Author's Note: Here are the instructions for reading this chapter.

1. Don't pass out cold. This is an update. You are not delusional, you are not drunk (er…well, I hope not). This. Is. Real.

2. Remain calm. Do not hyperventilate. It isn't healthy.

3. Do not…I repeat, DO NOT…come after Flare with a butcher knife, shotgun, table leg, blazing torch, or other hazardous object.

I could be cute and say I lost my keyboard. I could be melodramatic and say my house burned down and my whole family perished and I was hospitalized for a couple months, followed by massive psychological therapy. I could be evil and say I completely lost my obsession with Newsies and the world of fanfiction (BLESSED GODDESS FORBID!!) Or…I could be honest. And say, damn long-term writer's block to eternal suffering.

Anyone who reads this has my passionate, out-of-control, undying love and devotion for sticking with a fic that will probably be finished when they're grandparents. But there is one person for whom I have a special note…and I think you know who you are.

Chelsea/StormShadow—What to say? I love you. You know it. I hereby solemnly declare that I love you more than any author has ever loved a reviewer. And for this reason, I am humbly hoping that you will not brutally murder me for my inexcusable disappearance. To save my life, I have only two things to say for myself. One: this story is not, NOT, ABSOLUTELY NOT getting abandoned again. I know the entire plot in great detail and I am going to transfer that entire plot into writing as fast as I can from now on, and I don't care if it kills me. I can't speak for Appassionata yet, but I promise I will do my best to get back to that as well. Two: I didn't exactly entirely disappear. And you may interpret that however you like. But I will just happen to mention that you seem to find me no matter what…and the name "Alias" may be…well, exactly that.

And that's all I'm saying. ::whistles innocently::

September 23, 1899, 8:30 A.M.

Manhattan

Selling the next morning was a grim affair. In the lodging house, as the newsies made their usual daily preparations, Flick accepted an apology from Secret for her sorely regretted words; but both of them, as well as all the other witnesses, knew that it was meaningless. Secret's remark had stung more than a simple apology could heal, and Flick was not possessed of a readily forgiving nature. Therefore, the atmosphere along Mulberry Street, the latest selling spot selected by the two girls and their usual three male companions, was awkward and crackling with tension.

"Flick?" Blink muttered at one point, after the group had been lightening their stacks of papers for about two and a half hours, and the strain was becoming unbearable.

"Mmm?"

"Could ya please punch someone an' get it oveh wit?"

The dragon chuckled darkly, but she knew what he meant. The whole morning felt like a delicate plate that needed to be deliberately shattered before it exploded of its own accord. And she supposed that everyone would be a lot more comfortable if she finally gave in and soaked someone, as opposed to eyeing every one of them as if she was going to soak them.

Secret kept her eyes on her papes, and refrained from uttering a single word that wasn't part of an improved headline. This worried Mush, bothered Race and Blink, and disgusted Flick, but surprised no one. As for Flick's black eye, she had made up a sketchy story, void of details, about running off from the race the previous night and getting into a fight. There was not a single lie contained in it; simply the same half-truths that were becoming the bane of Racetrack's existence. Most of the boys had swallowed it; Flick fighting was no more shocking than anyone else breathing. Only Race, Mush, and Blink had exchanged irritated glances, and Secret had shed her blank face for a moment and shot Flick a look that basically stated, If dis was normal coicumstances, I'd have da whole story outta ya in a second.

But circumstances were far from normal; and, since Flick wisely resisted taking Blink's advice, and Secret's silence remained unbroken, they continued to grow less and less normal, until the sun crawled into its noon position and stomachs began to growl. All five partners tried to resist for a few minutes, but finally Blink wandered over to Mush and beckoned the others to congregate.

"Uh, guys..." His eyes darted across his friends' faces, as if expecting one of them to give a wild scream and attack him at any moment. "We, uh, goin' ta Tibby's?"

Flick's stomach immediately performed a flip-flop at the very idea of being in a crowded room full of chattering boys right now. She turned a frantic expression on Race, hoping he would rescue her. Reading the "no" in her eyes, he rose to the occasion.

"Nah," he said quickly in response to Blink's question, "I don't really feel like Tibby's, but...Flick, ya 'memba dat one venda we tried once, neah Medda's...on da night o' ya foist horse race?"

"Yeah!" Flick smiled in surprise; she remembered it well, but hadn't expected him to.

"Wanna go see if he's still around?"

"Shoah." Praying silently, she turned to her other three friends. "Youse guys can jist go widdout us, dough--"

"Actually," Mush interrupted, softly but firmly, startling all of them, "dere's kinda somewheah else I wanted ta go...well, somewheah I wanted ta take Secret."

At this, Secret abruptly jerked toward him, her face wearing the startled dismay of a mouse caught in a trap. Hopefully, she scanned the group for someone to rescue her from the situation, as Race had rescued Flick; then she seemed to remember that she was currently a semi-outcast with no allies. Biting her lip, she returned her gaze to Mush and managed one timid syllable: "Wheah?"

"Dere's someone I want ya ta meet," Mush replied earnestly. "Will ya come?"

There was a pause, while Secret chewed her lip, considered her options, and allowed Mush's eyes to reduce her heart to a pile of Jello. Then, reluctantly, she nodded.

"Great!" Mush's face lit up, and he took her arm and headed down the street, ignoring the fact that Secret looked like she was being marched to the executioner.

"Gee," Blink commented, eyes first following Mush and Secret, then settling on Flick and Race, "don't I feel loved."

Race snickered. "Go ta Tibby's," he suggested. "Dey'll be wond'rin' what happened ta da rest of us."

"Yeah," Flick chimed in, "tell 'em it was a mass suicide."

"Dey'll believe it," Blink answered at once. With a wave, he bounded off in the direction of Tibby's, whistling with his usual enthusiasm; though he did spare one backward glance for the two retreating couples, and mumbled under his breath, "I'se almost expectin' it ta come true."

"So," Race asked as he and Flick made their way toward Broome Street, the location of Irving Hall and the vendor they both remembered, "we gonna have dat tawk now?"

Flick shook her head adamently. "Latah, a'right? Right now I feel like my head's 'bout ta explode. I don't even wanna t'ink 'bout Secret or whateveh's goin' on wit 'er."

Race nodded sympathetically. "So, whatcha wanna tawk about?"

Flick pondered this question lazily. It wasn't as if the two of them had no common interests, but poker and horses could only be discussed so frequently before the subjects were temporarily exhausted. Then she brightened.

"Don't tell me youse f'gotten what ya promised las' night."

Race grinned. "Oh yeah! Italian lessons, right?"

"Right." She waited expectantly as they passed the rare sight of a few scruffy trees, and crunched over the scarlet, gold, and orange leaves they had shed. It was these that inspired Race. Figuring leaves made as good a start as any, he picked one up and displayed it to Flick, identifying it as foglia.

"Foe-glee-uh." Flick repeated the unfamiliar word uncertainly, and Race felt it necessary to correct her pronunciation. After a few more tries, he was satisfied, and they moved on, taking turns selecting random words.

"How 'bout goil?"

"Ragazza. An' boy is ragazzo."

"City?"

"Citta. Lodgin' house is pensione."

"Night."

"Notte. Day's giorno."

"Dark? Moon?"

"Buio an' luna. Light is luce, an' sun's sole."

"How d'ya say star?"

"Stella."

At this point, Race managed to curb Flick's enthusiasm by insisting that they move more slowly, and encouraged her to repeat back each of the words he had just given her. Her memory was sharp, but she was only human; mistakes were made. Consequently, repetitions were rattled off, accented syllables emphasized, memory devices invented. The two friends reached Broome, discovered their vendor, absentmindedly bought a pair of sandwiches, settled down on a corner bench to eat them, and continued their lessons. Word after word Flick listened to, analyzed, repeated, reviewed, and committed to memory. Race was rather astonished by the whole process; for one thing, he had never exactly thought of himself as a teacher, except perhaps in the fine art of poker, and for another, he had not said or even heard most of these words in years. But it was fun, and relaxing, and it was a distraction, something to take their mind off of present conflicts...which was something for which they were both deeply grateful.

Eventually, however, Race had to admit to himself that Flick had absorbed about as much vocabulary as was humanly possible in one sitting, and anyway, they still had papers to sell. He smiled to himself for a moment, watching Flick muttering an especially long and difficult word under her breath, the afternoon sun spotlighting her vivid hair and pert, impish features. Her eyes were the clear, soft blue of a robin's egg, reflections of a summer sky.

"Ya ready ta go back ta sellin', fiamma?" he asked mischievously.

Flick called a truce in her battle with arrivederci to return his smirk. "Dat mean 'Flick'?"

"Nah," Race countered. "Flame."

Flick laughed aloud at that, testing the new word with approval. "Fiamma.I like it."

"Careful," Race joked, "or yeh'll lose track o' all ya nicknames." He deftly dodged a blow, wondering in the back of his mind whether there was any profession for which dodging was a required skill; if so, Flick had prepared him well for it.

"Dere's only t'ree," she pointed out peevishly, "an' I'se gonna jump fer joy if dis one replaces 'dragon'."

A thoughtful mood was starting to creep over Racetrack now, as he eyed the pale, slender form of the girl by his side.

"Speakin' o' names," he spoke up hesitantly, "what's ya real name, Flick?" It had just occurred to him that he didn't know.

Flick's eyes narrowed at the question. "Flick is my name. Ya got a problem wit it?"

Race rolled his eyes; he was learning to tell when she was seriously mad, ready to blaze into a wildfire, and when it was just her temper reacting instinctively: a mild, harmless "spark".

"Fine, I'll rephrase dat. What'd ya mudda call ya?"

Seeing that there was no way to dodge the question this time, Flick continued to eye her friend hostilely for a few seconds, before dropping her eyes to the ground. Race was startled to see her cheeks tinge slightly in what suspiciously resembled a blush.

"I'll tell ya if you tell me yers," she grumbled.

Now it was Race's turn to blush. May as well get it oveh wit. "Anthony," he confessed with a sigh. His hand flew to cover Flick's mouth before she could laugh, though the laughter danced in her eyes just as merrily. "Ev'ryone always called me Tony, dough," he added, believing the diminutive to be a mild improvement.

"Tony Higgins," Flick mused, pushing his hand away and grinning. At his hurt expression, she struggled to straighten her face. "It ain't so bad, Race. Really."

"Yeah, yeah...now let's heah yers."

Flick abruptly lost the need to suppress laughter; her face smoothed out completely, as blank and solemn as it was when she was gambling, and she directed her gaze at a point on the ground, squinting between two bench slats. Resignedly, she murmured a single syllable.

"What?" Race leaned toward her, enjoying her discomfort. "Gotta speak up dere, Flick, I don't t'ink dey hoid ya in Greenwich Village."

Flick raised her eyes to glare at her tormentor. It was all right for him; he had probably only abandoned his birth name a few years back, and it was likely that some of the other newsboys knew it. She hadn't spoken or even heard hers in ten years, and couldn't even think of a single living person who knew it except Secret.

"Maeve. My name's Maeve. A'right?"

She waited for Racetrack's muffled snicker or burst of laughter. To her surprise, neither was forthcoming. Instead, Race stared at her as if he had never seen her before. His only verbal response was a whispered echo.

"Maeve?"

Grimly, Flick nodded.

"Maeve." Slowly, to Flick's growing confusion, Racetrack positively beamed at her. "Flick, dat's a great name! It suits ya. Really, it does." He chuckled. "An' heah ya had me worried it was Mary or Susan or sometin'." He shook his head and tried her full name, as she had tried his. "Maeve O'Grady."

"Maeve Agnes O'Grady," Flick corrected, pleased with his approval, and feeling slightly guilty about making fun of 'Anthony'. "Agnes after me mam."

"Ya mudda?" Surprised, Race frowned at this reference to a person whom he realized Flick had never mentioned before. It was slowly dawning on him just how little he knew about this girl, or at least about her background.

"I barely 'memba her. She died when I was five," Flick explained quickly, twisting a lock of hair around her index finger in an uncharacteristic display of unease.

Race didn't bother with the customary 'I'se sorry', knowing Flick wasn't the type to expect or desire the meaningless words. Instead, he asked gently, "How 'bout ya fadda?"

"Neveh knew 'im. Died 'fore I was born. How 'bout yer parents? Am I de only one who hasta share a life story heah?" Flick's curiosity was piqued.

Racetrack shrugged. "My mudda died when I was seven, an' I ran away. Hoid a couple yeahs latah dat my fadda died in a bar fight, not dat I cared."

Flick raised her eyebrows and thumbed through her stack of papers. Maybe it's I good t'ing I neveh had a fadda.

"Hey, Flick," Race began hesitantly, avoiding her eyes. "What about Secret?"

As he had expected, her face closed up and hardened at the mention of the recently taboo name. "What about her? I t'ought we wasn't gonna mention 'er."

"Hey, I ain't mentionin' anytin' dat's happened lately. I mean...what about her fam'ly, her past? She ain't neveh said any moah 'bout it den you have. I know she lived in Harlem an' sold papes wit you an' Song fer eight yeahs...but how 'bout befoah dat?"

Flick stood and lifted her bundle of newspapers. It was well past lunchtime, and they hadn't even finished selling the morning edition yet; they would be out late tonight for certain.

"I dunno."

"C'mon," Race sighed, frustrated, as he started gathering his own papes. "Jist tell me, won't 'cha? At least tell me what happened ta her parents, whedda she's an orphan or runaway or what. How private can dat be?"

"But I toldja," Flick insisted, starting briskly down the street so that Race had to trot to keep up, "I dunno. I found Secret when me an' her was eight, an' Song was eleven. Dis guy in da street was bodderin' her, so I punched 'im."

"Big su'prise dere," Race snickered. "Flick from da start."

"You bet. Afta we got away, me an' Song ast 'er questions, what 'er name was an' whedda she had a home an' all dat, but she jist kept shakin' her head an' not tellin' us nothin'."

"Secret from da start," Race observed ruefully.

"Right. She kept sayin' 'It's a secret', so dat's what we called 'er. She was our friend an' sellin' partna from den on."

"All dat time," Race marvelled, selecting a corner to settle on and giving the headlines another once-over, "all dose yeahs togedda, close as any pair o' sistahs, an' ya don't even know 'er name?"

"Dat's right," Flick confirmed, and for the first time, she was hit with the full reality of her lack of knowledge about her best friend. She shrugged almost defensively. "She's Secret. Dat's da kinda poyson she is. She likes ta keep 'er secrets, an' I ain't neveh gonna question dat."

"Flick," Race groaned, shunting his papes aside and momentarily forgetting his livelihood, "she could be anyone."

"Right," Flick snapped, rolling her eyes. "She could be da lost heir o' Brooklyn fer all I know." She winced slightly. "Bad example unda da coicumstances. Now, ya gonna let me go find my own corna or not?"

"Go ahead," Race finally agreed with a philosophical sigh. "T'rough rain an' shine, thick an' thin, tranquility an' chaos, ya gotta keep on carryin' da banna'."

"Dis is wheah we's goin'?"

Wrinkling her nose skeptically, Secret gazed up at the towering form of an apartment building that had seen far better days. The boarded-up windows and painted graffiti seemed to state that all that was missing was a "Condemned" sign on the door. When Mush had told her there was someone he wanted her to meet, she had expected that they would be meeting the person in a restaurant for lunch, not coming right to his home. Nor would she have predicted that this "home" would be in such sad shape.

"Yeah, dis's it," Mush confirmed cheerfully, leading her in through the door. He watched with mild amusement as she glanced around warily, taking in a sparse lobby containing nothing more than a desk and some mismatched furniture with stuffing and springs poking out. Behind the desk sat an ancient-looking woman, head resting on her folded arms, eyes shut, emitting the occasional loud snore.

"Uh...Mush?" The question, Have you gone mad? hung in the air.

Smiling to himself and failing to acknowledge Secret's doubts about his sanity, Mush took her arm and continued to guide her, through the lobby and up several flights of creaky dust-frosted stairs. In between the flights were floors of apartments, which Mush ignored until they reached the third floor. Then he guided his thoroughly bewildered charge down a dingy hallway and right up to an apartment door bearing a number too faded to read. Flashing Secret another heart-throb smile, he knocked politely.

The sequence that followed only increased Secret's puzzled state. There was the click of a key turning, and then the door opened just a crack, so that a slender silver chain stretched between door and wall. A pair of large, almond-shaped emerald eyes, fringed in long curling lashes, peered through the crack from a thin, rosy-cheeked face. At the sight of Mush, a delighted smile bloomed on the face, the eyes lit up like a pair of sparklers, and the door snapped shut. There was the scrape of a latch lifting, and it opened wide.

"Mush! I din't know ya was comin'! An' ya brought a friend! Dis must be Secret! Well, c'mon, both o' youse, whatcha waitin' fer?"

Mystified, Secret allowed a grinning Mush to pull her through the door.

Up close, without the obstacle of a door between them, Secret saw that the girl was probably around seventeen. Tall, slender, long-limbed and willowy, she had a strong, supple build of the sort generally belonging to a dancer. Loose, wispy curls of pale silvery-blonde hair cascaded down her back, also looping whimsically over her forehead, around her ears, and even over her ruddy cheeks and warm, compassionate eyes. Even wearing a wrinkled, stained brown house dress with an ugly, faded floral print, she was pretty enough. In fact, Secret realized against her will, she almost resembled a curly-haired, much more feminine version of Song.

And she had now slipped her arms lovingly around Mush, who returned her embrace with an endearing embarassed delight. "Secret," he announced when they had separated, his cheeks turning a deep red, "I'd like ya ta meet my goil, Victoria Madison. Vicky, dis's..."

"Charlotte Callaway." Secret dipped a wobbly curtsy, pretending not to notice Mush's shocked gape, and pushing back her own shock, not to mention dismay, at hearing the name leave her mouth. Even Flick didn't know her real name! "Bedda known as Secret."

"O' course!" Victoria beamed and shook Secret's hand heartily. "Mush tawks about 'cha all da time. I kept wonderin' when I was gonna meet ya."

Secret tried not to show any surprise at this information, but stole a quick glance at Mush. He talked about her all the time? To his girl? How did poor Victoria feel about that? She didn't seem to show any resent, which Secret thought rather admirable, considering her boy had just showed up at her door with another girl who he "talked about all the time".

"Gah!" Suddenly, Mush smacked himself in the forehead, a rather cheesy expression of surprised disappointment plastered on his face. "Vicky, I'se so sorry, I jist rememba'd...dere's, uh, sometin' I gotta do. Could Secret jist eat heah, an' I'll meet 'er back at da distribution centah?" Without waiting for Victoria's answer, he gave her a quick peck on the lips, murmured, "Love ya," and dashed back out the door.

Secret stared after him, wide-eyed and aghast, but Victoria only chuckled drily. Calmly locking and bolting the door, she then turned to the dark-haired girl she had just met, motioning her over to a small, shabbily furnished alcove that seemed to serve as her living room. She sat down in an armchair, motioned Secret to the one across from it, and asked knowingly, "A'right, why'd he bring ya heah?"

Secret sputtered indignantly. "I dunno! He din't say a t'ing on da way heah! Wouldn't even tell me wheah we was goin', jist said dere was someone he wanted me ta meet, an' how he's gone off ta do who knows what--"

But Victoria was shaking her head, amused. "Dat was an excuse, couldn't ya tell? Dere ain't nuttin' he's gotta do. He jist wanted ta leave ya alone wit me...ain'cha got any idea why?"

About to protest adamently that she did not, Secret paused for a moment to reflect.

"Oh," she pronounced. "Oh. Dammit."

"A revelation?" Victoria guessed.

"Maybe," Secret replied grimly. "D'ya t'ink dat possibly, if a guy t'ought a friend o' his, who happened ta be a goil, was havin' guy troubles, an' she was in da middle of a cold war wit 'er best friend, he'd t'ink dat de obvious solution was jist ta take 'er ta some odda goil, an dey'd tawk it out?"

"Possibly," Victoria agreed solemnly.

"Damn," Secret repeated eloquently.

"Yeah...male logic. Highly questionable at best," Victoria surmised, and Secret smiled. The sensation was odd; it wasn't something she had ever done often, and especially not lately. Perhaps some small part of Mush's 'questionable' logic wasn't far off the mark after all...there was something comforting in the company of a fellow girl, a girl who she hadn't cruelly insulted the day before.

"So ya havin' guy troubles?" Interest and genuine concern showed in the older girl's face as she rested her elbows on the chair's armrest, leaning her chin in her hands. "I'se hoid so much about ya dat I feel like I already know ya, but I din't realize dat ya was goin' wit someone."

"I ain't," Secret replied quickly, then considered this statement. "Dat is...I don't t'ink I am...I don't wanna be...I don't t'ink I wanna be--"

"Whoa!" Victoria laughed and held up her hands. "Ya really are havin' guy troubles. Mind if I ask who da lucky fella is?"

Secret's eyes drifted around the apartment. "Wouldja groan, slap me across da face, an' pass out cold if I said 'Spot Conlon'?"

And suddenly, it all came out. After keeping her mouth sealed firmly shut for the four people she loved best in the world, Secret found herself babbling the whole story to a virtual stranger, from her first meeting with Spot the previous month and the circumstances that caused her to push him in the river, to her inexplicable fascination with him ever since, to her latest Brooklyn visit...and the painful, mixed-up, controversial matter of her first kiss.

Finally she finished, settling back in her chair and gazing rather helplessly at the girl before her, her face making the statement, 'My life is in your hands.'

For a few moments, Victoria said nothing. She closed her eyes and tapped her upper lip with an index finger, as if mulling over the other girl's monologue. Then she spoke carefully, giving weight to the words she chose.

"An' what e'zactly d'ya feel fer him, Secret?"

The question was one which she would have liked to avoid, but hardly unexpected. She answered as honestly as she could. "Fascination, like I said..." Her face flushed deeply. "Um...lust, I guess. Obviously not 'love', seein' as I don't even know da kid, an' I'se prob'ly too young fer dat anyway. But it's woise den not lovin' him...I don't even like him! I t'ink he's an arrogant idiot, I don't really care 'bout his feelin's or what 'appens ta him, an' I realize dat 'e took advantage o' me las' night, dat he moved too fast widdout my p'mission. I know all dat. My logic knows it, but..." She offered a wry smile. "My altah ego won't let his face outta my mind."

Victoria nodded and squeezed her hand sympathetically. "It must be real tough. An' I know I jist met ya, an' ya din't ask fer my advice. But if yeh'll listen ta what I t'ink..." Secret nodded earnestly. "...den," Mush's girl continued with a heavy sigh, "I gotta say, hon, I t'ink ya should try ta f'get about 'im. He may not o' actually hoit 'cha, an' it could be dat he neveh would, but wit a kid like dat...wit his reputation, regardin' both fightin' an' goils...it jist ain't woith da risk. Ya know Spot's had da same effect on plenty'a goils dat he's havin' on you, an' it ain't nuttin' ta be ashamed of. But it don't seem like eidda o' youse really cares 'bout de odda, so it'd be best jist ta...let 'im go."

"Ya right." Secret nodded firmly, knowing good sense when she heard her; after all, hadn't it usually been coming from her for most of her life? "Ya absolutely right, Victoria." She shrugged balefully. "I jist wish it was dat simple." Curiously regarding her new confidante, she felt compelled to ask a question. "Vick...what da you look fer in a guy? An' don't jist tell me, 'Mush'," she added with a smile. "I mean, what qualities d'ya say are best in general?"

Once again considering the query carefully before answering, Victoria gave her opinion. "Well," she started, "ya want a guy who respects ya. Who treats ya right, y'know. He's polite, kind, doesn't touch ya when ya don't want it, doesn't move too fast fer ya..." She clicked her tongue pointedly.

"Yeah, yeah," Secret grumbled. "But what else?"

"Well...ya want someone whose poysonality clicks wit yers. Someone who can make ya smile, even when ya feel lousy. Someone who knows what makes ya smile, an' what makes ya cry, an' why ya do da t'ings ya do. Someone who realizes what ya feelin' jist by lookin' at 'cha, an' can predict how yeh'll react ta t'ings 'cause he knows ya so well."

No way to know if Spot measured up on those counts. He hadn't even had a chance to get to know her yet. What Victoria was describing sounded more like an old friend, like Flick or one of the Musketeers; not the wild, dizzy, spontaneous kind of romance that was her only experience thus far.

"An' one moah t'ing," Victoria was saying, leaning forward in her seat and looking Secret straight in the eye. "Da most important t'ing o' all."

"Yeah?" Secret asked eagerly, also leaning forward and hanging on her newly-aquired mentor's every word.

"Ya want a guy who can protect ya. Who's always dere ta defend ya 'gainst anytin', or anyone, who might hoit 'cha. An' who has da poweh ta do dat...da poweh ta keep ya safe. Always."

Secret leaned back sharply at this, startled by the intensity of the words, by Victoria's solemn, blazing eyes as she spoke them. For a second, she was speechless, but when she answered, it was in the cold, neutral tone for which she had once been infamous.

"Dat's impossible. No one can protect ya all da time, an' ya shouldn't expect anyone to. Dat's why ya loin ta fight, ta defend yaself. I did, yeahs ago. I don't need no one ta protect me."

Victoria's expressive eyes registered first hurt, then a spark of anger, with a touch of bitterness as well. "Yeah?" She turned her face away. "Well, maybe some o' us ain't so lucky."

Immediately regretting her words, Secret groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, God, I din't mean dat. I sweah, I honestly wasn't t'inkin'. I dunno what's wrong wit me. Yestaday I said sometin' ta my best friend, sometin' jist like dat, completely random an' meanin'less an' horrible, I'se jist losin' friends left an' right heah--"

"Hey!" Turning to face her again, Victoria flashed a weak grin. "Ya ain't lost dis one yet. Don't worry 'bout it. Ya prob'ly right anyway. Ya can't depend on someone else ta protect ya all da time, an' knowin' how ta fight coitainly comes in handy."

I'll say. Shoah woulda come in handy fer Song. Her stomach lurched, and she rose quickly, heading for the door. "Well, I gotta be goin', buyin' de evenin' edition an' all. It was great tawkin' ta ya, dough, t'anks so much fer listenin', an' de advice...maybe Mush knew what he was doin' afta all..."

As she reached for the latch, though, Victoria held her back.

"But ya was s'posta eat lunch heah--"

"I'll get sometin' on da street, no problem--"

"Secret..." Seeing the girl's urgency to escape, Victoria sighed. "Jist let me tell ya one las' t'ing, a'right?"

Sighing, Secret waited with her hand still on the doorknob. "Yeah?"

"Mush really cares about 'cha. Moah den you know, I t'ink." Chuckling at Secret's expression, she clarified the statement. "Not in a way dat'd make me jealous. I mean, he cares about 'cha as a friend, as a poyson. He's known ya a liddle longa den he's known me, y'know, an' he mentioned ya da foist day we met...da beautiful, quiet, witty goil dat jist came ta his lodgin' house wit her friend." Ignoring Secret's blush and rolled eyes, she continued. "Dat's who ya are ta him, Secret...a beautiful friend like no one else he's eveh met befoah, someone he loves wit all 'is heart. Jist like I'se got my own special place in his heart, so d'you; a different place, but jist as important. As long as ya got a friend like Mush, yeh'll be safe from anythin', I'se shoah o' it. Jist wanted ya ta know."

Glad that the speech was over, Secret nodded and mustered a smile. "T'anks. Dat means a lot ta me. An' t'anks again fer what ya done fer me t'day. I needed it, moah den ya know." Impulsively, she hugged Victoria, a gesture which was warmly returned. Then the door was unlocked for her, and she slipped out into the hallway. Watching the door close, and listening again to the turning of the key and the creak of the latch, she wondered who this tender, delicate creature needed protection from.

Then she thought of the one part of Spot's kiss which she had not related to Victoria: the dark shape on the other side of the bridge, the lips that had mouthed her name. And she wondered the same of herself.

"As long as ya got a friend like Mush, yeh'll be safe from anythin'." Vicky had seemed so confident of that, Secret mused as she made her way back down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street. But did she herself believe it? Her new friend had also said that to protect you, your boy needed power. Power that she was sure could not be claimed by any of her friends, not even the so-heroic Mush.

Pondering all this, Secret was paying very little attention to her surroundings. So she was blissfully unaware of being followed until a hand clamped around her waist and shoved her against a factory wall.

A single blinding, crippling flash of sheer panic swept over her. Her heart leapt to her throat, the blood roaring in her ears in what seemed more of a smooth, shrill buzz than a rhythm of separate beats. Fear blasted through every vein, screamed through every pore, invaded every cell; and with fear came adrenaline. Tearing away from the hand that held her, Secret never even thought of running; she flew. It seemed in her muddled, horror-stricken mind that her feet did not even touch the ground, that she simply glided through the air in what felt, despite her breakneck speed, like unbearable slow motion. For even as her velocity increased with every step, her pursuer seemed always to be right at her heels, breathing down her neck.

The streets swam by like a painting dipped in water, blurred together in senseless stripes of faded color. Not one landmark, great or small, registered in Secret's mind until her eyes snagged onto something so familiar, so unmistakable, that a single word snapped her frozen brain back to life: bridge.

There was an old legend, some purely irrelevant corner of her mind recited, that crossing a bridge over running water would save you from a ghost, goblin, bogey, or anything supernatural. That was the kind of hope that swelled within her upon the sight of the monumental structure. Without a split second to spare for thought, she barreled across the Brooklyn Bridge for the third time in her life, with such desperation that a cheetah would probably have been left in her dust.

Behind her, the man who had triggered such terror in the girl wavered for the first time, his face a picture of disgusted outrage. For he may as well have been a ghost, goblin, or bogey; no one in his right mind charges uninvited into Brooklyn.

Not bothering to glance over her shoulder to see if her gamble had worked, Secret continued to fly over the ground. She had nearly arrived at the nearby docks when she collided painfully with a second figure, bringing both of them crashing painfully to the ground. There she bent over double, clutching her stomach and gasping, face the color of a cherry and drenched with sweat, her body numb and sickeningly drained after the powerful adrenaline rush that had carried her to safety.

"Well, well...look who's in a big hurry ta tell his royal Majesty she's back ta stay."

Sprawled on the ground in front of her was none other than Dagger, the hostile Brooklyn newsgirl who had scared her half to death the night before. Now Secret wouldn't have cared if it had been Spot himself, or Morris Delancey, or a serial killer, for that matter. Anything was better than what she had left behind.

"Don't be stupid, chica." The accent made Secret look up; it was the petite Spanish girl with the laughing brown eyes, the one they called Snake Eyes. "She's not here to stay." She extended a hand to Secret, helping her up and leading her the last few feet to the docks, so she could collapse against the railing and catch her breath.

"Are you?"

Once her lungs felt ready to function again and most of the color had faded from her cheeks, Secret wiped a sleeve across her damp face and regarded Snake Eyes' anxious expression.

The face of the man who had pinned her against the wall, held her there effortlessly for an endless moment, like a helpless butterfly trapped in a net, flashed before Secret's eyes.

Her current location slowly sunk in, followed by Dagger's words, and the question Snake Eyes had just phrased.

"Ya want a guy who can keep ya safe."

Slowly, heavily, resigned and horrified, Secret nodded.

"Yeah," she whispered hoarsely. "I'se heah ta stay."