of her face reminded him of something he had seen before. He just didn't know where.
"Do you know her?" Malone asked, coming up beside him.
"No," Roxton shook his head. "What is her name?"
"Isabella," Malone sighed.
"She looks so familiar," Roxton said, half to himself.
Malone nodded. "She claims to be your daughter. And I found this in her bag."
He handed Roxton a faded black and white picture, showing a little girl, a little boy, and what seemed to be a mother and father. As his eyes focused on the mother and father he nearly dropped the picture.
"I think she looks like her mother, don't you?" Malone asked in a quiet tone.
Roxton blinked. The father was.him! Beyond doubt it was him. But what surprised him the most was the mother was none other than their own Marguerite. The girl looked very much like a younger version of the girl sprawled on the bed, and the boy was a miniature copy of John Roxton himself. He chuckled lightly. "I do believe so."
"Where do you think she came from?" Malone asked.
"Perhaps one of Challenger's shifting planes of reality," Roxton shrugged.
Malone opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment, Isabella stirred. Her gray eyes blinked open, verifying her maternal lineage, and she yawned. She was surprised to see her father, but not afraid. Isabella knew her father loved her, and would never harm a hair on her head. He didn't even get angry with her very often, just sad. Sad when she ran off. Sad when she cried herself to sleep at night. She knew he knew.
"Hello, Father," she managed, trying to sit up.
"Isabella, he's not your father," Ned tried to tell her.
"Not yet, anyway," Roxton added softly, looking at the picture again. "Isabella, do you know what year it is?"
Fighting off a wave of confusion and dizziness, she answered, "1939."
"Whoa. What year were you born?" Roxton asked.
"Father, now that is just silly. 1925, of course. How can you forget that?!" she let herself fall back again, thoroughly confused. She murmured a few choice words about aging fathers and closed her eyes against a headache. Roxton laughed lightly.
"I don't know how, and I don't know why, but it is 1924," he said gently.
"What?!" Isabella cried, snapping her eyes open and staring in his direction. "Please tell me this is a bad joke to repay me for running away from your wedding."
"My wedding?" Roxton questioned.
"Oh shit," she mumbled under her breath. "Shit, shit, shit!"
Roxton raised an eyebrow at the girl's sailor's mouth.
"Are you trying to tell me I've gone back in time? I haven't been born yet? You've never seen me before in your life?"
Both men shook their heads and she sighed. Then she thought for a moment and a smile broke out on her face. "Does that mean my mother is here?"
"Marguerite?" Malone asked.
Isabella nodded her head furiously, despite the pain. "Is she?"
"Well, yes. Right in the other room. Would you like to." But she was already out of the bed and bolting out the door. She came to a skidding halt in the living room area, staring at her mother, or the woman who would become her mother.
"Well, well. Looks like our little visitor is up," the familiar voice cooed and Isabella felt tears coming to her eyes. Gods, she'd missed that voice.
"Marguerite, this is Isabella," Roxton said gently.
The raven-haired beauty nodded slightly in Isabella's direction. "Nice to meet you. Where have you wandered from?"
"Actually, Isabella is from the future. Fifteen years in the future," Malone responded easily. "She will really be born next year."
The heiress turned and stared at Malone like he was a raving lunatic. "You have got to be kidding? One of Challenger's shifting planes of reality?"
"Basically," Roxton answered, coming behind the barely held together Isabella and lying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Isabella swiped at the tears forming in her eyes.
"Does she speak?" Marguerite asked, returning to her tea as she sat at the kitchen table.
"Quite a lot, at least a few minutes ago," Malone put in.
"So, are you saying she's scared of me?" the woman asked.
"Actually, Marguerite." Roxton started.
"Marguerite Krux," Malone cut him off, "I would like to introduce Isabella Roxton, your daughter."
Isabella whimpered slightly, the tears falling down her face. A tea cup hit the floor of the tree house and shattered.
Lord Roxton stood in the doorway of Summerlee's old room, where Malone had laid the girl he'd found outside the tree house. She was a pretty little thing, but in bad shape, with bruises and dried blood all over. Something about the serene innocence of her face reminded him of something he had seen before. He just didn't know where.
"Do you know her?" Malone asked, coming up beside him.
"No," Roxton shook his head. "What is her name?"
"Isabella," Malone sighed.
"She looks so familiar," Roxton said, half to himself.
Malone nodded. "She claims to be your daughter. And I found this in her bag."
He handed Roxton a faded black and white picture, showing a little girl, a little boy, and what seemed to be a mother and father. As his eyes focused on the mother and father he nearly dropped the picture.
"I think she looks like her mother, don't you?" Malone asked in a quiet tone.
Roxton blinked. The father was.him! Beyond doubt it was him. But what surprised him the most was the mother was none other than their own Marguerite. The girl looked very much like a younger version of the girl sprawled on the bed, and the boy was a miniature copy of John Roxton himself. He chuckled lightly. "I do believe so."
"Where do you think she came from?" Malone asked.
"Perhaps one of Challenger's shifting planes of reality," Roxton shrugged.
Malone opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment, Isabella stirred. Her gray eyes blinked open, verifying her maternal lineage, and she yawned. She was surprised to see her father, but not afraid. Isabella knew her father loved her, and would never harm a hair on her head. He didn't even get angry with her very often, just sad. Sad when she ran off. Sad when she cried herself to sleep at night. She knew he knew.
"Hello, Father," she managed, trying to sit up.
"Isabella, he's not your father," Ned tried to tell her.
"Not yet, anyway," Roxton added softly, looking at the picture again. "Isabella, do you know what year it is?"
Fighting off a wave of confusion and dizziness, she answered, "1939."
"Whoa. What year were you born?" Roxton asked.
"Father, now that is just silly. 1925, of course. How can you forget that?!" she let herself fall back again, thoroughly confused. She murmured a few choice words about aging fathers and closed her eyes against a headache. Roxton laughed lightly.
"I don't know how, and I don't know why, but it is 1924," he said gently.
"What?!" Isabella cried, snapping her eyes open and staring in his direction. "Please tell me this is a bad joke to repay me for running away from your wedding."
"My wedding?" Roxton questioned.
"Oh shit," she mumbled under her breath. "Shit, shit, shit!"
Roxton raised an eyebrow at the girl's sailor's mouth.
"Are you trying to tell me I've gone back in time? I haven't been born yet? You've never seen me before in your life?"
Both men shook their heads and she sighed. Then she thought for a moment and a smile broke out on her face. "Does that mean my mother is here?"
"Marguerite?" Malone asked.
Isabella nodded her head furiously, despite the pain. "Is she?"
"Well, yes. Right in the other room. Would you like to." But she was already out of the bed and bolting out the door. She came to a skidding halt in the living room area, staring at her mother, or the woman who would become her mother.
"Well, well. Looks like our little visitor is up," the familiar voice cooed and Isabella felt tears coming to her eyes. Gods, she'd missed that voice.
"Marguerite, this is Isabella," Roxton said gently.
The raven-haired beauty nodded slightly in Isabella's direction. "Nice to meet you. Where have you wandered from?"
"Actually, Isabella is from the future. Fifteen years in the future," Malone responded easily. "She will really be born next year."
The heiress turned and stared at Malone like he was a raving lunatic. "You have got to be kidding? One of Challenger's shifting planes of reality?"
"Basically," Roxton answered, coming behind the barely held together Isabella and lying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Isabella swiped at the tears forming in her eyes.
"Does she speak?" Marguerite asked, returning to her tea as she sat at the kitchen table.
"Quite a lot, at least a few minutes ago," Malone put in.
"So, are you saying she's scared of me?" the woman asked.
"Actually, Marguerite." Roxton started.
"Marguerite Krux," Malone cut him off, "I would like to introduce Isabella Roxton, your daughter."
Isabella whimpered slightly, the tears falling down her face. A tea cup hit the floor of the tree house and shattered.