Perhaps such a flurry of dramatic events occurring so early in the week had provided Annabeth and Safe Haven with enough excitement, for the rest of the week flowed past, remarkably without incident. The only issue of note occurred on Thursday, when an engraved invitation, embossed on luxuriously heavy stationary, thumped its way on to Annabeth's desk. She found herself surprised that Bruce Wayne had remembered his casually-issued invitation, and when she mentioned it to Donna, it quickly became clear that short of being struck down by bubonic plague or a 7.6 earthquake, she would have to attend.

"And even if it is the plague, you're still to go unless you've got those funny black spots. As for the earthquake…well, then we could negotiate." Donna was unimpressed with Annabeth's studied disinterest in their newest benefactor. "Somehow, that abrasive personality of yours that you parade around like a gothic girl scout medal endeared you to Wayne; he told me as much himself. I had a feeling it would. I never realized what a proper little shrew I'd hired." Annabeth's boss allowed herself a satisfied smirk. "So I don't want to hear any excuses or complaints. You're going. Just…try to be nice. We want more donors, more clout. Not a reputation for churning out uppity women who don't know their place."

"But Donna, that's exactly what we're doing," Annabeth pointed out, with no small amount of amusement. Some times—and just now was one of those times—she suspected that Donna was in training to be a ruthless Fortune 500 CEO in her next life.

"That's beside the point, Annabeth. No buts—you're going. Do it for the women. Lie back and think of Gotham."

Which was how Annabeth found herself at Janey's apartment that Saturday afternoon, being trussed up into a black evening gown and being plucked, shaved, brushed, painted, perfumed, and generally transformed into a strange, twilight-zone version of herself.

"Well," Janey sighed reluctantly, "It'll have to do."

Annabeth stood in front of Janey's full-length mirror, and together they regarded her reflection. Janey, in particular, didn't seem too happy.

"What? What?" Annabeth allowed heself to feel just a wee bit offended. "I can't go waltzing around in some Dior get-up that's overpriced and hideous. I can't pretend to be some socialite. I couldn't afford it, even if I did want to playact at being rich. I'd rip the gown, trip in the heels, and quite possibly blind myself with a mascara wand." She gazed in the mirror again, and smiled. "I look fine. I look good, even."

"You do. You certainly do," Janey rushed to reassure her. She cast an appreciative look at Annabeth's simple black evening dress. It may have been a polyester-blend gown, pulled from the clearance rack at Macy's, but it still had a beautiful cut. "It would just be nice if you could go there without announcing to everyone that you haven't spent thousands of your outfit. You don't need to help them notice, they can probably tell on their own. Come to think of it…how can they tell? Is it some gene that they have? An extra chromosome? Maybe it's a certain position they breed in that passes it along."

Annabeth winced. "I can't believe I even spent this much on it. Seventy dollars! And it doesn't even cover everything!" It didn't, that much was true. The dress was, in theory, very conservative—it swished its way to the floor, and it had long sleeves...but the neckline plunged dramatically. Annabeth hadn't revealed this much skin since she came out of the womb, of that she was fairly certain.

Jason, Janey's long-term boyfriend, passed by the bedroom and poked his head in to see the transformation taking place. He gave a low whistle. "Those rich folks need to watch out! You should bring a pickpocket with you—you distract everyone while someone else robs 'em blind."

"I'll take that under advisement," Annabeth sighed, "if they don't willingly open up their wallets. God knows my typical charms won't work on them. I think Wayne must be some sort of emotional masochist. I think he likes to be verbally shat upon."

She watched as Janey hauled out her massive cosmetics case, and began fussing with various tools, jars, and tubes. She had been a beautician when she was putting herself through nursing school, and she still loved to beautify people. And god knew, Annabeth was a huge project, a potential masterpiece. She set about styling Annabeth's hair, brushing it vigorously with some special cream until her chestnut locks shone; then began concentrating on putting it into a up-swept hairstyle. As Janey worked, intent on her art, Annabeth silently regarded her in the mirror. Janey's was an uncomplicated life, filled with work and love and simplicity. It felt wrong, even tainting her home with this, but Janey was her best friend…

"Janey?"

"Hmmm?"

"Something…something else happened this week. Something I didn't tell you about."

Janey paused and peered over at her. "Something else? You certainly have been busy."

"I'm serious." The sharp tone in Annabeth's voice drew all the humor out of the conversation. "Someone broke into my home during the week."

"What? Who? What happened? Are you okay?" All attention had been directed away from the state of Annabeth's hair.

"I'm fine, I'm fine…I wasn't hurt, nothing was stolen, it wasn't that kind of intruder. Janey, I don't think you'll believe me…it was the Batman."

Instead of scoffing, or bursting into laughter, Janet retained her serious expression and became thoughtful. "Really? I can't say that I'm surprised. Better him than someone else…I think he's the safest intruder there is."

"That's a surprising point of view," Annabeth said as Janey resumed her ministrations. "I didn't know you were such a fan."

"Not a fan, as such…but I appreciate what he's trying to do. Hell, it's not 'trying'…he is making a difference."

Annabeth was intrgued. "How can you tell?"

Janey stuck a few bobby pins in her hair, at seemingly random and irrelevant angles. "Just the things I hear during my shift. A lot of the patients that come in have relatively minor injuries, that could have been a lot worse if the bat guy hadn't intervened. That's what he's been doing since that whole Joker fiasco. Keeping a low profile, mainly, but he's helping folks out. Just the other day, he stopped a group of thugs from lynching an Afghani man. Those guys ended up with way more injuries than that poor man. Anyway, my point is, the patients talk. And even if they haven't experienced him, they know someone who has. It's a very interesting urban phenomenon, when you consider it. Kind of like the dumb teenage mom who named her kid Placenta, only this dude is a hell of a lot more real than that crazy story."

"You think he's a good guy, huh?"

"Well…look at you. You came out of the encounter alright, and let's face it, sweets. You have some really rotten luck when it comes to that kind of stuff."

Their eyes met in the mirror, and an eternity's worth of secrets and knowledge flowed between them. Then Annabeth resumed talking. "He was there wanting to know about the Arrows women."

"Him too?" Janey snorted. "Jesus, those investigators are like bloodhounds with a bad sense of smell. Did you pack him off with a flea in his ear?"

Annabeth grinned. "I did, actually, I was really quite an asshole. I went at him like the village scold." She began to rub her eyes, to dispel the tiredness that always seemed to trouble her now, but Janey swatted her hands away. "Don't ruin the mascara," she scolded.

"Everything has been so crazy, awful this week. I can't seem to get anything together. My address book went missing earlier in the week. It had all of my professional contacts in it. And someone invaded my house. I don't care if it's a caped cleric, bent on llama's rights, the fact is that my home has been violated. I haven't felt safe there since."

"You can stay here if you want," Janey offered. "God knows you need someone to look after you." She began rubbing lotion into Annabeth's skin, her hands gentle and caressing. "You work yourself to death, you know."

"I know." And Janey didn't know the half of what Annabeth got up to in her off hours. "But I need my own space, and you guys are pretty far removed from the city."

"That's entirely my point. Maybe it's about time you move a little farther afield." Janey had begun to carefully apply concealer under Annabeth's shadowed eyes. "But you're a stubborn ass, and you won't go anywhere."

Annabeth gave her oldest friend a grin. "At least I'm predictable."

In her entire life, Annabeth had been to the Palisades only once before, as part of a school field trip to some historic house that had been converted to a museum. She had been eight at the time, and in the third grade. That was not a particularly stable point in her life, and the only thing Annabeth recalled about the field trip was attempting to hide in one of the bedrooms. When they eventually found her, all she could say to explain herself was "Is there a family here I can live with?"

No, the memory was neither beloved nor even particularly clear, and so Annabeth could not rely on that to guide her to and through this upscale area of Gotham. As she navigated Janey's 1999 Civic—borrowed for the occasion, since Annabeth couldn't afford the cab fare for a journey this far outside of the city—down the tree-lined, rural roads, in search of Wayne Manor, Annabeth couldn't help but to wonder why the Palisades was part of Gotham City, anyway. The two had nothing to do with each other, were two entirely different worlds. Gotham was a bustling, filthy metropolis, filled with crime and criminals and everyday citizens and working people—the only commonality there being that they were all, in their own way, trying to keep body and soul together. Whereas the Palisades was a remote, rural, well-maintained bastion of the trust fund babies who didn't have to bother with such petty concerns as earning a living. So, whywas the Palisades part of Gotham? Probably for the tax revenue, Annabeth realized as she drove past a stately Tudor house.

She had been driving down this rural lane for twenty minutes, and she had already learned an interesting fact about rich folks and their territory: their homes may be national landmarks, but they certainly didn't feel the need to provide signs to point the way to them. Presumably the only people who would be allowed to visit already instinctively knew where their neighbors were. So far, she had passed six enormous, sprawling estates, each of which could have conceivably been Wayne Manor, for all the grandeur and lack of public information declaring their tenancies. Fortunately for Annabeth, Wayne—or more likely, some other kind soul with more presence of mind—had included directions in the invitation, so she had not yet made a wrong turn. If it hadn't been for the directions, she would have spent an eternity wandering about in this Candyland of misbegotten wealth, and so for the final part of the drive, Annabeth entertained herself by cursing Wayne and all his ilk.

Finally, she arrived—in the darkness, Wayne Manor loomed ahead, every window blazing with golden, welcoming light, looking all of two hundred years old, even though it had been standing for less than two months. To achieve that sort of appearance, deliberately, now that took a prize combination of taste, money, and class. Bruce Wayne rose a miniscule point in her estimation. Any fool could have rebuilt the family estates according to more modern—and hideous—sensibilities, but not this rich kid. He went for the tried and true method of what had gone before, and honored his family's history. Curious, indeed—but not her concern. She turned into a graveled drive, lined with juniper bushes trimmed to a ridiculous degree of anal retentiveness, and inched her way up the incline. Here was a home designed to impress.

And remarkably, perhaps for the first time in its noble two-hundred-year, or depending on who one asked, two-month history, it failed. Annabeth quite simply didn't give a damn.

As she approached the house, Annabeth squinted at the group of impeccably dressed young men standing at attention at the front steps—and groaned. Valet parking. Dear christ, this night was going to be an obstacle course, an orgy of conspicuous consumption, a grueling gauntlet of gormandy and greed. Gritting her teeth, gathering her dignity, she parked the car behind a Bentley and emerged, her head held high.

Surprisingly, the valet took her keys with merely a grave node and a generic urging to enjoy the party. Apparently even the hired help was of the best quality, and had the good sense not to look down their nose at the guest. Or maybe they drove Civics to work here, too, Annabeth mused as she watched the valet navigate the borrowed car away from the house, presumably to house it with its more distinguished cousins in a parking garage.

She sighed and turned towards the house. Up close, it looked even bigger, and along with the golden light spilling out, so too were sounds of laughter, chatter, music. Gamely she lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and thought briefly of the women back in Gotham: the women and girls nestled safely within Safe Haven, and the women who had no safe haven at all. There were so many—at all levels of society, women being abused, bullied, neglected, raped, bought, sold, objectified, denigrated, humiliated, marginalized, stigmatized—being a woman was a shit job, no two ways about it. And she needed to find people who would listen, would help, would join their voices to hers, and Donna's, and Maya's, and yes, even Bruce Wayne's.

Damn him. Damn him to hell.

She reached the front entrance—a set of ornately-carved double doors, now thrown open to welcome the guests. Annabeth saw two very beefy men checking the invitations, and just beyond them—the man of the hour himself. The man who had, with little time and even less effort, provoked within Annabeth a problematic combination of high blood pressure, bewilderment, resentment, and gratitude.

Smile, dammit.

"Annabeth!" Bruce Wayne stepped forward, not even bothering to let Mr. Beef check her invitation. Dressed in an immaculately pressed tuxedo, he looked as blandly handsome as ever, but also, genuinely pleased to see her. He leaned into her, and only Annabeth's tiny right hand, quickly thrust out and offering a handshake, prevented him from bringing her into an embrace. Clearly, Wayne had already been tippling for hours, if he was so eager to hug the hostile woman who persisted in finding his presence underwhelming. "I'm glad you could make it. Thank you for coming." Ignoring her body language, he placed a hand on her arm, gave a gentle squeeze, and whispered conspiratorially, "There's quite a few folks I invited specifically for you to meet tonight. Stick close to my butler Alfred, and he'll make sure you're taken care of." And, just like that, he moved off, greeting other people, passing glasses of champagne, giving hearty handshakes, kissing the ladies.

As Bruce wandered off, the promised Alfred materialized as if from nowhere, a tall, stately man of a certain age, with kindly eyes and a kindlier smile. Right away Annabeth correctly deduced that he had long ago honed the ability to be invisible except when needed, at which point he was everywhere at once, the soul of efficiency and courtly courtesy. Like Bruce Wayne, he was dressed in a tuxedo; unlike Bruce Wayne, he was clearly present in the duty of serving, rather than hosting. "Good evening, Miss de Burgh. Master Wayne has told me much about you."

In fact, Bruce Wayne's description had been unflattering in the extreme, yet grudgingly admiring. That morning, when Alfred had pressed him for a description of Annabeth's personality, Bruce had pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then answered, "She's a very short, very shrill Amazon of a woman. Or maybe just a shrew. Perhaps a harpy." Yet, there had been admiration in his voice; usually people succumbed to one or the other of his personalities. Annabeth was an interesting quirk of nature, it would seem.

Now the harpy stood before Alfred, looking him straight in the eye and shaking his hand firmly, giving him a surprisingly warm smile. "Good evening. How are you doing?"

Harpy, indeed. Perhaps more like a siren. Master Wayne needed his head checked. "I'm to accompany you this evening, my dear," Alfred told her. "And I must say, it's a delightful change from passing around the champagne."

"You're the family butler?" Annabeth grinned. "For how long?"

"Decades," was the prompt and proud reply. "And after Master Wayne's parents passed, I stood as guardian for him." Alfred's eyes followed Bruce as he moved throughout the entrance hall, ushering other guests into the grand salon. "I watched him grow up."

"Indeed." Annabeth struggled for a moment to curb her instinct to produce a caustic reply, and settled for, "That must have been an interesting experience."

"If by 'interesting' you mean a nerve-wracking and harrowing experience sent by Beelzebub and the bowels of Hell to torment me in my old age, well, yes, I suppose you would be correct." Alfred gave her a friendly wink. "Master Bruce has always had a flair for creative trouble-making."

Annabeth laughed. "'Creative troublemaking'. I'll have to remember that one…so diplomatic, yet so true."

"A troublemaker he may be, my dear, but he knows how to take care of his guests. I am to be your friend and ally for the evening. Will you permit me to escort you to the grand salon?" Alfred held out his arm to Annabeth. She hesitated for a moment, but some long-dormant sense of manners awakened long enough to override her usual standoffish tendencies. She took Alfred's arm with a gracious and grateful smile, and together they made their way into the grand salon, where the privileged elite of Gotham's society mingled, blissfully unaware that a force of nature had just blown into their ranks, and her name was Hurricane Annabeth.

Throngs of glittering, gleaming, flashing, attractive people. Equally attractive waiters and waitresses, weaving in and out of the crowds, bearing trays of champagne and canapés. The scent of fresh-cut flowers, gamely battling but ultimately losing out to the stronger perfumes and colognes of the guests. Violin and piano music, unobtrusive yet nevertheless adding to the atmosphere of gaiety. A Gotham society soirée simply wasn't done right unless it launched a constant assault against all of the five senses, from beginning to end.

Alfred had seen it a hundred times before: a novice to the society scene, already nervous, not knowing what to expect, would simply become overwhelmed, mute, shy, sometimes downright terrified. One particularly memorable occasion entailed Alfred coming across a young bride who had married well—perhaps a little too well—hiding in the cloak closet, not in flagrante with an improper paramour, but simply paralyzed with the fear of potentially shaming her newly-acquired in-laws.

And so, as they entered the Grand Salon, Alfred kept a watchful eye on his charge. Bruce had warned him that Annabeth would be a tough nut to crack, that filthy lucre seemed to hold no thrall for her, but Alfred wanted to make sure, nonetheless, that Annabeth wouldn't go catatonic on him. It wouldn't reflect well on him, or the Wayne family, and it certainly wouldn't reflect well on Annabeth and her cause. Nevertheless, neither the noise, nor the scents, nor the sights, seemed to have a noticeable effect on her. As they entered the Grand Salon, she gently detached herself from Alfred's arm and began take in her surroundings, her face never losing its impassive countenance, her spine only stiffening a little more, her chin going a little higher.

Ah-ha. Alfred had seen that, before, too—the pride of the indigent, or those who once were; the lurking inferiority complex that they refused to acknowledge; the resentment projected onto the wealthy, and the only insult they could give—utter indifference to whatever luxury the rich chose to parade in front of them. Perhaps Annabeth did find the whole situation overwhelming, but she was too fiercely proud to show it.

More people were flowing in, and the party was beginning to pick up. Alfred neatly nipped two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and gave one to Annabeth. "A few sips of this might make the evening a little more pleasant."

"Do I look like I'm in that much pain?" Annabeth's impassive face cracked a little as she gave him a small smile. She raised her glass to Alfred, who followed suit—but she didn't drink, only pretended to sip. This did not pass unnoticed.

"Here's a couple of people Master Wayne wanted me to make sure that you meet," Alfred muttered in her ear. "See the couple over there, by the fountain?"

Annabeth gazed around, feeling as though she were staring. Was there a right way to do this? "You mean that hamhock?"

Alfred coughed delicately at her crude yet apt descriptions. "Er, yes. 'Hamhock' is Bradford Winston, and his fiancée, Elisa St. Marie, is standing with him. She's the first African-American to win the Gotham Emerging Photographers Award. They're both very lovely young people, I would imagine about your age."

"Bradford Winston…" Annabeth repeated. "I know that name. He's…what did he do? Seems like he was in the paper recently."

"Other than his engagement, he's done very little. But he is the son of Gregory Winston…"

"…Gotham's district state senator!"

"…who is also here tonight. Now, Master Wayne wanted me to make sure you know this: if you make friends with his son and his son's fiancée, you will very easily get the ear of the Senator." Alfred raised his champagne glass in their general direction, caught their eye, and began wending his way over to them. "Bradford Winston is a bit of a dilettante, yes, but he's a good soul. And I think you will enjoy the company of Elisa, too…"

They were upon the couple, and a very odd couple they were, too. Bradford was a portly young man, with a ruddy complexion, a receding hairline, bright blue eyes, and an open, cheerful demeanor. His fiancée Elise was short, shorter even than Annabeth, but whereas Annabeth had curves, Elise was simply wiry and skinny, painfully so. Her eyes were a deep brown, and sparkled with life and fun.

"Bruce mentioned he had invited a new friend!" Elisa exclaimed as soon as Alfred had made the introductions. "He said I'd like you. He's right; I like you already."

"You've only just learned my name," Annabeth pointed out, amused.

"Doesn't matter. I can tell you're good people." Elisa leaned in a little. "I love the dress. It was right next to mine, on the clearance rack."

The startled look Annabeth gave her caused Elisa to give a peal of delighted laughter. "We're not all trust fund babies!" she chuckled. "Although Bradford's trying to turn me into one."

Bradford had fallen into a conversation with Alfred, but upon hearing his name, he glanced up and enveloped Elisa into an enormous hug. "She won't let me, though," he told Annabeth. "When I proposed to her, she said, 'if you expect me to give up my job, you'd better go throw that ring off of Wayne Tower with you right behind.'"

"What do you do?" Annabeth asked. Someone in this crowd actually worked? Fascinating.

"I'm a photographer. I travel to developing nations and take black and white photographs, and when I develop the film, I saturate certain elements in each image with color. It's my signature style." Elisa ducked her head in embarrassment. "Okay, so maybe it's not so much of a job as it is a hobby that I'm trying to turn into a profit. I also teach classes over at the community college…"

"Do you sell many of your pieces?" Annabeth was intrigued. Perhaps, if they were good, and not too expensive, she could get some of Elisa's photographs for Safe Haven. God knew they deserved some art and culture.

"Up until recently, no. But Bruce set me up in one of his galleries, and we've moved a few of the pieces since then. He introduced Bradford and me, too." Elisa gave her fiancé such a glowing look of love that for one split second, Annabeth felt a wave of loneliness break over her. It was gone as soon as it struck, but Alfred had seen a slight flicker in her expression.

The little group continued chatting, until Bradford motioned someone over. "Father, you need to meet this lady! Annabeth de Burgh, this is…"

The night wore on. Alfred steered her from one person to another; more or less, they were all friendly; in all cases, they were either wealthy, influential, or well-connected. Annabeth continued clutching the flute of champagne that Alfred had given to her, although she never took more than a few sips; she was unaware that her every movement and word were being monitored, either by her watchful guide, or else by Bruce Wayne.

For he made his way into her company several times that evening, each time a little bit tipsier, a little bit goofier, a little bit more fond of other peoples' personal space. At one point, he clinked his glass and called for a toast; two hundred people fell quiet, eagerly awaiting whatever nonsensical words the infamous Bruce Wayne was about to utter.

He was surprisingly lucid, however:

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for attending this wonderful housewarming party." He paused and gave his trademark grin, his eyes sparkling in merriment. "I suppose one can never have too many of those. You'll see that everything is exactly as it used to be, and for that, we have the wonderful Alfred Pennyworth to thank. His was the tireless work that made this possible." He glanced around, making sure that everyone was hanging on to his every word, and then delivered the punchline: "Have a wonderful time tonight, everyone. And there's only one house rule." Another pause. "Don't play with matches."

There were a couple of scandalized gasps, quickly overruled by the astounded laughter of the younger set, and eventually the applause of everyone. Only a Wayne would burn a house down, then shrug it off, rebuild it, and make fun of the event.

A tall blonde, by name of April, turned to Alfred and Annabeth. She had had her quota of drinky-poos, but fortunately knew when to stop; she was now drinking water from a Waterford crystal tumbler. "That Bruce," she said to Alfred, and then smiled at Annabeth. "His parties are always such an adventure. You never know what's going to happen." She turned to another woman nearby. "Isn't that right, Katie?"

Katie, an older woman with a much-worked on face, nodded her head eagerly. "You were there for the fundraiser for Harvey Dent, right?" she asked April. "And you were, of course, Mr. Alfred. You missed out," she told Annabeth. "The most frightening thing of my life. That Joker man and his thugs just came out of nowhere. At least we all managed to clear out of the Manor before the fire…but when the Joker came in, there was no escaping."

"Well, that wasn't Mr. Wayne's fault, was it?" Annabeth pointed out sensibly. "The Joker targeted Dent and his girlfriend. He probably wanted to go for maximum theatricality, and it was bad luck that it was during the fundraiser Mr. Wayne was holding for them."

Katie smiled. "Yes, Bruce and his fundraisers. He takes up the banner of so many causes…what a charming boy. What was he advocating for last month? The humpback whale?"

"The Humphead Wrasse, I believe," Alfred supplied. "It's a type of fish, I think. Apparently Master Wayne found it a very compelling creature."

"And the time before that…I think it was something about helping cure Bubble Boy Disease." April frowned. "Oh, what does it matter? He certainly like a good cause, our Bruce. I hear you're the flavor of the month?" she asked Annabeth.

"Excuse me?" Annabeth's eyes began to blaze, but Alfred interjected smoothly. "Master Wayne has taken a deep interest in Miss de Burgh's employer—a halfway house for women and children in reduced or dire circumstances."

Katie smiled. "Wonderful! Do tell us more. Bruce always has such a good sense for his little projects. He may not have a sensible thought in his head, but he's got a generous heart."

"I heard that, Katie," Bruce chortled as he approached. He took a swig out of his champagne flute. "I happen to know for a fact that Annabeth's work is really going places. I wouldn't be surprised if the issues that Annabeth is tackling soon become part of a political agenda. I'd pay attention, if I were you."

"What sort of politics are involved with helping economically disadvantaged women?" April wondered aloud. "I mean, it's not like you can pass a law that magically makes their money problems go away."

"No, but we can pass laws that have sharper teeth when it comes to protecting women. And we can begin allocating more tax funding into Social Services, so that children aren't shunted around from one dangerous foster home to another." Perhaps it was the few tiny sips of alcohol in her system, but she was feeling a little more mellow; miraculously, she hadn't harangued anyone since she had set foot in the Manor. She went on, gently. "In virtually every part of our society, women are still degraded and marginalized. Just look at the pay disparities between men and women. Look at the lack of police investigators equipped to solved rapes. Think about all of the women who are stalked, or sexually harassed, or feel pressured or are coerced into making bad decisions about sex, or child-rearing. And think—women are blamed."

As Annabeth fell silent, she became uncomfortably aware of many eyes watching her—Alfred's, Bruce's, April's, and Katie's, as well as a couple of other passing party-goers. Annabeth glanced uncertainly, almost apologetically at Alfred, the closest thing she had to a sympathetic ally . "Should I be quiet now?"

Katie laughed. "Not at all, my dear. We were simply transfixed by your passion. Bruce," she turned to the host, who was still gazing at Annabeth, "Where did you find this lovely creature? She's a breath of fresh air. So much more…real than your normal selections." She bestowed a beaming smile of approval on him. "At last, you're making some very good choices. Your parents would be so proud."

Annabeth threw an agonized look at Alfred, who simply seemed amused by the whole misunderstanding. Katie carried on, blissfully unaware. "As for you, my dear, I would very much like to speak with you …perhaps later next week? I'm the wife of the president of Gotham University, you see—I'd like to discuss forming some community partnerships with you." She reached into her purse, dug out a business card. "Call me…but for now, I simply must see what canapés are left."

Far less astute than her conversation partners, April had dropped the thread of conversation as soon as it was polite to do so. Now she grabbed Bruce's arm—"Look! Isn't that Natashcha? Your Russian ballerina?"

Bruce looked to where April was pointing. "So it is! I invited her, but I didn't know if she could make it. Excuse me." He wandered off, sipping from his flute again, April following in his wake.

Once more, Alfred and Annabeth were left alone. Alfred smiled at her. "I told you Master Wayne would take care of you. You've certainly done well for yourself this evening."

He received no response. Annabeth was staring after Bruce, frowning slightly. There was something strange going on, she felt. She stood still for a moment, tuning out the conversations buzzing around her as the wheels turned in her head. And then she turned to Alfred. "Why is Bruce pretending to be drunk?"

For once, Alfred was shaken out of his customary state of savoir-faire. In fact, he very nearly looked alarmed. "What?"

"Bruce." Annabeth gestured after him. "He's behaving as though he's had a lot to drink, but I don't think a drop of alcohol has passed his lips. I've watched him—that glass has been at the same level all night. He's pretending to drink, Alfred, and pretending to get drunk. Why would he do that?"

Before her eyes, she watched Alfred undergo the most curious transformation. One moment, he was a courteous, accessible, friendly host; the next moment, a shadow passed over his face, and his tone became distant, remote. "Perhaps he does it for the same reason you pretend to drink your champagne," he said pointedly. When Annabeth refused to look abashed, Alfred shrugged. "Master Wayne finds it serves his interests best to allow people to see what they think he is, and not what he truly is."

Annabeth found this to be a very interesting observation that seemed to substantiate all she had observed in Bruce Wayne. His cluelessness, so quickly followed up with genuine compassion; his cheerful charm and materialism hiding at least a somewhat deeper vein of philanthropy. But… "Then, Alfred, what is he, truly?"

The smile that Alfred gave her was equally sad and enigmatic. "That, my dear, I am not even sure Master Wayne could say."

The party was really in full-swing now; Annabeth had overheard from someone that over three hundred people had shown up. Long ago, she had given up any hope of doing any more networking; the music was now louder, encouraging some to begin dancing; the crowds were increasing; the crush was greater. Alfred was at her elbow, saying something, but Annabeth could not hear. She was concentrating on something that she had not expected: there was a tense pain in her chest, and she began to feel sweat beading on her brow.

Struggling to remain coherent, Annabeth glanced around. Three hundred people, crushed in cheek by jowl in one room—her vision dimmed for a moment. Her breaths were coming in shallow gasps now. "Alfred." She pulled at his arm. "Are there any gardens I can walk in, or a way to get outside? I need some fresh air."

"Of course, Miss de Burgh…Are you alright?"

"Fine. Fine," she gasped. "Just…a little overheated. I…need a little bit of cool air."

Alfred pointed to a set of French doors at the near side of the room. "That will take you to the Italian gardens; those are the closest." She had already started on her way, ducking and weaving her way through the crowds; Alfred watched her for a moment, frowning in concern. And then he went for Bruce Wayne.

Alfred found him by the indoor fountain, speaking with several models of undetermined European background. They were making him guess their countries of origin, based on their accents. The silly girls had no idea that Bruce knew exactly where each of them were from; he probably spoke their languages and had mastered their accents better than they did.

"Master Bruce."

"Hey, Alfred," Bruce raised his glass to him. "Help me out…I think Juliette is from Sicily, but she says not…where's Annabeth?" He saw Alfred's meaningful look, and extracted himself from the models. "Where'd she go?"

"Outside. She appeared to be having a panic attack of some sort." Alfred glanced back into the crowded salon. "Poor girl, can't say as I blame her. I'm tempted to join her. But that's not the issue…Master Bruce, she's noticing things."

Bruce's easy demeanor vanished. "What things?" There was an edge to his voice.

"Nothing significant. But I think she can tell that you put on an act." Alfred told him about her observations about his drinking.

For a moment, Bruce looked impressed. "She may be a harpy, but she's a damned smart one. Well, I suppose if I'm going to be working with her, she's going to notice that I didn't fail any IQ tests. But I'll have to stay a couple of steps ahead of her, if I want to find out what she's involved with."

"Truly, sir, I'm beginning to doubt that you'll find anything."

"We'll see. In the meantime…did you say she was having a panic attack? I'd better go check on her. Maybe give her some of the patented Bruce Wayne charm while I'm at it."

"You might want to suit up for that, sir," Alfred warned, only half-kidding. "What do you plan to do?"

Bruce was already heading for the Italian gardens. "Where's Natascha?"

With the cool night air hitting her cheeks, with space to move, with the chest pains fading, Annabeth's heart rate subsided, and she began to breathe normally again. She hadn't expected a panic attack, but she also hadn't expected there to be this many people, either. Fortunately, she'd gotten out in enough time to avoid causing a scene. And now, as it turned out, she had taken a pleasant detour into the Italian gardens to which Alfred had directed her.

She gazed around at the tall shrubs and the pale stones, faintly illuminated by the silver moonlight. For one moment, she truly hated Bruce Wayne for all his wealth and privilege; it hurt her, god, how it hurt her, to think of the disparity in the world, and how much the children in the Narrows would love a garden. And here Wayne was, with several.

But Bruce Wayne could not help an accident of birth, and, fool though he was, he was doing his best to even the odds a little.

Speak of the devil. Her solitude was disturbed by the sound of voices, on the other side of the high hedge. Bruce Wayne's voice, low and coaxing; a woman's voice responding, heavily accented. They were having a pleasant conversation, by the sounds of it—

Oh dear. Now she was hearing snatches of Bruce's half of the conversation, and it would be enough to make a hooker blush.

"…bend you over the fountain, there…"

A low, accented chuckle.

Annabeth squirmed. This could be very awkward.

"Once we do that, we could try to bend your…" and he went on to describe a position that made Annabeth's eyebrows fly up. Did body parts even go that way?

"…I know you said how much you liked that, but you never gave me the chance to try it…" From the sounds of it, he was now beginning to demonstrate. "Remember that time, up on the penthouse roof? Anyone could have seen us, god, you know how hot that is…"

"…oooh, Bruce!" her voice was clear now. "You are very talented lover, this you know. But I am married woman now. I do not want to, how you say, two-time my husband."

Oh, christ on toast.

Bruce didn't sound dismayed on the slightest. "Natascha! You didn't tell me! Congratulations!"

"You didn't see ring on my hand? Right here, it is."

"I am sorry, oh dear." Bruce chuckled. "Oh well, have to protect my virtue now. You shouldn't proposition an innocent boy like that." Annabeth heard her laugh lightly, and walk back towards the house. And then she heard him moving, too, and too late, she realized he was coming around the hedge, and oh lord, wasn't this going to be awkward?

"Annabeth!" Bruce grinned, swayed a little. "I meant to tell you…you looked absolutely lovely this evening."

The entire situation was too ridiculous to even attempt to remark upon. "Thank you."

"Natascha and I were just enjoying the night air, but she's leaving now. Care to join me?"

Not particularly, she thought in distaste, but three hours spent in the presence of Alfred had worked surprising wonders on Annabeth. She smiled at him, the absolute picture of graciousness. "Alas, I can't. It grows late, and I must leave soon…but if you're looking for company, well…I'm fairly certain you'll have a fan club waiting for you on your penthouse roof."

She rose from her seat, approached Bruce. He was one odd duck, and no two ways about it. He had spent the last week alternately advancing her cause, making it his own, and trying to provoke sexual tension, and she was beginning to suspect it was some sort of game or diversion to him. Fine. She could screw with him, too. She drew closer, closer than she normally allowed most people to get. Bruce didn't move back; simply remained still, gazing down at her. Once again, his charming, cheerful expression had passed away, leaving a face carved in icy stone, revealing nothing. But when it came to a poker face, no one could beat Annabeth. And it was that poker face she turned up to him now as she drew near to his absolutely still body.

They both remained thus for at least half a minute, neither moving, speaking, or breaking the gaze. Annabeth was close enough to see his nostrils flare; she saw that suddenly, he looked terribly young and confused. Bruce was close enough to see a curious scar, perhaps left over from childhood, by her right eye.

Finally, Annabeth spoke. "I don't know what it is you want from me, Bruce Wayne. But I doubt very much it's something I can give." She smiled at him enigmatically. "Thank you for a lovely evening."

He remained there, in the moonlight, lost in thought, long after she had departed.