Voices. Hushed at first then growing louder, echoing. Then, a woman's cackle-like laughter and a slamming door. The enveloping darkness, growing even more dark by the moment.

Walking down a long, deserted hallway. Cold wind gusts, coming from nowhere. Chilling and freezing shiver. Walking further, a small voice comes from behind. "Help me," it cries. Help who? Who's voice is calling? Who needs to be helped? "Help me," it calls out again. Who are you? Where are you? "Josephine," the voice says softly. "Josephine." No, you can't be. You can't be. I'm Josephine, I'm-

The wind blows again. Silence. It is even icier. Shivering. Can't stop shivering. Suddenly a cold hand reaches out. It grabs. It is a man, his face in shadows. He is big and strong. He pulls. On the ground. Struggling to get away. Can't get away from his grasp, can't pull away. He is laughing. Laughing and humming. That song. That familiar song. He is overpowering. Can't get away. Crying. Crying. Shrieking in terror but nothing is coming out. Nothing. Struggling, can't wrench free from his hands. His huge, icy hands. He comes nearer. His laughing, his humming. The shadows fall from his face. His eyes. Those eyes! Eyes filled with the look of smug content and insanity…piercing…Panic. Filled with panic! Can't break free…can't get free


Lily awoke suddenly and violently. Her entire body was trembling and utterly drenched in a cold sweat. She was breathing hard, nearly panting. Her eyes searched the room, for a sign of her attacker. The same icy wind blew through her room and she pulled the blanket on her bed around her, clinging to it, her arms wrapped around her body.

It had all been a dream. It had been a horrible, freakishly real nightmare. She felt the aching, hollow pain return and fill her chest. It was the same pain that she had felt nearly three years ago. The cold wind sliced through her thin, damp bedclothes to her skin. Lily shivered violently and wrapped her arms around her body once more in an attempt to retain some warmth. She cursed New York and its inconsistent weather patterns and shot angry looks toward her window. She had left it open and the night was continually blowing unwelcome chills into her room. Gathering the blanket around her and clinching it closed with her left hand, she reluctantly rose from her bed and walked toward the window to shut it.

As her right hand reached up to close the window, she looked out once again at the moonlit city and thought again of the boy that had visited her a few hours earlier. She grimaced as she thought of his unabashed cockiness and the way she had let him into her private life by practically spilling out her life story to him, even telling him her real name. Those were intimate things she said to him, thoughts that she had but told no one. Why did she suddenly decide that it would be fine to tell this conceited, know-nothing street urchin the inner-workings of her mind? Why?

"When are you going to learn, Josephine?" she asked herself in a whisper. That had settled it. She had made up her mind that she was not letting this kid into her world. She had her life and she had her plans. She wasn't going to let anyone interfere again. Things were going to be different this time. So, Mr. Spot Conlon could do what he would, but she wasn't going to care either way. She shut the window and pulled the curtains closed. Gathering up her blanket around her once more, she trod over to her bed and lied down. She closed her eyes, tried to force all thoughts from her mind, and like so many other nights, told herself to sleep.

Two hours, forty-seven minutes, and twenty-nine seconds later, her body finally obeyed.

Crash!

Spot looked up, startled after hearing a loud cling and clatter coming from the next room over. The bunk room. "What the?" he mumbled as he abandoned the task of tying his shoelace and strode across the hall to investigate the noise with one shoe on and the other clad only in a sock. Bursting through the door with an irritated look on his face, "What the hell is going on in here?!?" he yelled.

Two young boys in entangled in each other's limbs looked up at him with wide eyes. "He started it," the one on the left said, pointing at the other.

"Nuh –unh," the second one replied.

Spot sighed and rolled his eyes. "Not again," he thought, "that's the third time this week…." The former opened his mouth to protest against the accusations of his opponent, but was promptly interrupted. "Shuddap!" Spot said, yelling once more. "I don't care who started it, you liddle ones shouldn't be fightin' anyway. I'm tired of all this. This is the third time this week that I had to tell ya two to stop fightin'! Ain't you learned yet? Now get up off the floor!" he ordered, his tone implying that they should heed and not question his authority.

The boys sprang to their feet and dusted themselves off. Spot glanced at them, and then took a long look at the mess around the room. "And clean this up right now," he added.

"But Spot," the smallest one protested, "We didn't do all this…we only knocked that tin can down on that table over there."

"I don't care," Spot retorted. "Clean all of it up, whether you did it or not. Every last inch, and I mean it! That's what you two get for fightin'." Annoyed, Spot shook his head and stormed out of the room. He had not been gone three seconds, when he heard the distinct murmur of yet another fight breaking out between the two. He whirled his head around to see them staring at each other. "Hey!" he bellowed, startling the both of them so that they jumped to attention at the sound of his voice.

"Spot, he pushed me-"

"Didn't ya listen the first time, J.P.? I said I don't care. Just clean up, and clean up now if you know what's good for ya!" This time, Spot's threat was taken seriously, for as their leader walked out of the room again, he heard nothing but silence. Spot imagined that they were too scared to speak for fear that they might upset him again. He shrugged. But who cared if he'd scared them into silence. It was all the better that he had. "They never let a guy get a moment's peace," he muttered as he returned to his own private room to finish putting on his shoes.

Though he grumbled when he had to do menial tasks such as repeatedly breaking up fights, Spot was deeply devoted to his position as the leader of the Brooklyn newsies. He loved the power it gave him, and the sense of accomplishment he felt whenever he helped his boys out of a jam, broke up a fight, negotiated a deal, or defended one of his own. His authority made him feel necessary to the life of his boys, and respected by them because of it. Spot needed to feel needed. He needed to feel respected. In fact, he probably thrived on them more than anything else in creation.

Lily stood at her window, holding back the curtain and looking out on the rain falling onto the streets below. The pavement had become like liquid and shimmered anew with silver light. She wondered just how often she had stood in that same spot in front of the open window, peering out onto New York. "The number's probably at least six figures by now," she mused to herself. The day had not been a pleasant one, and she had found herself utterly tired of it by mid afternoon. Rain always seemed to make her quiet and pensive – peevish due to the want of everything she could not have. The falling water droplets did not signify renewal to her like it did to some. No. Instead, she thought of the sky of as her mind, full of water as her head was pregnant with wants and dreams. The seeping out of the rain was like the cloud's signal of resignation. As the droplets fell and became lost to the it, so did she seem to let go of her dreams. Each drop was one more hope lost, one more thing she knew she'd never have. So, she just released them one by one, and let them form dreary puddles on the ground.

Lily felt as though everything was slipping from her. At only twenty-one, she would have liked to think that she had her entire life ahead of her. An entire life to fill with achievements and accomplishments. Some days she actually believed it. But on days when the sky poured forth tears, she could not help but do the same. She would soon grow beyond ideal marrying age. Then she would become comfortable with the life of a vaudeville entertainer. Her performers would become friends she did not wish to leave behind, and the wages would be too good to give up. So, she'd lose her youth and young determination, and settle for a comfortable life with the familiar. And there she would remain – a vaudeville entertainer in a B-rated theatre her entire life.

These thoughts Lily kept to herself. Her only friends belonged to the theatre and led the life she had resolved to move past. She could not tell them that she thought their profession a lackluster one. She did not want to hurt anyone. The people that she lived and worked with day in and day out were her only friends…her only family. She could not bring herself to consciously do them harm. There was also the matter of her pride. Though Lily did not think herself haughty, she was well aware that, at times, she had more pride than was good for her. And that pride would not let her admit failure. It would not allow her to divulge that there was anything lacking.

Lily found it strange that the life she once thought so glamorous now held so little meaning to her. She laughed to herself as she thought about what a child she had been – what a child she still was. What she wanted more than anything, wanted so badly that she could taste it, was to become a real actress in a real production. She wanted to do something that would fulfill a purpose, not merely provide entertainment to men with lustful eyes. But on days such as that one, she wanted more than to just give up on everything. "On days like these," she thought, "my strength walks out and leaves me. And today, I've got a good mind to throw it all away. Simply throw it all away and never look back."

She sighed once more as she watched a rain-drenched man scurry through the streets with only a newspaper over his head as covering. Even from four stories high, she could tell that he was poor from his ragged clothing and his lack of shoes. She sighed and closed her eyes. But what would her giving up solve? "Nothing," she said out loud, "It would solve nothing. I'd just be out on the streets like that poor soul down there."

A quick glance at the clock over her shoulder told her that there were only mere moments before she needed to report to the dressing rooms to prepare for the next show. A little voice inside her head told her no. It told her not to go down there, but instead to climb out of her window and to literally just escape all that was troubling her. Start walking and never look back.

Lily heard a knock on her door, but she did not need to answer it to know who it was or what they wanted. Her moments had passed, and now her time belonged to Mantovanni. She stole one more longing glance out of the window, and entertained the thought of leaving once more. "It's a nice thought," she whispered to herself, "but completely irrational." With that, she closed the window, and began to make her way downstairs.

"Faye, did you fix the lace on the sleeve of my dress?" Lily called out over the undercurrent of voices that created a quiet roar in the dressing room shortly before curtain time for the evening performance. She was dressed in only her undergarments as she sat at her dressing table, lightly dabbing powder on her forehead and smoothing back stray hairs in the process.

"Which one?" Faye called out in response from across the room. She was bent over a chair, fastening the shiny buckles of her smart black leather shoes.

"Oh, Faye, you know," Lily said in a semi-exasperated tone, suddenly angry at a lock of hair that insisted on refusing to be kept back, "The green one…with the lace on the sleeve that was torn – you know, don't you?"

"Don't you get huffy with me, missy," Faye replied, coming to stand behind Lily's chair. "I am your friend, not your personal seamstress, and I, too, have a performance to get ready for."

Lily sighed as she recognized how demanding she must have seemed. Faye had been her dearest friend for the duration of her tenure at the Mantovanni. A brilliant seamstress, she had nimble fingers that could produce and mend the most complicated lacework. Lily was only accustomed to sewing on buttons or mending ripped seams, so Faye volunteered to help with any mending or embellishment Lily might have need for. There was only one consideration: Lily must make an attempt to learn how to do them for herself. "I can't follow you around forever, you know," Faye was constantly telling her, "You are simply going to have to learn to do this yourself. Now try again."

"Oh, Faye, I'm sorry," Lily apologized, "I didn't mean for it to come out sounding that way. What I meant was that I'd like to wear it tonight if you have finished it out of the kindness of your heart. But if you haven't, that's perfectly fine. You should do it at your own convenience, and I will simply find something else to wear."

"Yes, well," Faye's voice trailed off as she tried to enforce a tone of nonchalance, but the smile in her green eyes gave her away. "You mean this dress?" she asked coyly, taking the very green dress Lily had requested out from behind her back.

"Ah, yes, that's grand," Lily said, relieved that Faye had, in fact, repaired it, "You know I love you, don't you?"

"I know."

After Lily had slipped into the rich green velvet dress, she stood at her dressing table to put the finishing touches on her face. Leaning over it to take a closer look in the mirror, she added a few touches of rouge to her cheeks, and then stepped back to examine her work. "Damn freckle," she said out loud, rubbing at a freckle at the end of her nose with her pinky.

"Hey, dontcha be damnin' that one freckle," spoke the girl standing beside her. Maggie, short for Margaret, was a native Brooklynite and full-blooded Irish redhead, who had been busy damning her own freckles under her breath while trying to drown them in powder. "Least you ain't got a who face full o'em." Maggie O'Malley was tall and brazen, with flaming red hair and a loud mouth that matched her hair and spoke the slang of New York perfectly.

Lily laughed. "Maggie, you've lived in Brooklyn your entire life," she said, "did you ever hear of a kid named Spot Conlon?" Damn. She couldn't believe she had actually allowed the thought of him to appear in her mind, much less let it slip out of her mouth. She hated that she was thinking about him. She hated even more that someone else knew that she was thinking about him. She started to work on applying her lipstick so that maybe no one would notice the look of self-hatred on her face and begin asking questions.

"Yeah," Maggie replied, "sure I've heard o'him. You live here for twenty one years and o'course ya hear of him. He's some kid whose some big shot wit the Brooklyn newsies up in the north. He's like some king to 'em or something,' and all the rest of 'em are like his little followers. He's some real big shot. Crazy, too, I hear. Everybody's afraid o'him. He beats poor suckers to within one inch o'their life if they get on his bad side. E's got a real love affair with the bottle, too, if ya know what I mean. Why do ya ask?"

Lily realized that she had revealed herself and must now save herself from any further embarrassment. "Well, you know, yesterday," she quickly and nonchalantly as possible said, "he sent some of his 'subjects' in here to say that he wanted to see me. And I'd never heard of him before then, so I didn't go. So, um, you know, I was just wondering what kind of arrogant little thing he was."

"Yeah, that sure sounds like Spot to me," Maggie answered. "Always getting other people to do his biddin' while he just sits on his little throne an' waits." She paused to hold a hairpin in her mouth while her fingers twisted a curl. She took the pin from her mouth, pinned the curl and then said, "But ya should feel special. It ain't everyday that Spot comes a'visitin. And it ain't just anyone that he visits when he does. He's quite a charmer I hear. A real ladies man, if ya use the term 'man' loosely," Maggie giggled at her own comment, "Every girl in the the whole city is either in love wit 'em or scared of 'em. He gots himself a new girl every week. Hey, Lil, maybe your the pick o'the week."

There was a knock at the door and both girls looked toward it. A voice boomed out, "Two minutes, girls!"

Maggie looked at Lily and said in a hushed, dramatic voice, "Showtime!" She then pinned her last curl in place, while Lily put her foot up on the chair to fasten the buckle on her right shoe. Both grabbed their feathers and hurried out of the door.

Hours passed. They transformed into days, which soon turned into weeks. A week after her encounter with the unwelcome and uninvited Spot Conlon, Lily sat at her desk, reviewing the day's earnings and penning them into her journal with a quick hand. Her foot tapped on the floor to the rhythm of a song that had worked its way into her head as she wrote. Lily was not entirely sure where she had picked up the tune, but she found herself singing the catchy lines repeatedly. "My lovey dovey baby," she sang softly to herself, "I boo-hoo-hoo for you." She hummed the rest as her pen continued to scratch across the page. Stopping to analyze her work, she quickly re-added the figures in her head and was pleased it the amount matched her original sum.

Calling the first task finished, she flipped to the back section of her book, and began to make a new entry. It was a list of things she needed to accomplish that week. Lily lightly bit her the back of her quill as she considered the priority of items for her list. Finally, putting the pen nib to paper, she wrote, "Fitting for new dress." As soon as she had one thing down, others began to flow from her hand: Mail letter to Mabel. Pick up ivory shoes from cobbler. Sew button on glove. Dinner at the Halstons' on Friday. (Ask Faye if she'll come.) Look over music for Malcolm's latest composition. Lily had become so absorbed in writing that she almost did not hear the soft patter of feet on the fire escape outside of her window. Almost.

As she heard the soft clatter of boots on metal, she stopped writing and put down her pen to listen more carefully. She slowly grabbed for the knife that she had currently been stowing in her desk drawer. Resting it on her lap for safety, she heard her window being raised higher. Immediately, she knew who was climbing through it without having to look. She laughed softly at both her ability to recognize the intruder by his entrance, and the method of entry he had obviously favoured using. Pretending to still be concentrating on the paper before her, and without turning, she said, "Hello Spot Conlon."

"Hey, how'd ya know it was me? How'd ya know it ain't somebody else?" he asked.

She twisted around in her chair to face him. Her answer was a simple shrug. "You came in through the window," she reasoned, "Therefore, it was only logical that it would be you. You're the only one that I'm aware of who has an affinity for doing that. Anyone else would have simply used the door."

Spot looked surprised for a moment and then recovered quickly by shrugging his shoulders. "Well, yeah," he said, "I'se gotta make me entrance." He walked over to her bed and flopped down on it, putting his hands behind his head and leaning against the headboard.

"Sit down, why don't you," Lily muttered under her breath and cringed. Even in the moonlight, she could see the street grime that had settled in on his clothing. And now, he had sprawled his dirty, dingy body across her white linen bedspread and cream-coloured afghan. She had to avert her eyes, for she could not watch him defile her bed with his dirt. Unfortunately, as she shifted her focus, her eyes fell to the floor, where she spied tracks of mud on her floor. Footprints of street sludge, a product of the near nonstop rain of the last week. She sighed, trying to keep her temper. Spot had intruded into her life only to literally make a mess of it, it seemed. Lily did not like mess. She thrived in order and tidiness. Planning and preparation. Everything in it's place – that was the way she lived her life. But, obviously from the looks of things, Spot did not adhere to the same standard of living.

"Well now," Spot said, looking around, "This is some nice place you'se got here Lil- I mean-Jo. Real nice. How long ya had it?"

"Um, well," said Lily, stuttering a bit and still marveling at the way he had just barged in and muddied up her room like it was his own, "it hasn't always been this nice. I, mean, I used to share it with another girl. I think I told you that.  Anyway, she was younger than me and a bit of a slob. A real flirt too. You had to walk into the room with your hand over your eyes cause she always had some man in here doing ghastly, ungodly things at any given time."

"So, where's this girl now? Did ya get enough o'her or somethin' and toss 'er and 'er stuff out the window?" Spot asked casually, biting at one of his soiled fingernails.

Lily laughed. "No, I didn't toss anyone out of the window. Mabel left about three months ago. Didn't I tell you about her already?  I could have sworn that I had."

Spot shrugged his shoulders and gave Lily a lopsided grin.  "I dunno. Maybe.  Finish your story."

"Well, She got married, if you can believe that. But I suppose if any man had enough money to trap Mabel, her new husband did. I don't know if she even liked the poor man nearly as much as she liked his pocketbook and his hundred thousand a year."

"So she married this guy she didn't like? Crazy broad."

"Excuse me, Conlon, but it's not like she had many other options," Lily stated, feeling a bit miffed that he took her plight so lightly, "A girl has got to eat. And no matter how hard you try, you can't eat "like." You can't even eat love. In my line of work, a girl's only got three choices: She can marry, marry rich, and get the hell out of here, or she can stay here, live in the theatre and dance her feet off for the rest of her life, or she can starve. When you think about it, there's really only one choice. You can't stay here because one day your good looks and hourglass figure will leave you. Everything will sag and your kicks won't match the height they had in your glory days. So, after a few years you're nothing. And you can't starve out on the street because you'll die. So, it's either marry a man with the right amount of 'pocket change' or get busy dying."

"Hey, that ain't true." Spot had risen from his reclining pose and was sitting erect and on the defense. "You ain't nobody's slave. You can leave, can't ya? Get outta this place, do somethin' else."

"Like what?" Lily countered. Her facial expression challenging his statement with one raised eyebrow. She had often spent long nights awake pondering the same problem. She now dared him to find the answer – to offer her a solution she hadn't yet thought of and then put down as useless.

"Well, like……" Spot searched his mind and the room, hoping the answer to her question would present itself among her shelves of hard-covered books or the dainty bottles on her dressing table, "like….like… well, I dunno, but there's sure somethin out there."

"Well, Spot Conlon," Lily said, rising from her chair and walking across the room to the window, "when you find something, be certain to tell me what it is. God knows I'd like to know." She looked out on the moonlit city again as she had time and time before. It hadn't changed. It was still the same dirty brown hustle-bustle place, trash lining the streets and a desolate soul on every corner. But somehow, the moonlight gave it a new charm, a new glow as the light reflected off of the wet streets and puddles. It cast shadows so that one look beyond the eyesores and somehow made the city seem infinite. It was almost as if it really were place she had dreamed of, the place that made all of one's wildest dreams come true. Maybe it was like Spot said. Maybe there really was something else, maybe the city had more to offer her than she knew about.

"No," she thought, "it's just the magic of the night. It casts its spell on the city and on me. Now I'm standing here dreaming of all that could be with this kid in my room behind me, and I've forgotten about everything else. Hell, when are you going to stop doing this, you silly, stupid girl? When are you going to start using your brain? You can't do things like this anymore."

"No, I can't," she said softly to herself.

"What's that?" asked Spot over her shoulder, "What can't ya do?"

Damn, she had been so lost in her thoughts that she'd nearly forgotten he was still there, sitting on her bed, infiltrating her world and mucking it up with his presence. "Oh, nothing," she said turning around. "So, what is it that you do anyway? I mean, besides becoming a regular in the balcony and climbing through my window every night?"

"Me?" he said, "well, ya know in the mornin' I sell papes, the evenin' edition too. Sit around da docks, keep me boys in line. Take care o'any problems if I need to. Eat. Sleep. Have a little fun every once in a while. Ya know, the usual."

"Ah, must be exciting," Lily mused sarcastically.

"Ah, it's ok. I mean, it ain't as great as ya gig, but I gots a little jingle in me pocket and a shirt on me back" he replied.

"Oh, don't fool yourself. Aside from the room, the attention, and pleasant little gifts from admirers every once in a while, it's rather rotten. I mean, between the tiresome routines we've got to pull off three times a day and at rehearsals and fending off the entire male population of New York that only wants to get under your skirt, it begins to take a toll."

"Hey," Spot said, "anytime you'se got enough, you can leave this place an' I'll teach ya how to be a helluva good newsie. I bet you'd be a natural. You could jus stand there and smile, bat your pretty little eyes and the fellas would come runnin'. You'd be sold out in an hour."

Lily laughed out of the silliness and impossibility of her becoming a newsie. "Oh come on Conlon, I'm not a kid anymore. Hell, I'm twenty one years old, and you're what….well how old are you?"

"Seventeen, but me birthday is in a month," he said.

"Right, you're seventeen. You can still do anything you want. I'm twenty one – that's marrying and settling down to raise a family age. And look at me, I'm not married and I have no family. All I've got is this. My only hope is to keep dancing and hope some nice, rich man notices me and decides I'd make a lovely wife before I get too old and too ugly to continue. So, I'm sorry, but the newsie thing is a trifle bit out of the question."

"Hey, don't you be knockin bein a newsie till ya done tried it," Spot said, with an offended and hurt look on his face.

Lily sighed. She was tired and frustrated with her life and the fact that at that moment, Spot was making her feel more trapped by her profession than she usually did. "Look, I'm sorry, but…."

Spot interrupted her, "And ya ain't ever gonna get ugly. You'se too pretty for that." Lily hadn't noticed before, but he was standing only inches from her face. He picked up a stray lock of her hair that had fallen and brushed it out of her eyes. "And ya know," he continued, "you'se even more pretty when ya's all agitated like dat."

Lily looked up into those blue gray eyes. He was moving closer to her. She knew what he was going to do. Something within her stirred, and her heart pounded within her chest. She could feel her breaths quicken as the excitement mounted. Suddenly, a voice in her head screamed to her, "No! What the hell are you doing? Wait! Stop! Don't!"

"Spot," Lily whispered, her voice panicky, "You're not going to do something stupid like kiss me, are you? I really don't want you to kiss me."

Lily wasn't sure if he hadn't heard her or if it was just a product of his arrogance and strong will (probably the latter, she thought), but either way, he did not take heed. Instead, he cupped her jaw in his left hand and tilted her face up to meet his as he leaned in. Before their lips met, she wrenched her head out of his grasp abruptly but turning it severely toward the left. "Ah, look at the time!" she said, in an overly exaggerated voice. Spot was left frozen in his bent over pose, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"What the hell just happened?" he asked.

"Nothing just happened," was her quick response. After a second thought, she wondered if her tone had maybe been a bit too harsh, so she offered an explanation in a softer voice. "Spot Conlon," she began, "we've met twice. We've talked for maybe an hour total. I do not know you any more than you know me. Such unfamiliarity is hardly grounds for kissing. And I am sorry if my actions or words led you astray. I did not mean to deceive you."

Spot's lip began to curl, and made Lily wonder exactly what kind of reaction her recoiling had produced. She did not have to wonder long before Spot informed her in a not so polite fashion. "Oh, really," he said with a snide tone, "Cause that sure wasn't what I was getting." He shrugged. "It was written all over ya face. You did everything but say you wanted to kiss me…or maybe somethin' more."

Lily stood silently as he mouth dropped open in shock. She found herself embarrassed, angered, and appalled at this crude and foul boy's lack of manners and gentility. Her pride was injured beyond compare, and for this she knew of only one reaction. She raised her hand and promptly slapped him across his left cheek.

Spot recoiled from the sharp sound and the stinging pain he was now feeling. He raised his hand to his injured cheek, cradling it in his palm. "How dare you," Lily spoke, words meant to convey the injustice he had just done to her, "how dare you say such a thing? How dare you do such a thing?!? Don't you know that-"

But Spot did not let her finish. He abruptly pulled her to him, and grazed his lips lightly over her right cheek. Still miffed over his comments and shocked one more at his gall, she pushed him away with all of the force and tenacity that she could muster. "Spot," she said in a firm voice, slightly under a yell, "Go home! Get out of my room and go home! You have outstayed your welcome!" She waved her hand while she spoke for emphasis.

"Alright, alright," Spot responded in an easy, almost joking voice, "I'll go. You don't have to get so mad."

"I am not mad!" was Lily's answer. "You have simply taken liberties with my person that I am unpleased with. And you weren't even welcome in the first place! Get out! Get out, get out, get out!"

"Yeah, like I said, you don't have to get so mad." This time, he did laugh, but began to stride over to the window. "I'm goin', I'm goin'," don't get your panties in a twist," he said. He swung one leg over the sill, then another. And with that, he was gone.

Lily was left staring at the window, still utterly enraged and flustered. But her hand was pressed softly to the spot on her cheek where his lips had touched. And it remained there for quite some time as Lily stared at the window and took in all that had just happened. Who the hell did this urchin think he was? Barging into her life unannounced and unwelcome? Why did he think it was perfectly acceptable for him to do so? And more importantly, why did she suddenly want to welcome him in?

"Bah," she said out loud. "I won't think about this now. I'll think about it tomorrow."