CHAPTER 1

          The soft, gentle peal of musical notes was the only sound in the otherwise silent house. It carried through the building with enchanting grace, captivating the only listener other than the player. He sat in a chair in the living room, reading the paper, but the sheets folded as he craned his neck to listen, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. He chuckled lightly, always happy and proud to hear that sound he knew so well.

          "Lizzy," he whispered, and sighed, before folding the paper in his lap. He cast it aside, and looked at it, deciding to tidy it before his wife got home from the walk with his toddler son. She could be a bit dangerous when it came to his mess. So he picked up the paper, made sure it was all together, and then laid it carefully on the small table beside his chair.

          He started climbing the stairs, years of needing stealth having taught him the very essence of silence. He moved unheard. He caught sight of his face in a mirror at the top of the stairs and paused, the delicate ringing of the music louder now, pleasant to his ears. He studied his face in the reflection… his face. There had been a time when he had almost forgotten its particulars.

          Purple and green eyes stared back from an ever-youthful visage, a mop of fiery-red hair atop his head, a bright beacon of his approach to people who noticed him, when he wanted to be seen, that is. There were a few lines on his face, not from the rigours of years long past, but from experience. He had achieved many a splendid thing in his time, both illegal and heroic.

          Rodney Skinner, husband and father, chuckled at his face, and carried on his small journey until he came to the slightly ajar door to the origin of the music. Inside, the music stopped, and the scribbling of a pencil could be heard. Then a few more keys sounded softly, until a clang erupted.

          At that moment he pushed open the door and announced his presence with a humoured, "It's not going to work if you beat it."

          Elizabeth Skinner – Lizzy to all who knew her – glanced up from the sheets of manuscript, and stared at her father incredulously. Her inherited green eyes glared at him from that beautiful young feminine face. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail to keep it from her practise. "And your interruptions aren't helping," she said to him with a certain hint of – as with the eyes perhaps – inherited humour to her tone, "father," she added with a sly smile.

          He leaned on the doorframe, hands in his pockets casually, and spoke to her with a casual lilt to his voice, "Well, love, it sounded wonderful. What's got you in such a huff?"

          Lizzy shrugged her lean shoulders lazily. "Don't spare my feelings," she smiled, "it sounds like a carriage running over a stray cat."

          He couldn't help but laugh at that, even as he heard the door open and subsequently close. There was a vague shout from his wife, and his innards warmed pleasantly at knowing she was home and safe. "I'm not sparing your feelings, Lizzy." He walked over to her. "When have you ever known me to be subtle?"

          Lizzy smiled, though she tried to hide it. She shook her head, and her pinned hair swayed with the movement. She sighed loudly. She threw him a tedious look, laughter in her eyes.

          He knew the look well, nodded once, and then ducked out of the door. "No more bashing the piano."

          He heard her groan of assent as he descended the stairs into the failing light of dusk as it approached, filtering through the windows at the front and rear of the house. The sun was setting, but it was going to be a clear night in London.

          Rodney Skinner crossed around into the living room, only to bump into Vicky Attenbrough-Skinner. He grinned widely, and took her in his arms. "And how was your walk today?" She was dressed in a very attractive dress, very proper for a lady of the time. Of course, she despised it, and would change into something much more akin to his own attire the first opportunity she got.

          There was the pleasing sound of childish laughter, and a clatter on the floor. Skinner peered round Vicky's head, and smiled down at James, his young son, who was playing with some flowers he must have picked from somewhere along their walk.

          "It was… the same as it always is," Vicky replied, drawing his attention back to her. "I only just managed to avoid death-by-nagging though, if you know what I mean." She kissed him lightly, and pulled away, going to tend to the mess her son was about to crush into the floor. She scooped him into her arms, and laughed with him, the young child's happiness infectious as ever.

          "Ah," Skinner mumbled. He knew very well what she meant. His unusual behaviour had gained him quite a few odd looks and comments about the streets. Many 'respectable' individuals did not approve of his marriage to a seemingly lovely young lady. "This trying to live a normal life is still quite a job for me, Vicky. You know that."

          "Oh, I don't blame you," Vicky chided affectionately, and the next thing he knew, he had a bouncing, yammering three-year-old in his arms, with a flower almost up his nose.

          "No, James… don't do th-" Skinner sneezed, an abrupt jolt that almost made him drop the rather weighty but lean toddler, who simply broke into fits of giggles when his father vanished. "You see what you did, Jim?" He sighed, and set the child down on his feet.

          James Skinner immediately rocketed off to find something more interesting to do. His father's 'condition' had never fazed him, and Skinner watched the retreat with a concealed grin.

          Vicky just rolled her eyes, and picked up the broken petals from the floor.