Note: I had not planned on posting today, but a few minutes ago I decided I should. I have chosen to dedicate this chapter to SJ because she is the reason I am posting today. I hope this gives you a reason to smile. (Folks, do not expect a dedication in every chapter. It will be only at those times when I feel a dedication is necessary, as I feel at the moment.)

-Of Liars and Lethargy-

"I have a 'carpe diem' mug and, truthfully, at six in the morning the words do not make me want to seize the day. They make me want to slap a dead poet." –Joanne Sherman

(Wednesday, October 2, 2019)

Morning arrived far too quickly for Chris Halliwell's liking. As the sun's pinkish rays crept along the carpet and then up his wall, the young witch rolled over to face away from his window. Eyes squeezed adamantly shut, he tugged a navy blue blanket over his head as if to defy the day. This earned him all of twenty seconds before a certain Charmed One's exasperated tone pierced the relative quiet, offering no leeway for bargaining.

"Wyatt!" Painfully sharp to Chris's still-half-asleep ears, her voice echoed up the flight of stairs. "Chris!" Then, unifying the two names to save time, her voice, or both: "Boys!"

Somehow, as Chris stumbled out from under the blankets, he wasn't surprised to hear Prue's name excluded from the call. Nearly every morning, when the brothers trudged into the kitchen, eyes still glued shut, their younger sister already perched comfortably at the kitchen table before a bowl of cereal. Dressed for school, she would smirk at the boys as they bungled around the room until Piper took pity on them and prepared their breakfast herself. Without a doubt Prue took great pleasure in watching her brothers suffer.

As Chris threw on a dark brown t-shirt and a pair of jeans (they looked clean and smelled… well, relatively fresh), he thought crossly to himself, Yeah? Well, the feeling's mutual, sis.

This morning Chris took his sweet time so that by the time he burst into the kitchen, even Wyatt was already waiting for him. Standing impatiently in the threshold with his backpack, Wyatt stared at his brother past raised eyebrows. If Chris had to guess, he would assume that the older teen had waited for him only on Piper's orders. The overly cautious mother preferred that her two boys walked together.

The moment Chris appeared, Wyatt demanded, "You ready?" Not giving Chris the chance to point out that he hadn't even grabbed breakfast, the older teen continued, "Good. Let's go." Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, leaving Chris to hurry after him, stomach growling in protest.

Once down the block the boys slowed from a jog to a casual pace. Still feeling the tug of sleep, Chris squinted his eyes and cursed at the light of the sun. Under his breath he swore at Wednesdays for being in the middle of the week. By then memory of the tranquility and freedom from the previous weekend had already faded, but the build-up of excitement for the next one had yet to arrive. By far it was the worst day of every week. Most people despised Mondays most, but then again Chris rarely belonged to the group of "most people."

"No sleep?" Wyatt guessed sympathetically. Chris's grunt was all the answer he would receive.

When they got to where the bus picked them up (on the days when they weren't late and had to orb instead), they stood silently side by side. Only a few minutes passed before the school bus pulled up beside them, and the two siblings stumbled up the three steps. While Wyatt plopped down beside his friends, Chris sank into an empty seat and dozed off almost immediately.

For Chris the day passed in a haze. The only part that stood out in his mind was the lunch bell. The instant it rang, the boy shot out of his seat and into the hallway. Having enough sense to drop his knapsack in front of his locker, he headed for the closest bathroom to find a quiet place to orb. Before he reached one, however, a voice broke through his thoughts.

"Hey, Halliwell!"

With a mental groan, Chris stopped and turned to see Dwight Ryder jogging over to him, an easy grin lighting his features. Matching his smile, light brown eyes twinkled with merriment. One hand casually went up to spike up the short, dark brown hair just above his forehead. What he seemed to lack in height, he made up for in bouncing personality. Though the kid often knew just what to say to pull Chris from an ill-tempered mood, right now Chris wished he hadn't been seen.

Slowing his pace as he came closer, Dwight quipped, "You left pretty quick after that bell. You hate bio that much, huh?."

"No, no—it's just that I—" But Dwight was already walking towards the lunchroom, expecting Chris to follow. Suppressing a hiss of frustration, the brunette trotted after his friend in the direction from which he had come.

As Chris paid for lunch with a crumpled five-dollar bill (Wyatt hadn't given him time to make his own this morning), Dwight found them two empty seats. Though it tasted like paste, Chris wolfed down his food as soon as he fell into the chair. He ignored the strange looks his action elicited from most at the table.

Only when Dwight said, "Chris, slow down, man; the stuff isn't going anywhere!" did he pause. By then, though, his tray was mostly clean anyway.

Though Dwight started up a conversation, Chris found it difficult to concentrate, too distracted to follow what his friend said. After what seemed like ages, Chris stopped the other teen with an apologetic, "Look, Dwight, I have to run. I completely forgot about that thing we had due today…" Already standing, he grabbed his tray, dumped it into a nearby trash bin, and strode out of the cafeteria before Dwight could utter a single word of protest. Frowning, Dwight watched him retreat. As Chris exited the cafeteria, he wondered in bewilderment, What's gotten into him?

While crowded during class time, bathrooms were notoriously empty during the lunch period. Therefore, after making sure no one—namely Dwight—had followed, Chris had no trouble slipping into a stall and orbing.

This time knowing his destination, Chris easily rematerialized in the familiar kitchen of his charge. Taking in his surroundings with a quick sweep of his eyes, he noted that the shards of the vase had been swept up and cleared away. Somehow, he didn't think that was Jake's mom's doing. Other than that, not much struck him as all that different from the previous night. The only other blatant disparity was the fact that yesterday the counter had been relatively clean. Now it was littered with soggy napkins, which had obviously been used to mop up an amber liquid, the result of a transparent, tipped-over bottle. In disgust Chris averted his gaze, eyes burning with livid intensity.

Tentative, he quietly called into the stillness, "Jake?"

With his sense of hearing acutely attuned to even the most sensitive sounds, he picked up a muffled thump from down the hall, followed by a stream of curses. Without thinking, the young witch chased the sound down the hallway and to a half-closed door. Peering into the room, he caught sight of a closet door ajar to his right, a queen-sized bed pushed up against the wall beneath a grimy window, and a round-faced woman on her hands and knees. One arm reached beneath the bed for something. From under it came a semi-unrolled paper towel roll, unraveled like a red carpet, which Chris assumed was the object she currently attempted to retrieve. Sure enough, when she stood (swaying slightly, Chris noticed), she clutched in her thick grip the cylindrical end of the roll.

With her body half turned toward the door, Chris could see limp hair a couple of shades darker than Jake's; it fell just past her shoulders in a dry, tangled mess of knots. Skin pale and sallow, Chris had difficulty reminding himself that this woman was not a demon.

Though she might as well be, he mused bitterly, the way she treats her kid. Of their own volition, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

Before Chris had time to react, the woman turned, revealing dulled, light brown eyes that squinted against the brightness of the room. When she caught sight of the intruder, suspicion and derision laced her demand of "Who are you?"

Heart pounding frantically, the teen ignored the question. His desperate, silent plea was that she was currently too drunk to remember the encounter once he left. Otherwise…

Forcing his voice not to waver, he shot back with a question of his own: "Where's Jake?" At his words, the boy's mother's eyes narrowed – if possible – even further. He schooled his expression into one of detached curiosity… or tried to. If he succeeded or not was a different story entirely.

"What do you care?" the woman snapped, her words slurring together somewhat. "You aren't from the school, are you?" The hand holding the paper towel roll gripped it tighter and tighter until her knuckles paled. Cheeks flushed from the drink and expression twisted in disgust, she took a threatening step towards the young man standing in the threshold. He had yet to step into the room.

"Maybe," came his cool response, snatching the opportunity she had inadvertently presented. "Where is he?"

"You have no right!" she cried ferociously, "No right! Just coming—barging into my house like this without my permission. Just because I f'got t'call Jake in sick this morning. No right!" She seemed to be muttering more to herself than the visitor, but nevertheless Chris responded.

"Sick, huh?" Since he didn't believe her in the slightest, he didn't bother pretending otherwise.

"That's right," Jake's mother snapped, "sick. Was whining this morning about feeling a bit under the weather so I let him get back into bed."

I'll bet, the witch sneered, the only evidence of his revulsion showing in the slight narrowing of his flashing, green eyes.

"And," she continued to rant, oblivious to the teen's swirling emotions, "he's sleeping right now. I just checked in on him half'n hour ago." Shoving past the boy, she stormed down the hall. He watched the carpet of paper towels trail after her into the kitchen. For one vicious moment Chris felt the overwhelming urge to step on and rip the train of disposable towels. Realizing how petty and childish the desire made him seem, he squelched it and left the room as well. Instead of following Jake's mom to the kitchen where he would no doubt find her drying up a spill, he went in search of something else.

In front of a closed door he stopped to knock. Receiving no answer, he inched it open and peered inside. Very soon he realized he had stepped into the bathroom and not Jake's bedroom. The sink, a salmon-colored porcelain appliance, looked as if it could use a good scrubbing-down. Come to think of it, so did the matching bathtub and off-white toilet seat. The whole room practically screamed "clean me!" Cracked, off-white tiles lining the floor and walls seemed dangerous; Chris wondered how many times those jagged, broken edges had bitten into somebody's skin.

Shutting the door, he moved down the hall, stopping before the only other door. Again, before entering, he knocked and heard no response. For one illogical moment he entertained the thought that Jake had no bedroom, that his cruel, abusive mother made him sleep out beneath the car like a chained-up dog. When the door opened to reveal a modest bedroom, however, he discarded the ridiculous notion and scolded his overactive imagination for running so wildly at a time like this.

Inside he found a wooden desk sanded down and painted over in white, slammed up against the wall to the right of the door. On it, papers were spread messily, a cylindrical container hosted a cluster of pencils and pens, and a reading lamp stood in darkness. A dark blue, plastic chair was pushed underneath the desk. To one side of the desk was a small, translucent trash bin and to the other a backpack. On the left side of the door Chris saw a light brown, almost beige dresser, which he assumed contained Jake's belongings. To be honest he had expected to find some dirty clothes strewn across the floor or perhaps some toys, but no—the boy's laundry was dumped neatly into a hamper at the foot of his bed, and his toys were stuffed into a large, navy-blue box marked "toys" in someone's barely legible scribble. A few paces away from the dresser, on the wall directly opposite the door, was a small bed with a racecar comforter. As it seemed from this scene, his charge's mom had been telling the truth after all: within the bed slept one small, thin, nine-year-old boy. In this position, huddled beneath his blanket with only his head and one curled hand showing, he looked so vulnerable, lost in an ocean of painful reality.

Against his better judgment, Chris crept into the room, pausing a few feet away from the bed. Though the shades were drawn, throwing the room into shadows, he could clearly make out the bruise that darkened the boy's cheek. Staring at the eyelashes brushing at the skin below Jake's eyes, the teenager bit his lip to keep from reaching forward to caress Jake's cheek. The boy need not be woken now.

Turning to leave the room, Chris let the boy remain asleep. Before he closed the door, he murmured, "Sweet dreams, Jake." Then, in one nine-year-old boy's bedroom, all turned to silence once again.

According to the digital watch Chris's parents had bought him for his birthday two years prior, the time was currently 1:04 and nineteen seconds. Lunch ended at 12:30. Oh great, he was so earning a detention for this. Before the teen would have the audacity to think, "At least it can't get any worse," the proverbial rain began to pour: today was Wednesday. In the middle of the week, Chris's first period after lunch was history.

Debating whether or not he should bring his bag with him, he finally decided against it. Without his backpack slung over his shoulder, he could more easily to sneak in and seem as if he'd been there all the while. Instead, tearing a few pages from his notebook and pocketing a green gel pen (in case he got the unlikely urge to actually take notes), he headed towards history, fingers crossed for luck in his pockets.

He didn't know why he bothered; the Powers that Be seemed to take great pleasure in causing him unnecessary pain and humiliation. Today, of course, was no different.

When the door to her classroom opened and closed quietly and one of her students slunk towards his seat, Marcy Gowell did not bother turning to watch his entrance; she already knew who it was. Pausing her lecture for a moment, she dryly remarked, "How nice of you to grace us all with your presence, Chris. However, seeing as you've already missed quite a chunk of the lesson and will be hard pressed to catch up now, I daresay you might find it in your interest to remain elsewhere for the duration of the period." As she spoke, she fished around in her bag, soon procuring a pink strip of paper. Signing it with an angry flourish of her wrist, she shoved it into his hand. With it came a withering glare. "Come back at the end of class, please; I believe you and I will have quite a bit to discuss." Despite how she had phrased the statement, Chris didn't have the lunacy to call it a request. He knew – along with the rest of the students slumped in desks behind him – that it was a direct order from Queen History herself.

With a defeated sigh, he accepted the prisoner's ticket and trudged down the hall. Without any of the hesitation he possessed the night before, Chris shoved open the door to Study Hall, head held high as if proud of his accomplishment when in truth his greatest wish right now was to get vanquished on the spot. Or at the very least possessed so that he could have someone else experience the embarrassment in his place. Hands clenched, he quickly shoved them into his pockets, taking them out only to dump the detention slip on the teacher's desk.

The same teacher from the previous afternoon reclined in his chair. This time he wore a dull blue, long-sleeved, button-down shirt tucked into a pair of dark gray pants. When Chris walked by, the old man raised an eyebrow as if to say, "Again?"

Ignoring the man's blatant, albeit silent, derision, the witch slunk to the back of the room and collapsed into an empty chair. Feeling righteously sullen, he glowered at the teacher, who ignored him completely, choosing instead to focus his full attention on the paperwork in front of him. He didn't deem these students important enough to give his awareness, a fact of which most students thoroughly took advantage.

Two seats in front of Chris, a boy about three years his senior slumped in a more or less comfortable position. Leaning back casually, his left hand dangled while his right, clutching a silver pocket knife, scratched fervently at the wooden desk holding him captive. Jet-black hair fell to his shoulders, partially obscuring Chris's view. If the witch squinted and leaned a bit to his right, he could distinguish the first letter etched into the desk: N.

Besides for that twelfth grader, only three others took up desks. The first, a junior by the looks of it, calmly attacked a notebook, making use of his copious amount of spare time. Off in a corner, the second boy had very clearly fallen asleep, slumped forward in his seat. Arms crossed on the desk, his head rested on top of them in what looked to Chris like a supremely awkward position. The third was a girl he actually recognized—the sophomore from the previous afternoon with multiple piercings and a fearsome glare. Was she always here?

Bored, Chris sighed, wishing he had thought to bring his bag with him so at least he'd have something to do, even if it was homework. With nothing to keep him occupied, though, he began to lightly drum his fingers against the desk. Each time all four fingers fell, another second on his watch ticked past. As he did that, he watched the senior's pocket knife carve into the desk: N–I–C–H–O–L–A—

"Defacing school property, Mister Murphy." The unexpected sound made Chris start in surprise, but the senior – Nicholas Murphy, apparently – merely offered a lazy, insolent smirk. Suddenly, the ancient teacher was standing so close that Chris was sure he could smell moth balls from the man's wrinkles. Right now, so close to choking on the stench that stood only a desk in front of him, the witch could think only about how lucky he was that the teacher had not chosen to pick on him. With that thought foremost in his mind, he quickly stilled his hands.

"I'm sure Mrs. Kennedy will have something to say about that." His barely contained fury was hardly lost on any of the five, except perhaps the napping teen in the corner. "Up." With one crooked finger he motioned for the senior to follow him.

Shoving the knife deep into the pocket of his black cargo pants, the boy indolently slipped out of his chair and trailed the teacher to the door.

Before they left the room, the man turned around to face the four remaining students. Wagging a finger as one would to a misbehaving child, he warned, "Do anything while I'm gone, and Mrs. Kennedy will be the first to hear of it. Be sure of that." Making a show of spinning back around, he stormed out of the room after an indifferent Nicholas Murphy.

For a couple of seconds the room actually stayed quiet, and Chris himself held his breath, wondering who would make the first move. To be honest he wasn't all that surprised when the angry sophomore jumped from her seat, skull earrings dangling while her magenta studs glistened in the light, and stormed out of the room. Glancing up briefly, the junior shrugged and almost returned to his homework before catching Chris's eye.

A slight, curious frown creasing his forehead, he wondered, "You're not leaving?"

Surprised, Chris inquired, "Should I?"

With a superior smirk that could almost rival Nicholas Murphy's, the boy replied, "Do what you want, kid; I sure as hell don't care." Before Chris could formulate a response, the junior's attention had returned to his notebook.

Sighing, Chris leaned to the side, twisting his body until he heard his back give a satisfied crack. Then, letting his torso fall forward onto the desk, he decided that the sleeping teen had the right of it after all. Eyelids growing heavy, he closed them and attempted to succumb to the wistful calls of his subconscious.

The bell that signaled the end of the period jerked Chris awake. Pressing his palms into gritty eyes, he shook himself into a better state of wakefulness—or at least semi-proper awareness. When he was sure he wouldn't bump into the nearest wall, he stood. The others had already left, except for Notebook Kid, as Chris had dubbed him, who didn't seem as if he planned on leaving any time soon. With a simple shrug Chris traipsed out of Study Hall and then, dragging his feet, wove through the hallways towards Ms. Gowell's classroom. Defiantly, he glared straight ahead, determined not to let his history teacher win this newest "battle." (How appropriate for a history class, he thought with an inward smirk.) Just like last time, his detainment had not been even remotely his fault; this time he refused to take the heat.

When he entered the classroom, Ms. Gowell set aside her text book, which she had been perusing for something that probably would not have interested Chris in the slightest. She nodded her head to acknowledge his presence. "Chris," she intoned politely

"Ms. Gowell," he mimicked in all but the civility she had used in her own greeting. With both hands stuffed deep into his pockets where she could not see them, Chris did not try to refrain from balling them into tight fists. This was so unfair! He had done nothing to deserve punishment for two days in a row. Out of all the rules he had broken, these were actually for the Greater Good. Did that count for nothing?

Patiently, Marcy sighed. "Please sit," she offered, motioning to the desk beside which Chris stood.

Through narrowed eyes, he watched her calm expression, waiting for – expecting – her to finally lose her temper if he were insolent enough. Although he usually possessed at least a few meager traits of self-preservation as did every Halliwell, a barrier of resentment seemed to have grown before it, blocking all thoughts except the ones that screamed, It's not fair!

"No thanks," came his terse reply. As if to prove himself, he stood straighter and crossed his arms, expression set in a morose scowl. If he had stopped to think for a moment, he would have realized how childish his behavior appeared. But he did not think; instead, he just felt, a dangerous idea for a witch, whose powers were so closely linked to his emotions. From an early age, Chris learned that losing his temper was unacceptable. Not because he might hit a child in his nursery class but because said child might just end up thrown magically out of a tree and breaking a wrist or leg or neck. In fact, before he could control his powers, Piper actually agreed to send her son to Magic School, as she had done for Wyatt and Prue when they had passed the same age. Since Chris had been barely three at the time, he couldn't recall much of anything from his year at Magic School; apparently, though, it had been enough to bring his powers under his reign. Ever since then he attended public school just like all the other "normal" kids his age. Since then, very rarely in his life did his telekinesis escape his control.

Ms. Gowell's voice gently tugged him from his reverie, and he forced himself to pay attention. After his escape earlier, he highly doubted she would tolerate more slacking off.

"Chris…" she sighed, obviously unsure of how to proceed. At length, she began with, "High school is a very important time in a person's life." That was true enough… but he already knew that. "These are the years where you find yourself and decide how and where you want to direct the rest of your life, which path you want to choose." Out of her mouth Chris could practically visualize the clichés pouring past her lips. What was she babbling about?

Injecting as much boredom in his tone as he could, Chris raised an eyebrow and questioned, "And your point is…?"

Still infuriatingly patient, Marcy bluntly stated, "If you skip classes and don't ever try to do well, you will—"

What Chris would do he would never find out because his sudden burst of anger interrupted her lecture. "I wasn't skipping class!" he cried indignantly. "I just… lost track of time!"

This time it was Marcy's turn to raise an eyebrow. Instead of retorting immediately, she waited a breath as if trying to control her own emotions. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she was finally able to hide the skepticism as she inquired, "Didn't you notice when all the other students finished lunch and went to their next periods?" Again hesitating, as if uncertain of what she could say to press into Chris the importance of this issue, she brushed her hands along her thighs while she thought. "You may not have known the time," she said, voice cautious and slow, "but surely you would have realized that no one else was in the cafeteria."

"I didn't," Chris stated flatly, unwilling to elaborate.

This time Marcy couldn't conceal her exasperation. Did he have to act purposely difficult? On her desk she clasped both hands together and leaned forward, eyes hard with suspicion. "Well, where were you then?"

In stony silence Chris refused to speak, but apparently that wasn't one of his brighter ideas.

Releasing her hands from their grip, Ms. Gowell splayed them palms-down across the desk. Eyes narrowed, she had to physically refrain from shoving her chair back so that she could tower over her student. (Even like that she wasn't much taller than he, but it felt more reassuring to her if she could stand and glare.) Remaining in her seat, though at the very edge of the chair, she sharply demanded, "Did you leave school grounds?" Since he did not want to dig himself deeper in his lie – didn't know what to say even if he wanted to – he said nothing. With a groan, Ms. Gowell cried, "Chris, you're throwing your life away! I want to help you. Really, I do—but to do that I need your help."

Her pleading set something off in Chris, and he scowled plainly. Who was she to interfere in his life? "To help me you need my help," he repeated, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "If I could help you to help me, don't you think I'd be able to help myself?" Just to make his statement more confusing, he added, "Without your help?" Averting his gaze, he glared at his shoes and snapped, "Besides, I don't need help."

This time, hissing in frustration, Marcy did stand, sidestepping her desk so that she could stand a few feet in front of her student with no obstruction to block her. "Really, Chris, open your eyes. You're not a child anymore; you can't just ditch class and expect it not to affect you." Leaning her weight against her desk, she crossed her arms and stated, "Life doesn't work that way."

Exasperation building, Chris clenched his fists even tighter, hiding them deep within his pockets. It was all he could do to keep from pacing away from his infuriating teacher, and he could guess where that would get him: another invitation to Study Hall. Somehow, that did not seem like the greatest incentive. With power over his fate like this, he was not prepared to mouth off. Much. "Yeah, whatever," he retorted instead, coupling it with a sarcastic roll of his emerald eyes, "was that all you wanted to do—tell me how screwed up my life is?"

"Chris…"

"Because if so," he continued over her voice, pretending she had not spoken, "I think I'll go to my next class now. Wouldn't want Mrs. Williams to think I'm ditching or anything, would I?" Glaring at his teacher's hands, which were clasped together again, he gave a nearly indiscernible sneer. Before she opened her mouth, he crossed the room, hand reaching out to grasp the doorknob. He paused only for a breath to listen for what she might say next.

Knowing she would get nothing more out of the uncooperative teen, Marcy returned to her chair and offered a resigned nod. "I expect to see you in class on time tomorrow," she said by way of dismissal.

"Duh," he snorted, throwing open the classroom door and vanishing through it.

As Marcy stood to close the classroom door, she heaved a fatigued sigh. Well, she thought when she realized Chris had left before giving her the time to write him a late pass for his next teacher. That went well…

Never forget, my dears, reviews are flecks of gold spilling from a Leprechaun's pot. Everybody wants to reach the end of that rainbow; help me get there, too. Please review.

Replies to anonymous reviews:

shivs - That is one of the greatest compliments I could receive for this story in various ways. Psychology is perhaps a passion of mine - definitely an interest at the very least. I find human nature absolutely fascinating and love to incorporate it into my works. That you mentioned it specifically (as well as the family dynamics, the piece in particular that I am working to perfect in this story) thrilled me. Also, I am glad you are finding yourself able to understand from this something that you have never experienced in your life. After all, that is the job of every author, right? I hope to be achieving this.

bahzad - No worries, there will be plenty of magic and magical scenes in the future. No matter the situation, I will also always have a bit of comic relief in the form of someone's sense of humor, whether it be Chris's, Wyatt's, Dwight's, or any other character for that matter. I have a variety of forms: sarcasm, dry humor, black humor, and your everyday stupid decision-making. I hope to employ every one of them. Makes for an interesting story, right? Mm, I am glad you like this story of ADE because I very much do as well. This one is my baby whereas ADE was more of... a distant cousin whom you cannot wait to see off.

crystal - Yes! My Chris reminds you of Charmed's Chris? Such a statement - there is no higher compliment to be paid in a fanfic story. Hm, I love your take on the quote at the beginning of the previous chapter. My thoughts were more with Ms. Gowell, the poor woman, and the fact that the students do not seem to possess even an inkling of a desire to learn history. I absolutely adored your take, however, about Chris and how he does not want the Elders to assign him a charge - until the Elder presented information in a way interesting to him that would make him open to the idea (unlike Ms. Gowell's way of presenting). Love the thought!

artsfan - I know I have yet to respond. To be honest I completely forgot! I will get started on that as soon as I post this chapter. Please forgive me for not getting back to you sooner, my dear. That was pretty awful of me.