This story has not been updated in a very, very, very long time. But today, I've finally done it. And there will be more.

I hope that these are actually worth reading...despite my HUGE incompetance and irresponsibility...anyways read on if you'd like, more info at the end of 60.

In the kitchen of the Dashwood mansion, on a barstool, sat Meghan Reynolds, sipping tea. And thinking, as always.

Therefore, her mind paid no attention to the maid who cavorted around with a vacuum in the next room, or Ganes poking about in the cabinets, or the fact that her tea was not iced, but hot. No, she was far too preoccupied with the mulling over of her just finished conversation with Henry, bits of which rushing around in her head in a catacomb of instant replays. Henry himself was supposedly napping at the moment, and Meghan hoped that he was able to achieve the sleep that had so evaded him before. He hadn't yet had any discussions with his family about its apparent long-lost member.

She thought back to the next thing he'd said, after explaining the reasoning for her attire...it had, of course, been his turn to interrogate.

His demeanor had gone from nervous and fidgety to more nervous and more fidgety and very, very cautious.

"So...how...is she, then?"

Meghan had looked up from that fascinating thread she'd been fiddling to dumbly say,

"Who?"

A pause.

"Your aunt."

Meghan observed that Henry seemed virtually incapable of letting her aunt's actual name pass his lips. As for an answer to his question, Meghan was indeed quite stumped. She attempted to handle it diplomatically.

"Oh, fine. She's been singing at weddings for a while now...making a good living, and she loves it, which is the best thing. She keeps herself busy."

This seemed to only moderately satisfy Henry. One thing in particular did stand out to him.

"She's singing?"

Meghan nodded. "Oh, yes! Her talents are very sought after by engaged couples in the...Chinatown...area..."

"Interesting. I'm pleased to hear that. She did love singing."

Meghan couldn't stop herself from smiling, while Henry looked away and dove into his coffee, feeling he might have said a bit too much. He could not, no, must not go any further into the subject. He swallowed his swig of beverage.

"Your turn."

Meghan had been silent. She knew that Henry had felt a risk by asking what he'd just asked...perhaps she should take a risk herself.

"What made you possibly believe that Alistair might have grabbed me?" she found herself saying. Though she tried to sound incredulous, as if the whole idea of Alistair grabbing her was just too outlandish to be possible.

Henry seemed to find this a curious question. His answer, though, was simple.

"This friend of mine...Alistair did not like her."

"And he was the one that Faye thought had taken me?" Meghan said, taking another turn and again forcing incredulousness. "You said that Alistair doesn't even know..."

"Precisely. Miss Winthrop gave me the name of your aunt and named Alistair as the one she'd seen, but though my mother was present at the time and heard everything, Alistair was elsewhere. Therefore, even if he were capable of such a drastic, despicable act, he'd have no reason to commit it. He has no idea of the person whom you're related to."

So that was it. Of course! As far as Henry knew, Mr. Payne had no way of knowing that Meghan was Libby's niece. Henry hadn't known about the locket. And this fact, together with some unnamed bald guy's admission to the crime (which Alistair surely had coerced through either bribery or blackmail), had somehow been enough to render the bald rat innocent.

And certainly, Meghan's playing along must be sealing the deal, if it weren't sealed already.

"Of course, it didn't take me long to realize this. Fortunately, however, I'd already made the phone call on the jets. A second more of thought beforehand, and you'd be in New York right now." Henry went on.

This was true, and it infuriated Meghan. She'd come so close to losing everything for Daphne, because of Alistair. And even now, he was getting away with it. Oh, how Meghan longed to tell Henry what had really happened, that Faye had been right, that Alistair knew full well who Meghan's aunt was. It was the perfect opportunity - she had Henry alone, face to face.

But something - fear, more than likely - kept her from doing so.

And so the conversation had moved on. Both of them inquired more into each other's history and life, discussing whatever hadn't been talked about during their numerous chess games. Some things were awkward, others laughable, but both people nevertheless grew more comfortable as each minute passed. Henry was soon leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on the desk, gazing around and allowing himself the occasional smile. Meghan found it easier to drop subtle facts about Daphne and even Libby as she talked about herself. Henry asked about Meghan's mother, and Meghan even asked a little about Glynnis.

But Meghan did not bring up the subject of Alistair again.

And there was one other person that neither Meghan nor Henry dared speak of. Or at least, the person was avoided, though Henry could clearly see that thoughts were present through a discreet but constant pain in Meghan's eyes.

Despite this, he chose not to pursue the cause of that pain, knowing that doing so would probably only bring about more. So they talked about everything else, for a good hour and a half. Once again, they found a common level of understanding.

Finally, however, as Henry began to show signs that he was letting his exhaustion take over, Meghan posed what would likely be the all-encompassing closing question.

"Lord Dashwood - "

"Henry."

"Henry. What's...going to happen? Now, I mean..."

At this, the man sighed deeply, massaging his forehead and closing his eyes tightly, before rising to walk to the window and gaze outside.

Meghan waited for him to answer. He leaned against the windowpane.

"What happens next...is a bit unclear." he finally stated, still looking away. "I imagine first of all that you should stay here for at least a short while - what with all that remains to be sorted out. I think you need a change, and it will be beneficial for you to truly get to know this family, and vice-versa. And at some point, hopefully soon, we will be able to take some action regarding your cousin."

This was music to Meghan's ears, despite knowing that she'd actually be living with two evil monsters and a moron besides. Henry's last sentence, however, had made her heart soar. Action. For Daphne.

"Certain arrangements will have to be made, but to sum it all up - you shall be like a tiny practice, a warm-up...for the Dashwood family. I suppose. In preparation for...someone else, perhaps."

Meghan understood this plan. For the most part, Meghan loved this plan.

Henry finally turned, and half-smiled.

"Please don't feel that you are being used, mind you." he pointed out. "What I mean is, you are already accepted. But you are our only link to the girl on that certificate. And this is the way to get things going. To be honest - once I inform others living here of these...circumstances, you will be so sought after that it will be pointless to go back to the Winthrops'. At least, for the time being."

Meghan kept her gaze still.

"Alright."

And she wondered whether she should thank him, or ask something more, or just say nothing at all.

She ended up having no need to choose, as Henry moved away from the window and sat back down, starting to gather things.

"Yes. Well. I think this will do for now...there will surely be more time, and more discussion. However, I must say that I can't put off sleep any longer. So I shall let you out of this dungeon - I sincerely hope that it wasn't too entirely boring for you."

Meghan shook her head, wishing she had more to say, other than:

"Not at all."

"Good then. Off you go."

She rose from her seat and made for the door, while one last thing struck Henry.

"Oh, and Meghan - "

She turned.

"I just wanted to say...I'm truly, deeply sorry. About what happened to you."

Meghan had nodded as a rush of heartbreak swept over her, and had forced herself to give Henry a small smile, before opening the door to the hallway and stepping out.

Now, as she sipped her tea, Meghan fought to hold back tears, trying her best to console herself with the prospect that good things were about to happen to Daphne.

Someone had hurt her. But she loved him. She wanted him.

It was then that Ganes shuffled over.

"Miss Reynolds, I was given strict orders to prevent all calls from going through to Lord Dashwood's office. However, I thought you might be interested to know - Master Luke called for you. Seven times."

Meghan could only stare at him.

"Well!" came another voice. "Glad to see you're up, Meghan."

Jocelyn had come into the kitchen, and now was serving herself some of that lovely tea.

"I've just been in my bedroom, reading a book. I knew you needed sleep after such a dreadful night. But now you must come into the nook to have tea with me."

Jocelyn seemed oddly enthusiastic. Even so, Meghan decided to comply. Anything to provide a distraction from the individual whom a certain butler had just mentioned.

Thus, a minute later, Meghan was seated across from a very content-looking Lady Dashwood. Strangely, the tiered cookie tray had been moved aside. Meghan was therefore able to look directly at the woman, who was ever-unreadable. There was no telling what next she would say. Meghan was very afraid that they'd end up talking about her aunt, of whom Jocelyn was apparently aware.

"Nice day we're having, isn't it?" was what the woman said. "I imagine Clarissa will be coming home soon."

Meghan had to consciously tell herself not to groan. She was thankful that she hadn't yet had to deal with Clarissa, nor had she had any encounters with Alistair or Glynnis thus far.

Jocelyn was gazing out the window, at what looked to be a gardener trying to contain a sprinkler that had just exploded.

"So tell me - what's she like?" she now said casually, turning to Meghan.

The teenager was mildly confused.

"Who?"

"My granddaughter."

At the very same time...

"MOM!"

"What?!"

"Where's my orange sweater?!"

"I have no idea!"

"I need it!"

"Wear something else!"

A pause. A long, long pause.

"Okay then."

And so, Daphne shuffled out wearing a neon green go-go jacket. Her mother tossed her a breakfast bar, and she caught it before throwing the door open. She hoped to beat the school bell, which she was running late for - it was a formidable task, but it wasn't like she hadn't done it, several hundred times before.

Luke was cursing the fact that he'd left his cell phone - along with his infamous palm-pilot - in the pocket of his coat, which, along with that of his lost love's, had been stored away in a closet in the mansion prior to the couple's entering the dance.

For because of that very thing, he was sitting here in this strange, dusty dimension, trying to work a dog-and-bone with an actual dial on it.

And all the while, he was having to bear the annoying presence of someone called Gus, who at the moment was rattling on in a dialect that painfully reminded Luke of Meghan's. Only, Gus's had more of a twang.

"The year was 1964. Old Mick and I were both stationed in a country commonly known as Germany. I was a wily bachelor chasing after German women; he was a soft, quiet little man with a wife he loved back in Old Yorky. We got to know each other over a coupla beers, and a few pranks instigated by yours truly..."

Luke only momentarily stopped to ponder the fact that never, ever before had he heard Yorkshire referred to as being 'Old Yorky', before going back to his frantic task of trying to reach Meghan.

He'd already contacted his family, whose sober members had indeed been quite dismayed and furious over his actions, which they'd already known through a combination of gossip and news articles. Evidence of such articles was verified when Mick brought in about five newspapers, tabloids mostly, with Luke and Meghan's story blasting a visual alarm on every front page. One tabloid in particular was especially gruesome: it featured a large picture of a disoriented Luke stumbling out of Everston Mansion, along with a small, separate picture in the bottom right corner of Meghan, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Plastered across the top of the page was a single word in huge, bright red lettering: "BETRAYAL!".

Never in his life had Luke felt so sickeningly horrible. Calling the Winthrops' had won him only a cold "She's at Dashwood Manor.". Calling Dashwood Manor had produced only repeated "She's unavailable at the moment."s. Still, he called said mansion about every ten or so minutes, each of those minutes scraping by at an agonizing pace as he listened to Gus and Mick's life story and nibbled on a small pizza that tasted like cardboard. Each call was met with yet more disappointment.

Luke was beginning to think himself to be going insane. Time and time again he was being prevented from even small attempts at redemption, from explaining what was unexplainable. He felt frustratingly that he was wasting time.

"And so, he took me to Chez Fallow to meet Helen, and Helen had a friend name Cassandra, who I married a month later. Didn't get back to Virginia for three years after that; no family there anyhow, so what was the point? Then the four of us all decided to move here to the big city, so's Mick could pursue his big dream of ownin' a business. It was hard work, but we kept on truckin'..."

"Excuse me." Luke had said of Gus, at one point in the rather one-sided conversation.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Well, cuz I've got nothing better to do, I suppose."

Luke had looked to the side for a second, trying to restrain himself from bursting into an angry fit. Then, he'd gone back to his frantic calls.

It had struck him to call his best friend, Ian.

"'Ello?"

"Ian?"

"Up yours, you filthy blighter."

"Wait, I..."

"You don't deserve even a moment of my time. I will only waste about thirty seconds of it to tell you that you've clearly proven to be as much an arrogant pig as the rest of your kind, but worse. You are a swine. Good day, Lord Brenshire."

What Luke heard next was the dial tone.