AN: Oh, how time flies between Christmases! I wish you the absolute best, dear readers. Happy New Year!

Revelations
By Isis cw
Chapter 72

"Afternoon, Master Winner."

"Good morning, Lady Catalonia," his cheery voice returned. "I have an odd question."

"Do tell." Setting her drink aside, she listened with piqued curiosity.

"Is Marquis Wayridge starting a book club?"

Ah. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I just received a copy of Great Expectations from him, and a note that simply says, 'I believe you may enjoy this.'"

"How droll," she muttered to herself.

"I've read this before. Although it's not one of my favorites," he confessed. "It feels silly, but how much should I read into him giving me a book?"

Dorothy smiled to herself and leaned back in the deck chair, taking in the especially crisp lakeside air. "Read this copy of it," she said quietly. "The Marquis has a knack for noting his personal reflections in the margins. I daresay it will make a treasured keepsake."

The slight pause from the other end convinced her he understood. "Well then, I'll give it another try. So, does he give books often?"

"No. I think this is a short-lived development."

Again there was a pause and the sound of a quick breath. "Is there something I should do in return?"

"He has a fondness for letters these days. I wrote out a nice report on what I enjoyed about the book he gave me. We've been corresponding a bit."

"So you received a copy too?"

"No. I got a copy of Emma, by Jane Austen."

"I'm not familiar with that one."

"It's been… insightful. Rather a good change to my literary collection. I've asked him to recommend me a classical reading list."

"Dorothy and classical literature. I'll have to commend the Marquis on his miracle working."

Rolling her eyes, she got up and went back inside, trailing the fuzzy throw that was tightly wrapped around her. "Oh, shut up."

There was a happy chuckle anyway. "Are your polls closed yet?"

"Almost. Have you seen the results so far?" Stepping into her office she gave Deimos a pet behind the ears and then scooted him off her laptop.

"I just pulled them up. I don't think Miss Relena will be going anywhere."

"As though we were worried," she scoffed at the idea. "More importantly several other key seats appear to be staying the same as well."

"There are a lot of votes left."

"I suppose." She waved it off and decided it would be nearly over by the time she woke up tomorrow. "So, what does your day look like?"

"Pretty usual. I do have a finalizing meeting for the annual company party. I don't suppose you'd like to put in an appearance again this year, would you?"

She snickered at the casual Invitation. Once upon a time it had taken him an extreme amount of courage to offer her a party invite. She sort of missed that. "I don't know. I don't have a thing to wear," she stalled.

"Just please be more casual than last year. I still hear comments. And no, you can not dress me this time either."

"If you wear a jacket I'll stand you up," she warned.

"No jacket, no tie, no vest, but all of my buttons stay where they're supposed to be," he distinctly laid out the rules of compromise.

"If you take all of the fun out of this I don't think I want to go."

"The caterer is doing a chocolate platter," he cajoled with a cheery little sing-song.

She hummed her consideration for a moment. "Not quite enough. What else?"

"My secretaries are dying for you to come back."

The fun little collection was a pretty good enticement. "I can talk to them any time."

She heard him sigh as he continued to think. "Oh yes. It will be the last chance you'll have to see director Sheel and wish him well with his future endeavors."

"What? You're finally going to get rid of him?" She was shocked, and awed.

"I can not 'get rid' of a board director. Their placement isn't up to me," he stated as though he'd said it a hundred times. "But his term is up. One last joint meeting in January, and he is not eligible to sit ever again."

"Well, congratulations, darling."

"Thank you. But wouldn't you like to tell him that personally?"

"There are a few things I'd like to tell him personally," she mused.

"Forget I said that," he quickly retracted the offer. "He has a lot of friends in my shareholders, and I don't need issues now."

"Oh? And why is now so important?"

There was a pause as he realized she'd caught something he didn't mean for her to. "Because…"

"Because…?"

"Because… we found an engine design for the station that might work."

He very specifically emphasized the 'might' but she didn't care. "Masterful," she purred. "When will it be ready?"

"No!" he cried in desperate warning. "No getting ahead of ourselves. If we can get our hands on the setup, it will still take a significant amount of time to get outfitted. And if that actually works, we will still need Congressional clearance to move it, and a completely new operating permit to perform commerce around Mars. The few people I have trusted here with this idea believe our first action should be to create a separate legal entity for any and all Martian operations, and I think they're right. If this goes poorly, I don't want to bankrupt the whole company."

Yes, he had a point. This plan was brilliant, but dangerous, as all good plans were. Some added insurance would be needed. "Sounds as though you need some legal counsel from someone knowledgeable in the government's stance on Mars."

There was a confused pause from the other end of the line. "I didn't think you wanted a job."

Dorothy smiled to herself and began pulling up the terraforming documentation. "A woman has to keep busy or else she'll get herself into trouble."

"Of course," he conceded. "So, about the party…?"

"Yes, yes, I'll accompany you. I love Christmas parties."

"Employee appreciation," he corrected uselessly.

This was their new normal.

Quatre called her each day some time during his morning routine, and she would patiently expect it by late afternoon as she lazed about the house and surveyed the winter changes to the valley around her. It was a comfortable arrangement that they had fallen into without any conscious effort.

Most days she had no idea what they talked about by the time they hung up. It was odd and yet perfectly natural at the same time.

Saving a fresh copy of the terraforming charter, she began a running list of noteworthy portions that would be needed for any business wanting to migrate there. It wasn't the first time she had pursued the subject, but now it seemed she would indeed get the chance to show it. Luckily, there wasn't much in it, as this sort of thing hadn't really been a consideration during the planning phase. The only entities allowed on Mars now were those who won the sealed bid right to research and geovent drilling.

You had to love such short-sighted loopholes.

And if the government wanted to maintain its hold by a contracted-only workforce, Winner Mining could pursue this as a contractor to begin with. Knowing the trouble of shipping materials a distance like this, she could also add a number of other valid arguments for why it would be a serious cost benefit. The actual document didn't say anything about not allowing private enterprise operations in their contractors either. So, this station, and its chosen workforce, could be in just the right place for anything.

Now if it would just hurry up and get there.

With a sigh, she rubbed her eyes. This was the long game and patience would never be her strong suit. No matter how much she disapproved, some things did stubbornly remain out of her control.

Seeing it was after midnight, Dorothy took one last look at the poll results, keeping a mindful eye on the pro-Mars and trade bill candidates, and then closed her computer. Covering a yawn, she stretched and stood up.

Turning towards the door, she paused to admire the twin bookcases that flanked it. On the top shelf of the left case stood a lone book with its cover facing out. Emma looked back at her from its high place of honor. Softly she reached up to run her fingers lightly along the front, feeling the embossed lettering and the raised embellishments. She touched it as one might caress the hand of a dying loved one. And to her mind, she supposed that was what she was doing.

She wasn't sure if she would be privy to seeing the Marquise again face to face. His decline would likely be... undocumented.

For a moment she wondered if Miss Relena would have the chance to see him still. She hadn't felt compelled to tell anyone else of what she knew. That seemed impolite. And Wayridge had all of his wiles about him still. He would call the diplomat to himself if he wished.

But here, his book rested on display and gazed back at her.

Although at the time, the gift had seemed so entirely random, it was not. Wayridge had planned that out for some time. The patriarch did indeed make reflections in the margins of the book he gave her. But they were no simple musings on the literature contained therein.

It had taken her several notes to begin to see an odd pattern he had left. But cleverly disguised in plain sight, he had penciled in his instructions on what to do within Oracle once he was gone. It was so genius it couldn't be done by anyone but Wayridge. So genius, in fact, that there were still a few scribblings that she had not fully deciphered the meaning of yet.

But also true to form, there were other notes he'd entered purely to spur her about her personal life pursuits. The very fact that he'd chosen a book featuring a protagonist hell-bent on running everyone else's life but her own was proof enough of that. The story had irked her once she realized that Emma was the fictious embodiment of how he saw her.

Still, it did make a resounding impression in her. As Wayridge said, this was literature intended to teach her how to feel. And so, the meddling old man had done his best.

Dorothy had told Quatre the truth when she said that it was a good change to her collection. Eyeing the twin cases, she should have added that it had replaced her collection. Before, the rest of the shelves had held a seemingly random assortment of inconsequential titles that she had picked up from spaceport and train station displays. Now they stood largely empty, sporting only a few quick reference books, mostly annotated for the Mars project in one way or another.

She had never thought of curating a library before, but now, she supposed she saw some value in it. So, the cheap, useless fiction had gone into the recycle bin one afternoon, and she was awaiting the promised list of Wayridge's favorites that she could begin to weed through.

Stepping over to the right side of the door, she examined the twin case. This one was completely devoid of books but had been assigned a different purpose. Set on the various shelfs were the pictorial family tree that she had originally put together for the display case in the music room of the chateau. If Mrs. Winner had taught her anything, it was to invest a little time in immortalizing memories in case someone else needed them later on.

Set in the middle was the wedding portrait of her parents. Though in some ways she felt like she had created an awkward shrine to them, the display was slowly growing on her. Somehow she still had trouble meeting her eyes to it all that often. She supposed that it was simply easier to forget than it was to come to terms with their absence.

Fr. Rumser was working with her on that presently. The jolly little priest had become part confessor and part counsellor in that particular area. A few passing comments had led to an honest conversation, and for the first time that she could remember, someone asked if she needed help grieving.

It was such a weird question that she had scoffed at the idea. Grieve? She'd been a child when they both passed. It was so many years ago. Why would she need some sort of help with it now?

But, as she had discovered, grief has no time frame. There was no expiration date, no schedule, and at no time would it be over with. With each new chapter of her life, she would have to deal with their lack of guidance.

Though she had felt completely idiotic, the facts began to pile up in her mind. Death had been a part of her life from very young, but she had not learned to either fear or embrace it, she had dismissed it. Death had come to everyone she'd ever loved. And in each case, it seemed she didn't have the time to realize how that affected her.

Time ticked more slowly now, but hind sight was anything but clear. As these past couple months lengthened out and the seasons changed, Dorothy Catalonia had begun to invest time in her interior castle. At least, that was what Father had called it. And it had become clear that her perceived notions of her parents and grandparents were… not quite accurate.

It seemed memories were notorious for being emotionally skewed.

Through her letter writing campaign with the Marquis, he had begun to write out memories of her family that he had locked away in that mind of his. Many involved her grandfather, considering how often the two worked together, but some involved her parents, Treize, Zechs and others. Some were written with altered names just in case, but it was enlightening to see his side of the things that she had assumed she knew all about.

Perspective was a difficult teacher.

And so, she had begun to try different things, build new skills, entertain different ideas, and study odd perspectives.

She found she didn't enjoy it. But when truth shines on something, you can't un-see it again.

Behind her, Deimos attacked the dangling ball of string attached to his play tower with a small hiss. He paused only a second to watch her turn the light out on him before he crouched and planned another sneak attack on the swinging ball.

"Good hunting," she whispered to the furry assassin and made her way upstairs and got ready for bed. The wind made a series of whistles through the tall pines around her house, and as she crawled into bed, she watched a few clumps of snow bounce off the glass of her windows.

Snow again. There had been a new dusting each morning for several days now, only to disappear by noon. It wasn't enough to count for much except a reminder that its fluffier, denser cousin was on the way.

She watched with drowsy interest the few clumps that she could see through the dark windows. These may amount to something if they added up.

A soft tinkling sound told her that Deimos had vanquished his imaginary enemy for the night and was now on the prowl for something else to work his feline instincts out on.

Dorothy braved the chill of the air outside her covers and reached for the remote on her bedside table. Finding the little thing, she clicked the triangle shaped button and pulled her hand back into the warmth. It was a few minutes before she heard the tell-tale sound of Deimos' collar as he found his robotic mouse whirling about downstairs and tore through the house after it.

That had been one of the best purchases she had ever made.

The sound of his collar drifted away and the muffled sound of the wind returned as the only thing she heard. And still she lay, watching the windows. Another few streaks found just enough random light to glow in the darkness outside.

Her mind drifted, caught between excitement over her plans for Mars, and sad curiosity about the book gifted to Quatre. What would he find out? What directives were he given? Did she ask when he was through with it, or leave that up to him? And just what snotty little jabs did Wayridge pencil in about her?

How did that book end anyway? Did Pip ever get the girl?

"They made quite a mess again. I do hope they know what they're doing."

His housekeeper was exactly that, an excellent keeper of the house. The woman had worked for the family for years and had slowly taken over for all of the extra help that had been let go as the large family had slowly disbursed.

But Dorothy had been right, in typical flare, when she commented that all his butler and housekeeper really did was guard the ashes around here. This house was more mausoleum then residence. The groundskeepers were simply here trying to pretty up the graves for those who came to view them.

Although he had felt it for a long while now, he had needed a Catalonia style shove in the right direction to decide to do more about it. Now, Quatre stood in the newly re-named ballroom and nodded thoughtfully at woman's critique. "I'm sure they do. The contractor was the most thorough of anyone who looked at it. The ceiling was going to have to be redone anyway."

He gave her a smile to look reassuring, but the little lady's brown eyes squinted at him dubiously. However, she said nothing before turning on her heel and pacing out the door.

The wiring in the old room was now mostly exposed. A crisscross of channels were opened up to reveal the speaker wires and a series of things that he had no idea what they went to. But the new lighting would add sconces into the pockets left by the old speakers, a central fixture, still on order, and be completely adjustable. The new speaker system would be wireless and nearly invisible.

Of course in order to do all of that there had to be a few sacrifices.

Stepping from the ballroom to the music room, he forlornly surveyed the dust and drywall shavings that littered the floor around the door frame. His piano was shoved all the way to the back of the room and shrouded with a collection of the guestrooms' sheets for safety. The cabinet that house the music system was in pieces in the dumpster in his driveway and the wall adjoining the ballroom was a roadmap of wire channels as well.

It would all be back to normal soon…. Better than normal, he decided. It was worth it.

Walking back through the construction zone, he noted that the wood paneling was being carefully respected, and the floors were under a protective layer of sticky plastic sheeting. The crew was treating this old house as well as could be asked for.

Moving to the main doors to the hallway he considered the opening again. The room did have two entrances, a more elaborate set of wide double doors from the hall and a smaller set of doors from the music room. It made sense that it would have an entrance from the hall, but something about the doors being so close together made it seem odd.

Also, the room was a neat square, but this endcap section of the house was rectangular. Behind the short wall to his left lay a narrow butler's pantry off the dining room that housed extra odds and ends from days of entertaining gone by. During his original thoughts, he had considered removing the panty and opening the room all the way to the back of the house and closing the music room's doorway.

However, there was the ornate flooring and paneling to contend with. There was no way to match this anymore, and the design would then be off centered if they tried to fill in with something else. Quatre had ruined a piece of the tile in the butler's pantry hoping that somehow the flooring did really extend into the next room, but there had been nothing under the tile but cement board.

In the end, it would have required a new floor, and some sort of copy-cat paneling to complete the new extension. But without the floor and paneling, this just wouldn't really be the same room.

And he wanted to keep this.

Turning slowly, his shoes make the plastic crackle, but his eyes drifted the edge of the room, hearing instead the soft notes of some old romantic song. The lights may have been down or off, the windows shaded in thicker curtains. But they were here. His parents had danced in this room, at least in his mind. And he was going to keep them here.

And along with them, the memory of his dance with Dorothy was tattooed on his memory. Perhaps those two things would always live together in his mind from now on, and that was fine with him.

It helped make this place home.

He wondered oddly if other people who moved back into their parents' house had weird thoughts like this. Perhaps family ghosts were the easiest to see again.

Quatre crunched and crinkled his way back out of the room and down the hall. Just having those doors standing open seemed to be such an optimistic change.

"In hotly contested races around the L5 district, centered mainly on the proposal of a new colony fabrication, ballots are still being recounted eight hours after pole closing. Results on three district seats are being withheld pending individual recounts of several polling locations."

Dorothy sipped at her latte and eyed the television in the corner of the coffee shoppe. She had begun a ritual of venturing into town most days for coffee and a pasty to begin her day. Usually by noon.

It was something to do, and lately she had been in constant need of things to fill her time with. Aside from secret messages in antique books and plotting the domination of an unpopulated planet, she required some personal improvement outlets.

All of this interior soul searching had prompted her to try out all sorts of things. Sure, some had included online puzzle games, but many had more real-life flare to them. First off, she had offered her services to the office of a local attorney, mostly to gain some experience, considering her degree to this point was wholly academic. Unfortunately, in this small community, he really only took on a few cases a month, and most of those were either grazing land disputes or estate planning.

But experience was experience, and at least now Dorothy was certain she did not want to open her own practice.

That had been a fleeting thought anyway. She had not chosen this career path in order to be a public servant. It just looked very good on her signature line.

That was how it was. Bragging rights must be upheld at all times. A life neatly quantified.

Glancing around the room, she could almost hear locals laugh at the concept. Here, lives moved differently. There was no bragging, just accomplishments immortalized in yellowed newspaper articles tacked to the large bulletin board by the door. People here remembered you as 'the plumper,' 'the welder,' 'the lady with the front yard garden' or the 'old guy that always holds the door for everyone.'

It was a perspective change.

She supposed that was part of the allure of making this her home to begin with. That, and the fact that it was miles away from anyone who knew her.

So then, here, that would make her the 'girl that never seemed to stay put.'

Another patron stomped in through the doorway, knocking snow off their boots so as to not track it across the tiled floor.

The snow had piled up last night by an inch or so. Just enough to keep the grasses hidden and the popular establishments outlined by tire tracks.

For a few weeks or so, Dorothy had volunteered as a barista in this shoppe, mostly just to learn how to make good coffee herself. It had been an entertaining experience, and had completely befuddled Anna, the owner. The dumbfounded look on her face was more than worth having to purchase new shoes after the steamer blew milk all over her.

All in all, she had gathered a few laughs and more than a few names. It helped to dabble in their world a little. In a place like this, no one turned her down, and Anna had seemed to genuinely enjoy the odd help.

If Marquis Wayridge was teaching her how to feel, these people were teaching her how to think.

Anna had hinted heavily that she should spend more time with people her own age and she had grudgingly decided to see what the local youth group had going on. Currently, the community was renovating a small main street building for events, and for some free labor the all-encompassing youth would have rights to meeting space in it.

She was killing time until the appointed hour when they were to meet for painting. Dorothy had found the invitation to join them odd, and wasn't exactly looking forward to it. She had always had difficulty getting along with those younger than her.

This was a good chance to try to her hand at it again. She supposed she wouldn't be the youngest thing in a room forever.

Besides, if they were painting, she had spent enough hours in Davonte's presence that she was sure she could make a good showing.

Dorothy sat back and watched the election reports roll through again, and listened in on a few of the comments going on at the tables around her. No one here was too shaken up about any of it. A few nice remarks were made about local races, and some confused questions about far away areas and the, still relatively new to everyone, rules of ESUN election policies.

She didn't offer her expertise to anyone, figuring they would realize she was eavesdropping. Instead she nonchalantly watched a few people collect outside the building across the street, and then watched a young man unlock the doors for the group.

This was it then. Time to be charming again.

How had she always found this sort of thing so exciting before?

She finished her drink, grabbed her bag of supplies, and headed out the door. The chilled wind made her zip her coat up just to get across the street, but the sun was beginning to work on the snow cover it could find.

Once outside, she slowed as she passed the windows on the new community building. It was bare, demolished and cleaned until all of its previous life was expunged. There were sections of new subfloor, in a distinctly different color and material from where the old still lay. Some of the walls were still just a collection of studs, and the others stood in neatly mudded drywall.

What on earth were they going to manage to do with the place in a state like this?

She tromped off her boots as much as possible before going inside, not wanting to ruin the new layer of fiberboard. It wasn't that much warmer once the door shut behind her. However a warm breeze could be felt coming from the exposed ductwork where the ceiling should have been.

At least the heater had been installed.

"Dorothy, come in. I'm glad you came." Gabriel was an eager and outgoing young man probably close to her age. He had apparently gotten saddled with leading this outfit, and she didn't know why. But he was somehow related to 'coffee shoppe Anna,' and therefore came with references.

"Hello Gabriel. I didn't realize what state this building was in."

"Ain't it sweet?" he asked, too loudly and with a wide grin in place. His green eyes swept over the gutted area, and he ran a hand through his shaggy copper hair. "It's cleaned up really well."

If this was his idea of clean, the boy had a very vested interest in this antique building.

Whirling back around, he looked her over a bit and down to the bag she had brought. "I didn't take you for a painter though. Ever done this before?"

Dorothy blinked at him a bit comically. "I've dabbled."

"Well, we can't mess anything up," he chuckled at himself. "Dad will be here with the paint soon, so we're laying out supplies." He grabbed hold of a large duffle bag that had been set beside the door and began to pull it open.

She nodded and unzipped the bag in her hands. "I found a few things at home that have been tucked away. If we can use them, I'm happy to donate."

"Awesome, thank you."

Reaching in, she pulled out a mismatched set of paint brushes. She could only figure they had come with craft sets. So far as she knew, Grandfather didn't have any artistic tastes, and she couldn't recall Grandmother ever mentioning painting. Or perhaps they were for a sort of architecture drawing that she wasn't aware of. But they had been taking up residence in the dinning room buffet for too long.

Holding out the long, thin handles of the round and fine tipped brushes, she caught sight of Gabriel's handfuls of roller handles and angled trim brushes.

"Oh," they both mumbled.

"So, do you paint often? Canvas stuff, I mean."

He was trying; Dorothy just wasn't over feeling sorry for herself yet. "Just dabbled."

"Ah." There was an awkward pause again as the sound of the roller slurped its way over the wall. "So yeah, just big W shapes. When it thins, load up with more paint and fill in the gaps. Nice and smooth."

Dorothy practiced the motion in the air again before deciding that the faster she slopped some paint on the stupid wall, the sooner she could leave.

Other kids were started on their areas around her, and a five gallon bucket of basic primer sat in the middle of the floor.

"Just holler when you need a refill and I'll come by."

He smiled at her with that same never-ending enthusiasm, and she tried to return it. "Nothing for me to mess up, right?"

"That right!" He carefully handed her the roller and then turned to the rest of the room and raised his voice. "We're all learning how to do this. Some day, you're going to move into a house with an ugly kitchen or bathroom, and you're going to know how to fix it."

Never. Ever.

A few of the others laughed at him, but they all just kept on smearing stuff on a wall.

On the other side of the open entryway Gabriel's father, who apparently did this sort of thing for a living, was with a few other adults working on hanging sheetrock. An electrician was also fishing wire over the rafter beams and stapling it across the joists.

Oh, she should have known better. What were they going to really paint in a place like this? "Welcome to our Mess" signs?

Sucking in a quick breath, she tried to set that embarrassment out of her mind and leaned down and slowly rolled the pad in and out of the puddle in the paint tray. Finding courage, she put the thing against the wall and began moving it.

It skipped instead of slurped until she added more pressure. Slowly, and carefully, as she had been warned about splattering, she made the pattern then crossed back.

When her roller began to spin too freely, she pulled it away and observed the white over off-white and actually broke a cautious smirk.

Alright wall, time to make you look better.

She had been relieved of her roller within twenty minutes.

Dorothy tried not to take that as a sign of workmanship. She thought she'd been doing pretty well. However, after stepping away from the wall, she did realize that her work was largely one oddly zig-zag shaped stripe through the middle.

But others had come to join the work and Gabriel had asked her to relinquish her roller to friends that had done this sort of thing before.

Instead, he had asked if she knew anything about window blinds.

Currently, she was measuring the series of front windows and eyeing the way the sunlight peaked over the neighboring buildings and into the room. With some quick photos and an online site, she had mocked up a set of blinds and some simple sheers for dressing.

"Any ideas yet?"

She turned her datapad around to face him and Gabriel leaned in to take a look. He whistled at the image and comically bobbed his head between the screen and the actual wall. "Wow, that looks nice. But our budget is pretty small. Do you think the hardware store would have anything like that?"

Once again, Dorothy found herself out of place. "I'm sure I can get them," she said instead. "Don't worry about it. I'll let you figure out how to hang them when they get here."

Perhaps this group was into hard work and a job well done, but if Dorothy Catalonia couldn't do it, she could write a check for it.

He didn't need to know that.

"You're good at this."

"Interior design is the easy part." She waved a hand toward the men hanging the sheetrock, and added, "This mess isn't."

He laughed at her, and she got a few chuckles from others in the group as well.

"Maybe you'd like to see the furniture we had donated. Get some more ideas of yours going." He smiled and jerked a thumb towards the back of the building.

Still preoccupied with placing her order and getting the shipping address in, Dorothy followed along without really paying attending. Through a semi-finished doorframe and into a hallway, they found a set of rooms that were likely still original to how this place had been found. Behind one of the only working doors left sat a group of plastic covered furniture. Three large armchairs sat looking modern but over-stuffed. Five coffee tables stacked up in a tower, legs to tops. A matching pair of china hutches sat back to back, surrounded by a circle of skinny counter height tables and bar stools.

"Where did you get this?" she couldn't help but chuckle. The dark vinyl and resin tops suggested somewhere that clumsy people spilled things often.

"A local bar shut down a couple years back and it was all still in storage."

That explained that. "Well, it looks… tidy."

He laughed at the description and nodded. "It's sturdy too."

"I'm sure." Overall the color scheme was nondescript and it was for a youth and community space. Cleanliness would be an advantage. Walking over to the tables and stools, she did a quick count. "Could we build in a counter for some of these? There are more seats than tables."

"Sure," he shrugged. "You think people would use it?"

With a smirk, Dorothy pulled the end of her measuring tape out and let it snap back. "What else do you want to put in?"

"You can't just order everything for them."

"Why not?"

"You're really not grasping the concept of this community building."

Dorothy sipped at her tea and surfed furniture sites while Quatre laughed at her latest plight. "They want a space that's accessible to a wide range of people."

"No, I mean… How do I explain this," he muttered over the line. "Having you just come in and donate everything isn't playing fair."

She looked up from the datapad and gave the air in front of her a confused look. "What are you talking about?"

Quatre sighed into the phone. "They didn't ask you for a donation to help to fund the project, they asked for your cooperation to work with them."

"I'm not painting again."

"I'm sure you did fine. He was probably just worried about your shoes. You didn't dress for construction work, did you?"

"Well why would I? What does that even look like? I don't own overalls."

"This is just like when you decided to make coffee," he muttered.

"You're not helping."

"You're right," he flippantly brushed it off. "But the point of this building is for the locals to say that they really built it. They put in the time and effort and materials."

"They don't have enough to work with," she argued. Yes, it did seem that they were set on keeping the donated furniture and a collection of other items that were being stored in the back of the hollowed out haul. But who really wanted to live with hand-me-downs?

"Then help them to get local support for what they are lacking, don't just do it for them."

She tapped a finger against the screen. "That's not really my expertise."

He chuckled at her. "Believe me, I know. But they didn't ask for a bankroll, they just need some local hands to keep building."

She hated when he made sense. She hated more when he felt the need to carry on until she exactly knew that he made sense. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Get the window items, let them put them up. But look harder around your own area for anything else that comes up. And let the paint store supply what they have. Let a home store gift some carpet. Get ugly furniture from a bar. Put that all together and then see what Dorothy Catalonia can do to make it all play nice in the same space."

"You enjoy making things difficult," she bitterly accused.

"You love a challenge."

She was back to her favorite pastime: Champion of Something.

It didn't seem to matter much what the something was as long as it needed done and she knew about it.

Quatre sat, toggling between screens. One showed the end of year inventory progress and analysis, and the other was a video chess match with his beloved little instigator. Her queen's bishop was innocently stationed at the side of the board and hadn't moved for four turns now, but he knew she was waiting to pounce on his rook if she got his knight to shift lines to protect itself.

Always so ambitious.

Of course, he had hoped that the next development that she would throw herself into would be more… "them" related.

By all rights everything between them had improved and become more natural again. The strain and nervousness that he had picked up on before had evaporated. It seemed that she had accepted the change to their dynamic and their little dance had resumed. Her endearing pet-names were even back.

It just wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping for.

But he was trying very hard to be patient. Mostly because he couldn't think of anything else to do, much like this stubborn assault on his rook.

"Mr. Winner?"

He flipped screens quickly back to the reports before looking up. "Hello, Miss Xiemina. Come in." Standing, he waved her towards the chair in front of his desk and the lady obliged with a smile. "What can I help with today?"

"I think I've finally run out of questions, and stalling tactics," she chuckled.

He smiled openly at the lady and sat down, eyeing the folder in her hands. "Does that mean you've brought in your biography sheet?"

She held a folder in her hands without relinquishing it. "Yes, I have. But I still don't think I understand why you want a finance auditor on your Board of Directors. I'm not likely to get a lot of confidence votes."

"You've been with us for over ten years and finance, and your earlier position in legal, is exactly the sort of mindset I think our board needs. As an internal member, your voice will mean a great deal to our decision making. Director Sheel even recommended a finance officer take his place."

"Officer," she reiterated. "Felicia would be a better choice."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Admittedly, I thought of Miss Felicia, but she has her hands full currently. With the CFO retiring next year, she is already prepping for that position. I don't want to fill the board with executives." He chuckled and leaned forward over his desk, "I hear their opinions all the time."

She laughed and pushed her dark waves back out of her face. "I suppose if you're sure of this, there really isn't any reason to say no, is there?"

"Not that I'm pressuring," he teased.

With a shake of her head, she relinquished the folder and he took it from her eagerly. Rising to shake her hand, they made their pleasant goodbyes as he walked her to the door.

Once out of sight around the bends in his office walls, he exchanged a triumphant grin with Mrs. Shannel who nodded her approval. In truth, it had been his wise assistant who recommended actively recruiting for candidates for the vacant board seats. And so far, he had stacked a deck of extremely competent and sympathetic people.

Maybe his directors weren't exactly up to him, but as one of the few nominating entities, he was reminded that his position could be more offensive about it.

Speaking of, he had a queen's bishop to remove from play.

A challenge would have been to design something from scratch. This was what reality TV episodes were made of.

The boring white paint that had so ungraciously gone on the walls in the past few days was simply primer for the new drywall. Real paint would now be needed, and it seemed that the trouble was simple enough. "Eight different colors?"

"The paint store was nice enough to clean out their back room for us. This is what we got. We have nine gallons of white to. The others… well, that's where your eye comes in," Gabriel left off with a smile.

Charming.

"So, white. And some accent walls?"

"If you think so. Most of the colors are customer returns that weren't mixed quite right," he confessed. "I don't know that they really go together."

Brown, lime green, peach, two blues, purple, yellow and tan. There was more paint here than they could even need for this building. Actually… "How much do you expect to need to use?"

"We'll burn through the white pretty fast. Two coats on everything means we'll be lucky to make it through the entry rooms and down the hall with it."

Leaving the kitchen and bathrooms in primer and three back "storage" rooms just how they were now. Which appeared to be dirty, stained and with a mild case of damp.

In her head, Dorothy listened to Quatre tell her not to just go order some real paint and instead began trying to think like a contractor. An extremely cheap contractor.

"You said they weren't mixed right. How do you mix paint?"

Gabriel eyed her a moment and then raised his hands to act out his description. "They add the dye and then they put the cans on the shaker and… shake it." His hands vibrated in thin air holding an imaginary gallon can.

Her eyebrow twitched involuntarily. "So could they re-dye these?" she asked, figuring he didn't understand her question.

"Oh, uh, I don't know. White, sure. Others," he shrugged. "Maybe to make them darker? You can't take out the dye that's in there. I don't know if they'll do that for us," he wondered out loud.

Giving up on him, she picked up one the cans and scanned the brand and information across the front. "These are all acrylic based?"

"Sure. Interior paint."

"So they act like acrylics—canvas paints," she clarified and got a chuckle for it. "So we could mix a few of these together without it separating, right?"

"Oh yeah, sure. Same as we'll do with the whites so that we don't have nine different shades and sheens. The trick is to make sure it's all mixed before you start painting."

"How do I open these? And is there something I can use for a sample board? Oh," she snapped, kneeling down in front of the assortment of cans. "I need those art brushes I brought."

A leftover piece of sheetrock with various stripes of color and marker scribbles sat prominently in the middle of the front room. Aside from some buckets and a makeshift drying rack for rollers, there was nothing else inside. But that didn't keep noses from being pressed against the front windows to get a better look.

"Oh, it's a color pallet," one lady commented to another.

"Bathrooms in peach and blue. I like those; soft colors."

"A yellow kitchen? My grandmother had a yellow kitchen," someone else scoffed to a friend.

"Which way's West? That one? Brown for that wall?"

"Brown and tan. Is it another café?"

"Lots of white on there. Did they run out of ideas?"

"It's classic that way."

The comments were as varied as the viewers who came by to see what all the fuss was about in this little community. But one by one, most put a few dollars into the box out front that read Help Color Our Community Building in fine, lime green calligraphy.

"I hear you've become quite the fundraising guru."

"They lie. I just realized that people are more likely to donate a few credits if they get a show with it."

Fr. Rumser chuckled at her heartily and tapped his nose. "Right you are."

"You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since, on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!"

Quatre had to admit that at times passages in this book struck far closer to home than they had several years ago when he first read Great Expectations. The pains of rejection at every turn did make Pip a very sympathetic character that you couldn't help rooting for.

However, here in a moment of utter transparency, he was faced with the most painful realization that his love would never be his. It was dramatic, and dire and the emotion dripped from the page. But penciled into the margin was a little note which read: "Oh buck up. No woman wants an over-dramatic whiner."

Quatre burst out laughing despite himself.

Dorothy was right, the Marquis had included any number of humorous, and some thought provoking, asides in the book. However, he had yet to find anything too out of place in what he'd scribbled in. She had hinted heavily, a few times now, to watch for some grandiose words of wisdom or instruction, but from what he could tell, the elder gentleman was taking this opportunity to poke fun at them and draw out some similarities between his own story and that of wayward, young Pip.

She was also right that the annotated version of the story was much more entertaining this time around.

"'Ello, bonnie."

"How do you paint a mural?"

"A mural? You're painting?" Von's dubious expression came through the phone line loud and clear.

"Yes, on a wall. And it's all streaky." Dorothy stood frowning at the blob of purple looking back at her. Every brushstroke she had made was blatantly obvious and the more she scribbled the messier it became.

"On purpose?"

"I figured if you could do it, anyone could."

"I don't do murals; and do shut up."

"Do I need different paint?" she wondered, looking down at the small cans of sample colors that she had cajoled from a hardware store in a neighboring town several miles down the road. This had started out as such a good idea. And Gabriel had assumed this was something more her forte.

"Wall paint?"

"Yes. Satin interior," she read from the label.

"How many coats have you done?" Von asked.

"Do I have to do more than one?"

"Yes, love. What color are you going over?"

"White."

"Two should do. Maybe three if it still shows through. Apply thin and don't overwork your paint. Let it dry well in between."

"This is going to take forever," she groused at the offending wall. Their supply of white paint was in precious limited quantity now, even after their donation box had been hauled in for proper paint. That had been assigned to cover the bleached and cleaned mildew stains in the back rooms, and she had thought she'd found a work around for the prominent entry wall that looked back out through the street windows.

Well, at least they would have nice blinds up soon.

Looking around at today's group of volunteers, she figured she may have to give up on this idea.

"What design are you painting?"

"A cross with a stained glass look behind it."

"Lots of straight lines? Single colors?"

"Yes."

"Tape off your outlines and use a sponge like it's a stencil. It will be more uniform. May only take one coat."

Now there was a good suggestion. "I thought you didn't do murals."

"Doesn't mean I'm not an expert. But who on Earth thought you could paint?"

She glanced around at the group again who were starting to whisper and giggle. "People that don't know an expert."

"Obviously. Do snap me a pic when you're done. I could use the laugh."

"Absolutely not."

"Ah, and by the way, when will you be by next?"

"A few weeks. Why?" Putting her brush into a pan of water she began swishing it out.

"I have a project done for your beau and shipping fragile to colony is expensive."

"Quatre ordered a painting?" She switched her phone to her other ear as she began gathering the rolls of painter's tape.

"A little modification and custom framing. I thought you knew about this?"

"Apparently slipped his mind. I'm flying commercial though, how large are we talking?"

"Oh, you'd have to check them. Small, but there are nine. I suppose I can crate them."

"If you're going to do that, just ship them and bill him for it. What did he have framed?"

"Some sheet music."

A delicious little smirk rose. "So, it took nine pages."

"Could've used a refrain," he mused. "…I don't suppose this was a surprise I shouldn't have mentioned?"

"If it was, he should have known better."

"Hmm, agreed. Well, pop in when you're about anyway. I want to hear about your new painting career. I could put your business cards in my lobby."

"I'll have some printed for you," she bit off sourly. "Unless you want a mural job to add to your resume."

"Not in the least."

"Ciao, then."

"Best of luck."

Hanging up, she put her phone in her pocket and adjusted the projection from her datapad. Davonte was right, the mural they had picked to cover the awkward front corner visible to the outside, and to use up as much free, random paint samples as possible, was completely done in sharp straight lines. At least they would be when she was done taping.

"Do you know a mural artistic too, Dorothy?" one of the volunteers ventured closer.

"Unfortunately, just a common portraitist," she muttered.

Dorothy had decided that remembering names was getting too tedious in this process, so she had begun to differentiate the group of young volunteers into two categories: "Usefuls" and "Socials."

This one was a Social and spent most of her time here complaining about everything and fawning over Gabriel, who was steadfastly oblivious.

Lucky him.

"How do you know so many different people around here?"

The girl was snide, but terribly unsubtle, which of course translated into rude. This type was easy to place, and not so easy to avoid, and tended to be a large reason for Dorothy having hated school in the past. "I suppose because they aren't from around here."

"Oh, do you travel much?"

"Often," she answered, beginning to tape the largest shapes first. Another volunteer picked up a roll of tape and began to mimic her on the opposite side. "Do you think we have a sponge?"

"Maybe in the kitchen?" she answered.

"I can check the cupboards, but if I find a spider, I'm freaking," another socialite scurried off to the back kitchen to check. And Dorothy mentally sighed.

"Do you need some cleaner?" Gabriel asked, once again misinterpreting a conversation he walked into.

"No, thank you. I'm going to try sponging the paint on, but there is usually a different type of applicator for that."

"Is there?" the first girl ventured. "Gabriel, do you know of those?"

"I have some foam brushes, they are kind of spongy."

"I think I may have something at home. I'll bring them by next time." This was something that had saved her sanity through most of this process. A few purchases here and there, and she would show up with some needed supplies "from home." Technically, they did arrive at her home before they came back, so it wasn't a total lie.

"Where do you live, Dorothy?"

"Up the lake road," she answered, using the vernacular for the winding road that ran up the mountain from town and back down the slopes to the landing field.

"Does that cute little car of yours get through the snow alright?"

Tonight was going to be one of those nights. "So far."

"Must be difficult to travel so far in the winter months," she hinted heavily and Dorothy ignored it.

"She doesn't live that far up," Gabriel tried to be helpful. "She has the big glass house you can see from the cliffs."

The girl in question dropped her jaw and Dorothy internally cringed. Had she actually told this guy where she lived? Had that come up in all of this? The oblivious man in question helpfully picked up the pot of water she had rinsed her brush out in and turned towards the kitchen to empty it.

She supposed it must have come up. Oh, she had a big mouth when she was bored.

The helpful girl beside her gasped at the revelation and made a type of squeaking sound that only someone under the age of sixteen could produce. "It's so pretty! I bet it's gorgeous inside."

"The view is the best part," she tried to dodge. She had no idea what "cliffs" they referred to, and she wasn't all that keen on these people apparently knowing where she lived.

"And the kitchen is perfect for cookie baking," came a cheery voice from the front door.

Miss Christine stood in her habit and a long coat holding a large lidded bowl. Through the efforts of the local churches, snacks were plentiful for the volunteers. Various people showed up these evenings to bring in goodies and lend a little extra adult help here and there. It had been a nice outreach for the kids involved.

And right now, the woman was a God-send.

"Do you bake a lot?" the friendly girl asked as they gathered around some of the convent's finest sugar cookies.

"No, I just lent the nuns use of the kitchen for a large cookie exchange we did some time ago. They are the baking experts."

"Were your parents not home?" she asked, looking a little confused at her wording.

Oh dear. "No." She carefully avoided eye contact as the other took her turn picking a cookie from the offered bowl.

"We all invaded one Easter to bake for some of our parishioners," the serene little novice hijacked the conversation. "But I hear you're keeping the kitchen in this building. Maybe there will be another alternative here if we get into a pinch again."

"As long as you don't need an oven or a refrigerator, you'll be fine," one of the other kids piped in.

"Oh," she blinked. "Well, I wonder how this would taste microwaved."

The group chuckled at the joke and began to chat about other things as they grabbed a snack and wandered away to eat.

"Are you painting that?" she nodded to the projection on the wall after many of the others returned to their chores.

"Trying to," she nodded. "Colors will be… different."

"No one will mind," the young novice smiled at her warmly. "Thank you for doing so much on this project. Father has mentioned you've been very involved."

"I'm not sure I'd say very." Perhaps she should though. This diversion that she hadn't expected to amount to anything was certainly taking up more time than she expected. Now that she thought about it, it was a bit preoccupying.

"It's coming along so well. I was hoping the kids wouldn't burn out after the first few weeks and give up on it."

Not an option. This place was getting done with or without anyone else's help. "I'm sure it'll be functional in no time."

The young lady laughed at her, seeing through the comment completely. "You have lots of help here. That's nice."

Dorothy nodded and tried to keep her internal disapproval of the collection to herself.

"My favorite cookies!" Gabriel returned and launched into the bowl with both hands.

Christine laughed at the display as the young man took a bite from both. "That hasn't changed." He shook his head vehemently and continued chomping away at them. "You'd better get one before they're gone," she whispered loudly and moved the bowl back in Dorothy's direction.

Figuring she had earned it, she did.

Christine then set it aside and took off her coat. Instead of heading back, she picked up the roll of tape the other volunteer had abandoned and began running lines down the wall where the girl had left off.

This sort of help, she could deal with.

"Christine, do you have any special sponge things that work for this type of painting?" Gabriel asked as he scarfed down the last of his snack.

The lady paused a moment and thought. "I think we have some stencil brushes. They aren't exactly sponges though. They are probably in the Sunday school cabinet. I can look for you."

"Probably better than kitchen sponges," Dorothy mumbled.

The soft-spoken woman smiled thoughtfully. "I suppose that might work too."

"I was kidding," she waved it off.

"Do you think it would be alright if Dorothy had access to those supplies for bit? She's been kind of carrying this project so far," he chuckled while licking icing from his fingers.

"Of course! Swing by any time, I'll let you in," she stated easily with a knowing smile.

Great. How had she managed to commandeer a whole community project she didn't care about in the least? "I'll do that."

"But I don't think she's the only one who has put in long hours here. This place has your family written all over it, Gabriel."

He chuckled and then handed her another roll of blue tape as hers began to pull cardboard from its core. "Maybe a little."

"Gabriel! I don't think the water is turning off in the sink," came a call from the hallway.

"Oh, not plumbing," he sighed and jogged off.

Dorothy watched him go and then turned an odd look towards the woman standing on her tiptoes to reach a high corner of the design. "Known him long?" she curiously asked.

To her surprise, Christine didn't blush or look confused. She simply smiled and giggled quietly. "Yes."

Now Dorothy felt like the nosey teenager. "And well?"

Again she giggled. "I grew up down the road in Bicumbri, so we are school rivals. We were here often for events. And yes, I got to know Gabriel and his family quite well."

"Because of school ballgames?"

The lady met her eyes a little shyly. "And we may have dated a bit in high school."

Dorothy's roll of tape bounced when it hit the floor.

"Gabriel?" came an incredulous question from behind them as her problem Social of the evening returned.

More importantly, "You're the same age?"

Christine seemed to be having quite a good time with this and nodded to answer both questions. "He was a year younger than me in school."

Well, some boys did have trouble maturing.

"It's funny to think about now," she waved it off and returned to taping. "Although, I'll always remember the cookie recipe."

"Really?" came the exasperated voice from behind them again.

"It wasn't very serious. We were just silly teens that thought having relationships was what we were supposed to do. There wasn't a lot of thought put into it," she chuckled. "I hadn't realized my vocation yet, and he was always so very sweet."

A loud cry came from down the hall before a thud reverberated against the bare floors. It was then followed promptly with, "I'm OK!"

Their shadow took off towards the voice a bit beside herself, but the two older women let her go.

"You know, Quatre reminded me of Gabriel when I met him," she mused.

Not, even, close. "You don't say," she mumbled instead and went after her tape only to find that it had been picked up by the more helpful girl.

"Quatre. Is that your boyfriend, Dorothy?" she asked.

She opened her mouth to say no. She really meant to say it. Wanted to. But all that ended up coming out was, "Neh…"

Miss Christine once again came to her rescue with a chuckle. "Real relationships are more than labels," she mildly challenged the young teen. "They are a complicated search for God's calling for our life." Leaning down closer to the girl, her brown eyes smiled at Dorothy as she whispered, "Sometimes, it's not easy to answer a thing like that."

Miss Christine was kind to give her a way out by saying it was a complicated process, but it really wasn't. It wasn't complicated at all. It just was.

She had tried so hard to make it difficult. Her ego had put up such a fight and kicked up so much emotional dust that she couldn't see through. But one by one those tantrums and jealousies were calmed. Her misplaced pride was redirected. And she knew.

It wasn't forced, it wasn't vain, it wasn't harmful or degrading. It didn't cost anything or anyone. Every other person in the entire bloody universe had seen it. And approved. And she knew.

For all of her sniveling and self-reproach, she was better now than she had ever been before. And more importantly, he was better for it too.

They were good to each other. Did good for each other. Hoped and held the best for the other.

They were more than compatible. Their core beliefs were so close, their actions on those so different. It was obvious.

In his office that morning, she had leaned on the back of his chair and had made the decision. She knew this was acceptable. For better or worse, or life or death, this was her calling. He was exactly what she was built for. And all of those fearful uncertainties that she worried so much over, would just become another new normal.

She had come home because there wasn't anything else that she needed to do there. It was complete. Like his nine-page overture, it had been played. And the next piece would follow in its time. She had come to work on that. Work on herself, become better. Not because her petty vanity demanded something of her, but because she wanted to give him the best.

She was at peace with the new development and intended to let it move them.

But she hadn't told him that, had she? Somehow coming to peace with it hadn't actually involved anyone else. Was she supposed to?

It dawned on her now that he wasn't raising the issue either. In their humorous little daily calls and chess battles not once had talk of their relationship been raised. Never had he slipped or even called her precious again. True to his word, nothing had changed. She hadn't found that odd until now.

If there was no ultimatum between them… what was there?

She sat on the floor of her bedroom, wrapped in her covers that had been dragged from the bed. Against the windows, she just sat, watching the clear night and large moon light the sky. What did she look like from its perspective?

"I love you.… I'm in love with you."

Was he still?

"It is a great advantage for us to be able to consult someone who knows us, so that we may learn to know ourselves." Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle

Isis: "It's not my fault! That's where it wanted to stop."

Readers: "Burn her! Burn the witch!"

Isis: "It's not my fault!"