Ah! how I desire to tell you all that, the very next morning, Sergeant Grayson woke up to the sound of a light September rainfall beating a meditative pattern on his bedchamber window. How I wish that he had arisen out of bed that morning with a strong conviction in his heart, a desire for forgiveness, and that he had thrown himself across the room to where his Bible rested on the fireplace mantel, flipping through the thin pages, even tearing a few in his haste, to search for a guidance not found amongst mere Men. However, dear reader, Richard Grayson was, and always had been, entirely mortal and had never had a particular inclination towards religion. There was no Holy Bible on the mantelpiece for him to throw himself towards in a fit of religious passion, only a half-empty glass of water from the night before. There had been no spiritual revelations upon awakening for the sergeant, either. Instead, as he had done every Monday morning for the past decade or more of his life, Richard Grayson simply shrugged off the heavy woven cotton coverlet and slid his feet into his sheepskin slippers, before continuing with the rest of his morning routine. There was the breakfast as prepared by Mrs. O'Doyle, the morning paper as bought from a sniveling child a block or so from Old City Hall, and the comforting presence of mountains of paperwork. It would seem that Richard Grayson was intent on pushing the events of the previous afternoon from his mind. He would not focus on his dismissal of Victor Stone. He would not focus on the fact that Stella had refused to say a single word to him, even as he walked her home. Instead, he would focus on any orders from his superiors, what he was due to have for luncheon that day, and any chances at rifling through the city's records in hunt of the ever-elusive Slade. Perhaps Richard may be seen, in the reader's eyes, as uncouth and unfeeling. To that, I only shake my head and say that, like the rest of us, from Victor Stone to you, reader, Sergeant Richard Grayson is only human.

oOo

As for Victor Stone, he retreated to his lodgings near Chinatown in an angry haze. The good Mr. Stone was never one to let his temper get the best of him. It hadn't been appropriate and, in his opinion, such extremes of emotion were not appropriate now. He untied the unravelling laces of his boots, removed his woolen coat and felt hat, and sat down on his cot in his shirtsleeves, grateful that the family he boarded with was spending the Sunday night visiting friends nearby. It was then that Victor allowed himself to ruminate. The man hardly ever allowed himself a moment of self-contemplation, not out of lack of time, for the nature of his menial job left him with plenty of that, but due to his preference to always keep his hands busy. Up until very recently, small whittling and wood-carving projects had been his distraction of choice.

Victor looked at the small space around his cot, the one corner in the family's two-bedroom flat that hadn't been claimed when he moved in: the clothes-chest was organized neatly - closed, for once - but there were piles of books and little scraps of projects that Victor often found himself returning to in order to keep his hands busy. The latest one, which he picked up, was a rudimentary experiment in electricity he had read in a common-school textbook. Victor took the piece of sealing wax and rubbed it with a bit of flannel from nearby, before running it about an inch off of the floor, taking an almost childlike-level of delight at seeing a few little scraps of paper and a couple of feathers from his mattress adhere to the sealing wax. It was such a simple experiment meant to demonstrate the physical sciences and yet, at the same time, Victor also felt an immense pride in himself.

He had come a long way from that overconfident young army recruit ten years ago, full of bravado upon joining the 25th Infantry that was soon sent out West. At the time, Victor had been eager for any sort of escape from the South; there wasn't much left for him in his hometown. He had been born to a former Louisiana slave not seven months after General Lee's surrender at the Battle of Appomattox Court House. Of course, there were very few opportunities for a young man of his situation, besides that of enlisting in the Army. And enlist in the army Victor Stone did. There, he had finally found a few brothers-in-arms. He no longer felt like a stranger in his own hometown. And yet, a couple of stray bullets meant for bandits put an end to that. Now, here Victor was, nearing thirty years of age, living with a family not his own in a dirty San Francisco neighborhood, working as a night-coach for some doctor. As much as Victor would have liked to ignore Richard Grayson's insults from the day before, he knew that all the sergeant had done was vocalize some of Victor's own fears. Often, Victor felt as if he was the unwanted one, the unappreciated one, in whatever little group had been assembled. Oh, Garfield would certainly say otherwise, and Victor knew that Rachel, at least, held some sort of amicable sentiment towards him. After all, it had been she who had given him the arithmetic and electricity-magnetism books. The latter was still very much above Victor's level of comprehension, yet the arithmetic book had inspired him to scour a couple of San Francisco's used bookshops in search for a trivial physics book. Victor had found one: First Lessons in Physics, or at least, the first volume, by Hotze. It had only cost him thirty cents, besides.

In the week since then, Victor had begun devoting himself whole-heartedly to the study of the mathematical and physical sciences. Sure, he was still stuck on sums and static electricity, but he could work his way up to something greater. Eventually, Victor told himself, he would be able to comprehend that book on electricity and magnetism. He'd find some way to be seen as more than an uneducated fool. He'd prove himself to the men like Richard Grayson, dismissive and insensitive. By promising to devote himself further to his studies, in order to rise above the expectations of others, Victor fought against the urge to flee his hometown once more. After all, on a coachman's salary, it wasn't as if he could afford a train ticket away from this place.

Thus, much like Richard immersed himself in the documents and records at Old City Hall, hoping for something both tangible and immaterial, Victor Stone surrounded himself in schoolbooks and little projects made out of magnet and string. Neither man made much effort to reach out to those around them during that time for, whether for better or for worse, they chose to focus on their own pursuits. Perhaps they would yet come to regret those decisions. We have yet to see, I'm afraid.

oOo

According to the "Morning Call," San Francisco was due for yet another day of fair weather, "Minister Stevens went just a trifle too far," and, apparently, Hawaii was just waiting for the United States to annex it.

"Fair weather, yeah, sure," Garfield muttered to himself as he thumbed through the paper, before he tore off a couple of the pages (the middle pages, which held nothing worthwhile) and stuffed them into his too-wide boots. He'd been waiting at the docks outside of an employment office since four that morning and the sea air had long since caused the damp to settle into his shoes, his coat, and his very being. It was mid-February, after all; the mornings still chilled one to the bone and stung one's cheeks. Perhaps the newsprint would help to insulate his feet, for the damp leather and threadbare socks, in tandem, were causing an awful lot of chafing.

Just as Garfield finally began inching his way closer to the employment office – there had to be about forty others there with him and they had all formed some sort of a line to wait by the door – a harried clerk, tie slightly undone and shirt smudged with ink, came out to tell them all that there were no more positions available. He was "so very sorry," he said, but there had been only three positions and over seventy people interviewed that day.

Silence reigned for a few moments as those present processed this news.

"What a load of-" one of the men outside shouted, his sun-beaten and pockmarked face creasing with anger, before he was interrupted by the clerk.

"Perhaps, you might find more success at another employment office?" the clerk said, wiping the sweat off of his brow and unintentionally transferring ink onto his forehead. "Or, perhaps you'd like to come back tomorrow?"

The man scoffed, saying, "I'll do that; so that I can give you a punch on the nose!"

Sighing, the clerk moved to return to the office, muttering something about a "couple o' unemployed lunkheads". Had he dawdled an additional half-second, he would have received a rock to the temple, courtesy of that pockmarked man.

Half of the men outside of the employment offices left very quickly after that while the other half swarmed the now-shut door, trying to get their good names out there. After all, they had been waiting there for hours only to be rejected once again.

Garfield slipped away, unwilling to get caught up in any sort of commotion. "It's hopeless," he said, morosely to himself, as he left the docks and moved inland. His feet had had enough of the cold that morning. "What's a fella gotta do for a dime?"

Since it was a Saturday morning, most people were still cooped up in their offices and factories, eagerly awaiting their half-day off. However, Garfield was one of the unlucky ones, found wandering the streets and entering into saloons and hash-houses indiscriminately for want of something to do.

Garfield walked up Market, hands shoved deep into his coat's pockets and collar turned up high. This was done partially to keep out the cold (although the weather was growing milder by the hour) but also partially out of shame. Not that it would have done any good, mind you, for even the lowliest shopkeepers soon recognized this young man walking up Market Street dejectedly, much like he had done almost every week-day morning for the past few months. They recognized his threadbare coat and the flapping soles of his too-large boots. Indeed, rain or shine, this hunt for employment seemed to have been routine to our Garfield Logan.

He hadn't had a job since November. Well, there was that saloon over on Geary, but they'd given him the boot after he showed up two minutes late one morning, and he'd only been there three days. So, that didn't really count. None of the other restaurants or coffee saloons within the lower part of the city were hiring and he had no desire to venture near Chinatown. That was where Victor lived and Garfield had not heard from him in months – not since that day at Sergeant Grayson's house. Garfield shuddered when he even so much as thought about Richard; serves him right for ever trusting a cop.

At first, Garfield had supposed that Victor wanted him to give him space; perhaps, that is the reason why Victor made no effort to contact him. However, as the months stretched on, he grew ashamed. Perhaps Victor was finally working to make a name for himself. After all, Garfield knew that Victor had held his position as that doctor's coachman for a while and that he was incredibly intelligent. On the other hand, he reflected, he, Garfield Logan, was a worthless nobody who couldn't even work as a dishwasher for more than a few weeks at a time. As outgoing and gregarious as he might be while in the company of others, Garfield also keenly felt an aching loneliness in his own life. He lived at a flophouse, one of dozens of anonymous working-men all sprawled out on a grimy dirt floor. He worked the lowest positions available, never addressed by any more than a "hey, you!" His company in the night wasn't all that discerning, either. For two bits, and if he remembered to give his name, he could spend an hour play-acting a romantic charade.

Now, he couldn't even afford to visit Mrs. Edgar's bordello and it had been even longer since he had last seen any friend of his. To put it mildly, Garfield was incredibly lonely, and it seemed like this Saturday wouldn't turn out any better.

By five o'clock in the afternoon, Garfield had paced up and down Market Street twice, taking his time as he occasionally entered into various cafés, saloons, and shops. He never bought anything, though, and had been told to leave once it had become clear that he had no intention of opening his wallet. Still, the gnawing in his stomach grew all the more incessant until, finally, he entered the Alameda Exchange right by the ferry building, all too close to where he'd been earlier that day, placed down a nickel, and took advantage of the saloon's curious institution of a "free lunch."

Thus, as Rudyard Kipling once described the free-lunch fiends of San Francisco, Garfield gorged himself on cornichons, the best oyster soup he'd ever had, bread and butter, cobbler, sliced tongue – it was a veritable poor-man's feast, costing only five cents, that was only cut short when the bouncer threatened to throw him out by his ear.

"All right, I'm leaving," Garfield said, abandoning a half-eaten roll (which he quickly doubled back for and stuffed into his coat-pocket). He grinned easily at the bouncer, content now that his stomach was full, for food can really put a man of the poorest circumstances in good spirits, "but I'll be back tomorrow!"

As he stepped back out onto the street, however, Garfield came to the realization that this probably wasn't true. He was never particularly good at sums, but he could guess that it wouldn't be long until his savings ran out. Sure, his savings-account was currently a stocking full of nickels and dimes in a locker at the flophouse, but at least he had had some money in there from the time before he lost his job back in November. To put it simply, he shouldn't have had a saloon lunch today - a penny roll and coffee would've been a better choice – since he'd spent a whole nickel on the morning's paper. Add to that the seven cents for his spot at the flophouse; there was no way Garfield could afford to live off of seventeen cents a day. Sure, he could try sleeping on the streets, but that would definitely make his cold even worse.

As if remembering his illness, Garfield sneezed. Loudly.

"Gesundheit," some old lady across the street called out.

"Thanks, ma'am!" Garfield replied, talking off his cap.

A few moments later, he found himself sifting through the contents of his trouser pockets: a bit of string and a couple of pennies.

"Hey, now!" Garfield said, pulling the coins out of his pocket to count them. What he had thought to only be a couple of pennies was actually two nickels and a penny. "Ten cents!"

Ten cents could buy him some more beer – although, beer might not be the right medicine for his cold, and he couldn't afford any whiskey – or it could buy him a seat at the theater. Eagerly, Garfield pocketed his money once more and reached into his jacket to pull out the remains of that morning's newspaper. He flipped through whatever pages were left until he found the "Amusements" section.

He'd missed the matinee for Our Boarding House! and Cavalleria Rusticana definitely wasn't in English. There was always A Trip to Chinatown playing at the California Theater, but Garfield had no desire to see that show for the third time. Twice was plenty. That left The Queen's Lace Handkerchief, which was playing at the Wigwam Theater. It was described as an opera in the paper, and Garfield wasn't really the opera-going type, but with the cheapest tickets only a dime, he figured he had nothing better to see.

Idly, he noticed that there was a Mechanic's Exhibit due to close that day. That seemed the type of thing that Victor really would've enjoyed.

Garfield pushed away this thought. Who cared what Victor was up to? It wasn't as if Garfield was a part of that.

To take his mind off of any though of Victor, Garfield thus made his way to the Wigwam Theater, imagining what an opera about a lacy piece of fabric could've possibly been about. Now, the corner of Geary and Stockton Streets wasn't very far from where Garfield had been loafing around all day, but he never quite made it there. Instead, along the way, he found himself distracted by a little vaudeville theater he hadn't ever seen.

"West Irving Theater," the marquee read. Below it, a clapboard sign advertised "Dozens of Bohemian Beauties" with a crude painting of what seemed to be a scantily-clad young woman beside the text.

In Garfield's mind, all thoughts of the Queen and her lace handkerchief vanished instantaneously, only to be replaced by these so-called "Bohemian Beauties." He practically raced past the box office, throwing his two nickels at the theater attendant along the way, in order to find a half-decent seat.

Garfield took a seat just as a freckle-faced brunette finished a decent – if not a bit pitchy – rendition of "Where Did You Get That Hat?" The singer's frizzled curls, which hung limply along either side of her face but flapped spectacularly as she sang and bobbed her head, reminded Garfield of a cocker spaniel. He tried hard not to laugh but instead ended up snorting loudly.

"Hey, watch it!" the man next to him hissed, elbowing him in the side.

"'m sorry," Garfield mumbled.

However, all audience antagonism was then forgotten as the singer then introduced the following act: The Bohemian Beauties. As one might predict, the theater, which was populated by men with too much time on their hands, fell utterly silent.

Naturally, Garfield sneezed.

The strains of a delightful little melody – that of Ziehrer's "Blumen-Polka" from the previous decade – soon filled the theater as the girls, all clad in scandalously-short versions of the Bohemian national costume, danced across the stage. The orchestra first played the polka all the way through, the girls twirling and stomping across the stage, weaving together the long floral garland that they held. While the audience had first been struck dumb by the girls' arrival onstage, some men soon broke the silence by whistling loudly. A couple of coquettish girls on stage lifted the hems of their heavy wool skirts in response as they stamped once, twice, thrice, showing off a bit more of their clocked silk stockings.

Just when it seemed that the dance was coming to an end, the orchestra began to play Ziehrer's polka once more. This second time around, the girls on stage gathered in a circular formation, their heeled boots clicking and tapping along to the music as they sang Ziehrer's original German lyrics. Few in the audience could understand this language, so the polka was played for a third time, the girls dancing in a whirl of petticoats still as they then sang the lyrics' English translation.

"Lisette, that sweet pet, just seventeen-"

Garfield, like every other audience-member, simply sat and gaped at the spectacle on stage. Had he known more about Bohemian traditional dances, he surely would've been horrified by all the inaccuracies. The dance barely resembled a Bohemian – or, even, an American! – polka and instead served to showcase the beauty of the dancers' bodies. Such is American entertainment, one might suppose.

Ziehrer's polka repeated once last time, this one of a faster tempo without any singing. Soon, the center of stage was filled with a circle of heavy red wool skirts twirling around, large white sleeves in the current style, braids whipping through the air, and perhaps even a glimpse of a rouged knee or a lace garter. The Bohemian Beauties were no longer distinguishable from one another and neither Garfield nor any other man in the audience knew where to look. All they could do was listen to the music and bask in the girls' loveliness.

One by one, as the polka neared its end, the girls spun out from the center of the stage to face the audience. Each one looked like a lovely porcelain doll, her tight bodice heaving from the past ten minutes of dancing. One girl remained in the center of the stage. It was she who caught Garfield's eye above the rest - a slight young thing, with blonde hair caught between shades of gold and platinum, her smile painted on but the joy in her eyes genuine. She seemed to be the best dancer of them all, as she pirouetted several times without faltering, before landing in a graceful curtsey. Garfield could not tear his gaze away from her.

Once, twice, the Bohemian Beauties stomped their feet. The music came to a close. Garfield moved towards the edge of his seat, as if willing the girl whom he had noticed not to leave. By fortune, she remained onstage.

The blonde walked to the center-front of the stage, so close that the front row of the audience could see where her greasepaint ended and her décolletage began. There were more than a couple of wolf-whistles from the crowd.

"Hello. Thank you for watching my sisters and me perform a dance from our homeland," the girl said, ignoring those vying for her attention. Her voice was clear and lightly accented. "We often miss Bohemia, although we find that America suits us very nicely. There certainly is no shortage of American gentlemen willing to help us if need be. I, myself, find them very-" here, she winked, "-companionable."

She smiled amidst the hoots and calls from the audience.

"I'll say!" one foolish man cried.

"Now," the girl said, "I will perform a song all by my lonesome before I must go off and join my sisters once more. Perhaps, though, after this song, I won't be by my lonesome anymore."

She winked again and seemingly looked straight at Garfield. Had our good Mr. Logan had been any weaker in constitution, he surely would have swooned.

With a soft voice that was somehow projected all throughout the theater, the girl began to sing.

Garfield sat stock-still, as if he had been struck by lightning. This singer had entranced him with her British music-hall song with which he was unfamiliar. The sight of her stocking-clad calves peeking out from her skirt might've also helped a bit in that regard.

The chorus soon began: "The boy I love is up in the gallery. The boy I love is looking now at me."

While Garfield wanted to keep his eyes on the singer, he felt them watering in a tell-tale sign that he was going to sneeze again.

"There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief-"

The last line of the chorus was drowned out by the earth-quaking sound of Garfield's sneeze. At least he had had the foresight sneeze into that old rag he carried around and not into the hat of the person sitting in front of him.

"'m sorry," Garfield mumbled once again, although he saw that the singer on stage had noticed him and seemed to be giving him a slight smile. She looked at his handkerchief just as she began to sing the chorus anew.

"The boy I love is up in the gallery. The boy I love is looking now at me. There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief as merry as a robin that sings on a tree."

In an almost comical fashion, Garfield looked to the handkerchief he held in his hand, before looking back at the girl onstage. He nearly felt himself swoon again; what if he was the boy up in the gallery? It was a foolish idea, of course, and half of the other men beside him must've been thinking the exact same thing. Still, Garfield was so caught up in this reverie of his that he almost missed that the song had ended. The blonde ran lightly off the stage and the next act was introduced.

"Say," Garfield said, turning to the man to his left. "Did they say who that girl was?"

The man shrugged brusquely. "No. Now shut up!"

Garfield complied, although, to his relief, the man introducing the next act soon answered his question. That saved him the trouble (and embarrassment) of having to ask a stagehand later.

"Thank you to the lovely Tereza Marková," the portly man – the theater director – said. "She and her fellow Bohemian Beauties will perform here at the West Irving Theater for the next two months, so we hope to see you all very soon!"

The rest of the show wasn't memorable in the very least to Garfield, for the name "Tereza Marková" kept rattling around in his mind. He had to see that girl again. She probably wasn't even looking at him during the song. Or, if she had been, it was only because he had sneezed so loudly. Yeah, that was it. Still, she had been looking at him and Garfield wanted her to look at him again. He'd gladly pay ten cents a night, forgoing supper or even a decent dinner, just to see Miss Marková again.

oOo

Garfield Logan was not the only member of the Titansto grace Market Street that February day, for Stella had convinced Rachel to join her for a leisurely afternoon of shopping and idle chatter. Rachel had somehow agreed, even going as far as to request a half-day off from work.

"Well, is this not the most glorious hat you have ever seen on me?" Stella said, as she couldn't help but admire herself in one of the many mirrors in Sanborn's millinery.

Rachel nodded. The burgundy ribbons of the hat matched well with the similarly-colored silk of Stella's walking dress.

"We've visited three milliners already," she remarked, dryly, "and you've tried on countless hats. I am sure, by mathematical reasoning, that one of them must match your dress."

Stella remained unperturbed by Rachel's sarcasm, instead adjusting the angle of the hat and taking a step back from the mirror. After a couple of moments, she hmm-ed softly, her brow creasing, and took off the hat. The feathers bobbed comically as she handed it back to a neatly-dressed shop-girl.

"Thank you," she said to the girl, "but I think that I already own plenty of hats for this upcoming spring season. Perhaps I will return later this year to purchase something for my honeymoon."

The shop-girl nodded and replaced the hat on its stand before taking her leave of the two customers.

Rachel took this as her cue to stand from the pink brocaded stool and she and Stella soon left the milliner's together.

"Are you so intent on building your own trousseau so close to when the wedding will take place?" Rachel asked once the two women began walking down Market Street once more. "I thought that it was standard practice for any member of our sex to begin preparations for her upcoming marriage as soon as she could, even before any engagement was suggested."

Stella shrugged, adjusting her white kid gloves. "I am unsure of the American practice," she said, "but while I find myself eager to be married to Richard, I am quite apprehensive at the same time."

She fell silent until Rachel prompted her to explicate with a pointed look.

At length, Stella said, "This is not the first time that I have been engaged, you see. Oh, it was several years ago, when I was not even sixteen years of age, that my father arranged for me to marry a wealthy business associate of his, Mr. Greskiewicz. I was far too young for an engagement, but I endured for the sake of my parents' happiness. I spent months on needlework, making anything from babies' caps to bedspreads, in preparation for my marriage to Mr. Greskiewicz. Just before the wedding, however, Mr. Greskiewicz broke the engagement and married my sister instead. It is all for the better, truly, as he was an odious man, but I still worry that, perhaps, Richard might leave me in a similar way."

Rachel thought this over for a minute before she responded. "I am no expert in matters of the heart, Stella," she said, "but you have chosen to enter into a marriage with Sergeant Grayson out of romantic feelings of your own. This is not an engagement arranged by your parents; it is a mutual agreement between a man and a woman who care deeply for one another. We cannot predict the future, so neither of us can know for certain if your marriage to the Sergeant will be full of happiness or not. Instead, all that we can do is put our hope into God's plan for us."

Stella regarded Rachel curiously, eventually saying, "Those are wise words, friend, for someone without any romantic attachments. You truly have never called any man your sweetheart?"

"What? No!" Rachel said, stopping where she stood. She cleared her throat and began walking once more. "No, Stella, I have not. Sometimes I think that marriage is an outdated convention started by the cavemen and encouraged by the florists and jewelers. I know God has set marriage as the spiritual union between a man and a woman, but do not think He ever intended for all this nonsense of trousseaus and cakes and honeymoons!"

"Very well," Stella said, although she sounded skeptical. "So, there is no one for – what is that English phrase? - whom you carry the torch?"

Rachel had barely heard Stella's question, for she was distracted by what seemed to be the familiar figure of Garfield Logan on the other side of Market Street. She blushed slightly at her folly.

"No," she said, a pale pink flush still gracing her features, "I can't say I ever have."

Stella merely arched an eyebrow in response before suggesting that the two of them enjoy a late luncheon or early supper at the Vienna Model Bakery, to which Rachel agreed wholeheartedly under the condition that they stop by the bookshop at 631 Market on their way there.

"Of course!" Stella said, before the two women resumed their promenade. There was very little talk pertaining to romantic matters for the rest of the afternoon.