Annabeth was no angel, but there were still a few places she feared to tread.

She had spent countless nights prowling the most dangerous streets, alleys, and gutters of Gotham, had gone toe-to-toe with some of the surliest pimps and no-accounts; had even held her own in verbal sparring matches with the Batman, but this—roaming the sister building to Castle Dracula—was something new again.

By two a.m., most of the revelers had returned to town or their own rooms—or someone else's, if Trinity was to be believed. By two-thirty, the electrical candelabras lining the aged walls had dimmed out, and the previously illuminated corridors were plunged into another world, one of unfamiliar shadows, unidentified rustlings, and an unpleasant sense of foreboding. Into this strange, creepy world Annabeth emerged—by hesitant tiptoe, rather than headlong plunge—and not without some trepidation.

She wasn't even particularly sure where she was going. Trinity had said that her room was further down the corridor, same floor, same wing, but robbed of all light, Annabeth quickly lost her bearings.

Even the Narrows has better lighting than this, Annabeth thought crossly as she slowly extended a hand into murky blackness, feeling ahead for furniture, walls, priceless antiques, accommodating ghosts willing to loan her some ectoplasm—anything, really, to help her see. What the hell kind of slum is this? Even the Narrows have their standards. Annabeth smiled grimly as she thought this, and wondered how Victoria would feel to learn her beloved home had come up short.

Thus occupied, she almost missed the tiny flash of light in the darkness ahead. Annabeth went still, taut, as she listened, strained against the darkness, trying to extract any sort of sound or indication of what she was about to encounter. Friend or foe? It was becoming more and more difficult to tell the difference. Tentatively, she took a step forward...and almost immediately collided with warm, living flesh. Only years of discipline and experience as a lady of Gotham kept her from crying out.

"Jesus!"

Another quick flash of light, and Annabeth caught a flash of Trinity's pale face before the light extinguished.

"How the hell did you manage to survive in Gotham if you didn't have the good sense to bring a flashlight?" Trinity hissed before closing a hand around Annabeth's wrist. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Annabeth hissed back, but Trinity didn't answer; her pace was too fast and her concentration was focused on navigating through the darkness. She was intent on leading them deeper into Bellingham Manor, only occasionally flicking on her flashlight to assess her surroundings. Annabeth silently despaired of ever finding her way back to her room.

Finally, after shuffling up and down countless steps and through many creaking doors, Trinity halted.

"Where the hell are we?" Annabeth demanded, only barely keeping her voice at the level of a harsh whisper.

"The family wing, second floor. Holy christ, woman, how the hell do you find your way around Gotham?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," Annabeth admitted as she peered around into the darkness. "Why are we here? And how do you know your way around here so well?"

"We're here because this is where Victoria and Gregory and Bradford and Elisa stay. Victoria likes to keep the family separate from all the debauchery. There's less chance of running into anyone here. And I know my way around here because I've probably visited here more than your goofy souse of a boyfriend ever did. The polite fiction used to be that I was a socialite with political interests."

"Used to be?" Annabeth echoed. "What...what were you here for?"

"Oh, Gregory had a cousin who was a client of mine for a good few years. Really helped me get a leg up in Gotham society."

Annabeth thought about the cool, impenetrable Victoria and shook her head in incomprehension. "I'll never understand this place...never understand these people."

"Better figure that out now, rather than later. Remember: you're not one of them, de Burgh. You'll never be. You can say it's because you're 'genuine', or a hard-working woman, or whatever euphemism you choose, but really, it's so much more than that. It's a lifestyle, a way of thinking...Anyway, it was who I used to be who I was until that goddamned gang took me out of circulation." Trinity's voice, while by no means friendly before, turned positively flinty. "In my line of work, at my level, you don't want to have a low profile for long. Scoring an invitation this weekend was as much about getting myself seen as it was about contacting you."

"Okay, fine. You contacted me. You revealed your true identity. What now? What do you know?"

"Seth Percival."

Annabeth frowned, trying to place the name. And then, "Oh yes. I know him-encountered him once or twice around town...wait. You know him? Like, in the Biblical sense?"

"Don't be a ninny. No, thank god, not now, not ever. The man's a cold fish, and a bastard besides." Even in the dark, Annabeth could sense Trinity's shudder of distaste. "So you know who I'm talking about."

"Yes, unfortunately. He's rather odious, I agree."

"More than you know. I think he's involved."

It took a moment for Trinity's words to sink in. "Involved, as in, involved on all the problems we've been having with the Arrows? The women?" Annabeth struggled to reconcile her memories of the smarmy man with the sordid violence that had been unfolding, and found that it was not a difficult leap of the imagination. Still..."You sure about that?"

"Not at all. But remember...I told you and your winged rodent friend that I overheard those men talking about someone backing the Arrows. Someone with power, and money, and connections. And the name that I overheard sounded something like 'Beth Purcell.'"

"Seth Percival." Annabeth repeated the name, and then gasped. "Shit. Shit. He's been wanting Bruce to go in with him-invest in some business deal. Do you think that's it? I think he's actually here this weekend."

"He is, along with that poor cow of a wife of his. And I haven't got a clue if that's what he's wanting to score Wayne's backing on. But if your pretty boyfriend gets himself caught up into this, I'm not waiting for that batguy to castrate him; I'll do it myself."

"Get in line." Annabeth hated to think of the possibility of Bruce becoming involved, however unintentionally. "I can talk to him," she said, but not without some doubt. "But we don't talk about his businesses, and he sure as hell doesn't know how deep I am into all this crap. I think underneath it all, he's a pretty straight-laced kind of guy. Law-abiding."

"Not my problem," Trinity said. "I don't even know for sure that it's Percival. I do know that the Arrows are starting to tighten their grip, and since that creepy pimp of theirs got arrested, they're going to have to make sure this operation of theirs goes down soon. But...it would be useful to know if Percival's trying to get anyone from this crowd into it."

"I hope you're not suggesting I use Bruce Wayne as bait." It was not a tempting idea. Even as she contemplated the duplicity of it, Annabeth became suddenly homesick for Gotham, for Safe Haven, for Donna and Maya and Janey, and even for the Batman. All of them, their motives, their intentions, their actions—seemed so much more transparent than those of the people who now slumbered around and above her. At least in Gotham, she knew where she stood. At least in Gotham, she wouldn't feel so stranded and powerless. At least in Gotham, she could contact the Batman.

Trinity was still whispering. "I'm staying for the rest of the weekend...may as well avoid the morass of Gotham as long as possible...but for the rest of the weekend, don't approach me. Don't contact me, don't come looking for me. If Percival's involved, the last thing he needs is to know that I'm consorting with you. He's disgusting, but he's not dumb. I'll contact you if or when I hear anything else...but be smart about this. You know who I am, now, and that could make things very dangerous, for both of us, if we seem to be connected at all. If you come looking for me, and the Arrows tie our names together, I'm dead. You, too."

Annabeth nodded, a futile gesture that went unseen in the darkness. "Be careful."

"I will."

"Are you sure you don't want to come to Safe Haven?" Annabeth blurted out suddenly. Silence was the only response she got for her suggestion, and a more pressing concern immediately crowded out any thoughts of do-goodery. "How do I get back to my room?" she hissed into the darkness. But Trinity was gone.

"Shit."

By Annabeth's own feeble estimation, more than half an hour had passed, and she was no closer to finding her way back to her part of the Manor. She had likely passed through the guest and family wings each more than once, but it was impossible to know for certain. Even after her eyes had adjusted fully to the darkness, she was only able to discern grey, indistinct shapes, presumably family heirlooms and antiques that she had somehow managed to successfully avoid crashing into. But none of this brought her any closer to her own room.

Finally, Annabeth gave up. It had been a long, exhausting day, and even with her nap in the car and then then later in her bedroom, she was still tired. Her late nights had caught up with her, and she had reached the end of her rope. Plus, the revelations and reminders she had gotten from Trinity did nothing to boost her spirits. Defeated, Annabeth felt around for the nearest wall and slumped down against it.

What on earth was she doing here? She was Annabeth de Burgh, social worker, activist. Not a socialite, for the love of god; who was she fooling? She didn't understand this world, and she certainly didn't fit into it. In fact, the more time she spent in this world, the more she felt like it was pulling her away from her true priorities. There was an entire world of real people—not these loopy rich kids—that needed her help. Trinity had said it herself: You're not one of them. She was right. Annabeth was not one of them, nor would she ever be. What more evidence did she need, other than the fact that she was sitting here, aimless and lost inside some ridiculously large and under-heated manor house?

Well, sitting here wasn't going to get the baby bathed. May as well keep going on until she found her way back or until it grew light enough to see. She rose and began moving forward once more. Slowly, with an outstretched hand, she rounded a corner, and almost instantly collided with a hulking mass of flesh. Panic instinctively rose within her and she gave a strangled cry of alarm as a pair of hands gripped her arms.

"Annabeth?"

The hulking mass became a reassuringly solid and familiar presence as Annabeth realized she had, by some miracle, managed to run into none other than Bruce. But still..."What are you doing here? And where the hell is 'here' anyway?"

Bruce chuckled. "You're actually not far from our rooms, although I can see why you'd be a little bit lost. Let's get you back to your bed; you must be freezing." Without thinking, he threw an arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, but he felt her body stiffen defensively. "What's wrong?"

Annabeth exhaled, her breath more of a ragged sob. "Oh...nothing. I just get kinda funny sometimes; it's like I go on autopilot, fight-or-flight." She tried to laugh it off gently. "Hey...you never answered my question. Why were you out and about?"

"Me? I was—I got hungry, so went down to the kitchens for a late night snack." Bruce said this last part almost hesitantly; he had been following Annabeth since she had left her room, but had allowed her to wander about for a while, in the hopes of stumbling across other guests potentially up to no good.

"Sure you weren't trying to sneak off to someone else's room?" Annabeth couldn't resist ribbing him a little. "I hear it's all the rage."

"Maybe it is, but it's not my style. And Alfred's taking messages from anyone who decided to make an unannounced stop to my room-" Bruce fell silent. Although she couldn't see anything, she could feel his body tense, as though he was listening for something.

"What's up?" Annabeth asked, but Bruce shushed her. She listened, and after a few moments, she heard the sound of footsteps. "What's the big deal-"

Before she could say another word, Bruce was hustling her back, into the shadows. She felt him push her against the tapestried wall, and then the tapestry gave way to a darkened alcove behind it. Bruce followed her into the tight, pitch-black space, and ssshhhhed, ever so quietly, against her ear. Bewildered, but instinctively knowing not to argue, Annabeth complied, and was rewarded for her efforts. The footsteps grew closer, and soon she distinguish two sets of footfalls, as well as hushed whispers.

"...got a lot riding on this, you know? How do we know this is a sound investment?"

"Sometimes, friend, you have to take a leap of faith. And anyway, we know this is a sound investment. What better city than Gotham? Where else can we do this? It's an utter sink, a pit of misery. We'' buy off the right officials, and then who's going to notice? Who's going to care? And if we get Wayne in on it, who is going to fail to follow?"

"Wayne. He's a loose cannon, god only knows if he'll go for this."

Annabeth glanced at Bruce, crammed close beside her, although in the darkness, any chance for studying his reaction was futile.

"Even if Wayne decides not to join, there's still plenty who will. It's already fairly well underway; at this point, there's plenty of capital, it's just a question of how much bigger we want it to get...how much more we want to make."

The voices faded into the darkness as the two unknown men moved on. Annabeth immediately moved to pull back the tapestry, but Bruce's hand locked around her wrist, holding her back. "Wait."

"But they're gone-"

"Just wait."

So she waited, for what seemed like ten minutes, but was more likely two, listening to the silence, feeling Bruce's hand loosen from her wrist, still not seeing anything. And then, finally, Bruce shifted, pulled back the tapestry, and looked around.

"They're gone," he told her. "Still...follow me." He grabbed her hand and began to pull her along.

Oh, lord, here we go again. How is it that everyone seems to know their way through this place? No, better not ask that question, the answer might not be one you like.

Bruce said by way of explanation. "I figured we'd take one of the more unknown routes back to our room. I don't want to run into them...something tells me that they'd want to bend my ear and I'm not really eager to listen."

"Why not, Bruce?" Annabeth demanded. "Why don't you want to see what sort of business they want? Do you know who they were? What's going on? What do they want with you?"

Bruce stopped so suddenly that she bumped into him and staggered backwards. She caught her balance quickly, however, and managed not to fall over.

"What do any of them want with me?" Bruce chuckled. "My money, of course. I'm pretty sure one of them was Seth Percival; he's been after me a while for some silly startup company or another he's got going on-"

"Yeah, about that, Bruce-"

"I mean, come on. How stupid does he think I am?" Bruce resumed walking, and gave Annabeth's hand a tug, indicating she should follow him. "I'm no savvy person when it comes to investments, but even I know a lost cause when I see one."

"Have you...do you even know what sort of investment it is?"

"No." Bruce dismissed this. "But I know Seth Percival, and I'm not sure I'd want to do a lot of business with him, anyway." He stopped again, and this time, he stood in front of a large lead-glass window, and was illuminated by a pale beam of moonlight trickling its way in. "Anyway, why does it matter? Why are you fixated on this, all of a sudden?"

"Why'd you get all surreptitious and hide-y when they showed up?" Annabeth vollied back. "Seems to me like you wanted to know who they were and what they were saying".

"Of course I did!" Bruce grinned. "It's always useful to glean information at these little house parties. Knowledge is power...so I'm told."

"That's terribly...Machiavellian of you." Suddenly, exhaustion caught up with Annabeth as the last of the night's adrenaline trickled from her system. "I didn't know you had it in you." She rubbed her eyes wearily. "Seems like the longer I spend with you people, the less I understand humanity."

"Come on," Bruce said, almost tenderly. "It's late, and you're tired. And anyway, what were you doing, flitting about this part of the Manor?"

"Gaining too much knowledge and wanting to be more powerful." Annabeth wanted to cry; who the hell were these people? She had been spending more and more time with them over the past few months, getting to know them, and the more time she spent with them, the less she understood. "I just want to get back to my room."

Silently they made their way back through the corridors, Annabeth occasionally stumbling with fatigue. Each time, Bruce reached out and gave her a steadying hand, and they managed to make it back to the guest wing without mishap or any other nocturnal encounters. Finally, they came to a halt outside one of many large doors. "Here we are," Bruce announced.

"How do you know it's mine?"

Bruce pointed, and as she drew close to her door, Annabeth could make out the nameplate that had been mounted on it: "Annabeth de Burgh."

"It's not just for lovers and adulterers," Bruce smiled. "You're not the first one who's has a crappy sense of direction and gotten lost in this crazy place. Sometimes I think it's to help the ghosts, too." He leaned against the door for a moment and looked down at her. "You had an adventurous night, yes? I hope I got you back before curfew." And then he leaned down towards her. "Maybe I can talk you into staying out a little bit later?" Without waiting for her assent, he dipped his head into her and offered a kiss.

Against her better judgment, Annabeth responded, and the passion with which she returned the kiss surprised them both. Without her normal hesitancy, she reached up and captured his face in her hands, feeling just the beginning of stubble as she ran her hands over his skin...

Minutes or hours passed; she couldn't be sure. Eventually, reality intruded, and the real world crowded in once more. They were standing in almost pitch-darkness, in a poorly heated corridor, making out like teenagers. Annabeth began to shiver, although whether in reaction to the cold or surprise at her own passion, she was not sure, and Bruce noticed immediately. "Alright, sneaky lady. Let's get you to bed before you turn into the latest ghost of Bellingham."

He opened the heavy door, which creaked loudly in the stillness, and placed a gentle hand on the small of her back. "In you go."

Just past the threshold, Annabeth turned around. Bruce was still standing in the doorway, illuminated in moonlight, watching her, his face surprisingly inscrutable. Not so for Annabeth-her expression was transparent; her lips parted just a little, as though she were about to ask a question. In fact, the question hung between them, unspoken, but Bruce wasn't going to offer, and she wasn't going to ask.

And so, both of them spent their few remaining hours of sleep, alone in their respective beds, huddled up, chilled by the air, and even moreso by the disturbing knowledge that rotten things were afoot, and a change of scenery made nary a difference.

Too soon, Annabeth was awake. Although, perhaps awake wasn't the best word for it; to have awakened implied that she had been sleeping, and she hadn't been; not very soundly, anyway. After she had softly closed the door to her chamber, leaving Bruce on the other side, she had foolishly been tempted to jerk the heavy door back open and drag him in. Good sense—or was it prudery? or the desire to avoid looking a fool?—had prevailed, however, and she had slowly, wearily changed into her pajamas, and crawled into bed. Once snuggled under the down comforters, the velvet bed curtains drawn against the cold, Annabeth waited for sleep to come and release her from her crowded thoughts.

Sleep didn't get the message, at least not the sound, restorative sleep for which she had hoped. What followed was a fitful doze, filled with waking dreams, scraps of memories and conversations from the day, and vague anxieties which were once more beginning to crystallize as she contemplated the escalating situation back home in Gotham. Added to this bundle of nerves was her unexpected surge in hormones from her late night encounter with Bruce and their strange parting...finally, having been jolted awake from a strange dream involving the Batman attempting to commandeer Safe Haven and Maya offering him tea from a cornucopia, Annabeth gave up and drew back her bed curtains.

The bedchamber was illuminated only by early grey morning light, but even in the dimness, the regal majesty of her surroundings was still apparent. In college, Annabeth had spent precious little time and attention on her art history courses—they had been merely required prerequisites and distractions from her goal of single-handedly saving the world—but even to her untrained eye, it was apparent to her that she was sleeping in a museum of treasures, masterpieces, antiques...all of which were completely wasted on her. They were little more than clutter, unnecessary items which could potentially distract her from the business of getting on with things.

And so Annabeth got on with things. Thirty minutes after she had awakened, she emerged from the bedchamber, freshly showered and dressed, not in the designer jeans and flashy blouse that Janey had carefully packed, but in her tatty, worn, faded, favorite pair of jeans and a warm, well-worn charcoal sweater, both of which she had secreted into her bag when Janey had been distracted. Her feet were shod in her standard-issue combat boots, and thunked solidly against the floor. She looked like...well, like she was a Gotham native, which she supposed she was. One thing had become clear last night-there were people in this house that were up to no damned good, and she couldn't, wouldn't escape her responsibilities, not even here. Especially here. Being girded for battle, prepared for whatever might lie in wait for her—however attractively it was disguised—was the one way Annabeth felt in control.

But what to do?

Snooping appeared to be the most obvious thing, but really, what was there to see? It was people that would have the answers, and all of them were presumably still asleep, burning off the revelries and excesses of the evening before. The chiming of some distant and unseen grandfather clock announced the time as only being half-past six, and the silence that seemed to shroud the guest wing confirmed her suspicions. She was probably the only one wake in the whole damned house; how the hell was she supposed to learn anything?

"Good morning."

The low, cultured voice echoed in the silence of the hall and predictably caused Annabeth to give a tiny jump and utter a distinctly unladylike string of profanities.. That it was in the presence of Victoria that this occurred was all the more fitting; Annabeth cursed her rotten luck as she composed herself and turned to face the seemingly unflappable matriarch. She stood in the hallway, gazing at Annabeth with a slightly amused glint in her eyes. In her arms was a large pile of linen; Annabeth had encountered her in the middle of some household errand.

"Good morning," Annabeth managed after giving her heart a moment to return to its normal pace. "I'm sorry...I thought I was the only one awake."

Victoria smiled knowingly. "That's obvious. And also understandable. People do tend to sleep in quite late here at Bellingham; perhaps it's something to do with the sybaritic lifestyle that our guests feel they can indulge in here. Bloody heathens."

"Why aren't you asleep, anyway?" Annabeth asked. "I'd have thought you'd be eager for a respite from the...heathens."

Laughing gently, Victoria shook her head. "Aside from the fact that this is my respite from the heathens? Good lord, no. I get very little sleep indeed when we have these house parties-far too much to do." She started to continue on her way down the hall, and beckoned for Annabeth to join her. "Being a hostess is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do."

Annabeth was silent, reflecting on some of the many hard things she had had to do in her own life. Somehow, bringing up any of those instances struck her as neither relevant, nor welcome, nor at all appropriate.

"Take these, for instance." Victoria jerked her head at the pile of linens in her arms. "Hypo-allergenic sheets made out of that new-fangled bamboo material. Would you believe Mayor Garcia chose to tell me after he went to bed that our Egyptian cotton sheets—twelve hundred thread count, mind you—were unacceptable. Apparently the only sheets he can sleep on are these wretched things. God only knows where our butler Jeffrey managed to find them. He decided to call me on the house phone—Garcia, I mean, not my butler—at two-thirty in the morning to announce his displeasure. Told me he'd suffer through them for the night but that he absolutely had to have these, or he'd be forced to go to the Days Inn in town. How'd that do for Gregory's career? he implied. Wretched man."

"It sounds a bit like you're chief housekeeper," Annabeth said truthfully. It was only after Victoria turned her surprised face to Annabeth that she realized how offensive it might sound. And then Victoria laughed, a proper laugh, not the genteel little chortles of before which had been calculated more to set her audience at ease than to actually express amusement.

"Yes," she admitted. "A bit. But tell me, does the chief housekeeper worry about how one mis-step could adversely impact her husband's political career? Does a housekeeper worry about keeping an eye on the whiskey decanter so that Seth Percival doesn't tipple too much, or make sure that Bradford's cousin Theresa eats her meals without upchucking them before her next modeling shoot, or does the housekeeper keep everyone's affairs and allergies and anal-retentive tendencies straight?"

"I suppose not," Annabeth admitted after a moment. "Not unless you pay the housekeeper a lot."

"Well, I do, but that's beside the point. Anyway, there's no sense in me carrying on like a fishwife; what can't be cured must be endured." Victoria continued her brisk pace, Annabeth trailing bemusedly in her wake, until they reached the end of the corridor, where a massive armoire stood. With swift, sure movements, Victoria opened it and stowed the sheets inside, but not before Annabeth saw an entire shelf of linens, neatly stacked and folded. "There. I put them there for the housemaids; hopefully these will suit his majesty." She smirked. "I suspect that Jeffrey fetched them from the Wal-Mart in town, not that we'd ever share that with Garcia...you see, my dear, the hostess is responsible for quite a bit...not just hard work, mind you, but a lot of discretion."

Of one accord, the two women began to head away from the guest wing. After a moment, Victoria glanced over at Annabeth. "Were you heading in the same direction as me, my dear?"

Annabeth smiled sheepishly. "Not really...I don't know where you're heading. I just wasn't sure how to find my way back to anything."

Again, Victoria laughed. "You, my dear, really are a priceless gem. Well...it will be a few hours yet before everyone wakes up...would you like a tour?"

Annabeth might not have been well-versed in the ways of the aristocracy, but even she knew when she was being granted a great honor. She also knew that this was perhaps the best chance she would get to learn about the others staying at Bellingham that weekend...

"Why not?"

As the late autumn morning broke, together the two women roamed Bellingham Manor. They made a funny pair; Victoria, tall, thin, and clad in elegant Chanel clothing that Annabeth suspected she had owned for nigh on thirty years, and Annabeth, shorter, looking vaguely like a street urchin, with just a little bit of a swagger.

"I think it's the boots," Victoria observed as Annabeth clomped her way through the vast banquet hall. Her footsteps had echoed rather loudly through there; Annabeth suspected it had something to do with the seventy-foot ceiling.

"Sorry?"

"I think it's the boots," Victoria repeated, and gestured down to Annabeth's feet for emphasis. "That funny walk you have...it's almost astrut. I think it's because of the boots."

With just a little bit of self-consciousness, Annabeth glanced down as well, and then shrugged. "Maybe...probably. Something about walking around in these almost requires one to develop a certain type of gait."

"Certainly an audible gait," Victoria agreed. "I suspect that the majority of the guests have been awakened by them...mind you, they probably deserve it. Now. Alfred said you were involved with...charity, was it? Social work?" She paused to brush a bit of dust off of a particularly imposing suit of armor.

"Social work about sums it up." Annabeth watched Victoria warily; was this where the older woman began sizing her up? Sniffing out her intentions towards Bruce? Well, may as well meet her efforts halfway. "It's certainly not the type of thing that Bruce normally gets himself involved in."

"Oh, I don't know. Bruce is usually quite generous with his charities...he's just normally not this hands-on." Victoria turned and faced Annabeth directly, giving her a long, measured look. "Although, I think I can see why he's taken a sudden interest."

Ah, yes. Definitely trying to assess my intentions. Annabeth smiled gamely at Victoria. "Well, at first I was a little confused. But he has taken an active interest..." she trailed off. There was no way she could really explain the true reasons for his interest, especially when she was not quite clear on them herself. "Okay, let's just stop dancing around this." She met Victoria's gaze head-on. "I understand why you would be concerned about me. But all I can tell you is that I'm not after the Wayne family fortune. If for no other reason than developing the skills to be a gold-digger would take valuable time away from developing my reputation and career as an Olympic champion ball-buster."

Victoria laughed. "Yes, I had heard that about you. Well, a little bit of that will do Bruce no harm at all...although, you cannot blame me, my dear. Bruce has been...through quite a bit in his life. He's privileged, yes, but somehow, I also think he's one of the poorest people I know. I do feel as though I need to look out for him."

By this time, they had made their way through the banquet hall and meandered their way into the conservatory. Annabeth cast an amused glance at Victoria. "Yes, well, who looks out for me?"

Clearly, that thought had not occurred to Victoria. "Don't you have family to do that?"

"Good god, no." Annabeth almost had to laugh. And then, with a little bit of defiance, she added, "I came from nothing."

"That's an interesting description." Victoria did seem quite intrigued. "Do tell more."

And surprisingly, Annabeth did, a somewhat edited version. It was almost as if Gotham was another life, in another plane of existence which did not touch her here. Unflinchingly, she talked of her father, his drinking, the drugs. The nights when she cried herself to sleep, the nights when there was no one at home to comfort her, the nights when her father and his girlfriends would fight and scream threats that curdled her blood. And then she talked of the foster care system, the run-down public schools, the pervasive fear—of failure, of getting kicked out, of the unknown quantity which would be the next foster family in wait, of the city itself.

"Gotham was so much worse back then," she told Victoria. "The school system, as bad as it is now, was utterly atrocious. At least now, they make sure kids have lunches. They're starting to crack down on the drugs. They're bringing electives back. But when I was a kid...Victoria, it was awful."

"I remember. We were lucky...We could send Bradford to private school." Victoria felt no need to sound apologetic; nor was she bragging. It was luck. "Go on."

So Annabeth went on. Of her college years, the less that was said, the better, and so she said precious little. Safe Haven became the focus of the conversation. "They're my family, Victoria. That's my home. That's where I come from. It's my Safe Haven."

By this time, the two of them had moved beyond the house, and were wandering through the gardens in the morning chill. Neither of them noticed this; Annabeth was caught up in her story, and Victoria was transfixed: she was coming under Annabeth's spell, as all did when she began to preach the gospel she knew and loved so well. "It's actually very hard for me to be away from it," Annabeth confessed as they settled down on an icy-cold wrought iron bench. "I worry about it all the time...it's probably not very healthy."

"Probably not," Victoria agreed. "But we all have our ways of managing. Life can be a bit of a bugger, and we play the hands we're dealt as best we can."

The two of them fell silent, each of them lost to their own thoughts. When Annabeth glanced over at Victoria, she saw the older woman studying her. "Do I meet your approval, ma'am?"

"I think so. But that's hardly the point...Bruce approves, and that's what matters. But do you approve of Bruce?"

This was quite out of left field. "Eh?"

Victoria smiled gently. "My dear, you're no fool. Do you like Bruce Wayne? And do you like him enough to spend your life with him?" Victoria glanced back over her shoulder at the Manor. "Do you like him enough to spend the rest of your life being his hostess? Dealing with the Mayor Garcia of the moment?" She paused. "Do you like him more than Safe Haven?"

There it was, the painful question that had been forming at the back of Annabeth's sharp brain since she set foot into Bellingham Manor. If she became any more involved with Bruce, if it became any more serious...what place could Safe Haven have in her life? It wasn't just the time issue; it was the safety. Whoever ended up the wife of Bruce Wayne would find themselves in the papers even more than she had lately; none of that could bring welcome attention to Safe Haven, a place that was valued for the badly-needed privacy and seclusion it brought to its inhabitants. Annabeth shook her head, trying to dispel the worrisome thoughts that had lodged themselves there. "I don't know." Suddenly the cold morning penetrated her awareness, and she shivered.

"Annabeth!"

Both women looked up to see Bruce making his way across the gardens. "Annabeth, there you are!"

"Oh dear." Victoria glanced at her watch and hastily stood up. "The time certainly got away from me. My dear, thank you for this lovely conversation. I feel so much better now that I know a little more about you." And just like that, she headed back towards the house, leaving Annabeth in a fog of her delicate scent. Victoria passed by Bruce on her path back, and merely gave him an enigmatic smile.

Bruce settled down in the same spot that Victoria had so recently vacated, but took up a great deal more room. Having so recently vacated the house, he was deliciously warm, and before she knew what she was doing, Annabeth was inching towards him, eager to take in his body heat. And then Victoria's words, unwelcome but no less wise for that reason, came back into her mind.

Dammit.

"Good morning," Bruce smiled. "I wondered where you had gotten to. Thought maybe you had frozen to death in the night."

Annabeth snorted, remembering the biting cold of her bed chambers. "It's not beyond the realm of possibility. Anyway, I took a stroll to warm myself up, and Victoria found me...gave me the tour."

"And you ended up back in the freezing cold." Bruce chuckled, his breath a puff of white vapor hanging in the morning air. "Well, come on, I'll take up the tour where Victoria left off."

They rose from the bench and continued on the leisurely stroll that Victoria had led Annabeth on, following a path that led away from the Manor and further onto the grounds.

"I used to come here a fair amount when I was a kid," Bruce mentioned, his tone carefully casual. "Bradford and I loved to play out here...that was before everything, though."

"What happened after?" Annabeth couldn't help but to be curious; Bruce usually was quite taciturn about his childhood.

"Oh, I still came...just didn't play as much. I came out here, in fact, a lot of the time. Drove Bradford batty...he still wanted a playmate, you see." Bruce smiled a little sadly. "See that?" He gestured towards a statue in the distance. "That's where I used to go to read and think when I came out here."

Annabeth squinted. "Is that a statue of a...dead soldier?"

Bruce followed her gaze. "It is. Lieutenant Roger Winston, I believe his name was. A great-great-uncle or something of Bradford's; he fought in the First World War, went into the mincing machine in early 1918, and was killed almost immediately in Flanders. His mother—I think that would be Bradford's great-great-grandmother—never really got over his death, and had the statue built for him. Made the family hold a memorial for him every year."

"How sad...and just think...in another generation or two, no one will know Roger Winston's story. He'll just be another Winston ancestor, and no one will bother to remember what it was he did, let alone memorialize him. Makes you remember just how impermanent we are."

Her sentiments were actually not that far off from Bruce's, but he wisely refrained from revealing that. "Come on, that's a pretty morose line of thought for the day. And after all, look at the weather; it's already bleak enough."

Annabeth glanced up at the sky and saw that it confirmed Bruce's statement. The day had dawned grey, much as the previous one had done, but these clouds had a more ominous look, a darker grey. "It looks like it's going to storm." Even as she said it, she observed that the wind was rising.

"They are calling for it to storm." Bruce, too, glanced up at the clouds. "Let's hope it doesn't, or Victoria might have more guests than she asked for. It's cold enough for it to sleet...people might get stranded here. Ugh, just think...Elisa's wedding day, and nasty weather...how very Gotham."

"Elisa!" All thoughts, all preoccupations flew from Annabeth's head. "I can't believe I forgot...the wedding...she must be getting really stressed."

"Yes, just a little. I think she may have thrown a coffee mug at Bradford at breakfast. She's got good aim, too," Bruce added, almost as an afterthought. "It'll make for interesting wedding pictures. Anyway, that's why I came out...I told her I'd come looking for you. They've started prepping her, and it's going to take a hell of a while, but I think she wanted your company."

As Annabeth rose and headed back to the Manor, she remembered the briefcase of paperwork she had brought to work on over the weekend. Utter folly—there would be no more time to work on that than there would be to investigate the various guests staying for the weekend. Damn, Victoria was deadly accurate-what sort of life could Annabeth have by Bruce Wayne's side?

"I told you, I don't want a fucking tiara! Do I look like a fucking princess to you?"

Annabeth had heard of it happening, of course...perfectly sweet, sane, unpretentious women becoming possessed by some sort of demon as their nuptials approached. "Bridezilla," Donna had called it at Safe Haven, during the few times when they had watched Maya pitch a fit as she went through her wedding plans. It was equally terrifying and fascinating, this phenomenon, and all the more so because the last person Annabeth would have expected it from was Elisa. Tiny, level-headed, cheerful Elisa...now reduced to a harpy in white fluff. She had been fairly docile when they had begun, but over several hours of bathing, dressing, fussing, spritzing, and painting, her nerves had begun to degenerate.

Over Elisa's head, Annabeth's eyes met those of the maid-of-honor, a distant cousin of Bradford's who boasted the rather ridiculous—and incongruous—name of Candy Lou. "Your turn," Candy Lou mouthed, and she was right. Candy Lou had intervened the last time, over the rather unexpectedly inflammatory matter of the nail polish color. The poor woman was nearly at her wit's end. Beyond Candy Lou, the hairdresser brought in for the day rolled her eyes heavenward.

"Elisa..." Annabeth began, and trailed off as Elisa trained her burning eyes on her. "Hi! I thought that...ahhh...I think you said you wanted the tiara."

"I changed my goddamned mind. Holy shit! I've got a headache, and you people want me to put that crown on top of all of this?"

The hairdresser turned to Annabeth, torn between amusement and exasperation. This was nothing new to her, it seemed.

"Well...you see...they already styled your hair for the tiara...and it would take a while to re-style it, and we're down to...how long, Candy Lou?"

"Forty-six minutes!" Candy Lou replied promptly.

"I don't give a fuck." Elisa crossed her arms. "It's my day, I'm going to wear my hair how I goddamned want to!"

The door opened, and Annabeth saw that Victoria had slipped into the room. She was dressed immaculately, in a lavender suit, perfectly tailored to match the colors Elisa and Bradford had chosen months ago. Annabeth became painfully aware of the fact that she was still in the outfit she had donned early that morning...forty-six minutes to the wedding, and she was still in combat boots. Jesus Christ. What would Alfred do?

Victoria raised one questioning eyebrow. And it was then that Annabeth saw it-a cut glass decanter and a set of crystal glasses surrounding it...a decanter filled with some amber, and presumably quite alcoholic, liquid. That's what Alfred would do.

They all watched as Annabeth poured hefty helpings of the scotch for all of them and passed them around. Last to get a glass was Elisa, and not before Annabeth gave her a stern talking to. "You can drink this or you can wear this, and a lot of it depends on how you spend the next forty-six minutes."

With that, she tossed it back and fled the room. Forty-five minutes left to somehow turn back into a guest for the wedding of the year.

As Bruce had told Annabeth, the Winstons had converted to Catholicism later during the last century, and with their massive wealth, it was no difficulty to add a rather substantial chapel onto Bellingham. As a result, all of the Winston weddings since had taken place there, and Bradford's and Elisa's was no exception. It was going to be a beautiful, grand affair; that much was obvious based on the elegant dresses and suits and glittering jewelry that filled the chapel. By 4 PM that November afternoon, two hundred guests had gathered in the chapel, and were eagerly awaiting the latest bride. Bruce and Alfred had been two of the first people to enter the chapel; Bruce felt that they would be at an advantage if they could see who would be in attendance.

"We need to keep an eye on Annabeth," Bruce muttered to Alfred as they watched yet another couple take their seat. "God only knows how many Gothamites there are in the crowd, and this is prime opportunity for her to get into mischief."

"Quite right, sir." Alfred agreed. After a moment, he amended it. "Quite right. And condescending."

"I'm serious!" Bruce protested. "There's a lot of people of...ill repute here. Stick to her side the whole evening."

Annabeth had been one of the last to arrive. She had darted in, head lowered to avoid attention, and then hovered at the back, searching until she spotted Bruce and Alfred, seated towards the front, both of them straining and stretching, searching for her.

"Where were you?" Bruce whispered as Annabeth settled down in the pew next to him.

"Witnessing a phenomenon which is limited to Western culture, hopefully. " Annabeth ran a hand over her hair, trying to smooth it down. There hadn't been a lot of time to groom. "It ever occur to these people that their marriages would have a better chance of surviving if they didn't have weddings?"

On the other side of Bruce, Alfred overheard and laughed, and tried to cover it as a coughing fit. A few people sitting nearby glanced curiously at them. Bruce busied himself with reading the program, while stealing glances at the crowd around him. Annabeth was still preoccupied...

"Do the wedding vows still count if the bride's inebriated?"

"What?"

"Never mind."