A/N: And we're back! I'm so sorry I haven't updated in a while, but here we go again! To be honest, I've gotten so distracted by the historical research I've been doing that I postponed writing. Also because of that, the story/ characters might shift based on my research. So if anyone has anything that would be historically relevant that could be added to the story or is just interesting, I'd love to hear it! Shoutout to Uni Students and Collegestudent, you guys keep this fun. As always, correct me if something is terribly wrong! Enjoy!

Let into the hall, Walt sighed a breath of relief. His chest was still tight- would be until he met the president- but he loosened his grip on his satchel anyway. Pen and paper back in the bag, Walt watched as men went in and out of the large office room. Inside, the hallway was cluttered with men, dressed in tall hats and canes with their coattails hanging above their knees. Among these men, Walt looked scruffy, felt scruffy, unable to blend in with the sophistication of men from a different class. The door swung open. Downcast, another man exitted. Behind him, a flash movement. A man walked behind a large wooden desk framed by dotted wallpaper and high ceilings. His face was pointed downward, obscured by a stream of light entering the room. A tall silk hat lay on a table beside him. He looked up. For a moment, Walt could have sworn he was looking him directly in the eyes. A woman crossed into the frame, closing the door. The sound of men pacing, coughing, and talking flooded back into Walt's ears, struck back into his surroundings. A man was chewing tobacco loudly next to him. The smell of smoke and horses wafted in from outside. The noise was cacophonous. And Walt was in the middle of it.

It was far too late to turn around. He had waited too long to get here. Mindlessly, he stepped forward in line as the people around him milled about.

"I'll ask you to remove any weapons you have on hand, sir. When you enter the room I'd remind you to keep full respect of the President, greet him with honor…"

The line shortened, Walt stepped up, and, suddenly, he was at the door. Before he could acknowledge the closeness, another man walked out, a woman gathered up her skirts and left the door open behind her as she entered another hall to his right. Walt moved without meaning to, walking inside. His heartbeat quicked to such a pulse he could have sworn he was close to collapse. The door shut behind him.

Curiosity would kill the president, Mary was sure of it. Of all the things he could do, Abraham had chosen to speak to the common straggler. Some stiffnecked complainer who wants government money and probably knows nothing about politics or the complexities of the political world. No, Abraham was too good hearted, too bloody kind and damned curious about what uneducated lower classmen had to say than to listen to the tune of the press, or the generals, or to congress for God's sake. And God forbid he listen to her. Crazy Mary can only seek counsel from the president when she needs drapes and new furniture, things that inspire her, things that make her think of colors dividing and reforming, draping over each other and twisting alongside different shades, furniture that is dark black walnut in sharp contrast to the explosion she saw both inside and outside of her. The house could speak past, present, and future to Mary, if only someone would listen. But her words were never important enough for the president. Crazy Mary shouldn't be thinking about politics or the war at all. Crazy Mary, with her fits and tremors, her needs to express in bold color and shouts followed with days of black pain that make it impossible for anyone to take her seriously. The carpets on the floor mocked her, their garish colors opposing her moral fibers. Mary shook her head, continuing down the elongated hall. There is too much to bear in this big, presidential house. Drab upholstery wailing like a child, a baby weeping in its crib. And here she was, in this house of disappointment and despair Her husband in the other room. Who has ever felt more alone?