From the live weblog of Vicki Vale, official social correspondent for the Gotham Gazette:
It's a Gotham society wedding, although strictly speaking we aren't in Gotham. But without a doubt, it is the Gotham Society wedding of the year. Victoria Leigh-Winston must be secretly triumphant; bagging that title is no easy feat, even for a doyenne of her standing and duration. Nonetheless, this is an honor well-earned, as it's rumored this white wedding cost the Winstons well over $75,000…a vulgar matter to disclose in these circles, but you, my dear, humble, bourgeois readers, will be all agog and eager for more details…
Vicki Vale raised her head from her laptop and gazed cautiously around, trying not to draw attention to the soft tapping on the keys of her laptop. That she was here at all was a major feat; she was here on sufferance and only after substantial bribery and intervention on the part of her boss's boss's boss, and she knew better than to call unnecessary attention to her working-woman status. Nonetheless, it was a symbiotic relationship, and once this crowd was well-oiled by the champagne, their tongues would be loosened and Vicki would be, once more, if not their best friend, than certainly a well-loved acquaintance. No such thing as bad publicity.
People have been arriving all day; as I understand it, the guest list is at approximately two hundred (with another two hundred invited only to the reception), all of them stuffed into the Winston's family chapel like so many well-heeled sardines. Perhaps a small crowd by society wedding standards, but dynamite comes in little packages, and I suspect that if a bomb were to fall on us today, the WASP population of the Middle Atlantic would be decimated rather a great deal.
Indeed. Vicki knew for a fact there were more than a few minor royalties in the crowd, easily identified by their rather ridiculous millinery. But even more relevant was the Gotham crowd—judging by the presence of politicians and investors in the crowd, Senator Winston's re-election was a forgone conclusion. Normally, the complacency of the entire situation would have irked Vicki's decidedly liberal sensibilities, but she knew Winston to be a moderate, so it was most definitely an easier pill to swallow. Furthermore, his wife was imminently sensible and even compassionate, and with the addition of little Elisa, so fierce, so bohemian, the Winston family was unsuspectingly being prodded into the age of reform.
Here comes the bride. For those of you who love Cinderella, here you are: Elisa is resplendent—surprisingly so—in an unusual gown, tea-length in front, lengthy train in the rear, commissioned by Mmselle. Antoinette Le Veau, one of the more prestigious—and temperamental—bridal outfitters in New England. It's a lovely, somewhat understated concoction; the magnificence is truly in the veil, which is, quite perfectly, almost as long as the train.
There. Requisite attention was paid to the bride; now on to the bread-and-butter of the entire affair: the guests.
Bruce Wayne is here, of course, as befitting his role as a childhood friend of the groom. He's slouched, indolent as ever and only slightly interested in the proceedings, looking quite toothsome and untouchable in his tuxedo, Beside him, as polar opposite as can be, sitting ramrod-straight and appearing as formidable as she sounds (I can speak from firsthand experience) is his date, Gotham advocate and social worker, Annabeth de Burgh. My goodness, this is becoming a habit for Mr. Wayne.
In fact, it was becoming a habit. This was quite out of character for young Bruce Wayne; studied observer of human behavior that Vicki Vale was, however, she didn't feel inclined to place any bets on the length of Wayne's dalliance with the girl.
Of course, they pale in comparison to Bradford Winston's cousin, Theresa. She really is quite the darling of London, Los Angeles, and New York; she had her break with Victoria's Secret, as I am sure is common knowledge by this point, but recently signed an exclusive contract with Calvin Klein. She is present, of course, as one of the bridesmaids, and looking as perfect as one can. More credit to Elisa St. Marie and Victoria Leigh-Winton for choosing dresses that were refreshingly lovely. Hideous has been "in" for far too long.
Vicki smirked as she watched the bridal party slowly march their way up the aisle. Theresa certainly was the current it-girl; Vicki personally suspected it was because she had inherited the legendarily easy-going Winston temper. That temper was much in evidence now, as Theresa was sharing the spotlight with five other bridesmaids, in addition to the maid-of-honor and flower girl.
But on to other matters…Where was I? Ah yes. Let's go back to Bruce Wayne and Annabeth de Burgh—good lord, what's wrong with her hair? It looks like she only spent ten minutes getting ready. Besides them, there's Mayor Garcia and his wife, looking perfectly immaculate, as well as several of Senator Winston's colleagues. If I'm not mistaken, all of them have ancestors who came off the Mayflower. Several Gotham tycoons, of course, including the owners of Glenda Meri Department Stores—now in their one-hundred-twentieth-year—Leonard and Renee Foucault; Honoria Swale, heiress to the tanzanite empire bearing the same name…
The chapel was freezing cold; it had been built in a time when worship was not something to be conducted in comfort, and the Winston family's money had gone into the stained glass and statuary, commissioned from Italy, rather than space heaters. Ever so quietly, Vicki blew on her hands to warm them up, ignoring the annoyed glance of the woman beside her. How Elisa was managing to stay warm in her bridal getup was anyone's guess.
It's a pretty chilly November day here, and cloudy too…but the bride is speaking her vows as I type this, and interestingly enough, a little bit of sunlight just managed to peek its way in through the stained glass windows, casting a beautiful rainbow upon Elisa. Perhaps unplanned, but a sweet and charming sight that we should enjoy it while we can; it's the last bit of sun we shall see for a while. Forecasters are calling for an early winter storm moving in by the end of the afternoon, and it should add an interesting element to the evening's festivities. Not a promising omen, if you choose to buy into that sort of thing...
Vicki didn't. She was a pragmatic woman, with nary a sentimental or superstitious bone in her body, and she was willing to bet that the life of the newest Winston marriage depended more on the funds holding out than the weather. No, not quite true—Elisa was by all accounts the least materialistic woman to have married into the family in recent memory. But the availability of funds always seemed to sweetly oil the wheels of any venture, professional or personal.
The ceremony went on…and on…and on. Vicki found herself beginning to look forward to the reception, if only to get some champagne flowing through her chilled veins. Plus, there was only so much she could write about from where she sat; she needed to circulate, talk, observe. Oh well. She glanced around again and espied Seth Percival taking a small swig from a flask, and his wife, the timidly pretty Linda, casting anxious eyes upon him. Well, Vicki couldn't really blame him, weddings always made her crave a stiff drink, too. She could only imagine that the bride would be ready for one too, by the time this production was wrapped up.
"You may kiss the bride."
From where Annabeth sat, quite close indeed to Bradford and Elisa, she saw him lift Elisa's veil and lean in for a kiss…his surprise was minuscule, but visible at least to her, as he caught a whiff of the scotch on Elisa's breath. But breeding would out, as no doubt Victoria would say, and Bradford merely smiled and plunged in through the fumes to seal the deal.
Annabeth released a breath she had not realized she had been holding, and she, along with everyone else in the chapel, stood in recognition of the newly-weds. While it was no doubt not quite the thing to do, someone in the congregation burst into spontaneous applause, and after a surprised moment, many others did as well. Annabeth smacked her hands together enthusiastically, her smile warm and genuine. Beside her, Bruce leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Wouldn't have you pegged for a romantic."
"I'm not. But I think these two have as much of a chance as any of the poor saps in this building." Annabeth smiled and nodded at Elisa. "Elisa's one of the most genuine—and normal—people I know. And Bradford's as good a soul as any."
"As good as me?" Bruce's tone was painstakingly casual.
"Certainly more predictable." Annabeth returned her attention to the proceedings, not noticing the pained look that fleetingly passed over Bruce's face.
And with a swell of music, the bride and groom begin their walk down the aisle, arm-in-arm, to commence their new life amidst the cheers and smiles and well-wishes of hundreds of Gotham elite who have probably made thousands of marriages between them. It's difficult not to approach society weddings with a certain level of cynicism, but Elisa St. Marie brings some fresh blood to the playing field, and is a refreshing bride with a high degree of sincerity and promise. Weddings may be for the bride and the groom, but it is certainly an opportunity for fledgling couples to nourish their love and veteran couples to renew theirs. There—Bruce Wayne and Annabeth de Burgh are huddled up together, no doubt delighting in the romantic atmosphere…perhaps there will be more wedding bells ringing in the near future? (Not a chance; Wayne wouldn't give up his bachelor status for any man, woman, angel, demon, or superhero this side of the Mississippi, but she had to give the readers something)…Seth Percival and his wife, Linda, are both smiling, looking joyous as the occasion commands…
Seth and Linda did reasonably happy, at least from a distance. However, if one bothered to look closely at them—and no one did, for this was an extension of Gotham and people tended not to look past their own wallets and mirrors—they would have seen that Seth Percival's smile was in fact quite grim and nailed onto his face as he surveyed the crowds, and Linda barely smiled at all. A small grimace—almost like a smile—played at her lips as her watchful, anxious eyes darted around, first at the crowds, then at her husband.
"Remember," he told her through his gritted smile, "Distract them. Keep her occupied while I talk to him. You better do this right, Linda." He placed a hand around her shoulders and caressed her neck, slowly, gently. Anyone looking at them would have interpreted it as the loving gesture of a long-married husband. But Linda knew better.
Now, dear readers, onto the big event—the reception. Are any of you as fixated on the food as am I? Well, we'll get there, just not yet. The main reception is being held in the Long Gallery, on the first floor; perhaps a dozen generations of Winstons stare down at us from their portraits in this magnificent portion of the Bellingham Manor; I've learned that these portraits boast among their ranks a general, two countesses (that is, Winston daughters who made advantageous marriages back home in the Mother Country), a minor actor, and even-gasp!-a felon. Apparently, one branch of the Winston family turned quite a profit running a speakeasy during Prohibition.
And it's in this remarkable room that Elisa Winston (nee St. Marie) makes her entrance, smiling, laughing, and looking for all the world like the next matriarch of the Winston family. Perhaps not a countess or actress or Nobel Prize-winner, but nonetheless, a warm, laughing, generous young woman who brings fresh sunlight into this home and makes us think there's a new day dawning for Gotham.
"Is she drunk?" Bruce asked, squinting as he gazed over at Elisa in the distance.
Instantly, Annabeth became evasive. "Good god, why would you ask such a silly question?"
"Because she's drunk."
"That's preposterous!" Annabeth started to say, but somehow, she couldn't lie to Bruce, not about this. "Well…yes, a little."
"Ah. Carrying on the Winston family tradition." Bruce shook his head in resignation, than caught a glimpse of Annabeth's surprised expression. "What? You don't expect the brides to actually put up with all of this wedding nonsense when sober, do you?"
"They'd have been scraping me off the floor," Annabeth agreed after a moment's deliberation. "It does seem like an awful lot to put up with."
Waiters are beginning to circulate with the expected flutes of champagne. I've now decamped to the Long Gallery, where I sit, tucked away in the corner. The view is somewhat limited, but fortunately, this is a mobile crowd. They like to be seen, and they have to move around for this to happen. And so I am treated to quite a view—designer dresses, ample cleavage, and glittering jewels. And Victoria Leigh-Winston must have put a bug into one of the waiters' ears, because it's almost as though I have my own personal attendant, so plied with food and drink am I. Vicki smirked as she wrote this last bit, then polished off her second salmon roulade tart.
The Long Gallery may have been both long and large, but it was fast filling up with people still pouring in from the chapel. The noise level was steadily rising as the guests consumed more champagne and loosened up for the more frolicksome part of a rather formal affair. A rather hefty man jostled Annabeth as he squeezed past in an attempt to pursue a much younger woman, and Annabeth suppressed a shudder of distaste. Bruce saw—and instantly divined her aversion, as the crowds were growing by the minute. With a firm hand, he led her off to the side, away from the biggest crush of the crowds. "You okay?"
Annabeth took a deep breath. "I'll be fine." She hadn't even realized yet that her pulse had begun pounding. "How about you get me some water?"
The thought of leaving her obviously did not appeal to Bruce very much. He frowned, hesitant. "Are you sure? We could take a stroll around the Conservatory…it'll be cold, but that means it will be empty, too."
"Maybe soon." She gave him a feeble smile. "I'm okay right here for now, just observing and staying away from the main crush of the crowds. Go—socialize, get some champagne. I'll be right here." To emphasize her point, she planted herself down on a low bench that looked suspiciously as though it had spent some time in Versailles.
She watched as Bruce headed back into the main part of the crowd, and saw at least three people catch him by the elbow, pump his hand, kiss his cheek. Amazing—so many of Gotham's elite secretly scorned and mocked Bruce, but they all seemed quite happy to come within his orbit. So many phonies, so little time.
I think, my faithful readers, that this is where I should sign off. Soon enough, the potent champagne will take effect, and soon enough, the society crowds will welcome me in their midst. Can't waste that lovely opportunity because I am sitting here in a corner, geeking out. I'll resume the story first thing tomorrow, and you'll get the Gotham Wedding of the Year, Part 2!
As the evening wore on, it became increasingly apparent to Annabeth that the wedding, and all that it represented—love, fidelity, family, commitment, silly things like that—was a fairly inconsequential occurrence, almost an annoying duty to be performed before the real business began. Annabeth suspected that, to a good many in the crowd, the wedding was, at best, an excuse to dress up, party, broker deals, and chase tail, and at worst, a damned inconvenience.
The wine and champagne flowed; the delectable food passed around and consumed; the speeches were made; the music and the dancing began. Rather than making a fool of herself—as was happening with many of the other guests who were moving their bodies in no discernible pattern—Annabeth elected to stay off the dance floor. There were more opportunities to observe and socialize, both of which she was able to do in abundance. For neither Bruce nor Alfred appeared inclined to leave her for even a moment; both hovered by her side, plying her with food and drinks and the occasional pithy aside. Anytime someone crossed their path, one of them would introduce her and initiate conversation; in this manner, the minutes and then the hours began to pass. Caught up in the smiling, hand-shaking, name recollecting, and generating of small talk with those she encountered, Annabeth noted that she was only able to observe most of the reception's proceedings from afar.
She took in the women who deliberately called attention to themselves and their finery, the men who laughed too loud and drank too much. She watched Bradford's cousin, the sweet-natured and stunningly beautiful model Theresa, deftly move away from the trays of food whenever they came her way; she watched Seth Percival, a bundle of nervous energy, move from one group to the next, focusing on the men, ignoring the women. She saw him speak with the odious Mayor Garcia several times. At one point, she caught a glimpse of Trinity, moving through the room with a quiet, inborn grace that shamed many of the dames born to their fortunes. She watched as the reporter Vicki Vale abandoned her discreet post by the wall and began to tactfully insinuate her way into the crowds, talking little and listening much. By that point, the crowd was well-enough lubricated to drop their veneer of gentility, throw discretion to the winds, and share the gossip and information that was Vicki's bread and butter. Annabeth also observed that every time the persistent reporter inched herself closer, Bruce and Alfred inched their own cluster further away.
"You seem to be very adept at avoiding Vale," Annabeth remarked as she watched the reporter get swallowed into a gaggle of platinum-blonde women which Bruce had successfully navigated themselves around. "Why so eager to dodge her?"
Not really in the mood for creating evasive witticisms, Bruce admitted, surprising them both, "Acting like an idiot is more exhausting and demanding than being an idiot. I figured I'd drop the act tonight." He finished off his glass of champagne—only his first—and plunked it down on a conveniently passing tray, studiously ignoring the sharp look that Alfred gave him. Suddenly Bruce seemed troubled, preoccupied.
Annabeth had grown accustomed to his abrupt shifts in moods, and so was not fazed. "Ah! You admit it! You admit, you put on an act!" She pinned him with a shrewd glance. "So...why do you still put on act with me?"
Bruce turned to face her head-on, and she noted that it seemed as though his blue eyes had gone unfathomably dark. "To protect you."
A moment of stunned silence greeted this remark, and then Annabeth burst into laughter. "To protect me? Bruce, what in god's name do you need to protect me from?"
Behind Bruce, Alfred briefly buried his head in his hands. Bruce didn't answer at first, merely looked out at the milling, merry-making crowds. His eyes danced from one cluster of people to the other, but that was the only part of him that gave anything away. And then, his broad shoulders slumped. "Oh hell."
Annabeth didn't understand what was going on, but she was no stranger to the sound of utter defeat in his voice; it wrenched at her heart for its familiarity. She had never seen Bruce look like that before, look so utterly...wretched. She put a gentle hand on his arm, just as if he were one of her clients. "Bruce...what's wrong?"
Apart from malfunctioning equipment, the one thing that Bruce—or the Batman—could never quite anticipate was the human element. Each and every time something went haywire, it was Bruce's fellow humans who caused things to deviate from the expected, reasonable outcome. The grieving parents, the meth-addled teen, the righteously angry citizen seeking justice through vigilante action, the homeless driven beyond hope, the unstable, the desperate, the depressed, the quixotic, the sociopath freak in face paint, they were always the wild cards who forced Bruce to constantly be prepared to revise and resubmit.
He just never expected—aaahhh, his first mistake—that he would ever be the wild card.
It had been that damned wedding, of course. Elisa, radiant (and inebriated, it would seem) and flowing over with joy, had gazed up at Bradford and over at Victoria and Gregory with such open, unreserved love, that Bruce could not have helped but to think of his own parents, and to ponder what sort of wedding Thomas and Martha Wayne had had. The photos were gone, of course, consumed in the inferno which had permanently redecorated the original Wayne Manor. And then, thinking of his parents led to thinking of their deaths, and thinking of their deaths inevitably led Bruce to ponder his current life, and the path he had chosen.
What was the damned use of it, anyway? Thomas and Martha had vowed their love and commitment, had borne a son...who grew up to be incapable to look at pictures of them without being permanently twisted, a son who now seemed to determine to allow the family line to die with him, a son who felt scarred, alienated, incapable of functional relationships. A son who was, apparently, now incapable of going to weddings without relating them back to a traumatic incident with which he should have come to terms long ago.
And there he was, at a wedding, squiring about an attractive and honorable woman who was as committed to fighting crime and misery as he was; on paper, it could be wonderful alliance. But in practice-how? How could it ever work? Annabeth only knew one half of him, and while she made him feel more at one with his other half, she didn't know a thing about it. How "at one" could she be with all of him, every facet? Annabeth, so guarded, so prickly, had taken a huge leap of faith in trusting Bruce Wayne, and he had deliberately sought that trust, cultivated it, even as he knew that those actions alone were cold, calculated lies and betrayals. Without realizing it, without realizing that he would develop deep emotions, Bruce had backed himself into a corner, and it seemed that there was no escape. Continue to deceive her and retain her company...or come clean and shatter the trust she had come to place in him?
The whole wedding, intended to be a joyous occasion, had left Bruce feeling more unhappy and isolated than he had felt in a very long time-or at least more aware of his misery and isolation.
"Bruce?" Annabeth asked again. There was concern, and confusion, in her forthright gaze. She glanced over at Alfred, who was studiously not meeting her eyes.
Before the odd conversation could degenerate any further into heavy silences and loaded glances, the wedding closed in on them once more. Focused in on themselves as they were, neither Alfred nor Bruce nor Annabeth noticed the unwelcome invasion of interlopers: Seth Percival and his wife had come a-calling.
"Bruce Wayne!" Seth smiled in his tight-lipped way; the facial expression resembled a grimace more than anything else. "I was hoping I would get a chance to speak with you this weekend! My office has been trying to get in touch with you for the past week." His tone was genial enough, but his eyes had a cold glint that Annabeth didn't care for. But then, she cared very little for any part of him at all.
Bruce had the courtesy to look abashed. "Aw, Seth, you know how it is." He rolled his eyes. "There's just so many demands on my time. I don't get it."
Seth glanced at Annabeth, his cold eyes appraising. "I think I can understand. After all, in the company of such a lovely lady, what head could you possibly have for business?"
Annabeth was having none of this. "Since when are the two mutually exclusive?" She made no effort to disguise the hostility in her voice. Each time she encountered Seth Percival, she liked him less and less, and given Trinity's suspicions, so recently voiced, she now saw him as nothing less than a mortal enemy.
For once, however, Seth had made up his mind to be charming and courteous, and no amount of baiting or sharp rebukes on Annabeth's part would shake him from his determination. "I wanted you both to meet my wonderful wife, Linda." He glanced at the silent woman beside him. "Linda has been dying to talk to you, Annabeth, about all the amazing things you do at that little halfway house you run."
Linda didn't look as though she had been dying to talk to Annabeth, but then, it didn't look like she got too worked up about anything. She smiled readily enough, certainly, but there was something...off about her. She seemed to be simultaneously nervous around her husband, and yet quite dependent upon him. An unpleasant thought began to take root in inside Annabeth's head, but before she could pursue it, Seth spoke again. "Why don't you ladies discuss...lady things? Bruce and I have a few business matters to which we must attend."
And just like that, the women were summarily dismissed. Linda looked resigned and unsurprised, but Annabeth was less than impressed. Nevertheless, Elisa and Bradford's wedding reception was probably neither the right time nor the right place to make verbal mincemeat of Seth Percival, and so, she watched silently as Seth adroitly guided Bruce away from not only Annabeth and Elisa, but Alfred as well. The butler looked none too pleased about this—it felt a little like a strategy of divide and conquer-—but after a moment, made the decision to stay close to Annabeth.
"So..." Annabeth offered Linda a weak smile. "Seth's wife, huh?"
"Mmm." Linda's response was no more encouraging than Annabeth's approach. The two women looked at each other, and then, awkwardly, looked away. After a moment, though, Linda appeared to pull herself together and focused more closely on Annabeth. "Seth has mentioned you a few times...what is it that you do, exactly?"
It never got old, as far as Annabeth was concerned. She never grew tired of explaining Safe Haven, describing the work they did, the part she played, the triumphs they achieved, the main obstacles they encountered. It never got old to Annabeth, and she knew it all by heart, too. This enabled her to pay more attention to her audience than a person normally would on their soapbox. And being able to pay discreet attention allowed Annabeth to observe that her audience of one managed to tipple not one but two glasses of champagne in the fifteen minutes they spoke...and Annabeth was pretty damned sure those weren't her first drinks of the evening, either. She sipped her bubbly, nodding at Annabeth every now and then, and Annabeth continued to talk...and wonder if the woman was paying a damned bit of attention. Society women.
And then Linda interrupted Annabeth, surprising them both. "Who comes to your Safe Haven?" As she asked this, she polished off her champagne and looked around for a waiter.
"Who comes?" Annabeth repeated. "Women down on their luck, or trying to get out of drugs or prostitution or a violent relationship. We get some mothers with children, and some teenage girls, too."
"Yes, but who?" Linda pressed. "Are they poor? Middle class? Wealthy? Are they somebody?"
Oh lord, Annabeth thought to herself. Aloud, quietly but forcefully, she said, "They're somebody to someone. Or they will be, given the chance."
"It's just hard to imagine anyone like me there," Linda said softly.
Alfred, who had been maintaining a discreet distance, nonetheless heard this and raised a questioning eyebrow at Annabeth. Before she could respond however, she was ambushed by the newest Winston bride, who materialized from seemingly nowhere in a blur of white lace and tulle.
"Annabeth!" Elisa shrieked, causing several people nearby to turn and stare. "Found you!"
It was obvious that the drink that Annabeth had plied her with much earlier in the day had been supplemented by the seemingly endless supply of champagne. Elisa was quite gleefully soused, and seemingly oblivious to the fact. Hopefully it was some Winston family tradition, and not something that she would be trying to live down thirty years down the road. Alfred raised his eyes heavenward.
"Elisa, do you know Linda?" Annabeth attempted to play hostess. "She's Seth Percival's wife."
"Oh." Elisa's suddenly flat voice indicated that she was less than impressed by this fact, but she quickly regained her ebullient spirits. "Well, we can't hold that against you. Look, do you mind if I borrow Annabeth for a minute?" Without waiting for a response, she pulled Annabeth away.
"You're freakishly strong, you know that?" Annabeth asked as she cast an apologetic glance back at Alfred and Linda, who they had left behind, abandoned and bemused. "You're even shorter than I am..."
"Like a troll, but cuter," Elisa cheerfully agreed. "Look, I need your help with something..."
"Sure, what is it?" Annabeth was distracted, her mind still on her aborted encounter with Linda.
"I need you to go to the bathroom with me."
"Eh?" Annabeth focused back on Elisa. "Why?"
They both peered at Elisa's rather cumbersome cathedral length train trailing behind her. "It's worse than a Siamese twin," Elisa sighed. "And I really have to pee."
"But..." Annabeth cast about for an excuse. "Isn't it the maid of honor's job? Where's Candy Lou?"
"Drunk," came the succinct reply. "And maybe involved in a ménage à trois in the chapel. Please, Annabeth."
There could be no other answer than "yes." Resigned, Annabeth followed Elisa out of the Long Gallery, away from the wedding party, away from the revelers. Away from the amused new husband and in-laws. Away from Alfred, who decided it was high time to rescue Bruce from Seth Percival's avaricious clutches. And away from Linda, who knew she was about to be in one hell of a lot of trouble.
There had been many times throughout Annabeth's life when she found herself with little few comforts, physical or otherwise. Left to the tender mercies of Gotham's Social Services, she had grown up in several less-than-nurturing foster homes; in these places, while physical deprivation and discomfort were rare, the main misery was the lack of comfort, love, security, reassurance, positive feedback...in short, all of the emotional support that came with all but the most dysfunctional families. Sometimes Annabeth would encounter pleasant places; more often she did not. And so, thrown back onto her own resources, she found her own methods to comfort and distract herself. There were her books, of course—even at her most ornery and rebellious, Annabeth had been a voracious reader—and eventually, her studies. When she grew older, she had the support network of some friends. But her most private means of emotional sustenance had always been her ability to imagine her future life, where she would be when she was beyond the control and whims of the foster care system. When she was impervious to the sometimes random cruelty and neglect of some of her foster families. When she had made her own life for herself, and was self-supporting, and independent of the emotional sickness of her childhood. Imagining this life had been Annabeth's chief form of comfort during her adolescent years.
All good and well. It was just that—well, even at her most fanciful, Annabeth hadn't imagined a future adult life into which would be factored the dubious honor of holding up a socialite's bridal gown and train as she tinkled.
"Great wedding, huh?" Elisa trilled as she finished up and Annabeth deliberately looked the other way and wished she had consumed more champagne. "I mean, really wonderful! It will be totally commemorated in the Winston family albums." She flushed and straightened up, tottering as she did. "I wish everyone could be as happy as I am right now."
"I'm glad no onecan see how drunk you are now," Annabeth retorted. "Although they will soon enough. Come on, let's straighten out your dress and get back to the show."
I've made my way back to my perch, and here I shall remain for a good long while. Vicki paused as she took a sip from her glass—she had switched to water half an hour before—and then resumed typing. The first flush of revelry has died off, and indeed, some of the revelers have willing spirits but weak flesh, and so have fallen away. But still, this is the society wedding of the year...and we all know that the real society weddings have little to do with the wedding and everything to do with the society. Here at Bellingham Manor, this weekend, it's difficult to approach the festivities without a certain amount of cynicism...but then, it's just like we never left Gotham at all.