Chapter XLVI: An Evening of Stubborn Ends
January 14, 1900. Six hours later.
In the oldest part of the London den, Weylan was waiting outside a large wooden door with two folios in hand and a small, portable writing-surface under his arm. Papers and ink. These were the weapons of the new world, not the revolver hidden under his jacket nor the silver nitrate he kept on his person. His eye happening on his own reflection. His face dancing in the light of twelve shields that hung on the wall in remembrance of those who were buried below. Although not a vain man, he did have an eye for precision. His hair combed just so. His exterior appearance exuding the charm and delicacy that was often necessary for dealing with Bloods. His quick intellect providing the trust that was necessary when serving his master in the matter of this…woman.
Four months ago, he had spent three solid days at the Lycan Registry, gathering papers, sending telegrams…organising the route of the lycan-master's cargo from start to finish. In all that time, he had never once set eyes on her. The first two months of her stay spent in the restricted East Wing that had once housed the lycan-master's mistresses. The rest of her time now spent lurking in an abandoned catacomb with one of the lycan-master's personal guards watching an unlocked door. A six-foot-tall bull of a man, who had had little to say over the past ten minutes beyond "stay back."
The two of them standing at attention until they heard the sound of boots echoing from the far corridor. Lucian was coming. The master of all who swore themselves to the Horde. Rather than straighten his shoulders, he sniffed, studying the air and piecing together the smells. Faint laudanum. Grass. Horses. Above those three, the tell-tale scent of an alpha and beneath that…nothing. No means of scenting his mood for the master had made it a practice to mask all but the most obvious of indicators.
Moments later, he was upon them.
The master of their existence striding up the hallway with a riding crop. His scowl daring them to say anything of his tardiness. "Eve-ning," he said, lengthening the first syllable. There was a long smear of mud across his waistcoat, something he as usual had either not noticed or did not care to notice. He must have been breaking a horse.
Weylan bent his neck, handing him the second folio. "Sir."
The bull saluted sharply, looking as though he wanted to gore Weylan for addressing the lycan-master first. "Sir."
"As you were," the lycan-master muttered at both of them, flipping through the documents, more concerned with the papers than decorum. "Weylan, you've met Aron, haven't you…"
"I'm afraid not, sir."
The lycan-master looked up briefly, passing a jaded eye over both of them before waving the riding crop left, then right. "Aron, this is Weylan. Weylan, this is Aron." His attention passed from their heads to the door. "Shall we go in?"
"At your leisure," Weylan said, dropping his voice to an understated murmur as the guard walked to the opposite end of the hall. "…and if I may be so bold to ask…" He had to ask. "…why the catacombs, sir?"
"Why indeed," the master reflected, seeming to hold an unspoken grudge against the door as he turned the handle, stepping forward, and letting their vision adjust. A moment in the dark before he turned, smiling his bitterness. "Suffice it to say, the woman you are about to meet is very stubborn," he said, shutting the door behind them. He then raised an arm, indicating that Weylan should go first into whatever hell they were about to enter. The circular steps winding down into the earth, the ceiling at times close enough to warrant ducking their heads. Mold on the walls and an icy draft beneath their feet. It stank of the dead.
When they reached the bottom, Weylan saw a light beneath the iron door. The lycan-master, seeming to find its presence interesting, said nothing and with only a brief nod in the way of preparation, he took hold of the door's handle and pushed. A freezing gust of air sweeping past them. The path leading them through the first cell of stones and dirt into the second. The light coming from four candles laid on an oak table and at the far end, a woman seated on one of three battered chairs. Her shoulders covered by a dingy blanket and her breath showing as mist. It was freezing down here.
And this was not the woman he had expected.
She was old…but like nothing he had ever seen before. White hair hanging limp to her shoulders, but the ends uneven, like they had never been cut properly. Dressed like a man whose clothing had been tailored to fit a woman; her torso bundled in a woollen shirt buttoned to her neck, her legs hidden in a thick pair of grey breeches. Her knees drawn up as though she were perching. Her eyes turning towards him as he entered and then away, sharp and unforgiving. Like the sea hiding its dead.
"Miss Jeanne Antoinette…" Lucian had moved between them, his tongue turning to Russian. "…allow me to introduce one of our esteemed advisors, Mr. Weylan Jones." His hand passed in the other direction. "Mr. Jones, I have the pleasure of presenting to you Miss Jeanne Antoinette, recently of Budapest."
The light flickered, casting shadows on her face. A mysterious woman, hard in the jaw, the wrinkles speaking of a beauty that had been lost. She looked cagily from one to the other and then spoke, seeming to ignore the elegant introduction. Her words falling on undiscerning ears as she addressed the lycan-master in a flurry of Latin. Pushing her jaw out roughly as she spoke, indicating the papers in his hand.
Her scent one of profound distrust.
Where her question was blunt, Lucian's reply was quiet. Ingratiating even, like someone who had put a great deal of thought into how he would discuss this issue with the woman in front of him. He indicated himself, Weylan, and the papers they were holding, speaking with an air that spoke of…ease. Sincerity. The sense that everything would be well if she would but look upon the papers.
Her fingers were now gripping the sides of her chair. She spoke a second time, her tone not only rough, but resentful now…like a young woman forced to accept an unappreciated and unwanted caller. The comparison making no sense even as he thought of it. She was old and weak, perhaps an informant whose Change was late in life. And yet, if she was an informant, why was she not grateful? How could she not see the patience the lycan-master was bestowing upon her…
The argument seeming to reach an impasse, one the lycan-master was now trying to cross by drawing her back into Russian. A diplomat at his best. He took a seat across from her. "Reinette, I have explained this matter," he said. "Every exile requires a petition for leniency and Weylan…" He amended the name. "…Mr. Jones is here to help you. He is a trusted member of our society, one to whom you will at least give the courtesy of speaking Russian."
Weylan felt the woman's gaze turn on him. She did not look impressed, her irises starting to Change in the corners. He kept his expression steady, his manners calm, yet in his mind, he found himself feeling…disarmed and discounted at the same time. A proud creature, she did not smell charmed by his appearance. Rather, she sniffed sharply and then flicked her attention back to Lucian, a single word falling from her lips. "Minime."
One of the few words he could pick up without a dictionary.
No.
There was an awkward silence. Lucian was staring at her…as though he was not entirely sure what he was seeing…and then very slowly, he put his pen down and leaned across the table. His words quiet, but swift in their intensity. Something that had broken his patience, something Weylan could only imagine had caused the lycan-master to explain precisely why an official status was necessary, why she was being an ungrateful whelp of a vampire, and why he, for one, did not feel like having her executed on a mere technicality while presenting her to his council.
And where charm had failed, rancour had succeeded. Her face draining of colour before she took a breath and then answered, her voice sounding deeper when she spoke Russian, almost like a crooning song. "You said you were the final vote." Her tone was accusatory.
"Yes, but I can't vote on someone that doesn't have papers." He looked at her briefly, and then at the papers. His tone adjusted as though not to…frighten her. Something Weylan assumed to be a ruse. The man was masking his scent, surely he wished to come across as humane for his own purposes. "Do you understand…there is nothing to worry about as long as you are forthcoming."
"Forthcoming?" She rubbed her neck, still eyeing him. There were scrapes on the exposed skin, the suggestion that she had spent more than just the last few days crawling through tunnels. "You promised me safety if I chose your side and now you tell me it all hinges on whether I have a perfumed piece of paper or not…"
"A scent card." He left it at that, taking a seat and indicating that Weylan should do the same. The man was running his hand a little bit too hard across the table, his impatience starting to show. "…can we just get this over with?"
She still looked suspicious. "Where does our deal stand?"
Weylan's ears pricked up. Deal. The lycan-master was notorious for gambling, and not just with money. Watching them, he took his seat, blending with the background as he set up the small writing apparatus. His pens and the papers laid out. All the while listening and watching, recording in his memory what was occurring here. Though he would never divulge the master's secrets, he counted himself among the ranks of those curious as to how exactly Lucian planned to use this woman…
Lucian was holding the first page of her residency papers out for her to see. The scent of impulsiveness rising out of the mask. "The deal is the same. You can stay or go, but from my perspective, if you choose to 'stay,' then you need to stand before my council in four months, and to do that, you still need to have a scent card."
"Are you saying I have to travel in four months?"
"Perhaps."
She ignored the paper. "So how can the deal be the same if I travel?"
He sighed, letting the paper start to hang. It was not his arm that was getting tired. "Because if you do not travel, you waive your right to demonstrate your worth before my council…and as we both know, Reinette, your worth is something people need to hear to appreciate."
"Lyosha, my 'worth'…as you call it…is staying downstairs," she said. It was plainly spoken, the speech of a governess explaining the facts of life to little ears. Apparently hell had started.
He licked one of his teeth, giving the impression of sharpening them rather than cleaning. "Reinette, think of it as an addendum," he said. "You come upstairs…for an interim of only two weeks. You travel. We present you to my council, and before you know it, you'll be languishing in this…" He looked around him. "…graveyard once more."
"No."
The page fell to the table. "What if I gave you my word?"
"You mean like on the ship?"
Her expression could have melted silver. Neither of them blinked. A rather tense minute passing before the lycan-master exhaled, his jaw tightening before he spoke, seeming to address the words not only to the ceiling, but to himself. "The lady doubts me," he said, letting the words settle between them like a bitter wine, its taste found to be wholly lacking in quality. His next words spoken like a gauntlet thrown on the table. "Weylan, act as a witness." It was an order. One that he gave often, though never in a setting such as this…
Weylan poised his pen. "Ready, sir."
"Take note that the 'original terms' are the same," he said, looking up to the ceiling, shifting around in his chair until only his profile was visible, seeming to compose his words as he uttered them, the overall effect coming across as listless. "…but if it pleases her, we sign a formally notarised addendum dated the fourteenth of January 1900." He made a circular, waving motion with two fingers. "Referring to the original terms of her stay, she is now to be afforded two weeks of truce from the catacombs, so that she can travel once during the year." He held up a finger to symbolise the 'once' and then pointed at Weylan. "Add a footnote. The moment we return and she re-enters the catacombs, the truce ends and the deal resumes."
"Exactly where it left off…" She was sitting forward on her chair.
He was now flicking the mud off his waistcoat. "Fine."
"…with all my things intact and where I left them."
"Yes, yes."
Weylan was writing swiftly, trying to keep up. Trying to imagine what kind of deal the lycan-master could possibly have made with this woman. Something that smacked of…stubbornness rather than paperwork. Having served the master for this long, he had some insight into his eccentricities. The kind that typically jumped down holes without telling anyone …
"Sir, if I may ask…" He coughed his intrusion gently. "…were the original terms witnessed and if so, is there a chance of seeing the document?"
"Witnessed…" The lycan-master's hand stood poised over his shirt for a moment. He seemed to be pondering something. And then he looked up, squinting across the table with an expression that belied the severity of the setting. "…bloods, did we even write them down?"
For a moment, Weylan assumed himself to be the recipient of this question, and then he closed his mouth, realising that it was in fact, the woman to whom the master was speaking. And she replying. His eyes taking in the sight, astounded by what he was seeing. For she could not have known what she was doing. That to…reply…to the master in such a fashion was to invite disaster upon oneself.
"You marked it on the ship. On the desk," she added, as though not entirely certain he could comprehend logic. Her eyes folding back to the ceiling, her scent filled with complete disgust, as though once again, she could not believe she had to sit through this.
"Does that count?" He had shifted in his chair again, now looking over his shoulder at her. "I mean, it's wood, not paper, Reinette. It 'breaks before it bends'…"
She narrowed her eyes, saying something curt back in Latin.
"Yes…and you were drunk the night before that," he replied acidly. "Do you see me judging you?"
Weylan was keeping his eyes on the paper now. He did not trust himself to speak for this was the most…unexpected…thing he had seen in forty years of service. The lycan-master speaking so nonchalantly with a Blood. Everyone knew he avoided them. Some suggesting it was too painful for him; others vowing that it was hatred, not pain that kept him away from the Exile's Quarter. Why was he not rebuking her?
The woman's voice piped up. "Is he writing it down or not?"
"Weylan, write this down." Lucian sat forward, by all appearances, negotiating a peace treaty rather than an underground deal with one of his prisoners. "Original terms—an agreement dated the third of October 1899, between one alias, Aleksey Itzhak, henceforth referred to as Lyosha…" He indicated himself and then waved a tired hand in her direction. "…and one alias, Miss Jeanne Antoinette, henceforth referred to as Reinette, an exiled vampire bound in service to the horde. Full stop."
There was an interim as they waited for him to catch up again. His fingers starting to lock up from the cold, but his hand remaining elegant. …bound in the service to the…horde.
Weylan looked up. "Ready."
"Next paragraph." Lucian had his hands behind his head, locking his fingers and leaning back into his chair. "For a period of one year, addendums aside, if Reinette chooses to remain in the den, referring henceforth to any den under my leadership, she is, from that very hour, allied to me for one century. Full stop. If she chooses to leave…" He paused and then frowned. "Scratch that last word…to escape rather than remain under my protection, she gets her freedom…in addition to an unnamed head, which we both agree cannot be written down for reasons of den security." He looked back at the lady, by his expression, inviting her displeasure. "Anything to add?"
She muttered something terse in Latin.
It went from bad to worse. Instead of ordering her to resume Russian, the lycan-master gave a short, mirthless laugh and then turned in his seat, carrying on the conversation, his words suggesting that she could say whatever she had just said, but at the end of day, no one had forced her to shake hands on the deal. They were speaking Latin again. It seemed to be something they just…did.
The lycan-master's timepiece ticking away as they argued. The papers lying untouched, the tone of their respective voices starting to remind Weylan not of an inquisition, not of a warlord frightening someone into submission, but of…something he could not even begin to put into words. Something his mind was unwilling to say–for even to think it was to insult the pride of their Horde.
And at the rate they were going, it would be spring before they even looked at the residency application. Autumn before they even noticed that he was still sitting there. Raze had always made it clear, if at any point, the lycan-master decided to wander off track, it was his job to remind him of the trail. Never argue. Never disobey. Merely remind. Bearing this in mind, Weylan cleared his throat softly.
They both looked up.
Neither of them seemed to appreciate the interruption. Masking his discomfort, Weylan coughed again, touching a hand to his chest, wishing he had kept silent. It did little but send the conversation down an even worse path, one where they actually seemed to discuss things rather than argue. The woman staring in disgust at him for several seconds and then speaking to the lycan-master in Russian again. "Does no one speak Latin any more?"
Lucian shrugged, massaging his beard thoughtfully. "It used to be compulsory," he said. "…but then English took over and Latin became the ground upon which other languages trod. Very sad, but that's just how the modern world moves." He seemed to almost mourn it as much as she did. "Astounding how everyone speaks it…"
"I am not everyone…"
"And you will not be anyone if you do not learn English, Reinette." He was bartering, the residency papers seemingly forgotten beneath his hand. "Think of it as an exchange–you learn English, and I will…" It was like dragging teeth. "…attempt to learn Swedish or–whatever it was…and we can astound each other with our abilities."
She said it very quietly. "Swedish?"
The tension growing by a measure. Their eyes locked on one another. He seemed to be chewing on something and then randomly threw out another word. "Finnish."
"Norse," she grimaced. She was doing it again. Speaking to their…leader…as though he was an idiot, her scent speaking of an aimless dream where she hoped to scrape her nails across his face and come away with something more than hopeless. "I am half…Norse, Lyosha."
"Pff…" He shrugged, giving her a look that said he only wished life was as simple as her situation. "Half-Sami. Half-Norwegian." Drawing a pen from his coat pocket, he angled the first sheet of her lenience application, writing the words down diligently. "We have half your papers done already."
"Norse."
He scratched it out. "Norse," he amended before looking up. "Anything else?"
She gave him a look.
In response, he seemed to assess it for approximately three seconds and then added a note on the margins of the same paper. "Hates…ev-ery-one," he wrote out slowly, seeming quite comfortable with a woman stripping his skin off with a look. And then he tapped his pen in Weylan's direction, a subtle hint to 'keep up.'
Having learned not to gulp at a young age, Weylan bowed his head gracefully, quickly noting the words 'Sami' and 'Norse' on his copy of the file. He was starting to understand what was at play here. The lycan-master was using him not for his charm, but for his presence. Though she paid little attention to him, the placement of a complete stranger in the room made her more…approachable…to the only person she knew better than a stranger.
"Moving on…" The master was chewing his pen now. "Caucasian woman." He scribbled a note. "Wrinkled, grey complexion." His pen was running down the list of previous notation from the Lady Allegra, checking off each line. "'Height/5'2.' Very short. 'Weight/98 lbs.' Needs to eat something." By his tone, he could have been assessing an artefact. "Irises blue, but let's call them 'heartless and cold.'" Check. "Hair appears white, but if I am any judge, Reinette, you are…" He frowned, seeming to size her up. "…a natural brunette."
She scoffed, turning away.
He barely noticed. "Further proof I am gifted," he muttered, writing it down.
Weylan was following along on his own papers, but where the master was actually adding the vulgar notes, he was sticking to the official notations. The master must have known he was shaming her. Mortification and anger mingling with the scent of dirt and bones, pride and prejudice…the kind of woman that would prefer torture over the presence of this man…and yet… His nose was having difficulty processing this information. How to explain the scent lying beneath her anger. The barest hint of it, so faint, that it made him wonder if his nose had gone off.
Appearing unaffected by the contrasting scents he must be smelling, the lycan-master was now thwacking his pen against the table, reading the next section. He underlined two words on the paper, enunciating the Russian. "Buh-lood Lineage."
The woman's eyes darted up from the floor. Her tongue almost spitting the word. "What?"
Lucian snapped his fingers at Weylan.
A cue.
"Of course, sir…" Weylan sat forward. It was the first time he would get to address this woman. Something he had prepared for, something he was groomed for. It did not explain why she made him feel like a schoolboy. "…there are several components to the question, ma'am." It felt compulsory to call her 'ma'am', and yet, in all his life, he had never once called a vampire prisoner 'ma'am.' "The first being—if you don't mind my asking—were you born a vampire or Changed?'"
"Changed."
"And erhm…" He was having difficulty with his words for the first time in forty years. "…do you recall the name of your Blood Sire?"
"My what?" There was a cold blush rising with her jaw. She looked affronted. The questions were coming across as rude.
"The person who changed you, Reinette. Man or woman…forget the word 'sire,' we just need a name." Lucian was rocking back and forth on his chair, seemingly intrigued by the angled nature of the floor.
She made a dismissive sound. This was the difficult part. Vampires never wanted to give away their history. "I know it was a woman, but I don't remember her name."
"And I'd say that's guff," said Lucian, starting to scrawl what appeared to be a rather…rude…outline on the side of her residency papers. "…but we can move on if you're too shy to say 'Áris.'"
"Áris is a man's name." She seemed to be building up a wall around herself. "…so it goes without saying, whomever I was looking for could not have been the woman who Changed me."
"Unless it was a man that Changed you."
"It was a woman."
"A woman with balls…" He emphasised the word.
They were arguing again. Weylan making notes as best as he could. He had no idea who Áris was, but there were cases where exiles had no names or dates in their blood history. It should be fine to move on to the next item. "Sir, I've…" Weylan cut in. "I've put down 'Blood Sire: Unknown'…does that work for the time being?"
"Yes, that's fine." The lycan-master did not seem to care either way. They were eyeing each other, apparently able to carry on their arguments without saying anything. "What's next?"
"Year of…" Weylan dared to speak. "…Changing…that is to say, your age, ma'am?"
"Oh, she'll just lie for that." Lucian sat back, speaking casually. "…Reinette, make something up so we can write down 'Lies.'"
Her tongue lashed out. "I told you I don't remember."
He scoffed. "Which is about as useful as us writing down 'old as Rome' simply because you happen to look that way." Despite the cruelty of his statement, he was looking deep in thought. His arms crossed, the mind still clearly trying to solve this age-old puzzle of how old this woman might be. And yet Weylan could not help but wince. For it was also one of those moments; most lycans were familiar with them. The ones where the lycan-master…opened his mouth…and the thing that was in his head…came out of his mouth.
His opponent looking shocked beyond reason. Her perch seeming less certain, her scent suddenly filled with a wave of rancour and hurt. As though even she had not expected him to say that.
The silence pronounced, until the lycan-master began to notice that she was not replying. Considering what he might have just said, and then rubbing the length of his jaw, massaging it as though he was not entirely sure it was still attached. His words coming across as incredibly quiet, given how volatile his reputation was. "That came out wrong."
It was Weylan's turn to gape as much as he was able, his eyes glancing to the side. Keeping his head faced front, but still managing to study the lycan-master's expression. Was that an apology? Even if it was, that would be the last they'd hear about it.
"I just remember you mentioning the baths, Reinette." Lucian was rubbing a finger up and down his brow, as though trying to erase something inside. "Three thousand mortals ladling themselves in greasy water. I believe you called them 'sweaty.'"
"Having a memory of something does not make it mine, Lyosha." She looked profoundly exhausted. "…and what does it matter how old I am? My face is still wrinkled, my memories are still shot, while you…" Almost on the verge of cursing, she brandished a finger at him…and then the sentence trailed off.
You.
She was looking at him with a wondrous expression. The word seeming to hang between them. She squinted as though only now seeing this man in front of her for the first time. A hand moving slowly up to her mouth, a breath of understanding falling from her lips. Soon closing her eyes and then shaking her head, seeming to curse her own stupidity. She had realised something…but what?
An old woman.
One who might have remembered things she ought not to have known..
Already, Weylan was preparing himself, his hand edging towards his revolver. She knew something…and if Lucian required it of him, he would do as he must to protect the lycan-master's identity. Before he could shift his hand, he felt the eyes of Lucian on him, the sudden wash of hostility in his scent giving him enough warning to 'stand…the fuck…down.' Ashamed, he let his left hand fall back into the shadows, his right still holding the pen to the paper. Of course the lycan-master could protect himself.
Unaware of the momentary danger, the woman had failed to notice the exchange. There was more than just suspicion in her scent now. She looked tired, yet her thoughts, her questions, her tone was completely on point, like a scent-hound that had found its prey. The only issue being that her words were now in Latin. She gestured to herself, the language cascading off her tongue for the third time that evening. Even if he'd learned it as a child, he'd not have been able to follow it. She was asking something of the lycan-master, the two of them seeming to have a reached a place beyond argument. The master listening with a brooding air, keeping his peace and waiting for the entirety of her question.
Something serious.
Unable to translate, Weylan kept his hand ready. For the revolver, not the pen. His interest piqued. The Roman baths. She was right in saying memories could be passed during the Change…even select memories if an immortal was strong enough. But if the one who Changed her knew who the lycan-master truly was…there could be a problem. A serious problem if they had to put her in front of the council. He continued to hold in his curiosity, waiting for the answer…and receiving disappointment instead. Dismissal. The lycan-master's hand rising and for a moment, making a hand signal that went without saying…
Wait outside.
A/N: Apologies for the long wait (it was certainly the longest I've ever gone without putting a new chapter up).
Many thanks to: Celtic Aurora, Vanadesse Meldiriel, Emerald Gaze, JARETHSxNUMBER1LOVER, Ms-silent-dogwood, Emk23, BothHandsInHerPocket, mas, Mackep, Child-1763, TwilightEyes715, LadyxAbsinthe, Jolena, Savysnape7, Shiegra, borgprincess, anenemies, c3144160, Quinn14, Miranda Pippin, emzi13, Puritania-x, EvilSakurarules, pamelawright, Katara Melody Cullen, Ennya, mas1994, Kangore, sessys girl forever, and MikuAngel for the reviews, favourites, and alerts!
Hope readers can get back into the story. As always, feel free to read and review.
Celtic Aurora: Hope you like the Lucian in Chapter 44 better...he's still an ass, but not as smarmy. More disgruntled. ;) Sorry to have gotten rid of Reinette's somewhat-kindly side in the last chapter, but it'll probably show up again once she's no longer washing in freezing cold water. Anyway, thanks for the review! They keep me going.
Vanadesse Meldiriel: Thank you! Hope another shriek of delight ensues despite the long absence of updates. _
Emerald Gaze: Glad you liked all those parts (although a number of them have been re-written, but hopefully for the better :)) On the plus side, even though the Sabine/Reinette conversation was removed, it's definitely still Sabine who took the last of his laudanum, so it's quite likely that he's going to have to deal with that at some point (not that she did a bad thing. He's a terrible addict _).
JARETHSxNUMBER1LOVER: Thank you!
Ms-silent-dogwood: I had contrasting feelings about this review. On the one hand, my initial thoughts were quite negative (partly because I wasn't certain whether you meant 'u think it is amazing.' or 'I think it is amazing.' Ending it with 'Lol' did not help.) On the other hand, there were lots of very kind things written and in the end, it made me realise that the whole point of the story is the detail. I will however try to make the plot line move a touch faster and perhaps include an explosion or two (I am being serious, not sarcastic. There will be an explosion soon, not to mention World War I whenever we get to it). Thanks for the review.
Emk23: Excellent! Always love a new reader. _
BothHandsInHerPocket: Wonderful! Thank you for saying that (as well as for the second review.) Hope this latest chapter keeps you in love with the story. :)
mas & Mackep: I am so so sorry for leaving you guys without a chapter for so long. Forgive me and I promise I won't do it again (certainly not for six months. Shame on me!)