Chapter One
December 3, 1922.
Chicago.

I hear some distant drumbeat
A heartbeat pulsing low
Is it coming from within
A heartbeat I don't know

May the spirit never die
Though a troubled heart feels pain
When the long winter is over
It will blossom once again.

"The world's bleeding white again," Regina thought as she forlornly gazed out of her second story window. One hand held back the rich, velvet drapes as she knelt on the chaise pushed against the wall near the window. She rested her forehead against the cold pane and stared onto the street laden with snow drifts. The coolness of the frosty glass felt good against her aching head. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined herself lying comfortably in bed with a cool compress resting on her forehead. With a ragged sigh, she pulled herself together and dragged her feet to her dressing table. She flopped heavily down upon the upholstered stool and looked at the contents spread before her. Quickly checking her reflection in the mirror, she smoothed over a few loose strands of mahogany hair, damp from being pressed against the condensation on the window.

She then brought a long strand of pearls over her head and adjusted them around her neck. Reaching into her jewelry box, she produced a simple diamond encrusted cross and set about fastening it behind the nape of her neck. Regina felt a hand lightly brush across the top of her shoulders and a deep voice warmly say, "Let me help you with that." Looking into the glass in front of her, she saw a handsome man smiling back at her, suited complete with coat, vest, and tails. His cuff links caught the light and sparkled as he took the two ends of the necklace from her and fastened the clasp behind the dark locks of his wife's hair.

"Thank you, Phillip," said Regina lovingly.

"You look lovely dear," Phillip said with another smile. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. As he did, he brought a hand to the very cheek that he had kissed and held its back to her skin. A small grimace of concern washed the smile from his face. "Actually, now that I take a second glance at you, I'm afraid that you look flushed darling. Are you feeling well?"

"I have a slight headache," Regina answered. "But, I took that powder the doctor prescribed in my tea a half hour ago, so it should go away. I'm fine, really," she reassured him and added a wide smile for further convincing purposes. Philip seemed won by this answer and soon left her alone to continue dressing. She looped one citrine and pearl earring through the hole in her left ear and caught sight of herself in the looking glass. She did look a trifle flushed and her eyes were a bit more sunken in than usual. Reaching for more pressed powder and rouge, Regina attributed her appearance to her headache and the fact that she had not gotten much sleep the night before.

It seemed as though she had waken a hundred times, but she knew it was closer to only four. The dreams had returned once more. They came in multiples, often repeating and each time, she was woken to a full sitting position between them. In them, there were always the same players, always the same setting. She, herself was present, but at a slightly younger age. The other person in the dreams was another girl of an age much like her own. They both wore long skirts and white waistcoats meant more for work than show, and their clothing was smudged. Both she and the other woman were gathered near a meager fire in a run down structure of sorts. In the course of the dream, they conversed, performed normal everyday tasks, and warmed their hands in front of the flame while the room around them consistently crumbled and dismantled itself. As the building collapsed around them, both girls paid it no heed, but only remained in their places and laughed. It was always the same girl and the same setting. During her sleep, as the dream was taking place, the face of her companion was so familiar to her, so comforting. Yet, her features would always melt into an indistinguishable blur upon waking and Regina could hold down no remembrance of her.

Almost every morning after another episode of her reoccurring dream, she performed the same ritual. She would walk into the kitchen in her nightgown and robe, and make a large cup of black coffee. Then she would wander the empty, cold house, blue lit with dawn's breaking light and try to recall or place the nature of her dream. During these moments of quiet introspection, Regina had always felt strange, ephemeral, and unstable. She felt transitory ...as though she were part of two worlds at the same time: a fictional world of altering dreamscapes and portraits of past half drawn memories and the world of the woken and rational. She liked and despised it at the same time. On one hand, it made her feel otherworldly, ancient, and mysteriously omniscient. On the other, she felt as though the axis of her life had been knocked askew, leaving her confused and her headaches more intense.

Regina looked into the mirror. She ran her index finger lightly over her brow, and then with it, traced the edge of her cheek bone and jaw. Tilting her head to the side, she found that the longer she stared at her own familiar face, the more foreign it became to her. Her face could have been any random person's face just as much as it had been her own. She could have been the stranger or the stranger could have been Regina. "Who are you?" she said to herself or perhaps the girl that existed only in her unconscious mind. "Every time I see you I do this. And as I do, I just slightly began to recall things that you say or have said. But these things that I somewhat remember, I couldn't possibly know that you say because I don't know you." She stared hard at her reflection and tried to place the stranger's indistinguishable face over her own so that she could examine it in a conscious state and try to peer behind the blurred veil to discern her features. "What am I doing?" she asked herself and scoffed at the ridiculousness of how much time and effort she was investing in mere imaginings.

She never spoke of these dreams to anyone and rightly so. Why should she? There was nothing outstanding about them besides their repetition. Regina supposed that millions of people had dreams similar to hers, so what could have been so special about her own? She sighed as she slipped the matching earring through her right ear. She was now dwelling in the waking hours and there was no time for the foolishness of dreams. Her husband was no doubt eagerly awaiting her downstairs. The hour was growing later with ever wasted second, and she had a party to prepare for.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"Mr. Claybourne, well that's a bold thing to say!"

Regina fit well into the role of Mrs. Tracy-Taylor as she tossed a playful smile toward a cheeky middle aged dandy who twiddled the end of his grayed moustache and winked at her. "I don't believe I've ever heard that one before," she said to him coyly, "I shall have to write it down in my book so that I may remember it." Her clever statements produced a growing chuckle that was unanimously echoed by the circle of well-dressed men that smelled of port wine and cigars. As each of them simultaneously vied for her attention, Regina only smiled and laughed, lightly touching a random lucky one on the arm in a seemingly accidental, yet entirely purposeful way. She was well versed – this was her game and she was a very, very good player. But who was she to kid? Regina had had a good deal of practice.

Philip Taylor, an English businessman hailing from Dorset, had made a habit of entertaining. He acquired a good many friends, acquaintances, and business associates and took great pleasure in secretly obtaining a good bit of bootleg liquor and gathering a crowd for a festive gathering. The amusement was worth the trouble, he'd always said. Once every two months, as his wife, Regina stood glamorously arrayed in the parlour, in the dining room, in the salon or out on the veranda of their uptown Chicago townhouse chatting and flirting with men who were twice her age. It was her little way of keeping house for her husband, who was well sunken into the tobacco trade. She entertained his clients and other wealthy acquaintances and kept them happy so that he could ease in a make profitable business deals. It was a convenient marriage that Regina and Phillip shared, made all the more enviable by the fact that they actually truly cared for and loved one another. They took care of each other – him financially and protectively, her as nurturer and witty conversationalist. But, Regina, ever independent for a woman of her day, only asked one thing of her husband – that she be allowed to keep her last name in tact. It was a small price to pay in Phillip Taylor's mind, so he easily granted his wife her wish. As she stood before her audience of well tailored suits, her eyes may have glittered and her lips formed an entreating smile, but everything about her silent air and stance gracefully warned any brave man that he had better not dare.

Cat-eyed and buxom, Regina stood regally near the fireplace in a cream dress of imported silk. In her left hand was a deep burgundy filled glass of Merlot that she sipped as her right hand deftly twirled her long strand of pearls between her fingers. Her laugh resembled that of a finely tuned violin solo played on the upper register. Magnetic in its own way when paired with an electric smile and wine-soaked and darkened lips. When she raised the glass to her lips, set to drown the last drop, a hint of light caught the diamonds encrusted in her wedding band glimmered in a bright twinkle fiercely. "Mr. Peterson, I might have been tempted to accept your offer though I'm not sure my husband wouldn't enjoy his end of the deal." Regina smirked as the men laughed. She looked down at the glass in her hand and sighed. "Please excuse me gentlemen, my wine glass is empty and it's not every day that my husband breaks the law and invests in illegal operations." She smiled charmingly and turned on her smart champagne coloured heels and began to leave. As she did, one of the younger fellows stopped her in her path and offered to fetch it from the kitchen for her. To this offer, she only shook her head and said, "Tsk, tsk..A woman cannot rely on a man for everything." With that statement, she made her escape before he could protest.

In truth, she did want to retain her independence, but moreso, she was in need of a break from the meaningless chatter and her pretty, yet nonfunctional shoes. The right side of her head had begun to throb, and her poor feet had were screaming obscenities at her from within their elegantly heeled confines. Regina dashed off without a look behind her and as she gladly left the circle of men. On her way, she unfortunately bumped into what she considered to be the grandest inconvenience that side of Chicago. "ReGINA! Darling, hello! How are you? I haven't seen you in so looong! What have you been up to – my, that's a lovely dress!" the inconvenience gushed and slurred. She giggled loudly, obviously already having had too many champagne glasses filled to the brim. Regina noticed another in the bleary-eyed woman's hand and rolled her eyes.

"Susie, so nice to see you," she muttered through her teeth, faking a tone of delight. She tucked a loose waved tendril back underneath one of the pearl combs that held her chignon and attempted an attentive expression. Susan Mary O'Connerly had followed poor Regina through grammar school and on through Miss Haversham's Finishing School for Ladies. Her good social graces would not allow Regina to not invite Susie to her parties. Besides, Susie's parents were perhaps the richest family in the city and Regina so enjoyed her Christmas and birthday presents from their daughter.

Susie smiled widely and then a mischievous expression spread over her face. Her voice lowered to an obnoxiously loud whisper as she motioned for Regina to come near and share her confidence. "Regina, there's a man over there that I've been talking to for the past few hours. He's handsome and he's a Harvard, but...ha ha ha...he thinks my name is Mary Sue." Susie paused as a contemplative look furrowed her brow. "Or," she added, "At least that's what I think he thinks. Yes, what I think he thinks."

"Oh," responded Regina flatly, yet still feigning interest. "Where is he?"

"Over there," Susie loudly whispered once more and dramatically pointed a red fingernail at the aforementioned man sitting near the fireplace.

As Regina looked in the direction Susie had pointed, her eyes washed over a dark young woman sitting alone in an upholstered chair in the corner. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on made Regina give a second glance to this woman after briefly taking in Susie's new beau. Who was she? She squinting and tried to distinguish and determine her identity. Yet, the smoke from the woman's cigarette that circled her head, and Susan' Mary's flighty, gesturing movements and talking would not allow her to. "Sue," Regina said distractedly while still fixated by the woman in the chair, "Are you ever going to get married?"

Susan laughed loudly, throwing her arms up in the air in amusement and simultaneously almost throwing her glass of champagne onto Regina. "Oh, yes, Reggie...I'm sure I will. When I'm good and done with having my fun."

Reggie. Regina loathed being called by that name. But instead of staying to correct and then potentially argue about it with the other girl, she instead only smiled and mumbled something to her drunken annoyance about needing another drink. Always in favour of another drink, Susan Mary finally allowed her to be excused with another extravagant wave of her hand. As Regina through the room on her way to the wine, she once more peered through the smoke curling around the unknown mistress. She felt no flash of recognition's lighting blazed through her mind as she expected it to. With a shrug of her shoulders and without a second thought, she continued on her way. Upon reaching the drink table, Regina concluded that the woman was most probably Phillip's second cousin Adele who was visiting town. He claimed she was somewhat of an eccentric and which intrigued and bored Regina at the same time. Regina thought it best to return to her guests promptly and this time, only glanced the woman in question out of her peripheral vision as she glided past her.

The woman who had successfully intrigued Regina remained had sat casually in the luxuriously upholstered oversized red velvet chair in the corner of the room for most of the duration of the party. With her legs tucked under her and one arm casually draped over the arm of the chair, she remained silent. She could have been a painting or a sculpture as much as a living, breathing soul. To most, she preferred to remain nameless and retain her mystery. Yet to anyone familiar with the touring classical concert circuit, she could have easily been picked out as Adele Norwood, with the calluses on the fingers of her left hand serving as concrete proof. Around Adele, small throngs of people were drinking and chatting. Laughing. From another room, she was certain that she heard the slightly air-muffled sounds of a phonograph playing lively jazz music. Where there was jazz at a party, she knew there'd be makeshift dancing also. This party was most likely positive to be one of those affair, but she did not care enough to see for herself Instead, she chose to remain in her chair, gazing out from her dark bob and blowing smoke rings around her head. Adele raised a hand to her hair and twirled a lock of it. Subconsciously, she fashioned one of the strands so it curled underneath in a neat black rimmed circle. "Hmm," she mused looking upon her creation, satisfied with herself. Yes, she quite liked that. With her other hand she raised her long cigarette holder and brought it to her lips taking a lengthy drag from it. Nonchalantly, she flicked the stem of it, dashing dead ash from the cigarette's end before languidly taking another puff from it.

Of all the places in the known universe she could be, Adele would have rather have been anywhere but where she sat. Trapped by society's idea of politeness and respect to family, she was unspokenly held prisoner in the expensive corner brownstone until her cousin formally decided to call it quits. There was no one she hated more than her cousin just then. The party was bland – lackluster and had become dull within the first half hour of her attendance. She decided that instead of attempting to make frivolous conversation with pretentious, rich snobs, she'd simply find a seat and a method of entertaining herself for the duration of the joyous misery. She had her cigarettes and drinks for company as she watched the party-goers. Adele allowed her imagination to run wild, inventing tragic pasts and secret lives for the guests of her cousin Phillip who were in attendance that night, yet still she couldn't stifle the yawn the erupted from the back of her throat. She stretched her arm to where her brandy rested on the table beside her. With her index finger, she traced its rim and then plunged her finger inside. After taking the finger into her mouth and sucking the bitter liquid off, once more she mused in her head about how very nice it would be to return to the peace and quiet of her hotel room where she could sit and soak in her bathtub, eyes closed and head resting against the cool porcelain. Every inch of her boredom and disdain for social gatherings melting away with each bubble. "Mmmm, that's a glorious thought," she told herself.

Adele's pleasant little reverie came to a crashing stop when she heard her father's persistent voice in her ear. "Dammit," she said out loud, and twisted her mouth into a sideways scowl. She took another pull from her cigarette's stem and blew the smoke harshly upward to the high heavens. Now, now Adele, she told herself. We must be nice. Nice, polite, and gracious. After all snobs make your world go round and don't you forget it. They pay for it to spin as nicely as it does. She shifted her position in the chair, leaning all of her weight onto left arm and hunching over slightly. Her eyes fell upon a figure in the corner. He was dressed in black and still had on his coat and hat. Adele watched as he crossed the room, pulling a cigar from his pocket as he approached her.

"Excuse me, but might you have a light?" he asked in a faint accent that Adele could not place. He was probably twice her age, climbing into his late forties and had a kind face. Yet something about his appearance and presence unnerved her.

Maintaining her languid posture and lax, flippant attitude, but still a bit wide eyed, she produced her silver plated butane lighter. Holding it up to him, she flicked its top open and offered the man its flame. He bent over and placed the cigar's butt to the fire. Sucking inward repeatedly, he pulled the flame into the stick. Adele watched as the flame performed a waxing and waning dance as smoke began to curl upward from the cigar. The man gave the end a once over and satisfied that it was sufficiently lit, took a few quick puffs from it. Looking down at his cigar, the stranger said lowly in his oddly accented voice, "You know, little Romani should not meddle with things of the old way if they do not take the care to understand them." He brought his deep set eyes up to meet Adele's questioning blank stare, and tipped the lit cigar to her. "Thank you for the light," he told her and then strode away without another word.

Adele's eyes followed him as he departed, feeling her heart begin to thump heavily within her chest. Romani? What in God's bloody bleeding, green...no, white earth was he talking about? Romani. After a moment's consideration, she remembered that she had perhaps heard the word somewhere before. Where, she did not recall. Yet, it sounded unusually familiar to her. However, in her usual fashion, she decided to ignore it and think about at a later date and time when she could mull over it alone and in peace. Strange, though. He had been the first man to approach her all night. Adele was not overly narcissistic by any means. But she was also not blind to and could easily see how men found her large doe eyes and sarcastic, toying smile attractive. She wondered if it were her persistent scowl that had staved them off and prevented anyone from approaching her. Adele wasn't sure, but if it was her down-turned mouth that did the trick, then she was proud of herself.

Jeffrey Kennedy stood at the edge of the sidewalk near the street and looked up to survey the grandeur of the newly built town house before him. He frowned. It was impressive, no doubt, but too big. Too presumptuous. At the still young age of 23, Jeffrey had already set his mind becoming somewhat of a social activist. Cynical to perfectly good wealth squandered on lavish houses and dressings, he promised himself that should he ever come into any money he would put it better use by donating to charity, promoting the arts, or the like. Yet he doubted that his lowly position as a society columnist would get him any closer to riches other than the ones shoved under his nose whenever he ventured into another fine house to cover some pretentious, stuffy social event. He took a deep breath, knowing that the night was being prolonged by his standing in one place. He straightened his hat upon his head and said, "Well, best to get the selling of my soul over with for the night." And so Jeffrey strode forward armed with his paper, pens, and good intentions to lay his soul down upon the altar of the devils with halos and beautiful capes.

One, two, three – he stepped up to the door of the stepped up to the door of the house. Only standing on the step, he could still hear quite well the music and clatter of jovial voices emanating from the party inside. Shaking the snowflakes off of his hat and brushing them off of his coat, he collected himself, put on the most distinguished, professional face he would muster and rapped his knuckles four times on the great oak door before him. Jeffrey waited. He turned and over his shoulder watched a stream of four motorcars pass. He whistled a jazzy tune he'd heard the night before in some dive he'd stopped in after work. Still no answer. He raised his hand to the door to knock once more when suddenly the door swung open before him. Before him stood an elegantly dressed man in tails and white gloves, his white moustache matching the rim of white hair lining the top of his bald, shiny head. He disdainfully gave Jeffrey a critical once over, and raising his eyebrow said, "And how can I help you sir?"

Jeffrey tipped his hat to the butler politely. "I'm Jeffrey Kennedy," he said. When the butler showed no recognition or slight willingness to step aside and let the younger man in, Jeffrey cleared his throat and added, "As in Jeffrey Kennedy of the Society Pages of the Chicago Sun-Times." Even after the clarification, the doorman still hesitated, continuing to eye Jeffrey with a questioning stare. The young journalist, always one for sport, returned the elder man's searching gaze.

"Well then, Mr. Kennedy, if you please?" the butler said finally, stepping aside and holding the door open as Jeffrey passed through into the large foyer. Once inside the young man vigorously wiped his wet boots on the rug. "Your coat?" he asked in a contempt laden tone.

Jeffrey removed his coat and hat and handing them into the butler's waiting arms, took a quick look around the interior of the house. There was nothing special about it, really. Of course, everything about it was lavish and utterly sumptuous - the walls were covered in dark mahogany woods, the windows hung with velvet tapestries, and the rooms dimly lit with crystal chandeliers. It was old money in its best luxuriously tasteful state, yet there was nothing unique about this home that could distinguish it in his memory from the hundreds of other upper class homes that he'd visited. He refolded and smoothed his collar and straightened his tie before stepping into the main sitting room. As he did, a young woman near the fire tittered loudly and slapped the knee of the man sitting beside her. Jeffrey looked at her, and as he did, something above the mantle over her head caught the corner of his eye. He whipped his head back around for a second glance, which soon became an awed stare. "Jesus..." He whistled softly and stepped over to it for closer inspection.

Looking back at him was...a figure. A young woman probably not much older than himself, but ageless in her unshakable grace and knowing eyes. Dark hair the colour of brown cherrywood draped her back in silken waves as she gazed over a smooth shoulder. Her dress was silken – black and low cut enough to reveal a fair portion of her lithe back. Jeffrey found her gaze almost wistful. Her silence spoke to him and urged him to remain longer with her. The entire portrait was clearly...well, what was it? Something in him seemed to recognize the figure in the portrait, yet, Jeffrey could not recall ever meeting her in his entire life. It was a complete impossibility. There was no way that this was anyone he had ever known, much less, remembered in such a glorious, attached way. "Excuse me," he said to the butler who had been halted from making his escape. "Who is that woman? That one, up there in the painting over the mantle?"

The butler gave a quick regarding glance to it and in a toneless voice replied, "That is Ms. Regina. The lady of the house. Your hostess."

"Oh," was Jeffrey's reply. The revelation and naming of the picture's subject still shed no light into his clouded, un-remembering mind. "God," Jeffrey said to himself. "I need a drink. A stiff, hard liquor and a lot of it." He left the painting's side and went in search of such a drink that would be potent enough to clear his mind as well as his sinuses. He set off in search of his drink, but could not leave the room without one more look back at the figure in the portrait.

The entrance way to the room which held the beverages and food was blocked by a throng of gentleman, all suited, smoking, and drinking. Jeffrey had to issue out a loud "pardon me" and a tap on the shoulder to one individual before he was allowed enough room to squeeze between the bodies and the door-case. Phillip Taylor was a member of the living barricade. He stood next to a younger man than himself, with whom he chatted to eagerly. "Your father and I have had an excellent partnership all these years and I think that by far we have made our best deal yet." Phillip said to the other man. Another joined the group and caught Phillip's eye. "Oh, Collins, have you met Sawyer Cole yet?" He gestured to the smiling gent beside him.

"Why no, I don't believe so," Collins returned, taking a puff from his pipe thoughtfully.

"Well, then," Taylor said with delight, apparently pleased with his ability to make a new introduction. "Thomas Collins, meet Sawyer Cole. Heir to Cole Industries. Lucian's son."

"Ah, yes. Lucian." Collins raised his pipe toward the young Cole. "Nice to meet you, my boy."

Phillip clapped a hand upon Sawyer's shoulder and smiled proudly. "Cole Industries has been quite an asset to our little operation for the past ten years. '21 was a particularly good year for the partnership. Wouldn't you agree, Cole?"

In Sawyer's left hand was a cigarette, which he brought to his mouth and sucked on lightly. With a debonair smile and a nonchalant exhalation, he blew a cloud of smoke that hovered around the glass of brandy he held in his other hand. The blue-gray haze smothered the liquor's golden brown brilliance as Sawyer coolly waved his hand. "This is a party," "Come now. We should be enjoying ourselves. No talk of business," he said with in a bemused voice and abruptly ended all talk of the subject. Only Sawyer Cole could accomplish a feat of that nature in a manner of such unabashed confidence and utter ease without seeming even the slightest bit rude or ungracious. Casually, he winked at Phillip and silently won him with the same charm that had won him the hands of ladies in love and gentlemen in profitable business deals alike.

From his seat in the living room, Jeffrey could just well overhear the conversation that Phillip and his group were holding in the corner. He dipped his fingertip into his half drunk glass of ale and traced the rim with his wet finger before putting it into his mouth and sucking the soured warm liquor from it. He should have been jotting notes down in the pad of paper that was resting safely in his breast pocket about what old money snob was in attendance and what his fluffed up peacock of a wife was wearing. Who had sent their eligible-to-wed daughter to capture a husband and what gentleman she toyed with in her sharpened claws, or rather, kept company with for the duration of the night's events. "What would you say about the merger we spoke of earlier?" Phillip's hearty Dorset intonation wafted through the air to him. In response, came a male laugh which Jeffrey regarded as strangely enough, all too well known. Had they gone to university together, he wondered.

"I say that what you say is what I say," he imagined the man replying and chuckled to himself. Jeffrey had no idea where he had pulled such an unusual statement from, yet it seemed the most natural thing to fall from the stranger's mouth. A pair of familiar mischief filled blue eyes lit by an easy smirk flashed before his mind's eye, but the rest of the picture was blurred, marred from vision's distinguishing. But that one fragment of lingering unspoken conversation was as real to him as his own hands before him. Jeffrey had always had a vivid imagination and colourful dreams as a byproduct. Perhaps the memory was nothing more than a coincidental lingering overlap from his subconscious and a simple mistake that he remembered it. He decided it best to not try to over-think or try to understand it as was his nature. The woman sitting next to him in a large velvet chair he could see vaguely out of the corner of his eye. Without bothering to turn toward her, he lifted his glass in toast his resigned decision. As he blindly lifted his glass, he put it all down to one charming moment where the stars aligned briefly and happenstance intervened for his amusement.

Sawyer glanced out of the velvet draped window. The snowfall was lessening. When he had arrived, blankets of flakes were pouring down. Now they only passed through his windowed line of sight in small velvet ivory flurries. Phillip clapped his hand upon Sawyer's shoulder and in a jovial voice said, "Yes, we're all old married men, escaping the womanly chatter of our wives, but Cole here's one of our city's most eligible bachelors. I'm sure all of the ladies have been tripping over themselves trying to win his hand. When are you going to put them out of their misery and make one girl more happy than she's ever been in her entire life?"

Sawyer laughed, his blue eyes dancing. "That's a question I'm sure my father would like answer to also. At least once a month, he asks me that. He wants an heir. He wants to perpetuate his company and, um, ensure himself a little piece of immortality, I think. I keep telling him that I will be more than happy to settle down and raise a family when I find the right woman. Trouble is, the right woman has not presented herself to me yet." As he talked, he looked up and magically, his eyes fell upon that right woman. She was skirting the edge of the crowd, slinking through the room. Despite her deliberate pains to sneak past everyone unnoticed, he could find nothing on earth wrong with her. Her face, he only saw in profile, for her hair shadowed the rest of her features. However, he somehow could not shake the feeling that she was perfect and exactly what he had been looking for. The end to fruitless dabbling and disappointing long-term ventures.

He didn't know why, but he suddenly found himself distractedly asking Phillip if he would please excuse him for a moment. Intently, he started towards this woman, as if in a trance – magnetized to her side, not letting his eyes stray from her thin frame silhouette in effervescent golden silk as he moved in closer behind her. Regina, Sawyer's gaze and pursuit unbeknownst to her, wove a quiet path through the guest filled rooms. When trapped or caught, she would only offer a brief pause accompanied with a gracious smile and a short hello, and then she would excuse herself just as quickly as she had stopped. It seemed to Sawyer that continuing her path to her destination was unspeakably vital, and her determination intrigued him all the more. Her face was still a mystery to him, yet her stance and stride, the grace of her body in motion, was as powerful as the siren's song. His intended needed no poetry of the face, for her motion had music. The confidence of her posture sang lilted glory and curve of her body swept into a crescendo which rose into the tilt of her head's coda.

To his amazement, she never turned to look behind her.

Regina had taken new glass of merlot with an affable smile, and then made away with it like a bandit. Her head unceasingly pulsated with a dull pain, renewed in force and vigor by the loud raucous chatter, shrill intoxicated laughter, and cigar smoke filling nearly every room she occupied. Seeking refuge, she made her way through the crowd as slyly as she could manage, and then slipped into the peaceful silence of her husband's study. Inside the voices were muffled and sounded as though they could have been miles away, not a one distinguishable from another in tone or complexity. The temperature in the empty room was at least five degrees cooler from lack of bodies and provided her with one small ounce of relief. It was times like this when Regina thought of what a mean business being the wife of a well-to-do gentleman was. The corporate web of contacts and social obligations trapped women like her and forced them to be superhuman – always smiling, never tiring, always delightful, charming, and well attired. "Well attired, my ass," Regina mumbled. She rested her bowled goblet of wine on the mantle, and held its beveled ledge with her left hand while using the right to remove her bone-coloured shoe.

She let it drop to the floor and rubbed the aching ball of her foot slowly, letting her fingers attempt to ease out the tension. "Stupid shoes," she muttered. Regina let her right floor slide to the cool wooden floor, and stretched out her toes. "Stupid, God damn, fucking, gorgeous shoes." She repeated the entire procedure once more with her left foot, tossing the damned thing to the floor hotly. "I hate you," she hissed, with the scorn of a betrayed lover in her voice. Regina looked down to the floor at her discarded pair of shoes. Her poor, defenseless shoes. "No, I love you," she added, her tone softer and apologetic. Endeared to them suddenly, she bent down and picked up the shoe once again. While holding it to her breast as through it were her own living, breathing, child, she paused, and with a twist of her perfectly plum mouth, considered the situation. She then thought better of her current decision of love and romantic devotion toward her silly heeled slipper, and carelessly tossed it back onto the floor. "No, I hate you," she said, sighing and staring down at her fallen shoe. She laughed. It looked so sad lying there, disposed of, on the floor. She almost found herself pitying it again. "But I still think you're beautiful," she offered in recompense.

Contrary to her knowledge Sawyer had followed her stealthily and was standing at the doorway to private recluse, witnessing the entire scene. She stood with her back to him as he hovered in the entranceway, silent as a preying hawk. He had to cover his mouth and concentrate his utmost to stifle his laughter as Regina did battle and made up with her shoes. As he stood there watching, he was scared to move or make a sound – frightened to breathe lest he disturb her and end the intimate scene before him. Besides, Sawyer did not believe that the woman he held hard in his gaze would take kindly to some strange man spying on her private affairs. Almost as soon as the thought has formed solidly in his head, he saw Regina begin to turn about face. He could have run away, could have easily slipped behind the wall and out of her view, yet he found his feet riveted to the floor. Sawyer Cole let out a deep exhalation as for the first time, she turned fully toward him and her face came into view.

As Regina spun around and glimpsed her admirer, she started. She convulsed in surprise, one smooth hand going to her heart as she cursed softly under her breath. The light caught the diamond in the band she wore around her left ring finger and as Sawyer's eye fell upon it, his heart sunk deeply into his chest. "I'm sorry," he apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to startle you or disturb you, I just..." His voice trailed of as his gaze met hers. His eyes narrowed a bit and traced the curve of her jaw, arch of her brow, the sheen of dark hair that she quickly brushed out of her eyes in frustration. He knew this woman that stood before him. He somehow knew her. But, no. That was impossible – he had never once met her in the span of his entire life. Yet, still, she so clearly reminded him of someone very dear to his own heart. The resemblance was jarring and even unholy. He let his tongue grace over his bottom lip, licking it in thought and staring wordlessly for a moment of tense silence before stating, "Hey, I know this sounds strange. But did anyone ever tell you that you...look..." He shook his head. "No, I'm – I'm sorry." He sighed deeply. "You just look amazingly like someone I think I used to know. A long...time...ago." Sawyer turned to go, but Regina foiled his retreat and dashed every thought he had of leaving with one word.

"Spot."

Her voice was breathless and shaky, yet his name fell from her lips so deliberately, so clearly and unmistakably. He stopped dead in his tracks. "What did you say?" he asked. Without knowing what she was doing or why, she boldly strode across the room and clasped his arm. As she touched him, her heart fluttered within her chest. Her pounding, aching head began to swim and she felt heat, pure electric heat mixed with nausea, course through her. With this new rush of emotion and sensation, she recoiled and drew back her hand. Her cast toward her shoes, she retreated across the room.

Sawyer turned around slowly, his gaze instantly transfixed upon Regina's face. "Ray," he began hesitantly, "Is that you?"

Regina nodded. As the realization and recognition of who he was, and moreso who she was flooded her mind, her eyes began to well up and brim red with tears. Yet she choked them back in one grand effort of restraint and coughed instead.

Sawyer noticed her struggle and knit his brows with concern. "Hey," he asked in a soft voice, "You okay?"

"No, I'm not," Regina thought, feeling the back of her throat start to burn. She swallowed hard, fighting back the building lump that had taken residence. "You're here. In the flesh. Standing only feet away from me. I've got no idea how that's possible. Hell, I've got no idea who I am anymore. Therefore, I think I just might vomit on the new oriental carpet. Perhaps on your shiny, expensive shoes if you come near enough." She steadied herself and managed a yes, held out her hand and Sawyer stopped before reaching her. One hand held to her stomach as comfort, she rose and straightened her posture. Regina studied herself for a moment and then looked back at him. "Yes," she repeated once more. Though her mouth was dry and the lump still present, this time, she managed to push out a louder and more definite voice from the back of her throat.

There were a million things he wanted to say to her. Things that he had been storing up for what seemed like an eternity. They had always been with him for as long as he could remember. Sawyer did not know who he wanted to say them to or why, but now, looking at Ray reincarnated and alive before him, he realized that his heart had always known. Yet, despite the masses of declarations she evoked from him, Sawyer's voice caught in the back of his throat as he looked upon the face of the love he lost twenty years prior. For a moment, they both only stood in silence, baffled by the fact that they were there, gazing upon each other once more and wondering how it could be. How it could possibly be that they remained preserved and born again into different bodies only to find each other that winter night in a different time and a different city? As no said word passed between them, only the faint distant roar of voices and the ticking of the cartel clock on the mantle could be heard. Yet, just as the tension hanging in the air breathed unbearably thick, Sawyer's trademark confidence and swagger clicked on within him.

A small, smug smile came over his face and lit his blue eyes afire. He adjusted his dinner jacket and tie and slowly strode across the room to the desk where Regina stood. He distractedly picked up a pen lying across the desk and put it back down. A brass paperweight in the shape of a clipper ship caught his eye, and he ran his finger over it lightly. Regina glimpsed what was entertaining him, and with a wave of her hand casually responded, "That's Phillip's. I can't stand boats. He loves them. I abhor them." Sawyer smiled and then in looping cursive, traced her name in the dust on the desktop with his pointer finger. Her former name of over twenty years prior. Finally, he said with a note of sarcasm in his inflection, "Rachel Tortulo, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this? You've moved up in the world, haven't you worker girl?"

"Same as you, street rat." Her reply came quick and instinctive. Before she was fully aware of what she had said, she found the words shooting off of her tongue as though it were second nature to her. Her hand came to her heart. She'd forgotten her composure. A lady of her breeding would never think of uttering such a sharp tongued response, and she would never, ever stoop to using coarse, derogatory slang labels.

Sawyer stepped toward her, daring to draw nearer to her than she should have allowed him to. The presence of his body so close to hers made her heart race rapidly. It had been over 20 years and still she felt as though it were their first meeting. In a very real way, it was. But nothing had changed. He still made every part of her shake and shiver in a way that not even her husband could have ever compared to. Without asking or waiting for a sign of her permission or approval, Sawyer brought his hand to the side of her neck and brushed a stray lock of waved hair away from it. He leaned over until his lips almost touched her cheekbone and inhaled, drawing the fragrance of her jasmine scented hair inside of him. She can feel his breath, hot and slow moving over the curve of her neck. It made her utterly nervous, and she found that despite her vain efforts, she cannot keep a single thought inside of her head. Her flesh flushed hot and though she tried to raise her voice in protest, nothing came out except a single choked sigh. Sawyer moved from her hair to her ear as slyly and painstakingly slow as he felt she could bear. In a low, whispery voice drunk with seductive intentions, he murmured, "Ray....What do you remember?"

Regina shut her eyes tight at the question, but did not have to waste one moment of thought on her answer. It came as naturally to her as breathing or her mother's face. "Everything," she said softly.

Jeffrey leaned forward in his chair, jotting down nonsensical notes that he somehow hoped to transform into a professional, coherent article. Realizing what garbage he was scrawling onto the paper before him, his mouth twisted into a dissatisfied scowl. In frustration, he scratched though three quarters of his written remarks, and then ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck as he surveyed what remained. "Nothing," he mumbled under his breath. "I've got nothing." The night was not growing any younger, only aging. Time was fleeting and soon, the party would be at an end, and Jeffrey would still be obligated to produce something for the next day's afternoon paper. How hard could it be, he asked himself. All he had to do was write about what was going on around him. He only needed to lift his head, observe the room, perhaps walk around a make enough short, polite conversation to gather some names, and then sit and convert all of that into words. It was so deceptively easy that Jeffrey found it impossible. With a deep, ragged sigh of resignation, he tore the paper from its binding and tossed it to the side. It landed on the floor near the feet of occupant of the chair next to his.

He needed to clear his head and recollect his thoughts, and he was certain that he needed a swallow or two of his drink to help him do such. Though his mind scolded him for not staying on target and finishing up the note-taking before indulging in pleasure or relaxation, he chose to ignore it and blindly stuck his hand out to his side to fish for his glass on the table to his right. The woman sitting next to him had obviously had the same idea. For the moment Jeffrey went for his glass of ale, she reached for hers of wine and their hands converged as they reached inward. Their fingers brushed softly at the knuckles, and the woman's head shot up instantly upon the touch. Jeffrey withdrew his slowly, the contact mysteriously leaving him feeling as though he had been burnt by compressed steam. However, she retracted her hand as though he had made her an unwilling participant in some form of foul play, snatching it back and then holding it to her breast. From under the dark hair shadowing her eyes and forehead, she shot him an accusatory glare.

"Oh pardon me," he said politely. Then his voice decreased to a bitter mumble when he added, "I didn't know it was crime to accidentally touch someone in such a manner. What in hell was I thinking?" He wrote the words "genial gathering of Chicago's finest at the home of Phillip Taylor, tobacco tycoon" and then cast a glance out of the corner of his eye at the woman he had apparently heartlessly "attacked and affronted."

There was something about the strange way she was looking at him. It was as though she was probing him for an undisclosed secret with only her eyes. Jeffrey wasn't certain that he exactly liked the way her stare felt upon him. It gave him the eerie sense that she wasn't looking over him as much as she was trying to see through him. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair and pulled at the tie at his throat, but still tried to pretend that he was utterly unaffected by her in any way and absorbed in his work. Her body leaned away from him and she had the wild look of a frightened cat in her eyes. She looked a million miles away in the expansive depth of her large red armchair. "Phillip Taylor, tobacco tycoon" he wrote once more and then capped his pen. Holding it tightly in his hand, he lifted his head and turned toward her. He scoffed and was about to form the word "What?" But the word stuck in the back of his throat as his eyes met hers. He felt the blood drain from his face and the coolness of a strange, altering air blow over him.

He felt small hands press against his rough, calloused ones as soft fingers slid into the vacant grooves between his. Rushing of the throngs of people going to and fro under the blanket of sunshine spun talk around him. Only a few clipped words were distinguishable to him at a time. The rest was meshed chatter, one cacophonous current that swum around the both of them. The space was small and filled with bodies of every colour and distinction. He had only room to hover near to the dark hair girl who walked in step beside him, their elbows touching as they moved together. As they squeezed by a woman holding a basket of dry goods and a sulking child on her hip with three more linking hands in tow behind her, he lead her by the hand and waggled his eyebrows down at her while a grin took hold of his face. They stopped at a fruit vender's stand. Though hundreds of yellow green pairs, deep violet black plums, sweet peach peaches, and other attractive fruits were laid out before her, he watched as she reached over and only slid her hand into the basket of golden red apples. She produced one, and held it up to marvel at the fine specimen it was.

"Audrey, all you ever eat are those dumb apples. Do you even know what anything else tastes like?" he teased, tapping her nose with the tip of his index finger and still grinning wildly.

"No I don't, mister. And I'd think twice about teasing me like that. In fact, go away if you are going to tease me, Jack," she said hastily with a wave of her hand as she began to rummage for money to pay the apple vender. With a shrug of his shoulders, Jack put on a fine pout and left her side, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and scuffing his shoes dejectedly as he began to disappear into the crowd. Audrey turned to search for him, honestly not believing that he would heed her joking command. She spotted him a few feet from her, steadily walking away. "Wait! Jack!" she called after him, "I didn't mean you had to...oh, nevermind." With a sigh, she turned to the expectant vender and asked, "How much for the apples?" She had made her way to the dry good stand from which she was purchasing flour when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She whirled around, as she did, and single white daisy was thrust upward into her line of sight, rendering her unable to see much else. She smiled and looked downward at Jack, bent at the waist, holding his offering upward.

"Ha ha ha Kelly!" She plucked the daisy from his hand and smelled it. As he rose to his full height, she threw her arms around his neck, catching him off guard and causing him to stumble backward. Despite his faltering, she still held fast. "I love you, you silly boy," she said into his chest and then lifted her head to him. He smiled downward at her and felt his heart swell within his chest as the sparkling deep of her eyes penned an eternal memory into the book of his mind.

Befuddled and confused, he started at her wordlessly, heart racing within his chest. The wild, cat-like look in her dark eyes was gone. It had been replaced by the startling champagne cork pop of recognition that lit dancing flames making her eyes sparkle anew. A gentle, coy smirk pulled at the corners of her downturned mouth and forced them upward to the shape of a crescent moon. She leaned inward, her elbow resting on the table that divided them and her chin propped upon her hand. In a low, breathy, voice, she offered to him the culmination of twenty years' sentiment in two words. "Hello, stranger."

A/N:

Ravy: (dies)
Tues: (dies)
Ravy: This story is a beast.
Tues: And there's more. The chapter was so long that, to our dismay, we had to cut it into two.

Thank you's:

Sparks:
R: MUAHAH! I made you cry! Tell Spot!muse to get over himself otherwise he can't come over and play.
T: Punishing the Spot!muse....wow. He's not going to take kindly to that. This was a tear-free chapter. But just you wait, 'Enry 'Iggins. Just you wait.

Script:
R: (hands over some Ritalin)
T: (hands over insane amount of Pixie Stix and this chapter)

Snarky:
T: Our characters don't irk or suck. Wow. That's a good thing. I don't think Ray or Audrey would take kindly to being called irksome. They're temperamental. Ray would break something glass and Audrey would sulk. And she was known to hit Jeffrey with a chair during the production of this chapter. We edited that out for young readers.
R: Yay for your loving of Ray and Audrey. They work well together don't they? HA. I told you so, now listen to me more often damn you!

Akiko Iris:
T: Ugh. Sorry about Spot. It's just that I've got some sort of vendetta against him and revel in killing him. The more brutally, the better.
R: Tuesday likes to kill people who bother her and Spot happens to be one of those people. Don't worry about it. I did make Jack freeze to death didn't I?

Dewey:
R: Did you just read the new A/N....We are on crack, officially.
T: (Shhhh. No talking about the crack.) What's all this sudden protectiveness of Spot? He's a big boy. He can take care of himself. He can bring himself...back...to...life. Ha.

Tues and Ravy: Read and review? makes puppy eyes Please?

More behind the scenes fun:

Ravy: Roar! BE GONE EVIL WINTER DEMON!
Tues: I thought you were going to say the story was roaring onward. Like "Roar!" as a battle cry.
Ravy: No. No battle cries.
Tues: Maybe we need a battle cry to jumpstart it. Or a gypsy spell.
Ravy: Sigh
Tues: But gypsy spells are dangerous. They reincarnate you.
Ravy: They so do, man.

Tues: Okay. So we need something on Phillip's desk for Sawyer to toy with.
Ravy: Like a paperweight?
Tues: Yes. Like a good, solid, brass paperweight. Of something distinguished.
Ravy: Like a feather? OH I DON'T KNOW.
Tues: No. More like a clipper ship. Clipper ship? Is that the right name?
Ravy: ? Why don't you research it?
Tues: I think it's a clipper ship.
Ravy: We are such dorks. We are researching paperweights.
Tues: I really think it's a clipper ship.
Ravy: I don't know. I hate boats.

Tues: Okay. Sawyer/Regina done! Now onto Jeffrey/Audrey. Bloody hell.
Ravy: Ha ha.
Tues: I was just thinking that I need to put on Eye of the Tiger for motivation.
Ravy: Why Eye of the Tiger? Why not Mortal Combat?
Tues: I don't know. Eye of the Tiger is victorious...motivational...like "I can punch Winter's lights out and conquer it. Yeah!" Mortal Combat is just violence.
Ravy: I don't know. I like Mortal Combat better. MORTAL COMBAAAAAT! See?
Tues: um, no.
Ravy: Hey, that could be like our battle cry. MORTAL COMBAAAAAAT!


Tues: What is this: "He felt soft hands beneath his caloused one, sliding into the grooves presented to him."
Ravy: Did I write that?
Tues: Uh, yes. Are they holding hands?
Ravy: I think.
Tues: You don't know? You wrote it. Sigh. No. Sorry, I must have wrote it and then forgot both that I did and what it was. So I asked you.
Ravy: Shut up.
Tues: We can't leave it like that if both of us can't tell what it is. rewrites and comes back Okay, I changed the second part...put in digits. But I can't write "digits."
Ravy: Yeah. Digits?
Tues: Sounds like I'm writing a cheesy romance. Like digits are up there with "pulsating member" to me.
Ravy: Throbbing member of manhood.
Tues: Spear of holy divine reckoning.
Ravy: Arrow of thrusting orgasm.
Tues: Rod of...no.
Ravy: Why are we doing this?