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Chapter 3: Act III

Author's Notes: Hey guys! Thanks for checkin' out Episode 3. If you like our stories, subscribe to the magazine! Read the comics! Or, y'know, Keep the Faith. Oh, and write feedback. Pretty pretty please?

Robin steps out of the principal's office, turning left and stepping off down the hallway. Numbly, he opens a door marked ‘Teacher's Lounge,' moving quietly inside. The door closes behind him, and he turns, observing the cramped room. A small, well-worn couch sits on one wall along with a couple of fairly comfortable-looking chairs; opposite is a diminutive table and a counter with cabinets. A coffeepot sits idly in one corner, a cube fridge in the other. He takes a seat on the couch, his eyes closing and his fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose.

"You look like you just got the Kessler treatment," a voice says from the doorway, a faint Hispanic accent lacing the smooth, feminine voice. Robin looks up to see an attractive woman in her early thirties. She wears heels and flesh-colored stockings under a tan woolen skirtsuit, a white blouse showing through the open jacket. Her hair is curly, and the top is tied back, the sides falling down past her shoulders. She is beautiful, with delicate features and olive-toned skin.

"I guess I did," he says quietly. She nods, brown eyes warm.

"He's like that with everyone the first time around. And pretty much every time after," she says, smiling. "Come. Let me show you." She beckons, moving past him. She stops at the counter, setting her mug down beside the black machine. "Coffee," she says tenderly, patting the coffeemaker. "It will save your life here." She reaches up, opening a cabinet door. She pulls down a bottle of Tylenol, smiling softly. "And this? This we keep for Kessler." She offers him the bottle.

"Thank you," he says, taking it gratefully. "I'm Wood. Robin, Wood," he adds quickly.

She laughs, her voice floating and airy. "I know who you are, Mister Wood. We have all heard about you here." She fills her mug from the pot, wafting some of the aroma to her.

"News travels fast," he says quietly.

"Only bad news," she says, smiling. She heads for the door. "Be careful. Kessler has it out for you. I'd watch my back."

"And whose back would that be?" She pauses, half-grinning, only her head turning to look at him.

"Mine," she says. Then the door is closing behind her, and Robin is alone.

~*~*~*~

Fallon knocks twice on the office door, which is marked ‘Out of Order,' and opens it without waiting for a response. The office is small and crowded, any number of traffic signs and band posters covering each other up on the walls. The desk is cluttered and propped up by books on one corner. Behind it sits a tall blonde in casual clothing; jeans and boots, with a tank top under an open button-down. She has her feet up on the desk, the soles of her boots facing halfway between the door and a wall, a legal pad in her lap, a pen in one hand and a phone clamped between her shoulder and her ear. She waves Fallon in with her free hand, even as she talks into the phone.

"No, Frank. Frank." A beat. "Frank, you're not listening to me. I ordered twelve cases of Stoli. That's how many I always order. Twelve." She pauses. "Right. So what am I doing sitting here with only six cases, Frank? Cause my invoice here says twelve, but..." She takes a breath. "No, I don't care if you have to put one case on six different trucks. Just get me what I ordered." Another pause. "Yeah, well, I have a business to run, too, Frank. Just get it done, or I'll find a supplier who can actually count." She tosses the phone back onto its cradle, and glances up at Fallon.

"Please tell me you locked the register, and that you have a really good reason to be back here instead of serving customers."

Fallon shrugs. "I've got a good reason, but the bar is still open. And trust me, me being back here isn't costing you any money."

Staci's eyes go wide. "Did Jenny come in for a shift? Because if she did, you tell her from me..."

"Jenny's still out, Stace. It takes more than a week to get over a broken ankle."

"Then who the hell is watching the bar?"

"One of the customers."

Staci's eyes go wide as her feet come off the desk. "You did what?!"

Fallon shakes her head. "It's cool. I trust this girl. In fact, you need to come see something."

Staci stands, her hands flashing to her hips. "Fallon, if this woman is stealing from my bar..."

"She isn't stealing, Stace," Fallon says evenly. "And even if she was you couldn't afford to fire me. Jasmine got arrested on a DWI, you fired Jessica-and, for the record, I told you the first day I met her that she would rip you off-Jenny's out for God knows how long before she'll be back, if she comes back, Cameron's in Italy and didn't leave a number. Kim and I are the only bartenders you've got, and you promoted her from barback." She takes a breath. "Please, Stace. Come see this girl. You'll like her." Staci arches an eyebrow, but follows the sandy-haired woman down the stairs.

As the two stand in the darkness just past one end of the bar, the crowd of partiers is clustered around Faith, who's leaning over the bar.

"So there I was, right, with this big, bad-ass lookin' biker dude staring down at me. And he's got this look on his face like he's gonna tear me apart, y'know? Well, either that or he wants to get all pelvic. It's kinda hard to tell with guys sometimes, y'know?" A couple of them laugh. "Either way I wanted no part of it. So I pick up the pool cue, right, stare him dead in the face, and go ‘Mister, if you don't screw off and leave the bar right now, I'm gonna make sure you need about six million stitches in your face.' " The group laughs again, sold by her delivery. "But, see, that's when my friend, Mikey Figgs, he comes up behind this guy and cracks him over the head with a beer bottle, right? Only he's holding it wrong, and it shatters, right in his hand..."

One of the girls goes wide-eyed. "You mean Mike Figueroa?!"

Faith cocks her head. "You a Southie girl?"

"D street, right off West Seventh," the girl says, laughing. "I used to go with him back in college."

Faith's eyes go wide. "You're screwin' with me. Mikey Figgs went to college?!"

The other girl nods. "So, wait, you're the Faith who broke Jack Timlin's nose at that party? Man, Mike must've told me that story like eight million times."

Faith shrugs. "Hey, he was touchin' a girl where she didn't wanna be touched, y'know? I'm still surprised I never got busted for that." She looks around at the rest of the group. "Yo, you guys ready for another round? I'm sure Birthday Girl here is lookin' to pre-game for the rest of the bah-hoppin', am I right?"

The group bursts out, everyone ordering at once. Faith scans over the group, listening to each girl in turn. She nods. "Aight, you six I'm cool with. The other three... you wanted a...?"

"Red Devil," calls a girl in the back.

"Red Devil, right. And that was two Fuzzy Navels?" The pair-obviously a couple-nods, and Faith nods back. "Cool. Uncharted territory, here we come." The group laughs, and Faith leans down, selecting liquors, flipping openly through the not-so-secret bartending book.

"Girl's got charisma, I'll give her that much," Staci says, eyeing the younger woman up and down. Fallon nods.

"Half the bar already has a crush on her. I wouldn't be surprised if she earns the most tips out of any of us just by customers trying to get her into bed."

"So that's what this is about."

Fallon rolls her eyes. "What this is about, Staci, is that you need bartenders, and I have classes. You keep asking me for more and more hours, and there's only so much I can handle and be back in college at the same time. You wanna talk to her, or what?"

Staci chews her lip, considering. She's watching Faith, who's moving swiftly behind the bar, every motion more confident than the last. Finally she nods, and Fallon steps forward just as Faith is ringing up the drinks.

"Yo, Faith," she calls from the end of the bar. Faith turns her head to look at her, nods to acknowledge her presence, then makes quick work out of the register as Fallon dips and scoots under the entry plank to the bar. Faith turns around, handing change back to the birthday girl, smiling at the crowd. "Sorry, girls, bartender's back." There's a general sounding of disappointment, and Faith blows kisses as she makes her way to the end of the bar, where Fallon is just starting to stand back up.

"They're certainly a hoot," she says, looking back. "Oh, I owe you five bucks for hitting that girl's shirt with the Coke gun. Not sure I really have that one down. Had to buy her the drink, y'know?"

Fallon half-smiles, waves her off, and is doing the best she can to hide her amusement. "Technically you owe the bar," she says, "though personally I have to thank you. I've been wanting to mess with her for awhile now."

"Then can I keep the five bucks?" Faith asks, laughing. Fallon shrugs, nods her head toward Staci.

"Ask her. Staci, this is Faith. Faith, this is Staci. Someday, all this will be hers."

"All this is already mine," Staci says sourly. "Come on. You and I need to talk." She turns and heads back to the door that leads upstairs, not even glancing behind her to see that Faith is following. Faith stands there for a moment, though, looking at Fallon, confused.

Fallon smiles encouragingly. "Go on," she says. "I'll get these guys nice and drunk for you. Go on upstairs." Faith cracks an uncertain half-grin, and heads off to follow Staci, who's holding the door impatiently. The two of them make their way up the narrow, dark staircase and step into the office. Staci plops down in her chair, her boots rising back up to her desk.

"You ever been a bartender before?" she asks, lighting a cigarette. Faith shrugs.

"Held down the bar at a coupla frat parties back in high school. But that was really only whatever was in the keg and whatever bottles I could lay my hands on."

Staci takes a drag, flicks some ash into the ashtray on her desk. "And your last job?"

"Martial arts instructor," Faith replies, tensing slightly. "Back in Sunnydale."

"As in California? As in, massive earthquake, entire town swallowed up by the earth?"

Faith shrugs. "Somethin' like that."

Staci gives her a look, considering. Finally she sighs, leaning back in her chair. "Here's how it works," she says, after a moment.

"You work for ten dollars an hour, off the books. Tips get split sixty-forty between the bartenders and the barbacks. First couple weeks you'll be on with either Fallon or Kim until both of them are sure you know what you're doing. I catch you stealing from me or getting drunk on the job, I got a Louisville Slugger back here that's not above making new friends with your head. Any questions?" Faith's mouth hangs open as the phone rings, a confused look plastered on her features. Staci looks her up and down. "Good. Now get out of my office and be back at seven."

Faith's mouth works for a moment, trying to make sounds, but Staci's attention is already focused on the phone. Finally she gets it together, closes her mouth, turns and walks out the door. She moves numbly downstairs. She takes a seat on one of the barstools, her eyes not quite focused, staring off into space.

"Y'alright there, tiger?" Fallon asks, smirking as she cleans a glass. Faith looks up at her, eyes perplexed.

"Fal, what the hell just happened to me?"

~*~*~*~

Aislen is sitting on the piano bench, her eyes staring dully at the page, when she hears the chunk of a key in the lock on the door. She scrambles to her feet, clutching her bag to her chest. The door swings open to reveal Simon. His humble blue suit has been replaced with a proper white shirt and bow tie. His tuxedo jacket is draped across his forearm. He smiles warmly at Aislen, who steps back instinctively as he steps into the room, a piece of black fabric in his hand. It doesn't evade her notice that Andrew and Donald take up positions beside the door.

"Hello, Aislen," he says, blue eyes bright. His eyes crinkle, showing concern. "How are you liking the material?"

"I want to go home," she whispers. He flashes that warm smile again.

"Now, Aislen, we're going to be on stage in Carnegie Hall in just a few hours," he says gently. "Don't you want to sing with us?"

"No," she says coldly. He sighs, takes another step toward her. She takes a step back, even though she knows she's rapidly running out of room between her back and the wall. Simon sighs again.

"Aislen, I'm not going to hurt you. Please, take a seat. I brought you a present," he says, gesturing to the piano bench, still holding onto the fabric. When she hesitates, he raises his eyebrows, his best ‘kind uncle' face. "Please? For me?"

She scowls, but eventually sits, bag still clutched to her chest. He reaches out, gently clasping his hand around the handle of her bag. She holds on for a moment, but after a little firm pressure, she finally releases it. He takes a seat next to her on the bench, placing her bag on the floor beside her. Her arms wrap around herself, hugging herself instinctively. He smiles warmly again, offering her the folded-over fabric.

"Here," he says, "I wasn't quite sure what size you were, but Helen picked you out a dress from our little wardrobe downstairs. It's quite beautiful," he says, offering her the black velvet piece. She recoils from him even further on the bench. He sighs again, standing, placing the dress carefully on the seat before kneeling in front of her.

"Aislen, I need you to know something about Helen, okay? Katherine told me what happened. Helen is very sick, Aislen. She's a paranoid schizophrenic. Do you know what that means?"

"It's the same thing I am," she says quietly. "The same thing they try to tell me I am, anyway."

"So then you understand that sometimes she mistakes what's in her head for reality," he says softly. "She thinks she saw something terrible. Of course she's scared. But she's no prisoner, Aislen. Neither are you."

"I... I'm not?" He shakes his head.

"Not at all."

"Then why did you have them lock the door?!" she growls, eyes gone from terrified child to rays of ice. Still, his smile doesn't falter.

"I wanted a chance to sit down with you, to explain things calmly and rationally..."

"You put it in the water," she says quietly, her eyes focused in the middle distance, locked in one place. "You put it in the water and you put it out for them to drink. And they do, they do, the first time because they're thirsty and after that they do because you tell them to, you tell them it's good for their throats and for their voices. The first time they all believe you, and after that they don't have the ability not to," she whispers, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "And when they sing for you, you, you take it from them, take from them what's rightfully theirs, what you should never have the chance to take..."

"Aislen? Where is all this coming from?"

She stands to face him, her eyes now locked on his face. "You take what no one should ever be able to take from someone and you do it with a smile," she says, disgustedly. "You make me sick."

He stands, now, his face angry. "I take nothing from them they haven't lost already!"

"You take their souls!" she cries out.

"I take their pain!" He calms, smoothing out his shirt. "The life of an artist is pain, Aislen. I think you've seen it. I think you, above all people, would know that. You live in the streets, a slave to your instrument, to your voice. Penniless, but with a song inside you cannot help but sing." He sits back down, his eyes comforting and warm. "You feel alone, isolated by your gift. But I can take from you the things that make you different. I can make you whole again."

"You can't take what I won't give you," she whispers, her back flat against the wall. He shakes his head sadly.

"Oh, Aislen," he says, his voice laden with regret, "of course I can."

"I won't sing for you," she whispered, defiance in her voice even as she trembles. "No matter what you do to me, I won't."

He smiles sadly. "I know." He sighs. "That's why I wouldn't do it to you. There'd be no point, really. Very well." He turns, looks to the two men still standing in the doorway, their black tuxedos menacing. "Andrew? Donald? I really don't want to do this, but she leaves me no choice. Please go to the abattoir and skin Helen alive."

Aislen's eyes go wide as saucers; she can feel the blood drain from her face. "Wh... what?!"

"Oh, it's very simple, Aislen," he says, turning over his shoulder. "You will perform tonight. And every night after that I designate. And you will give me what I want, without resistance. Or I will have to resort to... drastic measures." He turns again, smiling, to the tuxedoed men. "On second thought, gentlemen, let us leave Miss Finnegan to her own devices for a time. I'm sure she wishes some time to rethink her decision." He smiles once again at her. "I hope you enjoy the dress."

He disappears into the hallway, the ghost of a smirk fading like a Cheshire cat, and Aislen is alone, her knees buckling as she hears the key turning in the lock. She finds herself grateful to be back against a wall as she collapses, sliding to the ground.

"Faith," she whispers softly. Her eyes close, her body shaking with her effort not to let tears of terror fall. They begin a fresh path down her cheek anyway, and her hand shudders as she moves to wipe it away.

~*~*~*~

Aislen feels like the few short minutes, alone and terrified, have stretched on into infinity. Her hands play nervously with the hem of the dress, the black velvet crushing easily between her fingertips, only to reset gently into its flowing form when she releases it. Her necklace, a simple Celtic cross, dangles from its silver chain; it's the one thing she owns that she truly loves, and one hand comes up to hold it, the silver small comfort in her near-trembling hand. It's visible for perhaps the first time in a long time; normally it hides beneath layers of clothing that can be shed and donned according to temperature, lying secretly behind the neckline of her T-shirts or tank tops. But the dress has a plunging, V-neck design that leaves her chest uncomfortably bare in the cool evening air. Neither are her thighs accustomed to the breeze, and she wishes not for the first time tonight that she could crawl out of her skin, the way she pictures in her head, the way her body feels she might.

She hears a pair of solid, heavy knocks on the door that make her jump, one hand coming to her throat. The door swings open, not waiting for a reply before doing so, and Katherine barges into the room. The chubby woman is dressed in a similar black dress, though hers looks vaguely like a parody; Aislen might laugh, if she weren't so afraid. The larger woman comes bearing makeup, several kits and compacts in the basket of her skirt, held up by one hand like a marsupial; the other hand wields a brush.

"Well, don't we look lovely this evening?" she asks, wicked smile on her face. Aislen shifts uncomfortably. "Now, let's see what we can do about that skin, hmm?"

"My skin?" she asks, dumbfounded.

"Those freckles, girl," Katherine says harshly. "Sit."

"But... I like my freckles," Aislen says weakly, her body settling onto the bench in the solitary room. Katherine smirks darkly.

"Really? Well, that's too bad," she says, opening a compact and picking up the brush, the remainder of the items sitting on the bench beside Aislen. "Close your eyes."

~*~*~*~

Rona walks, the September afternoon air cool against her skin. She slips out of the projects almost unnoticed, out into the neighborhood. She could walk south, down along Kent Avenue and toward the old Brooklyn Naval Yard; instead she walks north, parallel to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, the highway arching overhead. She can see the Williamsburg Bridge, stretching out toward Manhattan; the smaller island seems like it's miles away, looming and vicious, the sun setting slowly over the southern tip.

She ambles for a little while, the streets and textures and smells familiar. The city has changed in the six months she was gone, and not necessarily for the better. She walks north into Williamsburg for awhile, watching the yuppies pass her by, blissfully unaware.

As the sun begins to darken, she starts hurrying back toward the navy yard. She ducks into a grocery store on instinct as she passes. Her transaction with the teller is silent, and she continues her march back to the Taylor-Wythe projects. The sun has just dipped below the horizon, the last of its light fading from the sky, and she can feel hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise. Her pace quickens, her breath loud in her ears. She doesn't want to be outside after dark, doesn't want to be another nameless victim, another black statistic from the projects.

Something-someone-touches her arm, and she whirls, her fist lashing out of its own accord. Her assailant's nose starts to bleed instantly; she doesn't stay around, the milk lying on the pavement as she runs, her sneakers pounding pavement toward home. She calculates the distance from where she is to the door of her building; she knows she can't outrun a vampire, even with the jump she's bought herself. She wonders if she's only made it mad, made it hungry. The hunt starts early in Brooklyn, she's heard, imagines she's heard.

"Rona!" a voice cries out, and it makes her steps falter. She risks a glance over her shoulder and goes down, the tip of her sneaker catching on the uneven pavement. She catches herself on her palms, but her left wrist twists a little, and her arm spasms with pain. She swears, supporting herself with her other hand as she climbs to her feet. The move is delayed, though; she winces, rotating her wrist automatically as she stands. She looks over her shoulder at the man who was chasing her; he now stands, not far from her, holding out her half-gallon of milk with a look like he's approaching a lioness.

"...Mark?"

He nods, blood trailing from his nose down to his lip. "That's me." He pauses, pinching his nose with his other hand. "What the hell's gotten into you, Rona?"

"I. Um." She stutters, trying to find words. "I'm sorry," she says finally, looking down.

"I called to you. Like, six times. And then I finally catch up to you and you deck me one?"

"Didn't hear you," she says lamely. "I. Um. Can we walk?"

"Depends. You gonna cold-cock me again?" She shakes her head, wordlessly; he offers her the milk in answer.

"You dropped this," he says awkwardly. She nods, reaching out, taking it from his hands without touching him. She turns and starts walking briskly back toward her building, feet moving quickly, her eyes down. It's only partially to look for more cracked pavement.

"So Rona, where you been?" he asks, trotting beside her to keep pace. "What happen, you switch schools and didn't tell nobody?"

She shakes her head, walking faster. Mark trots up, cutting in front of her; she has to grind to a halt to avoid bowling him over.

"Yo, Rona, what's gotten into you? Six months you disappear, I finally run into you on your way back from the grocery and I don't even get no hello?"

"Hi, Mark," she says, eyes still not meeting his; her feet start to move again, striding around him. He risks reaching out and grabbing her arm again. She yanks it free, keeps walking.

"Oh, so it's like that, now," he says quietly, walking beside her. "No hello, no ‘happy to see you,' just a cold-cock to the face and blow me off. Man, Rona, what'd I ever do to you?"

She sighs, stopping. "You didn't do anything, okay? I just don't wanna be out here after dark," she says, her shoulders shifting uncomfortably.

"Why?" he asks, his lips peeling into a grin. "Somebody out to get ya?"

"Something like that," she says quietly. They've reached the courtyard between the buildings; she waves an arm off toward her own. "Look, I gotta get home."

"Right. With those groceries you so desperately need." He shakes his head. "I never did understand you."

"Nobody does," Rona mutters under her breath, striding off toward her doorway. Mark stands there, watching her go, blood still dripping from his nose. He looks down absently, seeing that the red drops have stained his white T-shirt.

"Damn," he mutters, his fingers plucking at the cotton even as he continues to bleed on it. He snorts blood, tastes it in the back of his mouth, the copper taste rolling around the back of his throat. He spits it out, smiling softly, his teeth stained gently with red.

"Hey, Rona!" he calls. She stops, the door half-open in her hand. "I gonna see you in school tomorrow?"

She doesn't say anything that he can hear, though her lips move. He thinks he can lip-read something about her mother, though he's not sure; then the door is closing behind her, and she's waiting in the lobby for the elevator.

He shakes his head, turns toward his own building. He fails to notice her eyes, though, which are pinned to his back as he walks away.

~*~*~*~

Aislen shuffles onto the yellow school bus with the rest of the chorus, taking a seat towards the back. She wants to sit next to Helen, but she is squeezed against the window by one of the basses; she thinks his name is Greg, but she's not entirely sure they have names anymore, really.

She spots Helen taking a seat a few rows in front of her. The girl's eyes are even more sorrowful than before, dark and welling up with tears. She doesn't make eye contact, not daring to let her eyes wander in Aislen's direction, and she's boxed against a window by Donald.

Aislen shudders, her eyes turning away from the crowd, her mind convinced that the singers are no better than zombies, the blank faces more horrifying than her worst nightmares.

The city outside the window is bleak, the sun from the early afternoon having dissipated, leaving behind gray skies to settle over the city. She can smell the children who rode the bus home from school, their peanut butter sandwiches heavy in the air. Her mind drifts back to a time when she was young, the child of Irish immigrants, book open in her lap on the bus to school. She smiles softly, the feeling of the book in her hands, the texture of the page edges rolling across her thumb.

All too soon, the bus pulls into the back entrance to Carnegie Hall, the engine grinding to a halt as the doors hiss open. She can smell the rain as she is shuffled inside with all the rest of the chorus; she feels as though she is walking to the gallows, the rope hanging high. She can practically feel the tightness around her neck. Her outward affect is calm and almost sedate, but her mind is whirring and whirling like an inmate on death row. She can barely stand to see even the grayest of skies disappear from view; she knows it may be her last, and bile rises in her throat. She isn't sure she could speak right now, much less sing; she has nothing to go on, nothing to hope for.

"Faith, where are you?" she whispers under her breath. "I need you." But try as she might, over all the years she's lived with the strange dysfunctions of her mind, she's never had the power of suggestion, and her near-silent pleas will go unheard by any but herself. Instead she watches herself being led, glumly, through halls and corridors, her newly-blacked boots making small crunching motions against the carpet. As soon as she walks through a hallway she forgets it, and soon she's lost within the belly of the concert hall, her chorale finally reaching a back room with a piano. She knows instinctively that this is where they will make their final preparations; she has perhaps half an hour, perhaps forty-five minutes before the noose tightens around her neck, strangling her song forever.

Suddenly her body is overwhelmed with need. She turns to Katherine. "Miss Katherine?" she says demurely, her eyes flickering madly toward the door.

"What is it, Aislen?" Katherine asks, annoyed.

"Miss Katherine, may... may I use the bathroom?" she asks, unsure. The larger blonde's eyes narrow, her head tilting as she considers.

"Simon? How much time do we have?"

"Oh, we won't be on until seven," he says offhandedly. Katherine nods.

"Very well," she says, sounding exasperated. "Andrew? Please escort Aislen to the restroom."

"Only... umm... where is it?"

"Andrew can show you," she says, her words biting. She turns to the group, ushering them toward assembling. Aislen's eyes drift to catch Helen's; the older soprano's are almost as panicked as Aislen's, and she can feel her heart breaking at the look of impending sadness.

Andrew offers her his arm, the perfect robotic gentleman. Aislen shudders, taking it with her own, and she allows herself to be led out of the practice area, down the hall to the restroom.

~*~*~*~

Andrew pauses with her outside of the door to the ladies' room. Aislen uncouples her arm from his. He opens the door for her, holding it, looking slightly uncertain. She forces a smile to her lips, her eyes focused on the tenor's.

"It's okay," she says encouragingly. "I'll only be a minute." He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts short any debate. "I know you're here to watch me, but if you come inside you'll get in trouble, and then you'll bring attention to Katherine and Simon. And you wouldn't want that, would you?" He pauses, considering, and she smiles again. "I'll be back soon." Then she's gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

She barely makes it onto a toilet seat before her bladder begins to empty itself, and her eyes finally let loose some of the tears that have been welling up inside of her. She barely manages to choke back the sobs, willing herself to keep it together. But she can't stop the feeling that the part of her that she sees as herself is going to die, be stolen like a blanket in the night. She will be stripped bare and broken and bent to someone else's will.

She knows she can only afford a minute or two, though, and when she finally regains control over herself she blows her nose with a piece of toilet paper, dabbing at her tears with more of the same. Finally she rises, the water flushing behind her, and she moves quickly to the mirror to survey the damage.

She surveys her face as she washes her hands, totaling up the damage done by Katherine and her own shameful, terrified tears. Some unconscious part of her reaches for a tissue and wipes away the makeup covering her freckles, some last bastion of defiance working its way to the surface within her. She has to admit that Katherine's done a good job with her eyes-the part of it that hasn't been washed away by her tears-and her eyes sparkle, blue as the ocean, even in her desperation.

"Are you okay?" she hears, and whirls. She hadn't even known she wasn't alone in the bathroom; a woman in her mid-fifties is looking down at her with every evidence of concern on her face. Aislen's automatic smile comes to her lips, even as her mind goes blank, unable to remember anything to say.

"Um." She pauses, trying to gather her fleeing thoughts. "No," she finally answers, "not really."

"What's wrong?" the woman asks, swinging her purse up onto the counter.

"It's my mother," Aislen says, mind wheeling faster than she thought possible. "I don't think she's going to come. I would try to call my sister and remind her to come, but my, um, my cell phone died and I don't think she's going to make my recital and..." She stops, trying to breathe. Even if the words are wrong, the desperation is real, and the woman smiles graciously.

"Well, isn't that just terrible! A mother forgetting her own daughter's recital. And at Carnegie Hall, no less!" She reaches instinctively into her own bag, compassion plain on her face. "Here. You can use mine," she says, passing the small black square to the frightened blonde. Aislen brushes a streak of red hair back from her face, her other hand clutching to the phone more desperately than to life itself.

"Thank you so much," she says, her eyes welling up again. She closes her eyes, willing her mind to focus, praying that she can make this work.

She reaches out, with every part of her that can, her eyes squinted shut, her mind running over every memory of Faith she can pull to the surface; breakfast in a diner, exorcising the ghost of Saul, Faith tripping over a rat while carrying a bookcase down the stairs. She lets the images float past her, now accompanied by ones she's never seen, places she's never been. She sees the brunette laughing, the sound cascading; sees her gyrating with a blonde in a bar, feels the joy radiating from the image. Then the images flit past her too fast to count, to distinguish from each other. She tries to focus, to shift the images to her phone, the small black rectangle in Faith's hand. Finally she watches as a tall black man with gold earrings begins to dial her number for the first time, laughing as he enters the number into his phone. She opens her eyes, bracing herself on the counter for balance.

"Are you alright?" the voice asks again. Aislen just nods.

"I almost forgot her number. We just moved here," she says absently, the lies coming easily now. Finally she begins to dial.

The line rings once, twice, three times in her ear. She prays silently, to God, to all the gods who have ever lived and died, to the faeries and the dryads, to every nymph and elf and pixie who ever lived or was written about. She pleads to the universe, to anything that can help her, her eyes squeezed shut.

"Yo." She breathes deeply, waiting for the rest of the message from the voicemail recording to play. A pause, though. "...hello?"