Disclaimer: These characters belong to Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended or profit made from this work. I'm just borrowing them for a bit and I promise to put them back when I'm finished. Whether or not they'll ever be the same again is anybody's guess.

Rating: PG/T. If you have a problem with two adult women in a committed, loving relationship then this is where you need to find something else to read.

Distribution: Do not archive or repost without author's permission.

Feedback: As always, constructive criticism and comments are welcome.

Summary: Things can go bump in the night on All Hallows Eve. And magical things can happen when you follow where they lead.

A/N: Thanks to saint forrest and charley for their input and of course to Susan T. (the World's Greatest Beta Reader) for saving me from my worst instincts and deleting thousands of extraneous commas.

For my Roberta, who loved Halloween with all her heart...I miss you with all of mine.

Trick or Treat

A chill gust of wind gathered the scattering of dead leaves into a swirling funnel and then bore them to destruction in the traffic of Lexington Avenue. Inside her luxurious townhouse on East 73rd Street, Miranda Priestly settled herself for work on the sofa of her downstairs sitting room with the Book and a fresh pot of tea.

Thank God all that Halloween nonsense is finished. I don't know if I could have dealt with another costumed urchin at the door.

Miranda's twin eleven-year-old urchins were at a Halloween party at a friend's house; their driver, Roy, was scheduled to pick them up and deliver them home in about a half hour. She had stayed home to deal with the neighborhood trick-or-treaters and once the legal time for that activity had passed, had felt no compunction about retiring to work. A puckish whim had made her leave the three glowing jack-o-lanterns on the front stoop for the twins' return.

A sudden sharp knock at the door made her start. Heaving a dramatic sigh, she set the Book down and rose to deal with whatever troublemaker was out front. At the door, she looked out the peephole and was rewarded with the sight of a black, pointed witch's hat. She flung the door open with a fierce glare then froze as she took in the apparition before her.

An impossibly twisted spine and humped back made the green-skinned witch far shorter than her full height would dictate. Scaly, green skin covered the bony fingers that clutched a knobby blackthorn stick on which she leaned heavily. Her equally green face was twisted up to glare back at Miranda; warts abounded on the sharp, pointed chin and cheeks and the large, hooked nose appeared more like a beak than a human facial feature. One eye was glittering ebony and the other covered entirely in a milky growth. Miranda could only stare in speechless horror.

"Trick or treat!" croaked the witch.

Miranda shook herself from her daze and responded in her typical fashion. "Don't be ridiculous. It's far too late and you're far too old to be out begging for candy like a child. Go away."

"Trick or treat!"

"Go away, I said. I have no more candy and I refuse to continue this charade any longer."

"Trick or treat!"

"If you don't leave this instant, I'll be forced to summon the police. Now leave my property immediately!"

"Trick or treat!"

"I said leave. Now!"

"No treat? Then trick it is!" rasped the witch.

Moving faster than anyone with such a twisted spine ought, the witch straightened and sprang forward to grasp Miranda's forearms. Slamming her back against the doorjamb, the verdigris sorceress did the absolute last thing Miranda could have imagined she would do.

She kissed her.

Soft, demanding lips captured Miranda's while strong hands held her helpless. Her breath caught at the audacity of the assault and the witch capitalized on her momentary hesitation: pressing against her, the woman deepened the kiss. Her scent swirled around Miranda, leaving her light-headed as, to her horror, she felt herself respond. A strangled moan erupted from deep in her throat as for one long, eternal moment, Miranda Priestly allowed herself the guilty pleasure she had dreamed of and denied for so many years – she kissed a woman. And nearly fainted at the wonder of it.

Just as abruptly as it had begun the tender assault ended. The witch tore the sweetness of her mouth away leaving Miranda breathless and gasping. Then she sprang down the steps laughing wildly and skittered away like some bizarre land crab, her twisted frame sharply outlined by the street lamps. The rhythmic tapping of her blackthorn stick punctuated the cackling laughter drifting back down the street as she disappeared into the night.

Follow her! Don't let her get away! But Miranda's feet could not obey as she stood frozen on her front stoop. Finally, she shook herself, turned and entered her home, quietly closing the door behind her.

A half block up on Lexington the witch was hauled into the side door of a parked van to be followed a moment later by a young woman with a digital camera and telephoto lens. As soon as the door slid shut the van pulled into traffic headed north toward 85th Street and Central Park Traverse #3.

"Well? What happened?" demanded the driver, glancing back in his rearview mirror.

"She shot, she scored!" laughed the young woman with the camera. "And I've got the pictures to prove it!"

"Lily, give me the memory card. Please. I never wanted pictures; that's not what this was about," said the witch as another young man slipped aside her tattered rags and began to unfasten the harness and padded prosthetic that had made the humpback so real.

"You know we could make a million with these. The tabloids would give us a fortune for them," said the photographer as she pulled the memory card from the camera and handed it to the now hump-free witch. The man began to ease latex prosthetics off her face and hands as the hideous witch slowly morphed into a tall, attractive young woman with, once the custom contact lenses came out, warm brown eyes.

"Thanks, Lily. And I still want to know how you came up with this insane idea in the first place."

"She's right, Lil. I still can't believe you talked us into this crazy stunt!" laughed the driver as he swung west onto 85th Street and headed for the park.

"Doug, you know she was only going to keep getting worse. I've never seen a boss-crush this bad before. It's been over a year and she's still hung up on Miranda. We had to do something. It was Halloween; this seemed like a doable thing," said Lily as she helped the witch shed her black widows' weeds.

"That's true. I just can't believe we put it together this quick."

"Well, you're the one who brought Matthew on board. We couldn't have pulled it off without his mad skills."

The man gently wiping the verdigris off the witch's hands and face grinned in reply.

"What's the use of being a Broadway makeup artist if you don't get to go crazy once in a while? Besides, the guy from WICKED owed me. His airbrush makes short work of turning somebody green." The van bounced a little as they swung past MOMA and onto Traverse Road #3 through the Park.

"Well, she certainly looked the part. You're a wizard, Matt."

"You guys helped. Logistics were critical and you two pulled it off. Couldn't have done it without you."

"Uh, excuse me? I'm right here. Remember?"

Pulling off the ratty black wig and shaking her hair out, Andy Sachs emerged from her costume leaving the ugly witch in various pieces on the van's floor. She stretched her lanky frame to get the kinks from the harness out.

"I know you guys think I'm crazy, but I just couldn't seem to get her out of my head. But it's over now. I can move on."

"Well, that was the plan, Andy. I'm glad you've put paid to her. Do you think Miranda will ever recover?"

"I'm sure she's written it off as an aberrant occurrence already. And thanks to Matt, she'll never know who it was that accosted her on her own front steps. Thanks, you guys. I really appreciate all you've done for me tonight. But right now all I want to do is get home."

"I'm on it," said Doug as he turned north on Central Park West headed for 89th Street and Andy's place.

The next morning Andy's landlady appeared at her door bearing a piping hot sausage and egg casserole, fresh bagels and Andy's three co-conspirators. Andy's contribution to their breakfast was her kitchen table and lattes of choice all around. When they'd finished their meal, Lily and the boys left to return the van to the Village gallery at which Lily was curator and Ruth stuck around to help Andy clean up.

"So, did you accomplish what you set out to last night? You four were mighty secretive about what you were up to."

"I needed to do something extremely foolish and Lily and the boys volunteered to help me. It's great to have good friends who know when to just go along with your crazy ideas."

"So did you do your 'something extremely foolish'? And were you successful?"

"We did and I was. I just wish I felt better about it."

"How so, darling? No one got hurt, did they?"

Andy grinned at her landlady. "No, no one got hurt."

Ever since Lily had dragged her to meet Ruth Goldberg at the crack of dawn one Saturday morning nearly three months ago, she'd been enchanted with the pixyish elderly woman. Widowed, Ruth had converted her large townhome into a first floor duplex for herself and rental units on the second and third floors. When Lily had come to her assistance and helped her home after she had been overcome by the summer heat, it didn't take Ruth long to realize that Lily was the kind of person she wanted as a tenant. So she had offered one of the luxury apartments at a rent-control price. Lily had immediately accepted and when Ruth asked her if she knew of anyone suitable for the third floor, Lily had dragged Andy uptown the next morning.

Ruth, for her part, was thoroughly delighted with her new tenants and had furnished part of the basement as a guest suite so Doug could stay over if he wanted. As far as Ruth was concerned she'd just adopted three new kids. Lily and Andy and Doug loved the idea and were not about to argue with her. Another non-traditional Manhattan family had been born on West 89th Street.

"So why do you wish you felt better about it?"

"I don't know; I just thought I'd feel more closure. The whole idea was to put an end to…" Andy covered her hesitation with a sip of her latte and Ruth didn't push. "I guess I thought it would close a door on something forever and I'm not sure it did."

Ruth commented idly, "Well, sometimes you can't just put a lid on love."

Andy started and slopped some of her coffee. Grabbing a napkin she mopped up, all the while trying to regain her equilibrium. "I don't know what you mean. Last night didn't have anything to do with…"

"Of course it did. You've been mooning over Miranda Priestly since you left her in Paris a year ago. Do you think I can't hear Lily and Doug commiserating with you over beers out back in the evenings? I'm old but I'm not deaf. Or blind, Andy. I've seen the way you devour every mention of her name on Page Six or wherever you can find it. And you wear your emotions on your sleeve. So you walked away from the International Queen of Fashion last year and then realized that she made you so crazy because you loved her. The particulars may be unique to your life, but the general story is as old as time. The question now is what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. There is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Miranda Priestly doesn't even know I exist. I might as well be on another planet and I've wasted enough time on this ridiculous infatuation. It's time to move on."

Ruth just laughed quietly. "It doesn't work that way, bubeleh. Your head may be saying that but your heart isn't. And which do you think will win out? My money's on your heart. So, I say again; what are you going to do about it?"

Andy smiled sadly. "I already told you; I'm not going to do anything. It's just…"

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm just being silly."

"Andy, tell me."

"I know in my head that there isn't anything real there for me. It's been a fantasy. Only, for just a moment last night…"

"Yes…?"

Andy looked up with naked yearning in her eyes. "For a moment I could have sworn it was real."

"Care to elaborate just a bit?"

Andy told Ruth what they'd done the night before and the older woman howled with mirth. "A warty, green, hump-backed witch? And you accosted her on her own front stoop?"

Andy's grin was a bright as the sunlight. "Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, it worked. Lily got pictures to prove it."

Andy rose and brought her laptop and the flash drive from the night before into the kitchen. Booting up, she downloaded the photos and showed them to her landlady. They clearly showed Andy kissing an astonished Miranda Priestly.

"It certainly did work. Well, well, well. Look at that. Your Miranda doesn't seem to be fighting you off very hard now, does she?"

"What?" Andy's reply could only be described as a squeak.

"I said she doesn't seem to be resisting very much."

"I…what… I don't…"

"So what moment made you think you might not be fantasizing?"

"I thought… for just a minute," Andy turned slightly frightened eyes on her landlady. "I could have sworn she kissed me back."

"And if she did? What are you going to do about that?"

"I don't know! I don't know what to do. Why? Do you have some brilliant idea?"

Ruth's gray eyes sparkled with mischief. "I might. Are you interested in hearing about it?"

"This is never going to work. You don't know how her office is staffed. This will never make it past her assistants."

"Of course it will. Have a little faith. All we have to do is get the first one past her minions. Once we do that, she'll demand to see the others. Wait and see. Is it ready to go?"

Andy mutely handed her landlady a flat, square package neatly wrapped in black paper and tied with neon green string. She still couldn't believe she had agreed to what Ruth had proposed, but here they were, taking the first steps toward wooing Miranda Priestly. The plan was simple; rent an anonymous private mailbox and messenger offerings of love to the Dragon Lady of Runway. The store that owned the mailboxes would front as the return address and Andy's name would never appear unless and until she wanted it to. Ruth had assured her that Miranda would succumb to a secret admirer; after all, who wouldn't want to be adored from afar? The poetry and declarations would overwhelm her and Miranda would fall to Andy's charms. Although given the fact that it was Miranda they were dealing with, it was far more likely that she'd wind up in Manhattan District Court charged with felony stalking. But it was a measure of her desperation that she went along.

Together they entered the pack and ship store and rented a private mailbox in Ruth's name for one month. Once their mail drop was established, Ruth contracted with the manager to messenger the package to Miranda's office in the Elias-Clarke building. Ruth exercised the privacy clause in her box rental agreement and used only the newly rented PO Box address as identification for the messenger service. Andy paid the fees and they left the shop together, Ruth assuring Andy that even if she was crazy at least they'd know for sure fairly soon.

Two hours later a messenger cleared the front security desk at Elias-Clarke and stepped off the elevator on the Runway floor. Getting directions to Miranda Priestly's office from the receptionist, he parked himself in front of Emily Charlton, Miranda's first assistant and presented the package for a delivery signature.

"I'm supposed to wait to see if there's a reply."

Scowling, Emily rose from her desk and swept through the glass doors that led to the inner sanctum of the most powerful fashion arbiter in the world. The Editor In Chief of Runway looked up from her computer with a faint frown at the unexpected interruption.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Miranda. But this was just messengered over for you and he's supposed to wait to see if there's a reply."

Emily leaped forward to hand over the package when Miranda impatiently extended her hand for it. The bright green string and black paper quickly landed on the editor's pristine desk as Miranda opened the box. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of the tiny witch that lay within. Picking it up, she examined it quickly, taking in the detailed facial features and green skin of the small key fob.

The corners of her mouth twitched up as she opened the note that lay under the tiny witch and quickly scanned the brief contents.

The calligraphy of the poetry was beautifully rendered and Miranda savored it for a long moment before reading the hand-written note that followed.

My river runs to thee.

Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?

My river awaits reply.

Oh! Sea, look graciously.

I'll fetch thee brooks

From spotted nooks.

Say, sea,

Take me

Emily Dickinson

Your kiss shook the bedrock of my world, but you need only reply "STOP" and you will never hear from me again…

Oh, my God, it's from her! Miranda read and re-read the note desperately seeking some stable mooring in the emotional turbulence it generated. Finally a quiet cough from Emily dragged her back to reality.

"He's waiting, Miranda."

She read the entire note once more, her heart racing at the memory it evoked.

"Miranda?"

She looked up at her waiting assistant and dismissed her with a look.

"No reply."

Late that night Miranda lay wakeful in her bed. She could not keep herself from remembering the poetry from that afternoon or of thinking back to Halloween. Why didn't I follow her? Why didn't I hold on to her? God knows I wanted to with every fiber of my being. I don't know what's happening to me. Why now? Why this woman? I don't even know who she is! Why didn't I chase her down and demand to know her name? Questions roiled in her mind as she replayed the kiss over and over. Each time she could almost feel those exquisitely soft lips claiming hers and her blood sang at the thought.

The next morning required all her skills with makeup to hide the effects of her sleepless night. By mid-afternoon she found herself wondering if there would be another package from her anonymous witch. As the close of the business day approached with no sign of another messenger her demeanor with her assistants became more and more sharp. Both Emily and Abigail, who had finally replaced Andréa after her little hissy fit in Paris the previous year, breathed sighs of relief as the elevator doors closed on Miranda leaving for the day.

The following day was much the same, but Emily and Abigail were saved from the worst of Miranda's wrath as she had several meetings out of the office. Unfortunately, when she returned late in the day and discovered that there had once again been no messenger delivery, her pique more than made up for her absence. When she angrily demanded her coat and bag, Emily couldn't usher her out to the elevators fast enough. Both assistants looked at each other helplessly, unable to discern who or what was bothering their boss.

Miranda swept into the office far earlier than planned the following morning, unceremoniously dumping her coat and bag on Abigail's desk and barking an order over her shoulder as she strode toward her desk.

"Starbucks. Now."

Abigail leapt up and headed for the lifts, texting their standing order to the coffee shop across the street as she did. Emily risked a fearful glance into Miranda's office, relieved to see her wrapped up in that morning's Mirror. She pulled up Miranda's schedule to verify that Miranda would be in the office all day. She and Abigail would just have to duck and cover if Miranda got bitchy again.

The sound of the office doors opening made her look up. Another messenger stopped at her desk and presented a second small package for the personal attention of Miranda Priestly. Emily signed for it and rose to bring it in to Miranda only to discover her boss already striding out of her office to snatch it from her hands and quickly reverse course back to her desk.

"I'm supposed to wait for a reply," said the messenger looking curiously after Miranda.

"Of course," snapped Emily forcing his attention off Miranda and back into the outer office where it belonged.

Miranda, meanwhile, was tearing at the familiar wrappings. The bright green string pooled on her desk and seconds later the black paper floated down to cover it. She opened the box and almost gasped as the delicate scent of two perfect red roses wafted from it. They lay side by side in the box, a fine gold chain wrapped around their stems. From it dangled a tiny golden witch riding a broomstick. The enclosed note once again had a verse scripted in flawless calligraphy with a handwritten message at the bottom.

All the love that history knows,

Is said to be in every rose.

Yet all that could be found in two,

Is less than what I feel for you.

Author Unknown

The memory of our kiss haunts me. Was I dreaming? Did you kiss me back? Could I be so lucky? Would that I had the courage to tell you how I feel in person! You fill my heart; without you it is but an empty husk.

Your lack of reply was taken as a positive sign but, again, you need only reply "STOP" and I will leave you in peace…

Transfixed, she could not tear her eyes away from the message. Emily cleared her throat and with a visible effort Miranda dragged her eyes off the almost familiar handwriting to focus on her first assistant.

"He's… he's waiting to see if there's a reply."

Again, Miranda dismissed her with a look. "No reply."

Her gaze was once again fixed on the message before her. After several long moments she realized what she had to do. Snapping her head up, she barked to Emily "I've changed my mind. Get him back."

Emily stood up quickly and looked back at her with near panic in her eyes.

"But, but…Abigail isn't…the phones!"

"Damn the phones! Catch him!"

Emily grabbed her cell and headed for the lifts as fast as her five-inch Jimmy Choos would allow. She hit the speed dial for the lobby security desk on the way. An eternity later they answered.

"Elias-Clarke Security."

"This is Emily Charlton from Miranda Priestly's office on twenty-one. A messenger just left our offices. You need to stop him for me. I'm on my way down to collect him. Just hold him at the desk until I get there."

"What does he look like? What service was he with?"

"Uh, green shirt, black bicycle shorts. About six feet tall. I think he's with Uptown Messenger."

The lift doors opened and Emily leapt into the car, brushing by the exiting Abigail and nearly dumping the fresh lattes she held. Stabbing the lobby button repeatedly as the doors began to close she muttered prayers to the patron saint of executive assistants that the security forces in the lobby would be successful.

They were not. By the time the lift deposited her at the lobby level Security had detained three messengers, none of which had delivered the package to Miranda's office. Emily sighed in recognition that today was not going to be her day and glumly rode back up to their floor to deliver the bad news to Miranda.

To her surprise, Miranda did not verbally behead her for failing to bring the messenger back. Instead, her boss dismissed her with a wave and spun her chair around to gaze out on the midtown skyline as she sipped her latte and quietly murmuring "…need… act… decisively…"

She got her chance two days later when yet another messenger arrived with the now-familiar black and green package and orders to wait for a reply. When Emily brought it in to her, she motioned the young woman close and quietly gave her instructions.

"Have Abigail give him the reply; you take your bag and go downstairs. Be waiting for him in the lobby and use one of the town cars to follow him. I want to know where he delivers my response. Make sure you have your phone with you. That's all."

Emily returned to the outer office to give Miranda privacy to draft a reply and quietly told Abigail to wait on the return message. She took her coat and bag and quickly descended to the lobby. Risking a short absence from her post, she dashed out to the curb and told the lead driver that he was to wait there for her. Then she returned to the lobby to wait for her target.

He wasn't long in coming. The lanky young man retrieved his bike from the lobby station and mounted it on the plaza in front of the building. By the time he headed onto Sixth Avenue, Emily was in the back of the town car leaning over the seat next to the driver and hissing "For God's sake, don't lose him!" in the driver's ear.

Upstairs in the office, Miranda had wasted no time in unwrapping the package. This time, she discovered an eight-inch tall witch doll riding a broomstick. Her clothing was orange and black and her features comical and not at all frightening. A small tag was attached.

KITCHEN WITCH folk lore tells us the kitchen witch is a good witch, making the kitchen a warm, cozy and comfortable place to be in. She is a gentle, whimsical, loving creature who sees to it that your pots won't boil over and toast, potatoes, and rice won't burn. According to legend, when you have a kitchen witch watching over your kitchen, cakes, breads, and other pastries will rise according to recipes, milk will not sour or spoil. The spices you mix will be perfect, as well as the tea and coffee you serve!

And again, another message lay beneath it. And again, the beautiful calligraphy captured Miranda's attention.

The fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of heaven mix forever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In another's being mingle-

Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister flower could be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;-

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley

And again, the handwritten note captured not her attention but her heart.

My heart leapt to see you had not rejected me. What worth the kissings indeed? I would gladly forsake all others but yours for eternity. To taste again the sweetness of your lips and catch your startled breath with mine. To feel their softness answering back the unspoken question I ask. To bask in the warmth of their touch as it fills my soul.

Do you dream of me as I do you, Miranda? Trust in your heart as I have in mine. Dare to let it free to be cherished; it has been abused by the unworthy far too long. I wish nothing more than to love you fully as you deserve, but only say "STOP" and I will fade away.

Miranda reached into her stationery drawer and pulled out one of her personal note cards. Unlike her plainer business note cards, these were elegantly embossed with only her scripted name. She thought a long moment then penned Walter Anderson's quote

"We're never so vulnerable than when we trust someone - but paradoxically, if we cannot trust, neither can we find love or joy."

I have always found trust difficult. Much as I might want to trust you, you give me nothing to believe in. How can I offer trust when I cannot see where to bestow it? How can I leap when so often before I have been dashed on the unseen rocks below? MP

She sealed the note card in its envelope and suddenly remembered a gift from the twins that had lain unused in her drawer for over a year. Digging down to the bottom she found the small box of red sealing wax and the "MP" seal. She found an old book of matches in her middle desk drawer, lit the wax and melted a large dollop onto the point of the envelope. Pressing her monogrammed seal into it, she then gently waved it in the cool air until the wax hardened sufficiently and then handed it off to the waiting Abigail. In moments it was safely tucked in the messenger's bag and on its way back to Miranda's mysterious admirer.

"I said don't lose him!"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Charlton, but the best I can do is go around the block and then cut west on 57th Street and try to pick him up again headed uptown. If I cut across Columbus Circle against the lights in this traffic we'll wind up at either Central Booking or the Morgue."

Emily collapsed back in the town car's seat with a groan. Miranda would kill her for losing the messenger so quickly. But she had just learned why bicycle messengers still flourished in Manhattan: given the midtown traffic gridlock there was no way a motor vehicle could keep up with an aggressively ridden bike. They would have to come up with another plan.

"Bollocks! Then take me back to the bloody office."

Miranda had scowled most impressively and dismissed Emily with a withering glare when she reported her failure to follow the messenger to his destination. Her mood then deteriorated from surly to foul to evil through the course of the afternoon. By the time she barked for her coat and bag to leave for the day, both Emily and Abigail were taking turns ducking out of the office to avoid her verbal shrapnel. When she finally headed downstairs to her waiting car the young women both collapsed in their chairs unsure of how much more they could endure. For once, Emily was actually eager to leave work and even Abigail, forced to stay at her post and wait for the Book, regarded it not a dreaded duty but as a welcome respite from Miranda's foul humor.

The next morning brought a sea change, however, when Miranda swept into the office almost buoyant. Unceremoniously depositing her coat and bag on Abigail's desk she beckoned Emily to follow her into her office.

"Find out the name of the most reputable bicycle messenger service in New York. Hire their best rider for the next week. Starting as quickly as he can get here. That's all." It took Emily several minutes to discern which messenger service was deemed New York's finest, but once she did, it took only moments for her to have its dispatcher on the line.

"Yes, I'm the managing director of Quicksilver Messenger. My name is Duncan Scott; how can I help you Ms. Charlton?"

"I'd like to hire your fastest rider for the rest of the week."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We require a private bicycle messenger for the remainder of the week. We need him stationed here in our offices to be dispatched immediately when we require."

"That's a somewhat unusual request. May I ask why? I can't have my people involved in anything illegal."

"For God's sake, this is Runway Magazine not the Cali cartel! We're not doing anything illegal; we just need a messenger on immediate call. What are your rates?"

It took a bit more wrangling, but an hour later a short, wiry young man arrived in their offices wheeling his bicycle.

"I'm supposed to report to a, uh…" he consulted the slip of paper in his hand, "…Emily Charlton?"

"Yes, yes that's me. Come along. We'll want you set up in the conference room next door." She quickly escorted him to the adjacent room. God knows, they couldn't have him cluttering up their outer office where he could be seen.

An hour and a half later when Nigel came by to drop off some layouts from their last shoot in South Beach he walked past the conference room, stopped dead in his tracks, backed up several steps and stared in disbelief. While the sight of buff young men wasn't uncommon in the halls of Runway, they were usually more formally attired than skintight black biking shorts and faded, electric blue polos. And they certainly never took up residence in Miranda's private conference room watching TV and eating burritos with their feet up and bicycles close at hand. Empty cans of Mountain Dew, Red Bull and the splattered detritus of previously eaten foodstuffs littered the table. Taking one last, shuddering look, he continued on to Miranda's offices.

"We have a squatter! Are you aware that a swarthy cyclist seems to be living in the small conference room?"

"Yes. Abigail and I have run in enough high-trans-fat-and-carb foods to him to feed a small African village for a week. Don't ask!" The last words were said with a jerk of the head toward Miranda's office that caused the next question to die on his lips. "You can take the layout boards in. She's expecting you."

While Nigel and Miranda reviewed the layouts from the Anna Sui feature shoot, Emily left Abigail with the care and feeding of their newest minion for a few minutes and dashed out to the local electronic toy store to buy a prepaid, disposable cell phone for his use. She made sure the phone was fully charged, bought two hours' talk time for it and programmed the number of her new disposable cell into its speed dial. They were as ready as they could get.

But there was no messenger that day. Emily sent their cyclist home at 5:00 pm with instructions to be back no later than 8:30 am the next morning. Then she and Abigail wrapped up the office business and heaved their usual sigh of relief when Miranda left for home around 6:00 pm. Their boss's temperament was volatile at best and it had been on a hair-trigger since the first black-wrapped package had been delivered last week. Neither of them knew or cared what the contents of those mysterious packages were; they knew only that the lack of them made Miranda far more irascible than usual. Both assistants prayed for Miranda to find out whatever it was she wanted or needed quickly so their office could return to normal.

The next morning the messenger reported promptly at 8:30am and proceeded to scatter the crumbs from not one but two greasy breakfast sandwiches and a large coffee all over the teak conference table. Emily wasn't sure she could keep from killing him until he had something to do.

But fate finally smiled on her and a messenger arrived shortly before 10:00 am bearing another black-and-green-wrapped package for Miranda. Emily signed for it, acknowledged that the courier needed to wait for a reply, gave Abigail the high sign to put theirchase man on full alert and walked the parcel in to Miranda.

Heart beating rapidly, Miranda unwrapped the newest offering and caught her breath when she opened the box. Inside, nestled in its own velvet box was a platinum necklace of half a heart. The accompanying note took what breath Miranda had left completely away.

I would rather trust a woman's instinct than a man's reason.

Stanley Baldwin

If I never met you, I wouldn't like you. If I didn't like you, I wouldn't love you. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't miss you. But I did, I do, and I will.

Author Unknown

You hesitate to trust? Because you don't know me? But you do, Miranda, you do know me. Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. And I know you and all the hopes and dreams you keep so tightly bottled up inside. May the love hidden deep inside your heart find the love waiting in your dreams. Do you dream of me, Miranda?

Beethoven said it best:

"…never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved…

ever thine

ever mine

ever ours"

You hold my heart in your hands – the necklace represents that undeniable fact. Do I ask too much to hold yours as well?

Oh, Miranda, love, dare I hope that there might be a 'we'?

Miranda's hand trembled as she picked up her pen to write a reply. Jumbled thoughts caromed through her head as she allowed herself to think of…possibilities. Granted, it would be better if she had more than a faceless dream to attach to those possibilities, but if she summoned all her courage and acted on her hopes she might yet have a chance of loving again. Responses cascaded one atop the next as she sought the right words. Finally, hesitating, the answer came to her and she penned her reply with a hand that was steady at last…

…Yes

"I'm on him, I'm on him! Stop bothering me. I rode down in the elevator with him and I'm a hundred feet off his back tire. I won't lose him!" The cyclist switched off the cell phone and Emily's near-panicky phone call. He was stuck to his quarry like a tick and would remain so if the women in that office didn't bother him to distraction. You needed both eyes, the quick hands and feet of a broken field runner and the reflexes of a cat to survive on a bicycle in Manhattan. He cut around a sidewalk bistro, slid past a parked delivery van and followed his target down 56th Street toward the CBS Broadcast Center.

He'd ridden down in the elevator with his target and the two had exchanged typical messenger shop talk. Commenting that he hated having to run replies back, his target had answered that today wasn't so bad and that he would be able to make five pickups before delivering the reply he'd just taken to the Upper West side. They had parted on the plaza of the Elias-Clarke building and the chaser had pretended to head in the opposite direction from his target. Fifteen seconds later, he'd whipped his bike around and begun his stalk his quarry. Three more stops to go.

"Do we know where he is?" demanded Miranda for the fourth time since the messengers had left the office.

"He told me the messenger was going to make five pickups before he delivered your reply. He said he'd call when he saw the delivery made but if I kept bothering him while he was riding he might lose him in traffic. He'll call when he has something definite. Right now all he knows is something about the Upper West Side."

Miranda's inarticulate reply sounded more like a strangled growl than anything else and Emily wisely retreated to the relative safety of the outer office. She and Abigail kept plugging away at their work and jumping through hoops to satisfy the increasingly irritated Miranda's commands. Finally, nearly an hour later the new cell rang.

"I've got it! He delivered the envelope to a pack and ship place on Columbus Avenue."

When the cell rang Miranda had looked up and pinned Emily with her laser glare. Once Emily realized their chaser had done it she nodded emphatically to her boss who gestured for the phone.

"Hang on one second and then repeat what you just told me." Emily trotted into Miranda's office with Abigail and her note pad hot on her heels. The three women leaned in close as Emily engaged the speakerphone.

"Okay, now give me that address again."

"It's called SnailMail Depot at 568 Columbus Avenue. There's a big plant store on the corner of West 88th and Columbus called The Secret Garden. It's four or five doors south of that on the same side of the street. What do you want me to do?"

"Did you see to whom he delivered it?" asked Miranda quietly.

"No, all I could see from the front window is that he delivered it to the guy behind the counter. But there are private mailboxes for rent in this place and I'll bet it wound up in one of those. When you deliver to a place like this that's what usually happens."

"Is there any way to see which mailbox it's in?"

"Nah. There must be like five hundred of 'em. No way to see what's inside without the key either; the doors are solid steel."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm across the street outside the market."

"Can you see the mailboxes from where you are?"

"No, the traffic on Columbus is too much. But I think I can find a place nearer the store where I can."

"Do so. Keep watching the mailboxes. Someone will arrive as quickly as we can get there."

"I'm on it. You'll be in one of your town cars?"

"Yes. Do you still have adequate time available on your phone?"

"I'm good for an hour and a half."

"Acceptable." Abigail had been taking notes and handed them to Miranda at her impatient gesture. Emily ended the conversation and looked at her boss expectantly. Miranda looked up from the scribbled page.

"Abigail, make a copy of this so she has something to go by and bring me the original. Emily, find out where that envelope was delivered. Go." Both assistants left the office at a stiletto-hobbled trot to comply.

Half an hour later Emily climbed out of the back of an Elias-Clarke town car and entered SnailMail Depot. She fed the counterman a story about needing to retrieve a letter sent by mistake.

He replied that it was not possible. Once mail was delivered and sorted into the boxes it was not touched except by the customers.

She explained that it had been an honest error and that the missive merely needed to be exchanged for the one she held in her hand.

He informed her that it was a felony to tamper with the US Mail in any way, shape or form.

She told him that the note had not been delivered by US Mail but rather by a private messenger.

He countered with an explanation of their privacy policy and pointed to the large sign saying "Our customer's privacy is our foremost concern."

She smiled sweetly and slid a $50 bill across the counter.

He slid it back and threw her out on her ass.

By the time she had been forcibly escorted out the door of the store, her driver had managed to conjure a parking place a few doors away. Swearing under her breath she retreated to the comfort and security of the back seat to lick her wounds and ponder her next move. Their chaser, meanwhile, moved to a position against the town car's rear quarter panel with a decent view of the mailboxes.

Emily reported her failure to Miranda who merely sniffed and commented acerbically that she should have used a $100 bill instead. All Emily could do was explain that a $50 was all she had with her. Miranda told her to think of something and promptly hung up.

Finally, in desperation, Emily climbed back out of the car and spoke quietly with their biker. He explained how the mailboxes in the store were numbered. There were five bays, each containing about a hundred mailboxes. The boxes were numbered starting at the upper left of each bay. Something clicked in Emily's mind and she stopped him and jumped back in the car. Speed-dialing the office, she asked Abigail to transfer her call in to Miranda and bring the receipts for the packages they had received in as well.

Miranda wasted no time on niceties. "What have you discovered?"

"I need you to look at the receipts from the packages we've received. Is there some kind of hand-written note at the bottom of one? I swear I remember one of them having one."

Miranda scanned the small receipts. "Yes, there's a penciled notation on the second receipt."

"What does it say?"

"568CA303680911070835"

Emily wrote the sequence down and stared at it. Suddenly the light bulb went off. "I think it's pickup information. 568CA could stand for 568 Columbus Avenue."

Miranda cut in with a trace of excitement in her voice. "And 0911070825 could be the date and time of the pickup."

"That leaves 30368. That could be a mailbox number. That could be the mailbox we want!"

"Find out and call me back." The call dropped to dead air as Miranda disconnected.

Emily lowered the window and called their messenger over. Handing him the empty envelope she had tried to use earlier, she asked him to fake a messenger delivery to box 30368.

"I can't do that. We're a bonded company and I could lose my…"

Just as fast as Emily produced the $50 bill he made it vanish.

"Box 30368. Got it. Be right back."

He was as good as his word, returning to the car in only a minute. "You guessed it. When I dropped the envelope off the counterman commented that this was the second one of those for them this afternoon. It's bay three, box 368 all right. I checked it out before I left the store. It's the next to last row of small boxes in the bay, third from the right."

Emily quickly relayed this information to Miranda and received her instructions. Hanging up, she instructed the biker to keep watch on the box and if nothing else happened, call her at 5:00 pm. When he sauntered off to take up his vantage point she instructed the driver to return to Elias-Clarke.

By 4:00 pm all the nerves in Miranda's office were strung more tightly than a concert grand. When the messenger finally checked in at 4:45 pm Emily almost pounced on the cell phone and Miranda hurried into the outer office to listen in.

"Nothing's happened. Couple of people have been in and picked up their mail but nobody's box was anywhere near bay three."

"How late can you stay?"

"Maybe another hour – until 6:00 - but that's it. And it's going to cost you."

"We'll pay you for your overtime, don't worry."

"Look, I don't mean to be…hang on!"

"What? What's happening?"

"Somebody's in bay three…and they're at the box! I can see one of those cream-envelopes from here! This is it!"

"Follow them. We'll make it worth your while."

"Don't worry, I'm on it. But I don't know…"

"What's wrong?"

"It's an old lady. Seriously, she's like older than my grandma."

"Is she in a cab?"

"No, looks like she walked."

"Well, follow her. Somebody is on the way to relieve you, but do not lose her."

"Don't worry, I can keep up with an old lady on foot."

"Then do so," snapped Miranda ending the call. She ordered Emily to call for her driver and Abigail leaped to get her coat and bag. Four minutes later, Miranda was in the back seat of her Mercedes headed for the Upper West Side mentally cursing midtown traffic and willing the disposable cell phone in her hand to ring.

Roy's sanity was saved after twenty minutes of Miranda's demanding he drive through the gridlock when it finally did.

"Yes?"

"I've got it. West 89th, halfway between Columbus and Amsterdam. There's a small park on the north side of the street. I'll be there. Oh, and it's one way westbound; come in off Columbus."

Thirty-five minutes later the silver S600 glided to a stop in front of the small park. The cyclist wheeled his bike to the curb and leaned it against a tree as the rear window of the luxury town car slid silently down. He rested his elbows on the edge of it and leaned toward the back seat's occupant.

"It's the building behind me. When the old lady went in the lights on the first floor came on. About half an hour ago a mid-twenties black woman went in and the second floor lights went on. Third floor is still dark. I managed to sneak onto the front stoop without anybody seeing me; there are bells for three units by the door."

"You did well. You'll be paid your regular salary for the week. Thank you for your diligence." Three crisp $100 bills appeared in the elegantly gloved hand and quickly disappeared into the messenger's bag.

"Thanks. If you ever need somebody followed again I'm your man." He nodded to Miranda, handed her his phone, hopped on his bike and quickly disappeared around the corner onto Amsterdam Avenue.

"How long do you think we can stay double-parked here?"

"This looks like a pretty snug residential neighborhood. With the school right here I don't think we'll have too long. I would imagine that people will report an illegally parked vehicle pretty quickly," Roy replied.

"Then go around the block and we'll look for a parking space. If we can't find one you might have to drop me in the park and circle."

"Yes ma'am."

But the fates saw to it that Miranda was not forced to sit in the chill evening air. As the Mercedes swung onto West 89th for the second time, a cab pulled to the curb in front of the house Miranda sought.

"Stop the car!" No sane person hesitated when Miranda Priestly issued an order in that tone and Roy wasn't crazy. He quickly slid the silver town car in front of a hydrant and prayed that they wouldn't need to be there long.

Miranda paid no heed to where they were parked. Her eyes were glued to the tall young woman who hopped out of the cab and turned to trot up the front steps. The street lights were on the wrong side of the street to give her much help, but she didn't need much. The moment the woman had emerged from the back of the cab Miranda realized who it was. She couldn't hide her small gasp of recognition. The vintage bomber jacket and beat up leather messenger bag were achingly familiar. So was the lanky frame and thick brown hair.

Andréa.

Miranda held her breath as the beautiful young woman unlocking the front door was illuminated by the light over the stoop. She vanished inside and minute later the lights came on in the top floor apartment verifying where she lived. Roy's quiet cough dragged her attention back to the present.

"Shall I circle the block again Ms. Priestly?"

"I…no. I need to think. Central Park. Just drive around until I tell you otherwise."

"Central Park. Yes, ma'am." As he pulled away from the curb he glanced at his employer in the rear-view. She seemed stunned; lost in her own world. Figuring that even the rich and powerful needed some space on occasion he focused on getting her into the quiet of the park, wondering idly why she had staked out her former assistant's home. He supposed he'd find out sooner or later.

What do I do now? It had to be her, didn't it? That's poetic justice. Miranda laughed mirthlessly to herself. She deserts me in Paris when I needed her the most and now, suddenly, she's proclaiming her love for me. Well, knowing it's her makes this all so much easier. She left me once, she'll leave me again. There's no sense in even…a small, quiet voice deep in Miranda's heart spoke up suddenly. Did she desert you? Or did you drive her away? You sacrificed Nigel to save yourself and she saw that as a betrayal and walked away. Weren't your actions the reason she left? Try as she might,Miranda couldn't argue with herself about that. She knew she was responsible. In the intervening year she had more than made it up to Nigel, restructuring the executive staff of Runway so the Fashion Director was second only to her and giving him an obscenely large raise and staff to go along with it. She and Nigel had made their peace. But Andréa would have no way of knowing that.

But it doesn't matter! She sent the love notes even if she didn't know I made it up to Nigel. So she must want me for some reason. Oh, God, she wants me. A young, beautiful talented woman wants me. Is this where I become some cliché of a mid-life crisis? Yet another middle-aged buffoon obsessed with a gorgeous youth and making a fool of themselves all over town? Is this my turn to be the butt of everyone's jokes? But Miranda knew that didn't have to happen. She worked in an industry where there were as many gays as straights. Nobody even batted an eye. And she had an excellent publicist. With a modicum of discretion it wouldn't even cause a ripple. At least not one that would last more than a few days.

But what about the girls? How would it affect them? With a mental grimace Miranda realized that Andréa was closer in age to the twins than she was to Miranda. But that could make it better, couldn't it? Andréa would understand the girls far better than any male of Miranda's age would; wouldn't that help to bridge the gaps between them? She smiled to herself remembering the glee with which the twins related how they'd convinced her to bring the Book upstairs that first night. Of course, they hadn't told Miranda until afterward – once they had finished the final Harry Potter book Miranda had forced Andréa to find for them as punishment. But Andréa had always seemed level headed, she could be a good stabilizing influence on the girls. And Patricia even appeared to like her. So, why am I hesitating? Do I really think the girls will object if I have an affair with a younger woman?

No, I'm not worried about that. But would it be just an affair? Somehow I don't think either of us would want something that superficial. So what am I thinking of then? Living together? Running off to Massachusetts or Connecticut or Vermont to get married? Stop! Stop this instant! You're getting ahead of yourself. You don't even know what the girl wants. But she knew in her gut that Andréa did want her and all her baggage. That if they did embark on a relationship, at some point in time they would talk about going to Vermont or Connecticut or Massachusetts and getting married because neither of them would settle for less.

Then why am I so afraid? She's never given me any reason not to trust her. Why do I hesitate? Because every time I've tried to trust I've been hurt. Every other time I thought it would work it failed. But she already knows the worst of me. She's seen me as the Ice Queen; the executive with no heart. She's already come to terms with the worst of me, all she needs to discover is the best of me. I can love, I have loved, I will love again. And the more I think about it, the more I want that love to be with Andréa.

I knew deep inside, somehow I knew even through that hideous makeup she had on. God, what a costume! How could I have not recognized her? My body knew her even if my eyes didn't. I kissed her back and it was wonderful. Deep down I must have known. I've tried so hard to keep her out of my dreams this past year. How many times have I laid awake thinking of what it felt like when I realized she was truly gone in Paris? How my heart ached knowing I'd never again see that welcoming grin she gave me every morning. How I didn't care that Stephen was leaving me but it broke my heart that she was leaving me. How empty the outer office seemed even when we finally settled on Abigail. Miranda Priestly, it's time you admitted that you've never forgotten Andréa Sachs. You've got a second chance here; don't screw it up! You're fearless where Runway is concerned. Be fearless now. Trust her. Andréa has earned that much.

Miranda clenched her hands in her lap, closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Roy? Head back to West 89th Street."

"Yes, Ms. Priestly."

Miranda gazed unseeing out at the beauty of Central Park as she finally allowed herself to dream. Of soft lips and tenderness, of love and gentleness, of falling asleep in a beloved's arms. Roy had to clear his throat to let her know they were back in front of the town home. Miranda started and began to unfasten her seat belt as Roy came around the car and opened the door for her. As he helped her out of the back seat she said quietly, "I won't need you again tonight. I'll take a cab home later. I'll see you at the usual time tomorrow morning."

"Yes, ma'am. Good night, Ms. Priestly."

"Good night, Roy." Miranda turned and strode up the front steps, impatiently stabbing at a bell when she stepped into the pool of light at the front door. She heard a door open and close inside and the sound of footsteps approaching the vestibule. After a moment the door opened and she was face to face with a small, stocky older woman.

"Yes, can help you?"

"I'm Miranda Priestly and I…"

"I know who you are. What do you want?"

"Andréa… I… does Andréa Sachs live here?"

"She does. But if you're here to break her heart then you can just turn around and get back in that momzer car of yours. You might be a Gantseh Macher in the shmata business but that means bupkis around here. You hurt my bubeleh and you'll deal with me." Ruth's use of Yiddish tended to increase when she got worked up to the point where Andy had downloaded a translator/dictionary to her Blackberry to keep up.

Miranda smiled at the smaller woman. The familiar words from her childhood didn't sound so terrifying now. But she didn't doubt the sincerity of the woman before her. Not for one moment.

"I'm not here to hurt her. I'm unsure of many things where she's concerned, but not of that."

Ruth glared at her, apparently taking the measure of the silver-haired beauty. "Top landing," she said, stepping aside and allowing Miranda to enter the foyer.

"Thank you…?"

"Ruth Goldberg, honorary bubbe."

"A gezunt af dein kop, Ruth."

"Dank, Miranda."

Slowly Miranda climbed the stairs trying to control her breathing. Emotions were running wild as she did. Amusement at Ruth's protectiveness, terror at exposing her heart to possible hurt, fear of rejection, joy at the thought of Andréa loving her, anticipation at the thought of holding her. Fear gripped her, passion gripped her, anxiety gripped her as she climbed closer to the woman who had discovered and freed her secret dreams.

Nervously she stood before the paneled door. She raised one trembling hand and knocked softly on the burled wood. A moment later the door opened to reveal Andréa in faded Levis and a large man's, blue button-down shirt. A slow, lazy smile bloomed across her face as her eyes took in the visitor on her doorstep.

"Miranda," she breathed and Miranda Priestly's knees grew weak.

"Andréa," Miranda whispered in reply. "It was you…on my steps?"

"Yes, it was me."

Miranda summoned all her courage and gave a tiny smile. Her eyes began to twinkle.

"Prove it."

Andy Sachs stepped forward and gently cupped her cheeks. Gazing deeply into Miranda's eyes she drew her close and claiming those velvet lips with her own, did precisely that.

Finis