Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

Chapter 8

Cold Hard Truths

A/N: Preparations for the Jewish holiday of Passover, or Pesach involve thorough cleaning of kitchen appliances, food storage compartments and food preparation surfaces, as well as the use of separate dishes and utensils. Some households have a special kitchen set aside only for use during this holiday. A similar cleaning process is required to prepare a previously non-kosher kitchen, before kosher food may be cooked in it.

Thursday, 10:35 a.m.

"This way, please, doctor." Alfred led the woman toward the master bedroom. Doctor Alison Perkal-Steiner followed the elderly man up the stairs.

"I came direct from the airport," she remarked, hefting her medical bag. "Sorry I couldn't be here sooner, but at least it's nice to know I've got backup, these days."

"Such as I am," Callie emerged from the room, expression somber. At Alfred's questioning look, she took Alison's shirtsleeve and steered her colleague down the hall, beckoning to Alfred to follow. At the entrance to the library, she paused. "Does he have any means of hearing us from the bedroom if we speak in there?" She asked. "Bugs, air vents, or the like?"

"I think not, Doctor."

Cal sighed. "I'm not going to win this one, am I, Mr. Pennyworth?" she asked wearily.

"I... beg your pardon?"

Callie blinked, then smiled her realization. "Oh! No, I didn't mean him. Sorry, I can't believe I said that. No, it's just," she sighed. "I've had my medical diploma all of thirty-two days. It doesn't feel right, yet, being called 'doctor'. And no matter how often you refer to me as such, when I'm here, I still feel like the indecisive first-year who froze when her teammate came off second-best in a quarrel with a wrecking ball. For now, Alfred, I would really take it as a kindness if you could please call me 'Callie.' If you must, call me 'Callantha'. I'm getting used to too many things right now to have to cope with a new mode of address on top of the rest of the pile.

"I shall endeavor to do so, Doctor... Callie."

Cal nodded her thanks, and pushed the levered door handle. It swung open. Jaime was sitting on the floor by the window reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He jumped up as the three adults entered.

"Can I go in and see Bruce, now?" he asked eagerly.

Callie and Alfred exchanged glances. The butler's hunch had been correct. Over the course of the last few days, a friendship had solidified between the wounded man and the young boy. Jaime's discovery had, if anything, eased the process. Bruce had always, first out of necessity, and later, out of habit, maintained a certain distance. Initially, Alfred had assumed that such reserve was for fear that he might inadvertently let slip something that would reveal himself as Batman. Even with those who were aware of his double life, he had never completely relaxed his guard. Later, Alfred had realized that there was another reason.

Bruce had constructed his emotional barriers almost reflexively, to try to keep himself from caring too deeply about the youngsters he had mentored—the youngsters who cared enough to endanger their lives for Batman, and for Batman's cause. It hadn't worked, of course. In the past, as Robin, Dick had been kidnapped, held hostage, knocked unconscious, concussed, half-drowned, bruised, and battered on numerous occasions. It had taken, of all things, a minor bullet wound to pierce Bruce's walls. And he had let the torrent of pent-up fears sweep Dick as far away from him as possible, forbidding him to wear the Robin costume, all but banishing the boy from his home and from his heart for over a year.

Jason. Had Bruce adopted Jason Todd, not only out of loneliness, but also knowing that such an act, so soon after banning Dick from wearing the costume, would push the older boy even farther away? In hindsight, it looked likely. And then, Bruce had set Dick up in young Jason's eyes as a paragon—a standard to which the boy could aspire but never hope to attain. How many times, Alfred reflected, had he come down the cold stone steps, to hear some version of "Bruce, didja see that? I took that obstacle course in two minutes-fourteen seconds! That's my best time yet!"

That would inevitably be followed by, "The first time the original Robin tried that course, his time was one minute fifty-seven. When he'd been at it as long as you were, he had it down to one-thirty-four." And then, Bruce would do one of three things: he would order the boy to redo the exercise, order the boy to try a different exercise, and again compare him unfavorably with Dick, or simply turn his back on the sputtering teen.

If his goal had been to keep himself from growing too attached to the boy, Bruce had not been successful. If his goal had been to push Jason to excel, to the point where he would be prepared to take on the deadliest of villains without hesitation... Alfred groaned inwardly. It might have been Joker, whohad killed the boy, but Alfred knew that Bruce blamed mainly himself. He had shut himself down, after the Joker had escaped him. Alfred suspected that more had happened, but Bruce had refused to divulge any further details, save something muttered under his breath about 'interfering aliens'. And Alfred had watched Bruce sink from bad to worse, growing colder and angrier with each passing week, until Tim had entered on the scene—to start the whole program over again.

So far, Tim had seemed to accept the situation better than his predecessors—Batman and Robin were partners, comrades-in-arms, but not friends. Batman could not allow himself many friends. It was difficult enough for him to accept that he had allies who were willing hurl themselves into danger for him. So, when Bane and Batman had first encountered one another, that night in the warehouse, and Bane had bluntly stated his intention to destroy Batman and rule Gotham, when Bane had calmly and cold-bloodedly set out to accomplish his goal by setting villain after villain against the Dark Knight, Batman had kept Tim out of the action as much as possible. He had refused to consider calling in Nightwing, or his colleagues in the JLA. If nothing else, the recent death of Superman should have convinced him that none of them, no matter how resourceful, or... gifted, were immortal. It hadn't. After Tim had taken up the mantle of Robin, Alfred had hoped that Bruce had realized how close to the abyss he had come, after the death of Jason. Until Bane had destroyed Arkham, Alfred had almost become convinced that Bruce had learned from the past. But then he had set Robin primarily to doing research in the cave, or grudgingly allowed the boy to accompany him in the car, but ordered him to remain on the sidelines whenever any actual fighting became necessary.

Jaime, on the other hand, Alfred reflected. Jaime had no designs whatsoever on the Robin costume. He had discerned Bruce's secret—no mean feat in itself, but having never met Batman before, had no preconceived ideas regarding his personality. It is, Alfred mused, considerably easier for one to act hard and cold, if one is already half-expected to behave in such a manner. Jaime had no such expectations. Perhaps that, combined with the knowledge that Bruce was not being asked to train yet another young warrior (Callie had judiciously advised Jaime not to mention that he was receiving training from another source, unless he was specifically asked), and the boy's nascent detective skills, had contributed to the growing camaraderie between man and boy.

"It's fine with me," Callie said carefully. "Alfred?"

Alfred blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Callie looked concerned. "I was just saying that if Bruce doesn't mind, it's fine if Jaime goes to visit with him. If that's okay with you, I mean."

"By all means," he agreed.

"Alfred," Callie asked, "when did you sleep last?"

"I might ask the same of you."

Alison turned toward the younger woman, expectantly. Cal looked down, ruefully. "Touché. I've been averaging five hours. Thanks for coming, Ali. Before I take you in to see him, let me just bring you up to speed. Alfred knows all this, already—we patched him up together. He's here in case you have any questions I can't answer."

"Understood. Hit me."

Callie drew a deep breath and launched into a description of the injuries Bruce had suffered, beginning with the most serious. "He suffered a fulcrum stress fracture at L-4 and L-5. Treatment included Decadron and telekinetic immobilization..."

"Telekinetic..." Alfred interrupted. This was news to him.

Callie blushed. "Now you know one of the reasons I didn't sleep for the first two days. It was necessary to maintain constant concentration, at least, initially. I didn't want to say anything because there was no guarantee it would make a difference. I think it has, though. The bones are already showing signs of healing, but the real question is whether the nerves will as well. In addition to the spinal fracture, Mr. Wayne suffered a collapsed lung..." she continued quickly, listing internal injuries, broken bones and other incidentals.

Alison had remained silent throughout the monologue. Now she posed several questions couched in medical jargon. Alfred's background allowed him to understand most of it, but apparently more was being communicated under the surface. Finally, Alison looked up, expression hard. "If the folks didn't already know what Jill does with her nights, I'd tell them in the hopes they could talk some sense into her. City's just gotten a lot more dangerous after dark."

"We're taking precautions," Cal said mildly.

Alison snorted. "And I suppose he didn't?" She looked away. "Sorry. You've been practicing for this type of work for sixteen years; I'll have to trust you know what you're doing. Medically you certainly do, I would've made the same calls you two have," she added. "So, before we get you testing your theory in concert with Sophie, Mayb, Natalie, and Tabitha, do you think I might get to meet the patient?"

Callie smiled. "I'll take you in to see him, now. C'mon, let's see if we can unpry Jaime." She reached for the door, which swung open before she could grasp the handle. Bruce, seated rigidly upright wheeled himself through, towing Jaime after him. Brandon had once asked idly if Batman could be half as scary without a mask. The answer, now confirmed, was an emphatic 'yes.' Fiery blue eyes blazed into steady green ones, as he demanded "Are you out of your mind?"

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Moments earlier...

"Can I ask you something, Bruce?"

Here it comes, Bruce thought resigned. He didn't want to think about what had been. He didn't especially want to be reminded of what he had been doing only a week earlier. But sooner or later, he knew the boy would start asking questions about Batman. After all, if he, himself, had met Alan Scott, the original Green Lantern, when he had been Jaime's age, he probably wouldn't have been able to restrain himself nearly as long. "Ask," he said finally.

"Aren't you tired of looking at the ceiling?"

"What?"

Patiently, Jaime repeated the question more slowly. "Because, if you are, maybe I could try to help you sit up."

Over the last few days, Alfred, Callie, even Tim had been not-so-subtly suggesting that he expend some effort toward getting out of the bed. He wasn't sure himself why he was resisting. He had never been one to give in to despair before. He had never brought himself to the edge of a complete breakdown before either. Maybe that was it. Tim's father had been poisoned in Haiti, months earlier. The toxins had left Jack Drake comatose and near death. Even now, recently released from hospital, he was wheelchair-bound, unable to feed himself or even to breathe independently. According to Tim, he was making slow progress with his therapist, but the boy had mentioned his father's continual frustration that Dr. Kinsolving needed to refer to her previous notes in order to confirm any improvement. It had taken Bruce years of training and determination to become the Batman. Years of mastering every martial art and fighting style known to humanity. Years of studying chemistry, biology, robotics, detective skills. How many years would it take, even if it were theoretically possible, for him to bring all of that back?

He had never been able to accept limitations. That was the problem. Always before, he had pushed himself, knowing that there was a deeper purpose than merely becoming the 'best he could'. It had been about ensuring that no other child would have to witness what he had witnessed that night in the alley. That had been the thought that had urged him on, through every set of free-weight repetitions, every lap around the manor grounds, and later, every fall he had taken from—and eventually given to—those he had once called 'sensei.' And now, the frustration in realizing that he might need to expend that same level of determination—to wheel himself from office to coffee shop—assuming he ever entered Waynecorp again... Part of him... did not want to start. Because once he began, he would push himself. And if he pushed too hard, as he almost inevitably would, the consequences could be somewhat more severe than bruises and muscle fatigue. But how could he explain this without sounding like he was wallowing in self-pity?

You can't. Because that is exactly what you're doing. Unless you have a better excuse for planning to spend the rest of your life lying in bed than worrying that if you push yourself too hard you might end up spending the rest of your life lying in bed. He looked at the armchair next to him where Jaime sat, expectantly awaiting his answer. A journey of a thousand miles... he thought to himself. Steeling himself, he took the first step. "Try."

Jaime didn't move.

Bruce regarded him, perplexed. "Well?"

"I am trying," he protested. "I just gotta do this slow and careful."

Bruce was about to ask him what he meant, when he became aware that his torso was gradually angling upwards. It felt as if he were floating. Cautiously, he tried to raise his arms, and felt something solid, perhaps an inch above him. He pushed against it, intrigued.

"Bruce," Jaime said with exaggerated patience, "you'll fall if I take that away."

"What is 'that'?"

"You know the stuff my family can do? I can also."

That much was evident. "You're telekinetic?"

Jaime frowned. "Aunt Callie says 'no'." He picked up the cushion from the chair behind him and wedged it into the space between Bruce's lower back and the mattress. "She said what she does is move things with her mind. What I do is make things lighter so they float, or heavier so they sink."

Bruce considered that. So, Jaime must have decreased the mass of his upper body, while increasing that of the air directly above him. He was aware of slowly being lowered back down, onto the cushion. As his back touched, the field of heavier air vanished. "How long have you been practicing that?"

Jaime thought. "Always, I guess. It's kind of hard to know."

"Is it?" He asked, bemused.

"Well," Jaime said seriously, "it's kind of like asking how long I've been able to read big kids' books. I've known how to read since I was three, and I've been reading a lot since then. Aunt Tabitha gave me the Chron'cles of Narnia for my birthday when I was six and I could read them, but maybe I could have read them before, too. I don't know if I can say this right, but I'll try. Once you know how to read... you can read. It doesn't matter if it's Curious George or Prince Caspian, or—or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn—the one like you've got with no pictures and more long words, but sometimes just because you know how to read something doesn't mean it makes sense to you. I've always been able to lift some things with my mind, but Aunt Callie's been showing me that I can lift heavier things if I make them weigh less in just a few spots instead of all over. Or she'll tell me to try making one thing light and something else heavy at the same time. But it's all kind of like things I used to practice before only different. So, I guess, maybe I've kind of been practicing forever. I think. Did that make sense?"

Bruce nodded.

"Did I help okay?"

"You did fine." He had, too.

Jaime exhaled. "Good. 'Cuz if I did all that practicing for nothing, I'd be pretty upset."

Bruce had to smile. "Is that the only thing you practice?"

Jaime grinned back. "No way! That's what Aunt Callie teaches me—that and staff-work, but Ima teaches me gymnastics, I'm learning detective work from Aunt Tabitha, judo and karate from Aunt Natalie..."

Bruce leaned forward, frowning as he realized how Jaime must have been able to recognize the pattern of injuries on his own hands earlier. "Come here," he commanded.

Jaime slid down from the chair, uncomprehending and walked to the bed. Bruce seized one of the small boy's hands.

"Ow! You're hurting me," he protested.

Bruce looked down at the battered appendage in his grip. "I'm hurting you?" He asked in disbelief. "Who gave you these?" he asked, pointing to the purple discolorations covering all of Jaime's knuckles.

Jaime looked away. "I was holding the staff wrong, so my hands kept getting in the way when I tried to block," he mumbled, embarrassed.

Bruce glowered. He turned the hand over, and lightly touched each blister and callus. "And these?"

"I wasn't used to my escrima. Or maybe, it was when I swung across the room on the rings." Miserably, he realized that he should have listened when Aunt Callie had told him not to talk about his training. But she'd also told him that he should try to learn new techniques from anyone who could teach him. And who knew how to fight better than Batman?

Bruce released the hand, and closed his eyes. What was Silver Dragon thinking? "Jaime," he said firmly, I want you to open my closet door. On the far left, you'll see a robe. Wine-colored with a black pattern. Bring it here and help me put it on."

Jaime nodded, and quickly crossed the room to the oak door Bruce had indicated. He found the robe easily, and yanked it from the hanger. He carried it back to Bruce, its hem trailing the floor behind him. Hesitantly, he held one sleeve up. Bruce slipped his arm in, and then nodded as Jaime held up the rest of the garment so that he could slide in his other arm. His eye fell with some measure of distaste upon the wheelchair, placed at the head of the bed. On Bruce's instructions, Jaime moved the chair forward, positioned it properly, and set the brake.

Bruce maneuvered himself into the chair as if he had been doing so for years. "Come with me," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for protest

Jaime followed, close behind, as Bruce steered himself toward the library. When he pushed the door open, his gaze focused squarely on Callie as he asked her...

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"Are you out of your mind?"

Callie fought back a surge of defensive anger. Dimly, she was aware of Alison hovering nearby. Alfred moved forward. And I thought I'd be smiling when he got into that chair for the first time! It hit her then that whatever it took to get him finally out of that bed, serving as the focal point for his ire was probably worth it. Steeling herself she drew a deep breath.

"Why do you ask?" she responded coolly.

"Well," Alison interrupted, it could have something to do with spending multiple sleepless nights in cape and mask, jumping off buildings, dodging bullets... oh wait." She sniffed. "Forgot to consider the source of the inquiry."

"Ali, back off," Cal said quietly.

She complied.

Callie located a nearby straight-backed chair and deliberately lowered herself onto the seat cushion. In a combat situation, her height was an advantage. In this case, however, towering over an angry man who normally stood six feet two inches did not strike her as a particularly bright move. Not when she didn't want to fight. "Bruce?" She asked.

Bruce motioned Jaime forward. Taking the boy's wrist firmly in hand, he rolled toward Callie. "What do you call these?" He asked, displaying the injured fingers Jaime had shown him earlier.

Callie raised an eyebrow. "Training bruises. I'd think you, of all people, would have recognized them." Seeing her nephew's expression, she added softly, "you're holding him a little too tightly, I think."

Bruce looked down at Jaime's wide-eyed face. He looked further to the small hand that he was holding before Callie's eyes. It had turned dark pink in his grip. Suddenly embarrassed, he released it. The boy threw himself, face down, onto Callie's lap. She stroked his hair, absently.

"Cal," Bruce said through clenched teeth, "he is six years old!"

Jaime's head shot up at that. "Six-and-three-quarters!" he corrected, and quickly dropped back down.

The fire in Bruce's eyes dimmed, almost imperceptibly, then flared up again. "Six," he repeated. "That is too young to expect him to decide if this is the sort of life he wants. Cal, how can you put him through this? At his age? It's much too soon."

"I couldn't agree more," Callie said softly. She thought about sending Jaime from the room, but opted against it. There had been too much of that over the past few days. She gently nudged her nephew off her lap, then picked him up and seated him on her knee. Holding him against her, she continued. "There are a few reasons for what I... what we have been doing as far as training is concerned. First, he's psionic. Or 'meta'. Or whatever you'd like to call it. He needs to know how to control his talents. We know how to teach him. So, as far as that goes, I trust you've no objection."

Bruce shook his head, still frowning. He started to say something.

Callie held up a hand. "I know. The training bruises have nothing to do with the sort of instruction I was describing. So. More reasons. Let's get the stupid, selfish, egotistical one out of the way first." She smiled, thinking. "I can't tell you whether his first complete sentence was 'can I try?' or 'show me how.' I can tell you that he's a natural." Jaime looked up at her. "I've said it before, kiddo," she remarked. "So, yes, we can chalk this up to a woman as eager to impart what she knows as her student is to receive it. But that would be a poor excuse for the drills I put him through."

Her expression turned serious. "But, Bruce, there's another reason. It's the one we generally don't like to talk about. It's not pleasant, but here it is. It has to do with the fact that some of the people we deal with on a routine basis... sometimes decide that the best way to strike back at us... is through those we care for. You ask how I can put him through the weapons practice and martial arts katas... Bruce, with everything out there, how can I not? If we lose him to some maniac because he didn't have the skills to defend himself..." She let her voice trail off, as she hugged Jaime tighter. "Losing him would be one of the most horrific things I can imagine. But what would be worse would be knowing that I could have taught him something that might have saved him, and held back."

All of the anger had drained from Bruce's face, by the time Callie finished. "You can't teach them everything," he said softly.

"Fine," Callie snapped. "Which techniques can you guarantee me he'll never need to use? Tell me exactly what he needs to know, precisely which skills will protect him and which ones I can just leave out of the course syllabus." She stopped, shocked at her own vehemence, and continued in a softer tone. "But if you can't do that, Bruce, I'm just going to have to do things the way I've been doing them." He'd said 'them', not 'him', she noted. Was that significant?

Bruce was silent.

Callie waited for a moment. "Right," she continued in a more professional tone. "Seeing as you're finally out of bed, I may as well bring you up to speed on other matters.

"Ali," she said, "Natalie needs a second opinion about a shoulder injury she suffered Sunday night. You can check up on her, now, or you can stick around and hear about what we've been up to."

Alison considered for a moment. "Where ignorance is bliss..." she said, getting up. "Where is she?" Cal nudged Jaime off her lap. He took the hint and left to show Alison where the north wing was.

After the two departed, Callie drew a deep breath. "Well, Maxie Zeus and company are currently in Blackgate. Hopefully, there they'll stay until Arkham's maximum-security wing reopens. Monday night, Pathwarden and Phasma nailed one of Marco Gambini's lieutenants, while Naiad and Spectrum—"seeing Bruce's quizzical look, she smiled. "That's right. You hadn't met us, yet, when she was last on active duty. Spectrum's my oldest sister, Sophia. She and Naiad have been dissuading some relatively persistent looters in Tricorner, Oldtown, and the Bowery."

"I heard you say... Kensai was hurt?"

A nod. "Improper weight distribution while accelerating upward caused a shoulder subluxation. Pathwarden popped it back in at the scene, but given that Ali's a sports medicine specialist—and I'm not—I decided to keep Kensai on the sidelines until Ali had a chance to check it out."

"Good call. And Umbra?"

Callie tensed. Alfred had already warned her that Bruce would not be pleased to hear that his surrogate son had (presumably, by now) been notified. As much as Callie thought it was a mistake to keep the matter from Nightwing, she would have accepted the situation. Unfortunately, she had no means of reaching her youngest sister. She had tried calling Tabitha's cell, but received a recording advising that her sister's mailbox was full and to try again later. New York was out of her telepathic range, too. "Manhattan," she said, reluctantly.

That brought him up short. "Manhattan," he repeated. "Why," he asked in a voice so quiet that it was terrible, "would she have gone there?"

Callie gripped the fabric of her skirt so tightly that her knuckles whitened. "She didn't advise me. But there is reason to believe that she's been there for the last four nights looking for—"

"Nightwing!" he cut her off, with a roar, his rage flaring up again. "I can't believe you would... How could you involve him in... in this without asking my permission?"

If she had thought he was angry before, it was nothing compared to his fury now. He had good reason, she reminded herself. It was a breach of confidentiality. She looked up at his eyes, now chips of blue ice.

"I was starting to think that maybe I could tru... Never mind what I thought! There is nothing that you can say or do to take this back. Get your things together and get out. GET OUT!" He lowered his head, pointing at the door.

Callie flinched. Feeling oddly lightheaded, she rose to her feet. Standing on the threshold of the library she hesitated. "Not that it alters matters in the slightest, I know," she said, "but I am sorry."

She closed the door behind her.

Bruce continued to seethe. At the back of his mind, he was aware that his reaction was disproportionate to the action that had caused it. Still, it had actually felt good to vent like that. And Callie had overstepped herself. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. "Alfred," he snapped, cursing his weakness, "I could use a hand getting back to the room."

There was no reply. "Alfred?"

He looked up. The older man's flinty gaze pierced him as if he was a beetle on a card. "What?" He glowered back.

"Should you require assistance in reaching the north wing, where Miss Callie has doubtless returned to carry out your orders, I shall be only too happy to assist you. It is a considerably shorter distance to your bedroom. Doubtless, you will be able to reach it 'under your own steam' as it were."

"You're saying I should go to Callie?" he said, astounded. "Why?"

Alfred's retort was immediate. "To deliver the apology to which she is most emphatically entitled for your atrocious behavior." At Bruce's stunned look, he continued. "You reacted as though she had ordered her sister to locate Master Dick. I can assure you that at the time that Miss Tabitha departed from Gotham, Doctor Aaronson was occupied with other... more pressing matters. I don't believe that she was even aware that her sister was gone until hours later."

"She leads Psion Force. It's her business to know," he countered reflexively. He stopped short, remembering. Callie had said Tabitha had left four nights ago. Alfred had said that at the time, Callie had been otherwise occupied—no, he had said 'Doctor Aaronson'... No. Oh no.

"Alfred," he said, in a strangled voice. "Please tell me that today is not... Thursday. Because if today is, in fact, Thursday, then that would mean that I just... attacked... a woman because she was more concerned with... saving my life... than keeping tabs on one of her team-mates. So, today... simply cannot be... Thursday. Can it?"

The butler did not answer. His expression, however, softened slightly. "Will you require assistance in reaching the north wing, Master Bruce?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "No, I'll manage." He didn't move.

"Master Bruce?"

"Just thinking. You wouldn't know offhand whether crow is kosher, would you?"

"I do not believe so," Alfred deadpanned. "If you wish, I believe the definitive answer might be found in Leviticus."

One corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Don't worry about it," he replied, as he wheeled himself out of the room.

/VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Callie was gathering papers together.

"Let me get this straight," Natalie said. At Alison's direction, she was putting her shoulder through a variety of exercises. "I spent all of yesterday wiping down these counters and koshering the sink and stove—and what in the world is he doing with a Pesach kitchen on the second floor, anyway?"

"I think this wing might have been servants' quarters at one point," Callie said absently.

"Whatever. All this work and now we're leaving?"

"Well, he kicked me out. Maybe you can stay if you ask nicely."

Natalie groaned. Alison looked up, intently. "No, it didn't hurt me to do that," she said irritably. "Callie, you know I didn't mean it like that—"There was a knock on the door.

"Your shoulder's fine," Alison confirmed. "Cal, she's back on the duty roster if she wants to be."

"Great!" said Natalie

"I got it," Jaime said, at the same time, darting forward. He swung open the door, stopping when he saw Bruce.

Callie looked up. "I'm almost finished, Mr. Wayne. I'll call a cab, if you'll loan me the money for the fare. I seem to have arrived here without my purse, the other night. Or, if you've no objection, I can ask Bronwen to drive by and pick me up around five when she gets off work." She realized that he hadn't uttered a syllable. She cocked her head quizzically.

"Why," he began. His throat was suddenly dry. Jaime raced to the sink and filled a plastic cup partway with water. He carried it slowly back. "Why," he repeated, "didn't you tell me that you didn't know where she was until after she was long gone?" He accepted the water gratefully.

Callie looked away. "Would it really have mattered?"

"Is this one of those 'truly awful jokes' you say you make when you're stressed? Of course it would have mattered."

"Really? Why?" She continued. "I head a team, Bruce. That means if things go right, I share the glory. If they go wrong, I shoulder the blame. I trained Umbra. I taught her to think for herself, and to use her own judgment. She took the lessons to heart. My fault. If you're going to get mad at any of us for this, it might as well be me."

She blinked. "You heard me. In the ambulance."

"Yes."

"I didn't know if you had. You were so badly hurt."

"I know." He smiled faintly. "I was there, remember?" He sobered. "Instead of blasting you, I should have been—"

Callie smiled. "Don't worry about it. With everything you've been through over the last little while, it's natural you'd blow up over something or other. I guess it's just fortunate you picked me as your target."

Bruce blinked at her.

"Been there, done that." She sighed. "Never want to go back."

"Tell me," he said, intrigued.

Callie glanced over her shoulder at Natalie. Her younger sister nodded, barely perceptibly. "You're absolutely sure about this?" she mouthed. Natalie nodded again, more visibly.

She turned back to Bruce. "Let's go back to the library, then. Oh, and if you'd like to call Tim and Jean-Paul, that's probably best. This will take a while, and I'd rather only tell it once."