Many years before, shortly after Victoria Leigh married into the Winston family, her parents-in-law had died—either considerately or inconveniently, depending on one's perspective—one right after the other, and Victoria found herself, at the tender age of twenty-five, thrust into the role of the Winston family matriarch. As the youngest daughter of a couple belonging to a fairly insignificant and relatively impoverished branch of a wealthy family, Victoria had, at first, found herself hopelessly out of her depth. Charged with the running of a large establishment, the entertainment of countless guests who flitted in and out at will, the nurturing of her husband's burgeoning political career, and before too long, the rearing and education of Bradford, Victoria had little more than her innate good taste, tact, and a fairly useless liberal arts degree from Bryn Mawr to guide her. Those first few years were trying and often stressful, but life would have been much more difficult were it not for the friendship she developed with Alfred Pennyworth.

Even back then, Victoria had been in possession of a stubbornly independent streak that bordered on the unconventional, and so no one was very surprised when they saw how readily she took to the Waynes' butler. She had first met him shortly after the memorial service for Gregory's parents: the Waynes had journeyed up to Bellingham for the weekend with Alfred in tow. He was solicitous, discreet, refreshingly unpretentious, and so completely different than the then-butler of Bellingham. Victoria had found him to be a man of dubious ethics and little personality, and it was clear that he thought little of the new lady of the manor. She knew he had to go, but she had no idea how to be rid of him, or how to replace him-but within five minutes of observing Alfred's attentive and kind manner, Victoria decided to poach him.

She had cornered Alfred alone in the billiards room, not giving a damn about the propriety of manhandling her guests' beloved butler. With little preamble, Victoria had informed him of her intentions, and immediately set about offering terms that only the most unworldly man would refuse. To Victoria's dismay, Alfred was that unworldly man; he had immediately and kindly declined her offer. This had only fueled Victoria's desperation, and she continued to plead, coax, and offer increasingly more wild incentives. With each gentle refusal, Victoria had become more and more shrill until, much to Alfred's consternation, she had burst into frustrated tears.

Buttling for the Waynes had rendered Alfred somewhat immune to the openness of Americans—even the WASP-Y ones—and so Alfred had done what he did best: he poured the young woman a glass of sherry and guided her to one of the ancient leather seats. Victoria let everything pour forth: her silly but very real intimidation by the absurd butler was merely the tip of a very large iceberg. Isolated as she was at Bellingham, feeling more than a little inadequate, and newly pregnant—Alfred had moved the sherry glass away from her reach upon gleaning this piece of information—Victoria was quite simply exhausted. Alfred had let her talk and cry for a reasonable amount of time, and then he went about setting everything to rights.

"First," he firmly instructed her, "get rid of that officious twit of a butler." Alfred's disapproval had been palpable. "I am certain he tipples, anyway. You need staff who are loyal to you, and it doesn't hurt for you to flex your muscles for the remaining staff."

"But Gregory won't understand!" Victoria had sniffled. "He's our butler. We need him!"

"Nonsense, my dear. The best butlers are needed, of course. But the sneakiest butlers only make you think you need them...and if you and Mr. Winston take a trip down to your wine cellar, I think you will find some of your best vintages are unaccounted for."

"What?" Amazement had transformed Victoria's unhappy countenance. "How do you know?"

Alfred had not answered her directly. He only said, "Good butlers know everything that goes on in their houses...but the best butlers know what goes on in other peoples' houses."

All of that had happened so long ago-more than thirty years had passed. Their friendship had endured Gregory's rise in the political world, and the horrific murder of Thomas and Martha had only brought Bruce and Alfred to Bellingham more often, Alfred drawn there for the company and Bruce for the relative normalcy of Victoria's no-nonsense brand of maternal instincts and Bradford's sweet-natured companionship. Victoria watched as Alfred slowly aged and Bruce grew from a curious, forward toddler to a solemn boy to a withdrawn and terse young man. Together Victoria and Alfred, and Gregory too, in his offhand way, kept an eye on him, and Victoria offered advice from the wings, just as Alfred quietly-and less frequently as the years went on-offered her encouragement and guidance in running the behemoth estate that was Bellingham. Victoria fussed and worried over him when Bruce so strangely disappeared and left the family butler alone with the sprawling manor and the lonely memories, and quietly rejoiced when the wayward boy—for a boy Bruce would always be to Victoria—inexplicably returned. To borrow one of Alfred's delightfully British turns of phrase, it had all come out in the wash.

Or had it?

This was the question that Victoria was pondering as she and Alfred visited that chilly, bleak day, just one day until her son's wedding. Although they were closeted away in the winter parlor, sipping tea, Victoria was by no means neglectful of her household; rather, she knew everything going on. Gregory had taken the reception of guests into his capable hands, and was no doubt leading them on a tour that led directly to the wine cellar. Bradford had gone into town for some last-minute supplies, Elisa was working away in the dark room that they had fitted out for her as a wedding gift, and Annabeth, that dark horse that Bruce had brought along, was fast asleep upstairs, and presumably, Bruce was as well. Therefore, Victoria took it upon herself to permit themselves a few moments of stolen leisure, in which she and Alfred caught up over cups of hot, fragrant tea, platters of scones and sandwiches, and a few iced fairy cakes for good measure.

Victoria looked over at her old friend, comfortably settled in a wing chair and gently cradling a delicate china cup and saucer. After giving him a moment's intense scrutiny, Victoria was satisfied; he seemed as little changed as ever, at least in appearance,

And yet-

"We see so little of you, Alfred, since Bruce came back," Victoria began with a little hesitation. "I think this is only the second time you've visited since, and he's been back quite a while now."

Alfred did not respond immediately. He sipped his tea, and for a moment the aroma of Darjeeling and lemon wafted through the air.

"Alfred?" Victoria prompted.

Still another moment's hesitation, and then Alfred answered. "The reconstruction of Wayne Manor was far more time consuming than any of us realized." He reached for one of the shortbread biscuits Victoria had artfully arranged on a platter, and then shrugged. "And Master Wayne's social schedule tends to keep me quite busy."

"Really, Alfred," Victoria gently scolded him. "That's quite absurd. You tend to Bruce more now than you ever did when he was a child. All this gallivanting about Gotham—what's the boy playing at? He never used to be like this!"

"Mmmm." Alfred was studying the saucer in his hands. "My dear, where did you get this pattern? I've been looking for a replacement set for close to a year!"

"Alfred!" Victoria set her cup and saucer down with a forceful clatter that would have made her cringe under normal circumstances. She rose from her seat and stalked over to the window. If her back had not been turned to Alfred, she would have seen the guilty expression on his face. "You've changed, Alfred, since Bruce came back. You're so vague and evasive, and I'm never sure if I am getting a straight answer from you."

Silence was the only response she received. It stretched on, became painfully loud. The Vienna clock in the corner ticked all the more loudly in the absence of conversation.

"I love Bruce almost as though he were my son," Victoria went on. "Martha and I were close, and I owed it to her to help wherever I could. And I owe it to our friendship, Alfred, to help you as much as you helped me all those years."

"We're fine, Victoria," Alfred assured her. "I know it seems that Master Wayne is a bit...wild...but he really does have good sense."When it's not being smacked out of him by the scum of Gotham. "The Wayne family fortune is in very capable hands-Bruce is quite devoted to his work." Alfred took a sip of his tea, hiding his eyes behind the rim of his cup. Master Bruce did indeed have capable hands, which were, at the moment, currently occupied with installing tiny-thereby belying their outrageous costs-surveillance devices in the various chambers and corridors. "Keep Victoria occupied in the meantime," he had instructed Alfred, and Alfred had promised, cringing even as he thought of Bruce methodically bugging Bellingham Manor.

Victoria was, of course, blissfully unaware of the deceptive shenanigans Bruce was currently getting himself into. She merely took another sip of her tea and continued her contemplation of Alfred. It was only the many years of his acting experience which now enabled him to meet Victoria's querying gaze with open—yet false—frankness; it was just as well that she was unable to see the shadow of guilt which covered his heart. Bruce Wayne's choices and path had affected much more than just his own life—Alfred's life was, in its own way, as isolated and estranged, essentially dividing him permanently from any sort of open, honest friendship, even with his oldest companions, like Victoria. His life had become an existence peppered with lies of omission, and while it was a choice he had freely made and would make again, he could not help but to mourn that which he had lost: the openness and transparency of a calm and simple life.

Any further thoughts along this vein were interrupted by Victoria's sudden change of tact. "What can you tell me about Bruce's lady friend?"

"Miss Annabeth?" Once more, Alfred was on his guard, but this time, not only to protect Bruce's interests, but Annabeth's as well. He barely understood what was transpiring between them; in fact, Alfred suspected that they understood as little as he did. But the less information conveyed to outsiders, even friends like Victoria, the better. "I believe Master Wayne has developed quite the rapport with her."

"Rapport, eh?" Victoria's scrutiny intensified. "How serious is he about her?"

Again, Alfred had no satisfactory answers, and again, he suspected—no, he knew—that Bruce Wayne did not, either. "I cannot rightly say," he finally admitted. "Both of them appear to enjoy each other's company...but...both of them have very different lifestyles."

"Hmmm." This was clearly an unsatisfactory answer in Victoria's estimation. "That was an exemplary nonanswer, my dear. When did you get so good at that?" She didn't wait for his next nonanswer; after all, she had the entire weekend to pry, listen, and observe. "How did they meet?"

"In a work capacity, I believe." This was true enough. "I believe Miss de Burgh is involved in some organizations in which Master Wayne takes a charitable interest." He saw Victoria raise a suspicious eyebrow, and hastened to reassure her. "It's nothing like that—Miss Annabeth is about the most unworldly woman that you'll ever have the opportunity to meet. She doesn't suffer fools gladly, and you can be sure that her reasons for spending time with Master Wayne have little to do with getting her capable hands on the family fortune."

"Bradford and Elisa speak very highly of her. They say she keeps Bruce on his toes."

"She runs circles around him, more like," Alfred chuckled, but then worried that even in that little bit, he had revealed too much. "Really, Victoria, it's getting rather late in the day. Don't you think there are some guests to whom you should be attending?"

"If they're as narcoleptic as your employer and his lady, it'll be the easiest house party yet," Victoria retorted. "Still, you're right, as always. The public awaits. And you should probably make sure Bruce and Annabeth haven't managed to sleepwalk their way into the back passages and get lost. This house has secrets that even I don't know about."

She was more correct than she knew.

One floor above, and over in the guest wing, the object of Victoria's curiosity was finally starting to emerge from the depths of sleep. It had been a long time since Annabeth had slept anywhere other than in the tender bosom of Gotham, and it had been an equally long time since she had encountered a sleep so deep and peaceful. As wakefulness and energy crept back into her limbs, so too did awareness of her surroundings creep into her consciousness. The magnificence of her bed chamber was astounding, to say nothing of absurd—the bed alone was fairly overwhelming, with its intricately carved posts, its sumptuous canopy, and its matching drapes. Judging by the rather frigid temperature of the bedchamber, Annabeth had little doubt that, come nightfall, those bedcurtains would no longer be simply ornamental.

Beyond the bed was, predictably, more excessive splendor. Blearily Annabeth recalled Victoria referring to it as "the medieval chamber," and now it was clear as to why. Nothing in the room, other than the current guest and her luggage, appeared to be any newer than the fifteenth century. From the massive stone fireplace right down to the cushions on the very uncomfortable-looking chairs, the message was quite clear: the guests were the only anachronisms.

Across the room, at an enormous door which presumably led to the rest of the house, there was a soft knock, barely audible through the sturdy wood. "Annabeth?"

It was Elisa, no doubt coming to make sure all was well. "Come in," Annabeth called

The door swung open, and Elisa slipped in, her tiny frame immediately dwarfed by the size of everything in the room. This didn't faze her in the slightest; she merely shut the door and launched herself across the chamber, flinging herself onto the foot of Annabeth's bed. At that moment, she looked less like a blushing bride and more like a mischievous child whose favorite cousin had come to visit. "Wake up!" she exclaimed gleefully, grabbing Annabeth's feet. "Almost all of the weekend guests are here, and soon it's going to be time to meet everyone."

"I'm awake," Annabeth assured her, surprised to see how true that was. She felt more alert and alive than she had felt in a long time. "Really, I'm awake. I'm ready."

"I'm not!" Elisa stretched out, catlike. "Once I go down there, my time won't be my own, not ever again."

"That's not exactly a cheerful thought to be having on your wedding weekend," Annabeth pointed out. "Not that I'm an expert or anything, but shouldn't you be thrilled that you're spending the rest of your life with Bradford?"

"I'm thrilled about that. It's the rest of them that I'm dreading." Elisa gestured vaguely towards the door. "All of the family, all of the friends, all of the enemies. The reporters, the public, Gregory's constituency. I'm marrying the heir to a considerable family fortune and dynasty. After the wedding, everything changes." Her frank gaze captured Annabeth's attention. "It'd be the same for you…maybe worse."

"That's really not anything any of us need to worry about," Annabeth assured her. "It's certainly not something I've thought about." It wasn't, either—or at least, it hadn't been up until that point.

Elisa quirked an eyebrow, wordlessly conveying disbelief.

"I'm serious!" Annabeth protested. "Bruce and I haven't even been seeing each other that long. It's hardly serious between us."

"Says you," Elisa pointed out. "But have you ever stopped to think Bruce might see it differently? Ever think that he might be falling in love with you?"

"Unlikely." Annabeth dismissed the possibility out of hand. "Bruce is a truly wonderful person, and I'll be the first to admit that I judged him unfairly in the beginning. But he is not falling in love with me. We barely know each other. And god knows, we lead very different lives."

Elisa chewed on this for a moment. "Is it possible that you're falling in love with him?"

Annabeth actually threw back her head and laughed, a surprising reaction coming from someone normally so dour. "Elisa, you're very sweet. You want everyone to be as happy as you."

"Not everyone—just the people I know deserve it."

"Well, you just worry about you and Bradford. Bruce and I will have to muddle through on our own." Annabeth smiled at her earnest friend. "Beside, we're a lost cause. There's no room in my life for love."

"That's a horrible thing to say!"

"Which makes it no less true. What's the true lesson in Romeo and Juliet?" Annabeth didn't wait for an answer. "That true love is a tragedy. It's messy and complicated and for me—for me, Elisa, not you—it's not worth it."

Elisa's expression was filled with equal parts exasperation and pity. "Is this something you've shared with Bruce?"

"Hell, no," Annabeth snorted. "It's certainly not something that's ever come up in conversation: 'Thanks for dinner, Bruce, and by the way, don't bother falling in love with me. You'd have more fun hugging a hedgehog.'" Annabeth's chin was stuck out, a characteristic signal of her defiance.

Elisa recognized false bravado when she saw it. "You sure about that?"

Her gentle voice, her genuine question, caught Annabeth a little off-guard, and she didn't answer right away. She thought of Bruce, thought of the conflicting emotions that seemed to spring up whenever she thought too long about him. "No," she admitted. "No, I'm not sure about that. I'm not sure about anything, except that I could see myself falling for Bruce if I let it happen."

"If you let it happen?" Elisa repeated this disbelievingly. "Annabeth de Burgh, love isn't something you let happen. It happens regardless of what we want, and it happens usually at the least convenient time. Listen to me." She reached over and seized Annabeth's hands and squeezed them for emphasis. "Can't you at least give him a chance? I mean, didn't he give you a chance? Several, really—I know how often you tried to verbally castrate him. He's a good man, you're a good woman. What else is there?"

For Elisa, it was so simple, so painfully, sweetly simple. And as deluded as Annabeth knew the hopeful bride was, she didn't have it in her to refuse Elisa, at least not outright. "Things are complicated, Elisa. But I'll tell you what—I will think about what you said. We can't keep carrying on like this if there's nothing that is going to come of it, I'm going to decide this weekend, one way or another." Even as Annabeth uttered the words, they took her by surprise. It wasn't anything she had been planning, up until now, at least. But it made sense. "But I will think about what you said. All options are on the table." And surprisingly, this was true, too.

Still, Elisa wasn't completely satisfied. "God help you, Annabeth de Burgh. You're a cold-hearted wretch of a woman. I don't know whether I'm disgusted or admiring."

"Don't be either. Just let me go down my long and lonely road." Annabeth finally threw back the covers and slid out of bed. She misjudged the distance between bed and floor, however, and ended up hitting the floor in an undignified heap.

"There are steps on the other side of the bed, you know," Elisa pointed out helpfully as she watched Annabeth struggle to her feet.

"I prefer to make my own mistakes and learn from them."

"That much is obvious," Elisa smirked.

"What?" Annabeth demanded, her patience finally tapped. "Is it so bad that I don't want to get hurt? That I don't want Bruce to get hurt? I'm married to my job, Elisa, and it's not exactly an uncomplicated marriage. Bruce is, in his own sheltered way, an innocent. And I don't want him to get tainted with the filth that I see on a daily basis. He's one of the few clean, bright, beautiful things in that godforsaken city, and god help me, that's part of why I love him."

Elisa looked at Annabeth, startled, and Annabeth clapped her hand over her mouth. "Shit."

In the passage that joined Annabeth's bedchamber with the Heppelwhite suite in which Bruce was lodged, the subject of Annabeth and Elisa's terse conversation lingered, an unwilling witness to all that had passed between them, thanks to the highly effective surveillance equipment he had just finished laying.

"Shit," Bruce muttered, unconsciously echoing Annabeth. Stealthily he stole backwards, retreating to his suite. Once within his own rooms, he firmly shut the door, closeting himself away from the confidences he had just overheard. Only then did he turn around to face Alfred, seated patiently by the fire.

"Well," Bruce said enigmatically, "we know the equipment works."

Bellingham Manor may have been a magnificent shrine to priceless antiques, but as Annabeth privately suspected, it also harbored every convenience and modernization that money could buy, no doubt supplied at no small expense to the Winston family coffers. This suspicion was confirmed as Annabeth stood in the doorway of her bathroom and gazed at the sunken tub of Italian marble, the gleaming glass-enclosed shower, the dual sinks with the copper fixtures, and the heated towel racks. As she gazed at the luxuries surrounding her, she could not help but to compare them to the semi-communal bathrooms of Safe Haven, the problematic plumbing, the chipped porcelain, the shabby towels, and the women who were grateful for even that much.

Well, eschewing these fripperies wouldn't correct the imbalance, and with that thought, Annabeth set about readying herself for the evening ahead. Elisa had taken herself off to track down Bradford, but not before tactfully pointing out to Annabeth that she might wish to fix her bedhead before the reception and supper. Now, as Annabeth gazed into the ruthlessly lit mirrors, she could see exactly what Elisa had been delicately hinting at...her hair was mussed from the nap, her clothes were wrinkled, and she quite simply looked as though she had been tussling with a Gotham sewer rat. Without another second's hesitation, she turned to the bathtub and began fiddling with the faucets. Only when steaming water was streaming from the taps did she turn her attention and curiosity to the other details of the room.

Jewel-toned towels and face flannels, impeccably folded, lined the shelves, next to thick glass bottles containing bath products of unpronouncably French origin. Rich, spicy smells wafted from a dish of fresh potpourri placed between the sinks, and on a wide ledge over the bathtub, a bowl of chocolates, a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, and two glasses had been carefully placed, and now awaited appreciation. Annabeth couldn't help but to shake her head and chuckle; whether Victoria approached each guest bedchamber with this much attention, or whether she was attempting to make some extremely unsubtle hints, it required enormous attention and creativity. Victoria was, without question, a grand dame of the highest order.

Slowly, Annabeth began to peel away her clothes and left them discarded on the floor. Heavy steam filled the bathroom, but every now and then, clouds of steam parted enough to allow her a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her limbs—perhaps just a trifle too thin, due to her recent spartan ways—gleamed, pale, under the bright lights, but she still had a few curves where they counted, and thankfully, gravity had not yet begun to work against her.

"Enough," she scolded herself aloud, the scorn audible in her voice. She did not often lapse into vanity—it seemed an absurd thing to do. She wasn't one of the socialites she had become accustomed to seeing; she wasn't certainly wasn't a beautiful society wife, like Victoria. She knew that her face wasn't her fortune—but still, she wouldn't scare away small children or puppies, either.

Having indulged in this little bit of pride, she slipped into the tub and let the piping hot water wash over her limbs. Hers was a life of few luxuries, and so this moment of idleness, while feeling extremely decadent, was enough of a novelty for her to revel in it, at least for a while. So revel she did, and imagined the scene of tightly controlled chaos which she had no doubt was unfolding in the house around her. In the suite next door, Bruce was probably preparing for the dinner as Alfred hovered nearby, assisting with as much wry commentary as sensible advice. Bradford and Elisa were probably squirrelled away somewhere, enjoying their last few moments of peace and freedom together before their lives altered forever. And Gregory and Victoria were no doubt alternating between entertaining the guests who had descended upon them and supervising the small army of extra help they had hired to execute the weekend's festivities.

The stone walls of Bellingham were too thick to allow any sort of untoward or disruptive noise to annoy its inhabitants, so all of these speculations were just that—speculations. And the longer Annabeth stayed soaking in the tub, the longer she was removed from the life carrying on beyond the bathroom. She needed time to sort through the things she had observed—since coming to Bellingham, she had begun to come to some uncomfortable realizations. The most evident one was that she was finally beginning to see just how much her life had changed since she had begun spending time with Bruce. Several months ago, hers was a spartan life of work and...more work, alleviated by the small flashes of satisfaction she got when things went right with her job, and the small bouts of laughter she shared with Janey. There was no time for luxury, or social activities, or any pleasures; she had forced herself, over the years, to adopt the life of a secular nun.

And then there was Bruce, who had blundered into her world, almost as if by accident, throwing her life off its axis, whisking her into an almost entirely different plane of existence, populated with politicians, power-players, socialites, celebrities, and eccentrics, whose only one point of commonality was their overabundance of money and the ennui that accompanied it. Certainly, Annabeth had seen his family home, his family wealth, had even benefited from it through the lavish dinners and extravagant galas he threw, but up until now, she had held herself somewhat aloof, somewhat detached. Ultimately, it had been no concern of hers...but here in the rarified atmosphere of Bellingham, far removed from the pressing concerns of mundane life, Annabeth began to wonder how wise her detachment had been. If any sort of attachment was truly forming between her and Bruce, wasn't it time for her to really consider how she could reasonably fit into this world of his?

And if he could even fit into hers at all?

Annabeth was only partly correct—Bruce was preparing for the evening, but not in the way that she had assumed. Picking out an outfit was the least of his and Alfred's concerns; more important was that Bruce managed to get himself up into it without falling apart.

"How much time do we have?" Bruce asked, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow his head was buried in. He was sprawled across the bed, facedown, to allow Alfred to tend to his back. The bruising had not yet disappeared, nor even diminished that much, and Alfred had refused to come to Bellingham unless Bruce allowed him to continue tending to the injuries.

"Not enough time to get you up to snuff, Master Wayne," Alfred sighed. "Now hold still while I put ice packs on your back. The kitchen staff gave me some odd looks, I can tell you that. I told them you were chilling about fifty bottles of champagne for the real party later."

Bruce chuckled, but then winced as he registered the pain. Putting up a front for Victoria and Annabeth and the rest of the crowds was exhausting, and this was the only time he had to let down his guard. "Sometimes I think you enjoy promoting my reputation as a hedonist."

"Well, it certainly wasn't what your parents had in mind when they said they wanted you to have a lively life," Alfred sighed. "Oh dear, is that pus?

Bruce sat up, but saw Alfred smirking. "I get my kicks where I can, sir."

The bed chamber was silent as Bruce rested and Alfred puttered about, every now and then casting worried looks at Bruce's back. The encounter The Batman had had with Boy-o had been too close for anyone's comfort, and frankly, he had sustained injuries extensive enough to have kept him out for the count for a week at least. His chest was healing fairly quickly, although the bruising remained, and the same held true for his back. A maze of purple and blue welts covered the majority of his skin, front and back. It was an act of conscious discipline, more than anything else, that kept Bruce from wincing from the almost constant pain that every movement gave him, and Alfred knew it. As he applied the ice packs to Bruce's back, he opened his mouth to speak, to warn, to admonish, but then closed up, thinking the better of it.

Finally, though, he couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer. "How would you explain this to Miss Annabeth?"

Bruce snorted. "Hardly a problem, Alfred. Do you see her anywhere around?"

"As a matter of fact, sir, I do." Alfred rested his hand briefly on the ice packs to ascertain that they were still cold enough. "She's been all around your life lately. She's not fifty feet away. If this carries on much longer, she's bound to notice the...oddities. The absences. The bruises. Goodness knows, she already notices the funny moods you get into. She's already part of your life, superficially; it's about time you figure how she really fits in. "

At this, Alfred fell silent and drifted away to attend to other things, perhaps the surveillance equipment, or to review Bruce's tuxedo for the night. In a little bit, no doubt he would come back to attend to Bruce's wounds even further, or perhaps offer another one of his pithy observations. But the most important thing, Alfred had already done—he had been Bruce's conscience, his common sense, his voice of reason that pointed out the uncomfortable truths. Only damned catch was that he only pointed out the problems; he never pointed out the answers.

Now that would be a real superhero.

Forty-five minutes later, a tentative knock sounded on the door leading from Annabeth's room to the passageway connecting it to Bruce's suite. Slowly, carefully, she made her way over, hobbled by the slinky evening gown Janey had packed, as well as the ridiculous stilettos that had also been foisted upon her. They added a few inches of badly-needed height to her small frame, but also made for precarious walking. Even the ridiculous heels could not alter Annabeth's somewhat belligerent swagger, however, and when she pulled the door open to admit the two men into her room, they could see that the tottering heels only added to her unique presence.

Unbidden, Bruce let out a low whistle as he took in Annabeth's appearance. She may not have had the elegance or the polished beauty of most of the socialites of his acquaintance, but she did have an instinctive grace and an uncultivated dignity, in addition to her quiet prettiness. And when she looked up at him with those eyes, with that fearless, forthright gaze, he quite literally felt his heart give an unwelcome clench. Hers was a gown of elegant, clinging indigo silk, hugging all the right curves, and her hair had somehow been twisted back into an elaborate knot. She was a disconcerting combination of the rough Annabeth he had grown to know, and a sleek and elegant Annabeth that he had only rarely met.

Finally, he recovered his wits enough to tell her, "You're lovely."

"I won't disgrace you," Annabeth smiled. She accepted the arm that Bruce offered her. "Shall we go down? Except..." she hesitated for a moment. "I think you'll need to lead the way. I'm not sure I can find my way out of this room." And just like that, once more, she was the sweet, familiar Annabeth that he knew.

Together, the three of them made their way from the bedchambers, Annabeth on Bruce's arm, and Alfred following with his perpetual expression of distant amusement. Bruce guided the way, and soon they were making their way down the corridor, strolling towards the grand staircase. As they came closer, the low murmur of dozens of genteel voices floated up to greet them. It seemed much...busier than the sedate atmosphere that Annabeth had encountered earlier in the day.

"How many people came to this damned thing?" she hissed to Bruce.

He shrugged off-handedly. "All the people that are staying at the manor, plus a few score people who are staying in the closest town. Movers and shakers-politicians, socialites, people who didn't quite make the cut for an invitation for the whole weekend, but wanted to make it for as much of the free booze as possible." Bruce pulled a face as he said this, making it clear what he thought of them.

Since the first soiree to which Bruce had invited Annabeth, she had become more and more accustomed to the glitz and glamor and show of the Gotham elite, and as they made their way down the staircase and through the main corridor into the Long Gallery, it became obvious just how confident Annabeth had become. Bruce and Alfred watched, bemused, as she detached herself from their side and made her way into the crowd of people who had turned out for the society event of the year.

"It appears that you have done your job quite well, Master Wayne," Alfred observed. "Miss de Burgh has become quite the swan."

"And it looks as though she's migrating away." Bruce watched her as she disappeared into the crowd. "This is getting to be rather preposterous, Alfred. Why am I prolonging this?" A waiter passed by with a trayful of crystal champagne flutes, and Bruce neatly snagged two of them, one of which he passed to Alfred. "Why do I continue to carry this on?"

"Carry on what, exactly, sir?" Alfred took the tiniest of sips as they began to circulate through the crowds, taking care to pass by a potted tree-Alfred could only pray that it was no exceedingly rare specimen-for Bruce to swiftly dump the contents of his glass into it.

"This pretense at normalcy." Bruce glanced around the room, and caught a glimpse of Annabeth as she joined a group of lobbyists over by the Steinway concert grand piano. Her poise was confident, her head proudly erect, and her smile seemingly genuine; she was clearly more in her element with each passing moment. "I'm misleading Annabeth, making her think I'm something I'm not. She's only going to get hurt."

Alfred took another sip of champagne, this one a little larger. "Are we talking about the same Annabeth?" He gestured towards her. "Look at her, sir." Together they studied her, and then Alfred spoke again. "You know, Master Wayne, I think Miss de Burgh is quite a bit similar to you. I think she's got her goals, I think she wants to save Gotham, and I think it's difficult for her to deviate from that too much. But she's got more courage than anyone I've ever seen. And she hasn't left you yet." Alfred fixed Bruce with a penetrating stare. "It would be just as hard for her to fall in love as it would be for you...but she isn't running. We know the Batman has courage...but what about Bruce Wayne?"

"This has nothing to do with courage!" Bruce protested, stung by Alfred's implications. "This is about making the right decision, which isn't always the easy one."

"That's poppycock, and you know it." Alfred had lost patience. "The easy thing to do would be to run away and leave Annabeth and whatever little romance the two of you have going on. The hard thing to do is to try to figure out how to make it work with...your other life. That's what will take courage."

Another champagne tray passed by, but this time, when Bruce snagged the glass, its contents did not make their way into any unsuspecting foliage.

As the evening wore on, more and more people joined the party, eager to partake in the legendary Winston hospitality. Time and again, Bruce caught a glimpse of Annabeth as she made the circuit, talking, laughing, paying attention to all in her company. It was no longer possible for him to determine whether she was sought after for the novelty of being his girlfriend, or for the pleasure and interest of her own company.

Either way, it was a far cry from the prickly, chippy woman he had met back in the late summer. At one point, she glanced over at him, and their eyes met for a prolonged and strange moment. Just then, Bruce knew she was as surprised as he was by the transformation she had undergone.

"Annabeth!" Elisa, caught up in the excitement of her wedding weekend festivities, had thrown back more than a few glasses of bubbly, and her eyes sparkled joyously. "You and Bruce have been ignoring each other all night. At least try to pretend that the two of you are dating." She was closer to the truth than she realized, but that was not something she was sober enough to clue into. She clamped her hand around Annabeth's wrist and, surprisingly strong for such a tiny person, began hauling Annabeth along. "Consider this an intervention. You don't know how to run your life, so we're going to do it for you." She began to haul Annabeth across the room, wending and winding their way through clusters of revelers, not allowing Annabeth to wriggle free until they were standing by Bruce.

"Bruce!" Elisa tapped him on the arm, less gently than she thought. "Bruce, you broughtAnnabeth with you, you should be squiring her around!" A few tendrils of hair escaped from her upswept hair and charmingly framed her flushed face. "You two make such a lovely couple!" She beamed up at him, and then over at Annabeth, and then tottered off, in search of more champagne, or Bradford, or both.

As soon as she was far enough away, Bruce made surreptitious tippling motions, and Annabeth nodded in confirmation. "She's rather soused, I'm afraid." Annabeth glanced sharply at the almost-full glass in Bruce's hand. "You appear to be refraining, however."

"For the most part," Bruce agreed. "And you?"

"Stopped almost an hour ago. It's funnier to stay sober and watch everyone else."

They stood there, side by side, silently observing the crowds for a moment, and then Annabeth turned to Bruce. "Sorry for disappearing on you this evening...I...just figured..."

"Figured what?"

"Bruce!"

Incredibly, Elisa had already returned, with another young couple in tow. "I've been meaning to introduce you...this is Anthony de la Cruz, Victoria's interior design consultant. He's been begging me for an introduction.

"Not entirely true, you little wretch," the man laughed. He was tall, slender, divinely handsome, and upon hearing him speak six words, Annabeth could see that he was openly, flamingly gay. "I've been wanting the name of the person who designed the public spaces of Wayne Towers. I'm dying to scalp him for my firm. And I'm dying to talk to the person in charge of the renovations of Wayne Manor."

"Please, do us all a favor and tell him. He hasn't stopped going on about it since he found out you were coming." This came from the woman who was by his side, a stunning beauty who smiled as she spoke. Unlike so many of the people present, her smile seemed genuine. Annabeth focused on her, frowing; something seemed painfully familiar about her. And then, realization struck her, actually sent a cold shock through her. Although the glittering, brightly-lit rooms of Bellingham Manor were a long way off from the filthiest streets of Gotham, the disparate contexts could not detract from what quickly became glaringly obvious to Annabeth: she was looking into the eyes of the mystery woman who had been feeding her and the Batman information.

Time suspended as worlds collided. The noise faded into the background as the two women stared at each other, each silently assessing the situation. All the homesickness Annabeth may have been entertaining was washed away as the murky relationship she had with Gotham spewed, at least figuratively, all over the polished marble floor of Annabeth's double life.

She became conscious, once more, of Bruce, swaying with ever-so-slight drunkenness beside her, and forced herself to focus on the gravity of the situation at hand. She couldn't let Bruce be exposed to the complicated danger that had begun to taint her life. He didn't deserve it, and more to the point, hadn't asked for it, and would not know how to handle it even if he wanted to. She began to think ahead, plot, try to figure out how she could disentangle the poor man before things got any messier.

Bet the Batman doesn't have to worry about this shit, she thought randomly, before ruthlessly quashing the thought.

"This is Trinity, my lovely date for the weekend," Anthony was saying, oblivious to any tension. "My partner's in London for a trade show—why he feels the need to keep up with the latest developments in S&M merchandise, I'll never know-and I simply couldn't come to this alone. So when Trinity here called, sniffing around for an invitation, I thought, perfecto! A perfectly beautiful date for a perfectly beautiful weekend."

"Absolutely," Bruce agreed, the soul of gallantry. "She's a vision...one of them, anyway." He winked rougishly at Annabeth.

Oh, lord. In vain, Annabeth scanned the crowds for Alfred. Where the hell had he gotten to? The one time when his hovering, tactful omnipresence was essential, the man was no where in sight. In desperation, she turned to Bruce and gave him what she hoped was her most winning smile. "Why don't you get us some more champagne?"

"I've already had enough, don't you think?" Bruce smiled goofily as he deliberately misinterpreted her question. "So, Trinity...it isTrinity, right?" He fixed her with his piercing gaze. "Have we met somewhere before? You look very familiar to me."

Anthony spat out a mouthful of champagne. Annabeth looked wildly around, half looking for Alfred, or the nearest drapery swag that could double as a noose. Trinity, however, was unperturbed, and merely smiled with faint scorn. "I'm an independent entrepreneur, Mr. Wayne, and I never forget a name or a face. This is the first time we've met."

"Bloody well hope so," Anthony smirked into his glass.

It was an awkward situation for Annabeth, but although she didn't know it, it was even moreso for Bruce. The layers of complexity were substantial, and only he understood just how much. Annabeth and Trinity had now encountered each other, and were struggling to reveal nothing untoward, and Annabeth was trying desperately to hide the depths of her hidden life...not realizing that he lurked at the dark heart of those depths. And of course Trinity had no idea who he truly was...

The tension thickened. And then Trinity turned her attention to Annabeth, and Annabeth could see how and why Trinity had been so successful in her chosen...career. Her beauty was stunning, a keen intellect burned in her eyes, and when she chose to turn it on, her charm was substantial. That charm was now directed at Annabeth, who could do nothing but graciously go along with it.

"You have the advantage over me," Trinity told Annabeth. "It's been a while since I've been in this crowd." She flashed Bruce and Anthony a devastating smile as she entwined her arm though Annabeth's. "You gentlemen wouldn't mind if I borrowed Annabeth for a little bit? I'd like to take her on a stroll so she can fill me in on all the gossip."

Without waiting for a response, she steered Annabeth away from them and maneuvered her back into the thick of the crowds. As soon as Annabeth was certain they were out of the earshot of Bruce, she tugged free from Trinity and glared. "What the hell?"

"Did you really want me spilling the story about your midnight rendezvous to your boyfriend back there?" Trinity was uncowed by Annabeth's anger. "In my job, it pays to be discreet."

"Yeah?" Annabeth's hackles were raised and her defenses were up. "How's that paying these days?"

Fifteen feet away, Alfred finally joined Bruce's side. "Everything alright, sir?"

"Not sure." Bruce glanced around, made sure the remaining members of their group had lost interest and moved on. "But it looks like Annabeth might be about to throw down, Gotham-style." He jerked his head towards them as he began to inch closer.

Trinity was speaking low and quickly. "Is there somewhere more private we can talk? Now that you know who I am, I suppose clandestine meetings with you and your batty friend aren't necessary anymore, but it wouldn't hurt to fly under the radar, either."

"Keep your voice down." Annabeth glanced around. "First, consorting with him could get me into a lot of trouble with some pissy cops. Second, he's no friend of mine, and third, I never asked for any meetings with either of you."

"Well, friends or not, looks like you're stuck with both of us." Trinity ran a hand over her glossy golden locks and offered a dazzling smile to a portly older gentleman as he ambled past, no doubt in search for the latest tray of hors d'oeuvres that had been marched out from the kitchen. "Tell you what. Around three a.m., meet me in the corridor outside your suite. For god's sake, be quiet and discreet. There's going to be a lot of bed-hopping going on, so don't be surprised if you run into others out in the hall. Best rule of thumb: don't ask, don't tell."

"Dear god, what sort of den of iniquity is this?"

"Just another night with a few scores of people with too much money and too little sense." Trinity's eyes alighted on the group of people closest to them. They were, by this point, unremarkable to Annabeth; simply a group of well-heeled, bright young things. "Poor fools are completely oblivious. They've got no idea. Never forget that, Annabeth-you'll never be one of them. And that's a good thing."

"Thanks for the uplifting thought." Annabeth studied Trinity more closely; under the carefully-polished veneer, there was a fiercely intelligent woman. "Who the hell are you to judge?" And how the hell did I end up defending these people?

Ever-so-slightly, Trinity gestured towards the group they had been studying before. "See that woman? The one with the beehive hair?"

"Yes," Annabeth said cautiously, not sure where this was going.

"That's Corrine Forsythe-Aston. She's the great-great-great granddaughter of Richard Forsythe, the cloth manufacturer who inspired Gotham's textiles trade. Made a fortune on the backs of several generations of indigent immigrants, mainly Polish and German. It was after a pretty bad accident at his factory-which killed seven children, by the way-that they passed legislation more closely monitoring labor conditions. And that gentleman standing next to her...the one in the white tux...that's her husband. Jasper Aston...he owns about ten blocks of tenements down in the Narrows...and those are just two examples of the elite of Gotham."

"If you're so disgusted by them, why the hell don't you just walk away from it?" Annabeth challenged her.

"Oh, I didn't meant to come across as though I was judging them...after all, this is America, and I'm an American, and so it goes. I'm not thrilled about it, but you don't see me walking away, either. It's the capitalist system, Annabeth, and all of us, in one way or another, profit from it. Including you." Trinity eyeballed Annabeth's gown. "Where was that manufactured, anyway?"

Wisely, Annabeth remained silent. She had been given plenty of food for thought, and didn't think she had room in her stomach for any more.