A/N: I meant what I said and I said what I meant, and I'm not abandoning this story, 100%.
If you've been following this story from its early days, it might interest you to know that I have been revising the story to correct grammar and spelling and have made some very minor changes to the story as well. As of this posting, I've finished the first five chapters.
Ginny padded across the sparkling white sand to the edge of the dewy-green sea. The water waved over the flat, packed surface and ran back away from the shore in foamy rivulets, grazing over her bare toes.
She waded into the warm, clear water, letting it come up to her ankles and then her knees. She'd never known that the ocean could be so warm and inviting. Downright gentle, really. The slow waves tickled her thighs as the sparkling surface came up toward her in smooth rolls.
"Ginevra!"
Her fingers, which grazed the surface of the sea, dropped her sides. "Yes?" she called out over the expanse of water, which now covered her navel. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of turning around.
"Come here," he ordered. Then, a moment later he tacked on, "Darling."
She rolled her eyes up toward the sky. And he said she wasn't good at putting on a show. "I'm wading right now. Darling."
A splash behind her caught her off guard, and she turned in time to watch him cut through the shallow water with long, even strokes. He was beside her in a matter of seconds, and the water dripped lazily off his body as he stood and rested his hands lightly on her bare waist.
"You really want to fight with me again?" he drawled into her ear before kissing her neck. Ginny swallowed, tempted to shove him into an oncoming wave—and simultaneously tempted to tip her head back to offer his lips better access.
His hands traveled up her bare back and toyed with the knot at the back of her bikini. "Dare me, dearest?" he mocked, peppering her jaw with light kisses. He was so unbelievably close; she couldn't help but watch the sparkling drops of water sliding down his bare chest—
"Untie it?" she asked in horror, forgetting all about droplets as his intention sunk in. "You can't!"
"Oh, can't I?" he said, smirking.
Ginny shuddered. "The photographers, they'll—it'll be all over the—"
"The papers?" he clarified between kisses. "No. I sent all the paparazzi home for the day.
They're all back in England busily writing about the carefree relaxation of the Malfoy newlyweds."
Ginny relaxed for a brief moment, but then suddenly felt frozen.
If there were no photographers lurking nearby, ready to believe their happy charade, why was Draco kissing her? His hands were on the tie of her bikini—
With a jolt, she sat bolt upright in bed and glanced to her left, where Draco was asleep on the far side of the bed. His chest rose and fell evenly under the thin white sheet, and Ginny fought to steady her own breath. She could still feel his hands on her waist. Cautiously, she slid out of bed and threw a thin silk robe over her shoulders before slipping out of the bedroom.
The time difference seemed to affect Ginny despite all the bitter potions to fix her internal clock, and dreams like that didn't help.
Noi was already in the kitchen, chopping up a bright yellow pineapple. Ginny had noticed that the elf used relatively little magic to cook and clean, which seemed unusual since the house elves at school seemed to use nothing but magic.
"Uh, good morning," Ginny said, and Noi turned to face her, pressing her palms together with a slight bow.
"Sawasdee, Mrs. Malfoy. Can Noi be of service?"
Ginny hesitated. "Er, I was thinking of going outside? Perhaps down to the beach . . . I've been cooped up for a few days now, and—"
Noi smiled. "Mrs. Malfoy is welcome to go out on the veranda to enjoy the beautiful morning sunrise. Noi will see to it that the mistress is appropriately ready."
She hopped down from her stool and walked back to the bedroom. Ginny paused at the doorway, watching Noi silently open the door to the master bath and gestured for Ginny to follow. Draco sighed in his sleep as Ginny shut the door behind herself.
Her toilette was simple. "Mrs. Malfoy is just out of bed," Noi said sweetly, combing Ginny's bed-tousled hair into waves that framed her face. "Her hair is in a relaxed fashion." She helped her into a different silk robe and offered some matching sandals, which Ginny declined.
They crept past Draco, still asleep, and Noi curtsied. "You are ready to go out. Would you care for a breakfast? Or perhaps a tea?"
Ginny took the tea, which was an iced, sweet concoction that Noi called cha-yen, and stole out onto the balcony before the elf could offer any more aid. She had a gnawing suspicion that Noi wasn't as kind and innocent as she let on; if Ginny had refused her help and gone outside in just her nightgown and her hair in a riot of tangles, she was fairly certain that Noi would have stopped her—or woken Draco. And the way the elf narrated her hairstyle like a tabloid journalist was just plain weird.
She bit her lip as she clicked the French doors shut behind her, then turned to face the sun. Her fourth day in Thailand had dawned bright and fresh, thanks to a mid-night rainstorm. Even though the air was still too warm and the sun was too bright, Ginny no longer felt like she was suffocating as soon as she stepped onto the high veranda overlooking the ocean.
She eyed the psuedo-jungle warily, wondering if it contained any camouflaged photographers. Glossy magazines kept appearing on the coffee table and she kept reading them despite herself. Thanks to the attention of the house elf, she was coiffed and photo-ready. How fake. How utterly, ridiculously fake. She hated herself for a moment, then Noi, then Draco, and then the invisible photographers.
"The young Mrs. Malfoy is clearly enjoying the local flavors this morning as she sips her cha-yen from the veranda of the Malfoy's island getaway," she said aloud in a high, obnoxious voice, imitating Noi and Witch Weekly in one go.
"The blissful bride has styled her hair in a relaxed fashion. She is wearing a custom-made, Tailleur-original dressing gown in a light silk, perfect for a tropical locale like Southeast Asia. What she wears underneath is a secret that only the undoubtedly happy Mr. Malfoy knows."
"I'm happy, am I?"
Ginny whirled around, sloshing a bit of the sweet drink over the edge of the railing. Draco, his hair mussed from bed, moved from his spot in the doorway and came up behind her, placing his hands on the bamboo railing on either side of her waist.
"Turn around and watch the sun come up, darling," he whispered, and Ginny caught the obvious cynicism in his voice. "It'll look pretty in high-gloss."
She obeyed, resting her arms against the rail too. He stole a sip of her tea, and for a moment, she reflected how utterly normal all of this would seem to the outsider. Which, of course, was the point. But still, it did funny things to her chest when he behaved like this—sipping her tea, kissing her neck while the sun lit the sky with golds and reds—and it weighed heavily on her stomach. That stupid dream.
With a sigh, she tilted her head to give him better access. She half-heartedly wondered if this was what the girls in Playwitch felt like. Or any model, really. She was really nothing but a doll at this point.
"Are you going to work on your runes again today?" she asked hopefully. He'd kept her inside for most of the past two days, and while it had been boring to be cooped up with little to do while Draco translated runes like his life depended on it, it was better than what had happened on the beach. She'd done everything he'd asked of her since that horrible morning, and thankfully he hadn't asked for much.
"I think so," he said, still attending to the sensitive skin near her collarbone. She shivered in spite of herself.
He straightened and rested his hands on her waist, pulling her close. She could feel the rise and fall of his bare chest through her thin silk robe, and she tried to look calm and model-like as the golden sun hit their faces.
"That's enough," Draco murmured, gently pulling her back toward the door. "I want breakfast."
Based on the number of thin scars that crossed Charlie's skin, Hermione had been with Blaise Zabini for four days. She ran her fingers over the six pink lines on his right arm, then reached over him to check the fresher ones on his left. Twelve total. Blaise added three new ones every day.
Charlie groaned in his sleep.
"Shhh," she whispered. "Be still." To her relief, he obeyed and was quiet.
He hadn't woken in all that time, and while Hermione had done her best to ascertain that this was due to some spell or magic and not an injury, it still worried her. She'd tried to ask Blaise about it, but that had only resulted in the second day's injuries. The third and fourth had been unprovoked, but Blaise seemed to have a sick need to slice open Charlie's skin—while Hermione watched. She'd tried to look away the second day, and he'd just made them deeper.
She stood and walked around the room, stretching her legs and trying to remember what it felt like to run, especially outside. Not that she'd ever been much of a runner; sports hadn't been her thing, ever, but now that she'd been kept indoors for months she missed it. Missed drawing lungfuls of air in and feeling her heart pound in her chest—the real kind of pounding that came from athleticism and strength, not the kind that came from sheer terror. She'd had enough terror for a life and a half.
Blaise was feeding her well, at least. Back in the dungeons she'd been kept so near starvation that running hadn't even crossed her mind. The thrice-daily meals were simple but healthy, even though she still did every non-magic check for potions and spells that she could.
He wasn't feeding Charlie, though. For the hundredth time, Hermione ran through all the possibilities as clinically as she could. Ron's brother was in some sort of stasis spell, since he didn't seem to dream, and certainly he would have needed fluids by now or he'd have died from dehydration. So the coma, or sleep, or whatever it was, was magic, and it would need to be a powerful, maintained spell.
Was Blaise capable of such a thing? Hermione didn't doubt that Blaise had the magic to send a grown man into a coma, but to keep him in one for a prolonged time seemed difficult. Especially knowing Charlie—he had gumption and would doubtlessly fight the spell. He was probably fighting it right now.
She wished she knew how to help him.
Sinking to her mattress, she felt the first edges of a now daily desperation bubble up into her throat. She half-wished that she was the one in the coma, safe from her brain's endless need to review the facts and imagine impossible escapes—and wondering what on earth had happened to Ginny, and to Bill and Fleur, and all the rest.
With a slight sob, she buried her face in her mattress and willed herself to sleep.
"How go things with your little pets?"
Blaise set down his drink and turned toward the door of his evening study, which had become his most favorite room in recent weeks. There was less alcohol and more work in the day study. "Hello to you, Pansy."
The dark-haired witch lifted an eyebrow in reply and helped herself to wine. "Gods, Zabini. You would drink the most expensive bottle on a Tuesday afternoon."
He flopped down into a leather armchair and stared at the empty fireplace. "It's been a long week," he said laconically. "I've been bored."
Pansy smirked. "Your pets are boring? Certainly you've been having fun with them—hang on, what have you done with the carpet in here?"
Blaise glanced at the bare floor. "I've lost my taste for carpet," he said dispassionately. "I'm a wealthy, entitled prick. I'm allowed eccentricities."
She snorted. "Only one? I would have thought the rack in the cellar was—"
"You just wish I'd let you see it," he interrupted. "Cigar?"
"I'm already drinking at midday. I'll pass."
"Why are you here, Pansy? I'm not going to shag you on my carpet-less floor and I have no information for you to play with." She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. "I'm not telling you a damned thing about my 'pets,' either. I don't care how badly you want to see Granger again. It's not happening."
She threw him a pronounced, fake pout. "You won't even give me a little shag? Gods, you're such an arse," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'd rather shag a dragon. No, I'm here because I have acquired some information of a sensitive nature from one Miss Greengrass."
"The bitchy one or the whiny one?" Blaise said, throwing his legs over the arm of the chair and sent little clouds of smoke directly toward the ceiling.
"Astoria," said Pansy. She sat across from him and took another sip of wine.
Blaise closed his eyes. "I'm listening."
"I don't deal in free gossip, Zabini. I'm going to call in the debt," she said, leaning forward.
He didn't move. "I expect nothing less. Just nothing about Granger."
Pansy pouted dramatically and announced, "Daphne is having an affair."
Blaise chuckled. "Good for her. It's about time she got over Draco and moved on to other pastures."
Pansy leaned forward conspiratorially. "But you see, darling Blaise, she hasn't moved on to other pastures at all."
"She's sleeping with Draco?" Blaise questioned, mildly curious.
With the flush of a good secret, Pansy leaned back and swirled her wine. "Well, not while he's on his 'honeymoon,' obviously. But . . ."
"And Astoria knows because . . . ?"
"Well," said Pansy eagerly, "she found an owl. Daphne has apparently been writing to Draco—several letters, all starting after the wedding, of course—and he's finally written back and suggested a tryst. And suggested other illicit activities, according to Astoria."
Blaise snickered. "Of course. The great Draco Malfoy writes a dirty note and sends it by owl. How unlike him. Who else has Tor told?"
"Probably no one. Daph doesn't know that she knows, so—"
Blaise had his wand leveled at her forehead before she could blink. "Obliviate," Blaise snapped.
He groaned suddenly and grabbed his wrist as though it pained him. "Oh Lucius, you bastard," he hissed. "I want my life back, dammit."
He stood up and faced Pansy's vacant eyes. "Forget that Astoria told you about any letters. Go home, have another drink, take a nap, and learn a little lesson about why proper Slytherins don't enjoy gossip as a pastime," he ordered, then puffed his cigar once more and blew the smoke dramatically at the ceiling before putting it out.
"Show yourself out. I have . . . an unexpected meeting to attend."
Pansy obeyed, her heels clacking across the bare floor. He watched her go, shaking his head. Pansy was a wild card; cunning and vicious one moment and foolish and petty the next. He half wondered if she did it on purpose—but no. She wasn't that brilliant. She was stupid enough to share secrets about the son with the man who was (unwillingly) in the back pocket of the father.
"Salazar, let Draco get back soon," Blaise muttered as he shrugged on his robe. "I don't know how many secrets I can keep."
Ginny paced the large great room of the villa again, stopping in front of the French door that opened onto the balcony.
"You're being annoying," Draco drawled.
She huffed. "You're being boring," she said cattily, pressing her forehead to the glass.
He chuckled quietly. "Would you like to do something more entertaining?" he asked in a meaningful voice. "I can think of a few . . . games to play."
Ginny whirled around, face red, and he laughed. "There, see? That was entertaining," he said with an amused smile, which faded quickly. "Now quit whinging before I genuinely do need something distracting to do." He bent his head over the yellowing parchment he'd been obsessed with. Moody git.
"I was thinking I'd like to go for a walk," she said, trying to keep her voice level. The thought of another "game" was simultaneously terrifying and, well, the kisses from that dream kept slipping into her mind. He was messing with her head; she wondered if he was slipping something into her drinks to make her feel those things.
"Absolutely not," he said without looking up. He laid the parchment on the low coffee table and flipped it over, leaning forward intently.
Ginny exhaled slowly. "Noi could accompany me." She needed to get out of this room.
He looked up at her sharply. "I said no, Gin."
"It's just a walk," she said, folding her arms as he stood and walked toward her. "What sort of trouble do you think I'm going to—"
He calmly placed a hand over her mouth, pressing the back of her head against the warm glass. "I said no," he said, his voice icy. "I have humiliated you. I have immobilized you. I have placed a fucking Imperio on you. And to be frank, I don't want to do any of those things again. But answer me this, Ginevra: What do I need to do to get your foolish, stubborn head to understand that these stupid fits of independence aren't going to make your life easier?"
She glared at him. He had never insulted her intelligence before, and it stung enough to banish any pleasant dreams from her memory. He removed his hand, and she spat, "Maybe I don't want an easier life. Maybe I want to have a normal life, without having to 'learn' to put up with a brooding, murdering lunatic for a husband!"
His eyes darkened considerably, and he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her against the door. She squirmed away and whirled around. He watched her, stony-faced, and then took a step toward her. She leapt over the back of a low couch and made a grab for the parchment.
"I go on a walk, or I destroy this," she said calmly, dangling the paper from her finger and thumb.
Draco sucked in a quick breath and gave her a dark look. "Very well. Be back in an hour."
Stunned at how quickly he'd acquiesced, she looked at him, then walked toward the French door. He opened it for her and she stepped outside, then reached back and handed him the parchment. He accepted it with careful hands and the door clicked shut.
She was going to pay for this, she thought, but for now she'd enjoy this moment—and spend some time thinking about what on earth made that parchment so important. She turned toward the staircase that led to the jungle path, and suddenly her vision swam. Dark spots danced in her eyes as she crumpled to the shiny wooden deck.
She was in bed, in another skimpy nightgown. Ginny rolled over and came face to face with bare skin. Draco was sitting up next to her, once again poring over the stupid parchment.
She tried to sit up, but her brain felt foggy. He absently put a hand on her shoulder with just enough pressure to keep her lying down, and she allowed it. It would be stupid to fight again, especially since he'd proved once more than he was not shy about cursing her.
His hand trailed absently down her bare arm, resting on her elbow as he read. She was keenly aware of how close they were—his naked stomach was just inches from her nose. His fingers played idly with the silky fabric of her nightgown, and she shivered involuntarily.
She couldn't see his face, but his body shifted slightly toward her, and his hand left her arm to once again slide over her stomach. She tried to shift—to turn over, away from him—but he kept her firmly in place, his fingers splaying over her stomach, pressing down just enough to make her gasp with the electric shock of having him so close.
"There's a good girl," he said absently, his hand traveling lower, coming to rest on her hip, so that his arm was stretched across her body.
Very slowly, she reached up and put her hand on top of his. "Draco? I—I'm sorry for earlier." What? she thought. She was not sorry. Was she? Her head felt so foggy.
He chuckled. "Want to make it up to me?" he asked, setting the parchment aside. He leaned over, sliding down so that his face was level with hers. "How about a kiss?"
She lifted her head to close the distance between them and brushed her lips against his. He kissed her back hard, following her when she dropped her head back to the pillow, then reaching up to cradle her head in one hand. As his fingers snagged in her hair, she caught her breath. It was a crime, truly, that someone she hated so much could do such magnificent things with his mouth.
He rolled over slightly, placing one leg in between hers, and she broke the kiss to look up at him, wide-eyed.
"Yes?" he drawled.
"I . . . well, I'm not sure if . . ."
He smirked. "Keep your tongue in your head until you can speak in a full sentence, please. Or until I find something else for you to do with it," he said softly, leaning over to brush her earlobe with his lips. He slowly made his way down her neck and to her collarbone, sliding the strap of the nightgown from her shoulder with a cool finger, then kissing across the hollow of her neck and slipping off the other strap.
This was bad. No, good. Good and very, very bad.
She knew she should push him away. Slap him. Scream a bit. He was pressing her into the softness of the bed and she couldn't think straight. Her body wasn't responding to her like she wanted—it was responding to him, like some kind of traitor. Betrayed by her own limbs—her own blood.
She shivered, and she wasn't sure if it was because there was very, very little fabric between most of him and most of her, or if it was because this was all so very wrong.
He began to slide the nightgown away from her shoulders, his thumbs grazing the tops of her breasts as he pulled the green silk down around her stomach—
She was falling. And there was the floor. Golden, teak, and very hard.
"Alright over there?" Draco drawled, and Ginny slowly pushed herself up from between the couch and the coffee table. It was still daylight, and they were both fully clothed. She took a long, deep breath. Her heart was racing.
"You cursed me," she said quietly.
He looked up from the runes and met her eyes without emotion. "One of the more interesting facets of the Invenio Necto spell is the way it is strengthened among family members, including husbands and wives. I can activate it wandlessly now that the magic recognizes that we're married."
"That explains the crest, I guess," Ginny said, looking at the spot on her wrist where the crest had first shown when he'd cast the spell. The crest wasn't visible, but the skin felt warm.
"No, the crest is because it is a Malfoy family spell, created by a Malfoy," Draco said, looking back at the runes. "One with an ego."
"There are Malfoys without egos?" she asked, trying not to act as petulant as she felt. She leaned back against the floor to stare at the golden ceiling. "Who invents curses to make their family members lose consciousness?"
Draco sighed. "The House of Malfoy was divided back then. Long, long ago, when the family lived in France."
Ginny wondered if that was how the elder Madame Tallieur knew about the curse—and how to remove it. Some sort of special French knowledge of evil family curses. They probably had courses at Beauxbatons about them, she thought sarcastically.
"If the curse recognizes me as family, could I use it?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I'm not teaching you, and you have no wand. I've never seen my mother do it, but I'm fairly certain my father has placed it on her."
Ginny shuddered. From all that she'd seen, Narcissa and Lucius were perfectly happy together in their own depraved way, but apparently, there was still no real trust. "So Malfoy husbands just go around cursing their wives? That seems extremely healthy."
Draco leaned forward. "The egotistical Malfoy was a woman, Ginevra. There is nothing that says Malfoy women aren't powerful. There just haven't been any for a few generations. In fact, the last time there was a Malfoy woman, there was a Weasley woman."
Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"
He smiled. "Only that my parents were very selfish by not having a second child. I might have had a sister."
She'd be all the evil of Daphne, Astoria, and Pansy rolled into one wealthy (and probably gorgeous) hellion of a woman, Ginny thought, and decided to say nothing on the subject.
"Um, who wrote that?" she asked, nodding toward the parchment spread across the coffee table at eye level. "Is it post-Latin?"
Draco groaned. "I wish it was that simple. The Latin-influenced spells are so much easier than the early Druidic ones."
Ginny looked at the runes. Upside down, they looked like bird tracks. "And you're obsessed with them because you don't know what happened when . . . when we . . ."
"I'm obsessed with them because I think there's a sporting chance my father will kill you if we don't figure it out," he said candidly, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "And there's enough talk of 'bound lives' in this that I'm not too certain that I wouldn't die with you."
Ginny licked her lips. "What was it supposed to do?" All she'd known at the time that he'd cast the spell was that it was black, black stuff. Any spells that required what the blood spell required were evil.
He shrugged. "It was supposed to make me powerful. Because, apparently, the magical power I was born with is not enough to satisfy certain people."
Pushing herself off the floor, Ginny sat opposite him. "Well, are you more powerful now?"
"It's hard to tell," he said with a sigh.
"Why would it just make the man more powerful? I thought Druids were supposed to be all for fairness. The Latin magic is the stuff of hierarchy and dominion. That's why your egotistical ancestors used Latin and not Druidic stuff to make the stupid Invenio-"
"The incantation is Latin, remember? Sang Primorum? No, of course you don't remember."
Ginny wondered if the way his eyes flicked to hers before they went back to the page held a hint of pain. It would make sense. The events of that evening probably hadn't been how he'd imagined his wedding night either.
She bit her lip. "So it's a pre-Latin spell with a Latin incantation?" she asked, staring at the page. "Are you sure there's not something missing?"
Draco opened his mouth as if to retort, then shut it suddenly. He flipped the parchment over and scanned the markings on the other side. "Wait a moment," he whispered, the command laced with hesitancy as he finished the thought. "Ginevra," he said slowly, "have you ever done wandless magic?"
"Not really. Not successfully."
"Try something small. Like, er, lift this paper. Just a basic, first-year levitating charm."
She tried. The paper wriggled and then lay still. She shrugged.
He reached over the coffee table and grabbed her wrist. "Try again. But pick something else. Don't tell me what."
His touch was distracting, but she looked at the pillow on the couch and willed it to hover. He'd grabbed her wrist like that in her dream—and—
The pillow was floating.
"Any luck?" Draco said, his eyes closed.
"Yeah."
He opened his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I think—I think I know what happened when we—when I did that spell."
Ginny realized she was slightly alarmed by the fact that there was no hint of a drawl in his voice. Draco was, for the first time in recent memory, unmistakably afraid of something, and this unnerved her far more than his next order: "Give me your arm and relax. It'll hurt less that way."
She did, watching as he drew a small bit of blood out with his wand, dropping into an empty scotch glass that Noi hadn't picked up. He repeated the same thing with his own blood, then muttered a few dark-sounding words, swirling their blood together in the cup. The red liquid shone white.
"Fuck," Draco whispered, his eyes bright with . . . was it fear? "Ginevra —this is very important: have you managed to improve your skills as an Occlumens yet?"
Lucius lifted his cloak carefully, keeping the end from trailing on the bloody, grimy floor. He ignored the two figures clinging at each other in the corner and instead turned to face the sullen young man leaning in the doorframe.
"Do I need to remind you how important it is that you find this information, Master Zabini?" he said, lifting his cane with both hands. "If we get Shacklebolt, we get the Order of the Phoenix."
"I can do it," Blaise said slowly. "They're very pliable, especially the girl. And anyway, I have the Mudblood upstairs playing right into my hands."
Lucius smiled. "Then get me what I want," he said, clasping Zabini on the shoulder and giving his left arm a squeeze. "He's been deep in hiding ever since Draco took Ginevra from his Muggle sister's house."
The younger wizard winced. "Ever since Draco cursed the sanity from his nephew, you mean," he said quietly, but he stepped away from the door. He walked over to the two prisoners and squatted down beside them, reaching out to tenderly sweep the woman's pale hair from her face.
"Don't touch her—" gasped the man, wrapping his arms more tightly around the woman.
Blaise smiled comfortingly. "No need to fret, William. I was just going to ask if Fleur would like to see her sister again. Gabrielle is such a lovely little . . . blossom." He patted Fleur's head sweetly. "And I happen to know exactly where she is."
A/N: Today, August 17, 2012, is the fourth anniversary of the day that I stayed up until 3:00am doing one of the most scary things I've ever done: deciding to try my hand at writing a story. I've learned so much, and most of it is thanks to my reviewers, readers, and friends (especially those at The DG Forum!). Thank you for the reviews, PMs, and emails of encouragement. Thanks for sticking with me, because I don't deserve it. You guys are the best, and while I don't write for the reviews, I DO write for you.
As always, thanks to enchantedstarlight for faithful beta reading and encouragement. And thanks to scubarang for a faithful friendship, honest input, and putting up with lengthy phone calls during which I may or may not have freaked out a little about what happens in Chapter 20.
Please review. Because that will definitely help keep me from freaking out about Chapter 20. ;)