Unofficial Portkey Archive

A/N: Profuse thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far! I appreciate it very much. Special thanks to everyone who reviewed "How Much?" as well. I had a great time writing that one, but I'll take this opportunity to say that no sequel to that one is planned. Thanks again and hope you enjoy this chapter - let me know, would ya?

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter is JK Rowling's marvelous sandbox. I'm just playing in it. The poem that shows up in this chapter isn't mine either; it has been merely borrowed for this chapter and belongs to those that it belongs to (which isn't me). If you happen upon any other characters that you don't recognize from canon, however, then they're mine.

Chapter Five - The Keys to Wisdom and Hell

Ben Potter was completely, irreversibly captivated by words. The written word; the spoken word. The nuances of the English language fascinated him: the way the word "stone" could have so many meanings, depending on whether it was used as a noun, an adjective, an adverb or a verb. The way the spelling of a word was no guarantee that that was the way it was pronounced: "psoriasis".

The cannibalistic nature of the English language, the way it stole from other tongues and integrated the loot so thoroughly into itself that the average person isn't aware that the word wasn't English to begin with: "boulevard".

Words had placed their hooks in him from an early age. Harry and Hermione had always read to their children, even after the kids learned how to read themselves. Ben had always been a rabid reader, something his mother enthusiastically encouraged. His Grandpa Granger said Mum had been exactly the same way when she was younger, simply ravenous for books. By the time he was seven years old, for instance, Ben had read a quarter of the works of Charles Dickens and was within sight of the halfway mark.

All that reading was hell on his eyes, of course, so by the time he finished A Tale of Two Cities, he'd needed glasses. The ones he'd been fitted with made him look even more like his father, which Ben thought was infinitely cool. Uncle Remus frequently said he looked more like his grandfather James, though, since James had had hazel eyes too.

But considering the way he was now, it's hard to believe that Ben and the English language weren't always on the best of terms. Like his sister Emerson, Ben had been a very vocal baby - babbling, laughing, assorted noises. But unlike Emerson, who was already saying comprehensible words by the age of eleven months, Ben's first birthday came and went without him saying anything clearer than 'Mama', 'Dada', 'Em' and 'Ol' Bob'.

As the months after his first birthday went by, his parents had become increasingly concerned, Hermione much more so than Harry. Harry just thought Ben would start talking when he was ready but Hermione had gotten upset and said it was exactly that kind of laissez-faire attitude that allowed little problems to expand and overwhelm. And just because Harry didn't want to confront the reality that there might be something wrong with their son was no reason for her to do the-

She had broken down crying then, and Harry had hugged and kissed her and told her of course he was concerned and how could she even think he wasn't?

So Hermione had taken Ben to her former boss and colleague, Dr. Ramesh Garg. They'd had to be mindful of who they told since they were still celebrities. Heck, they couldn't even go out to eat without pictures being taken of them and "experts" analyzing whether there were problems in the marriage based on the way Harry held his fork. So if they'd gotten even a whiff of this...

Dr. Garg had poked and prodded and cast multiple diagnostic Charms on poor, screaming Ben while Hermione wrung her hands out of guilt and anxiety. And in the end, it'd been all for naught as Dr. Garg had merely proclaimed that Ben was perfectly healthy and would simply start talking when he was ready.

Harry had tried very hard not to look smug when Hermione relayed the verdict to him that night. He knew his wife had been really worried. But getting the professional opinion of someone she trusted calmed Hermione down somewhat, though of course her worry never really went away.

Then a little over a month later:

They were outside on the back porch, enjoying the late July dusk. Harry and Emerson were giggling together on the eastern end while Hermione held nineteen-month-old Ben on her lap aboard the swing.

"Somebody cut off a piece," Ben said, pointing at the sky and his parents laughed and hugged him between them while Emerson threw her arms around as much of them as she could and the swing creaked slowly, bobbing gently on the soft winds of love, happiness and relief.

And Ben had never looked back. It had actually been kind of scary how well he talked for someone so young. His intelligence astonished everyone; were he a Muggle, he was what their educators would call 'gifted'. Ron had remarked more than once that Ben made him feel 'unnecessary'.

"I mean, I'm the adult, right? I'm supposed to be giving the information, right? And the kid is supposed to be absorbing it in awe, right?" Ron had whined about a then three-year-old Ben. "So I'm telling Ben about Bludgers. I tell him that Bludgers try to knock players off their brooms. And I pause, expecting him to be wide-eyed and ask 'Why?'. Heck, no! The kid says, as matter-of-factly as you please, 'That's to prevent them from scoring.' That sproglet is not normal! But then again, his parents are as abnormal as they come."

His mum and dad had exchanged a glance then simultaneously put the Rictusempra Tickling Charm on Uncle Ron. Uncle Draco had really liked that.

"So how's your latest book?" Hermione asked Ben the day after Emerson went back to school. Dad had already gone to work so it was just Mum, himself, Budget and Vina at home. The four of them had all slept in and Mum had whipped up a late breakfast. Ben and Budget's school didn't reopen until the middle of the month so they had another two weeks of summer vacation left.

Ben swallowed an enormous mouthful of pancakes and bacon before he answered. "It was ok. I already finished it."

His mum raised her eyebrows. "Already? But that book was at least-"

"658 pages," Ben supplied, leaning over to swipe a piece of bacon from Luke's plate.

"MUUM!" Luke whined, trying to grab it back but Ben had already stuffed it in his mouth.

"Don't be a baby, Budget," Ben drawled as he chewed the stolen bacon.

"I'm not a baby!"

Ben rolled his eyes. "Quit acting like one, then. Cease and desist."

Luke frowned and Ben knew he didn't understand what that meant. But in true Budget fashion, he didn't let that stop him. "You cease and desist!"

Ben grinned at his little brother. "Do you even know what that means? But nevermind, gotta admire your tenacity. But lookie! Bangers. Want them?"

"Yeah!" Luke exclaimed, being the fervent bangers fan that he was. He stuffed one whole into his mouth and chewed with his eyes closed. "Man, this is good stuff! But what's my 'ten-a-city', Ben?"

His mum got up and went into the kitchen and Ben knew it was to laugh. She always listened to them as if she took what they said seriously, and Ben knew she did. Ben hated when people laughed at what he said when he wasn't trying to be funny. If he meant it be serious, why did they laugh? But sometimes Budget just said the funniest things and Mum would leave the room and laugh about it.

That was one of the things he liked most about his mother; she was very considerate of other people's feelings, even kids'.

He looked over at his brother, who was still staring at him, awaiting his answer. "Tenacity means you stick to something. Like just now? I took your bacon and you didn't like that. And even though I said something you didn't understand, you didn't give up."

"Didn't give up," parroted Davina, her face more or less covered with the oatmeal she was eating.

Luke swallowed the last of his bangers. "I see. Wanna chase me outside, Ben?"

"Maybe." Actually, there was a book he'd been hankering to read for years that he finally had his hands on. The Call of the Wild by Jack London. Ben muttered the title to himself under his breath, delighting in the way the words rolled off his tongue. What did that mean? Was it a play on words? How could the wild call? Did it have a voice?

The sound of his mother's footsteps made him look up. "Are you guys done then?" she asked.

The boys nodded and scraped back their chairs. Hermione helped Davina down from her chair and cleaned her up with a quick Scourgify. They all helped clear the table, Davina gravely carrying the silverware to the kitchen. Vina tended to get upset if she was left out of anything so Mum always tried to find some way for her to be involved in whatever was going on.

Hermione thanked them, dropped a kiss on each of their heads in turn and shooed them outside.

"I need to do something for work so try to keep it down out there," she said as she held the door open for them. "And no climbing the trees, Luke!"

"Ok!" Budget yelled in response as he took a flying leap off the back porch and tumbled over, laughing, on the grass below.

Ben heard his mother sigh. "I'm surprised he hasn't broken his neck yet," she muttered as she went back inside.

"Come chase me, Ben!" Luke yelled up at his brother, already crouched in prime take-off position on the ground.

Ben hesitated. The book.. he wanted to know what the title meant. What was the call? It was nagging at him, a maddening itch that could quickly be satisfied if only he could get upstairs and read. Davina toddled off the porch and joined Luke on the grass, turning back to look intently up at him.

Their eyes were shining with anticipation, with the expectation that their brother would come to them. And suddenly, Ben Potter understood. The call. That feeling deep in his gut, the pull of those he loved, of wanting to be with them, of wanting to make them happy.

His book could wait.

He took a running jump off the porch and his brother and sister began scrambling around with sounds of delight. For a fleeting second before it was pushed out of his head by the sheer joy of child's play, Ben marveled again at the ingenuity of the English language. How the word 'call' could mean so many things...

*******

As with almost everything else, there is a flip side to words - an unsavory side that knows how to expertly burrow into a mind and linger, disrupting soothing routines.

Which was why the morning of her second day back at Hogwarts found Emerson up much earlier than usual. She wasn't a morning person, (though not to as repugnant a level as Carolyna) so it certainly wasn't the norm for her to be up a mere hour after dawn. She had slept fitfully and more than once had been startled to realize that she was wide awake. Finally, she had gotten up, put on her bathrobe, checked on Lyna and headed downstairs to the Common room.

She couldn't stop thinking about that mysterious and malicious letter and the article that had accompanied it.

Her first full day at school had been busy and well-scheduled with learning new things about old subjects. History of Magic was the first class of the new term but they'd had Charms right after lunch and Em had been in her element. All thought of what had happened at breakfast was driven from her mind in the happiness of finally opening The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two in an official setting. By the end of the day, she'd been too busy discussing Quidditch with her classmates and Will, arguing with Germ Forrester about Puddlemere's chances this season to give the letter a thought or a worry.

It wasn't until she'd gone to bed to find herself suddenly unable to fall asleep that she remembered what had happened that morning. And once she started thinking about it, she couldn't stop and neither did the questions. Who had sent it? Why? Was it a prank? What did they hope to accomplish by sending her something like that?

Because there was no doubt in her mind that it had been meant for her. If she'd been at all skeptical upon reading the letter, the headline of the article had vaporized them effortlessly. How many Harry Potters were there in the Wizarding world, anyway?

Emerson sighed and tucked her feet under her in one of the overstuffed old chairs closest to the fire. The room had brightened as she sat and she was only just hearing the early-risers beginning to stir upstairs. Her eyes felt grainy from lack of sleep and she rubbed them, fidgeted in the chair and sighed again.

It was the letter that was bothering her. The article wasn't that much of a shock. Her parents had always been honest with her about the circumstances surrounding her birth, though of course they hadn't told her the whole story until they were sure she could handle it. Because she'd always been told the truth, whenever she stumbled across those old media stories, she was always able to read them with a sense of indifference. The media's attempts to twist the facts had come across as pathetic to Emerson because she already knew what the facts were.

And especially her first year at Hogwarts, upon hearing her name, some of her schoolmates had inquired as to whether such-and-such was true and did her dad really do this and that? Most of them had just been curious but there'd, of course, been the cruel ones - especially Jerrianne - who'd tried to throw that part of her history in her face. To those, Emerson had merely smiled and tossed her head dismissively.

Nobody had ever gone to such a level of malevolence as this unknown letter-writer, however. Whomever it was seemed to want to make sure Emerson knew just how inferior she was considered to be: not even doing her the common courtesy of using her name, just referring to her as 'Kiddo'. Labeling her a bastard and worse, a murderer. That diabolical smiley face.

Threatening her brothers and sister.

What if whomever it was really could hurt Ben, Budget and Vina? Em knew she could never bear it if anything happened to them because of her.

Right there and then, she reaffirmed the decision to keep this just between herself and Lyna. 'There's no need to tell Dad or anybody else,' she mused silently, gazing absentmindedly at the coals flickering in the fireplace. 'Besides, I won't be getting any more.'

A knot of cold unease tightened in her stomach at that thought and she found herself suddenly dreading going to the Great Hall for breakfast. The letter-writer had said he (or was it a she?) would write again and although Emerson was sincerely hoping that that was a bluff, what if it wasn't?

"Emerson?"

She started and looked over to the stairs leading up to the girls' dorm. Lyna was gazing sleepily down at her, rubbing her eyes.

"Hey, Lyna. What're you doing up so early?" Em asked, but already knowing the answer.

It was a custom the girls had that if one of them got up for any reason, they would check that the other was ok. This had been their means of coping with nighttime terrors when, as little girls, they'd allowed themselves to be spooked by horror stories too close to bedtime. The knowledge that the other was safe somehow became a source of comfort. Lyna had obviously checked Em's bed, found it empty and come looking for her; just as Em had checked Lyna's bed before she'd come downstairs earlier.

Old habits die hard. Not that this was a habit Emerson wanted to die any time soon.

Her friend shrugged. "Wondering where you were. Are you alright?"

"Sure. Just thinking," she said, unfurling herself from the chair and getting up. She stretched, crossed the room and paused on the stairs beside Carolyna, who hadn't moved.

Lyna's honey-colored eyes appeared darker in the gray light of the early morning. "What were you thinking about?"

"Stuff, you know," Em said, starting up the stairs again and trying to ignore the twinge of guilt she felt at lying to her friend. It wasn't really lying, was it? She had been thinking about 'stuff'. She just didn't want Lyna to worry about her.

When they reached the door of their room, though, Emerson stopped and turned to her friend. "You're a really good friend, Lyna."

Lyna smiled. "So are you." They pushed open the door and went inside.

"Aww, wasn't that really touching?" sneered Jerrianne, whose bed was right by the door and had apparently heard the exchange.

Em felt a surge of irritation. "It was, wasn't it? Especially to such royalty as yourself whose 'friends' are more like serfs."

The other girl flushed; it was, afterall, rather obvious to anyone who really observed the 'friendship' between Jerrianne, Janie and Maria that the Fakers seemed to live and breathe to cater to Jerrianne's every whim and want. It was something that really pissed Emerson off because her parents had always taught her that nobody was above anybody else. She couldn't understand why Janie and Maria let themselves be "reduced" like that. She'd labeled them "Fakers" because they were hiding who they really were and faking it so as to please Jerrianne, for whatever inane reason.

Emerson didn't notice the other girl's discomfiture, however. She had already turned away, now irritated at herself for rising to Jerrianne's taunt. Hadn't she decided that she wouldn't let herself be so easily riled up?

She and Lyna set to getting ready for the day and went down to the Hall for breakfast. That feeling of dread in her belly multiplied with every step she took but Emerson tried not to show it. She laughed at the bickering between Germ Forrester and Takeshi, two of the Gryffindor boys in her year.

Germaine 'Germ' Forrester was a tall black kid who was a rabid fan of the Wimbourne Wasps and who could typically be found arguing with a rival Quidditch fan. Today, that happened to be Stanley Takeshi, whom everyone called by his last name. Takeshi was short and wore glasses but was much quicker than he looked. He was also more than a little passionate about the Ballycastle Bats, whom Germ had just predicted would not even make the top ten this season.

Takeshi's fervor propelled them all the way to the Gryffindor table and everybody sat, chattering and more or less light-hearted. Em tried hard not to seem any different, though from the glances Lyna was throwing her, she knew her friend wasn't fooled.

"Keep hoping, Takeshi," Germ was saying gravely, patting the smaller boy on the back. "Gotta have hope, my man, even in the face of such terrible odds."

Takeshi shrugged off the hand irritably. "We don't need hope! We'll be getting on that list by sheer talent and arse-whupping!"

Germ snorted and caught Em's eye and she smiled weakly back at him. She picked at her eggs, sitting tensely on the edge of her seat as if awaiting something momentous. Actually, she was. Any minute now the owls would start swooping in and-

"Mail's here!" cried one of the first years, gazing upwards, obviously still awestruck by the whole packages-through-the-roof concept.

Emerson took a deep breath and steeled herself. She gripped her fork tightly and stared at the eggs getting chilly on her plate. But just as things started dropping onto the Gryffindor table, a part of her wondered suddenly why she was so uptight. Didn't she believe that the letter was a one-time thing? Wasn't this all in her head, then? What was she tormenting herself like this for?

She forced herself to look up, at the exact moment that a small spotted owl landed in front of her. Her heart flew into her throat, a freezing ball of dismay snaking icy tendrils through her stomach. The unfamiliar bird had a fat envelope tied to its leg and after staring at it in shock for a few seconds, Em reached out trembling hands to untie it.

But just then, another of her classmates, Dylan Brown exclaimed "Spottie! I'm over here, you stupid fowl!" and the owl hopped away and flew to him.

Emerson lowered her hands slowly to the table, feeling her heart beating wildly as a flood of relief shattered the snowball in her belly. She closed her eyes and gulped mouthfuls of air as the truth sunk in: there was no letter.

There was no letter!

Feeling suddenly ravenous, a smile blossomed on her face as she reached for the stack of toast across from her. "Ah, sliced bread! The best thing since itself!"

She broke into a fit of heady giggles until Carolyna nudged her. "What's wrong with you?"

Em grinned at her. "Nothing, Lyna. Nothing at all is wrong." And she laughed. Oh, she was so relieved. It was stupid of her for worrying so much. Hadn't she told herself it was just a prank, just a one-time thing? Likely the maggot who had sent it had found a job or a lover or something and now had other, hopefully less pathetic, ways of passing time.

Emerson's good mood continued all through breakfast. As they left the Hall, she threw her arm around Lyna's shoulder. "Have you ever heard of 'Mia Carlotta', Lyna?"

"Mia what?" her friend asked, craning her neck over the crowd thronging the corridor.

"'Mia Carl-" Emerson broke off. "Who are you looking for?"

Lyna blushed suddenly. "Nobody," she lied unconvincingly, staring across the Hall.

Em followed her gaze and her eyebrows arched wickedly. "Carolyna Lupin!" she exclaimed.

Her friend's head whipped around, her eyes wide but her cheeks were still red. "What?"

"What?! Don't give me that! You were staring at him, weren't you?" Emerson grinned mischievously, then spun around. "Davis! Davis Chapman! Over he-"

A hand clamped over her mouth, shutting off her shouts. "Don't, Em! Please. I would completely die if he came over here!"

"Ok, ok, I won't call him. But why would you die? I thought you liked him."

Lyna blushed harder. "I do. But I can't talk to him yet!" She not-so-subtly changed the subject. "What were you saying about Mia something?"

Emerson grinned, debating whether or not to let her friend off the hook so easily but in the end she took pity. "'Mia Carlotta'. It's a poem." She threw her arm around Lyna again and they started climbing the stairs to the Transfiguration classroom. "It goes like this:

Giuseppe, da barber, ees greata for "mash,"
He gotta da bigga, da blacka mustache,
Good clo'es an' good styla an' playnta good cash.

"What?" Lyna giggled. "You're making that up."

"No, I'm not. It's a real poem. The second part says:

W'enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street,
Da peopla dey talka, "How nobby! How neat!
How softa da handa, how smalla da feet."

Emerson was really working the Italian accent and by the time they reached the classroom, both girls were giggling helplessly. They pushed open the door to discover that they were the last ones to arrive, though they were not late, and that Headmistress McGonagall was there.

The girls quickly composed themselves. Why was McGonagall here? She wasn't the Transfiguration teacher anymore.

"Take your seats, please," the Headmistress said briskly.

Em and Lyna exchanged glances and grabbed a pair of desks near the center of the room. Once they were seated, McGonagall turned to the class. "I am sure you are all surprised to see me here. Professor Sanders had some personal matters to attend to so until she returns, I'll be handling this class. Now, I trust everyone has their books?"

The class murmured in the positive and Emerson grinned at Lyna as they reached for their texts. She was feeling mischievous again and as soon as McGonagall turned her back, she leaned over to her friend.

Lyna began giggling before Em had even opened her mouth. "Em, don't!"

He raisa hees hat an' he shaka hees curls,
An' smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls-

That was too much for Carolyna and she burst out laughing. Em quickly straightened up, fighting to rearrange her face to look as perplexed as everyone else who were turning to see what was going on.

"Miss Lupin, get ahold of yourself," McGonagall said disapprovingly.

Lyna covered her mouth, her eyes filling up with tears of mirth. "Sorry, Prof-" But then she snorted and started laughing even harder. Everybody except Jerrianne and the Fakers was smiling now, though they obviously didn't know what was so funny.

McGonagall fixed Em with a beady eye and Em knew her innocent act had been seen through. "Miss Potter, take Miss Lupin outside until she's regained control of herself!"

The girls stumbled from the room and Em broke into laughter too. After a few minutes, they sighed and leaned back against the wall.

Emerson's green eyes twinkled. "O! many da heart of-" she began.

"Emerson, stop!" Lyna cried, wiping her eyes. "Oh my gosh, you are such a troublemaker!"

"Me?"

Lyna rolled her eyes in exasperation, but she was smiling. "You certainly waste no time, do you? But ready to go in?"

"Yep."

They took their seats again, ignoring the quizzical looks being thrown their way and began to take down the notes from the board. Emerson was feeling herself again, but she didn't dare try anything more while the Headmistress was present. She knew McGonagall hadn't been amused. Which was too bad, really. The woman looked like she could use a little laughter in her life.

"I'm glad there wasn't another letter," Lyna whispered under her breath suddenly and Em smiled over at her.

'Not as glad as I am,' she thought. 'Nowhere near as glad.'

********

But oh, the fleetingness of feelings and emotions!

Because sadly for Emerson, by the end of the week she couldn't even remember what that profound sense of relief had felt like. This was owing to the fact that two days later, an unfamiliar eagle owl dropped a letter in her porridge and there was a letter every third day after that. It was always a different owl which always left within seconds of making its delivery.

By now, she had began to doubt ever having a name to assign to the letter-writer. Invariably, a smiley face was the 'signature' of every letter, which were all just as vicious as the first. The author had so far never wavered from reminding Emerson how impure she was, how different from everyone else.

How irremovable the blood on her hands.

Lyna kept telling her to throw them away unopened. "I mean, Emerson, why would you want to keep reading that stuff?" she pleaded in a whisper as Em stared at the latest epistle. It was Sunday morning and the Great Hall was sparsely populated, since they'd both come down after the breakfast rush. Will was seated across from them, thoroughly enamored with his kippers.

Emerson frowned. Why did she? At first, it'd been mere curiosity. She'd wanted to know what else the writer would say, what else she could be accused of. The mantra had never wavered from "Impure Bastard Murderer".

But still Emerson kept unsealing them, almost as if she'd been cursed into being unable to not open them.

She didn't know why she had this sort of morbid compulsion to read each and every one, sometimes more than once. Kinda like the way people are somehow unable to look away from the blood and gore of a horrific accident. She had read all the enclosed clippings but they didn't really bother her. She was still able to look at them with a jaded eye.

The letters, of course, were a different matter.

If you are anything like she was, and frankly I'd be shocked if you aren't, you are likely more than a little full of yourself. You likely think you're something special. Well, maybe I'm too much of a cynic, but not even having killed someone makes one unique these days. Isn't that something? I can't decide if that's more scary or sad.

But one thing I'm sure of, Kiddo, you aren't anything special so it would benefit you to do away with that kind of thinking. Self-delusion is, afterall, a terrible thing.

"What're you reading?" Will asked, somehow managing to tear his attention away from the kippers for a second.

Emerson looked up, trying to tell herself that what she'd just read hadn't stung. Self-delusion. "Just a letter."

"Who from?"

"Smiley," she invented on the spot, folding the parchment and stuffing it in a pocket of her jeans. Well, at last she had a name! Sort of. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that. Emerson suddenly wanted to get out of there.

"What kinda name is 'Smiley'?" Will wondered out loud. He frowned when she jumped up. "Hey, aren't you gonna eat your kippers?!"

"No, I'm not, Will. Ain't that a scandal?" Emerson grinned at his incredulous expression and turned to her best friend. "You coming, Lyna?"

Carolyna hesitated, glancing at her pancakes then put down her fork. "Yeah."

Em felt a rush of warmth at the selflessness of her friend. "No, you stay and finish," she amended quickly. "I'll meet you back in the Common room."

"Are you ok?"

She smiled. "Sure, why wouldn't I be?"

But as she climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, she felt an odd lump rising in her throat.

But one thing I'm sure of, Kiddo, you aren't anything special...

Emerson knew she didn't have a big head. She had always been friendly and outgoing. She had always treated people the way she wanted to be treated. She didn't consider herself better than anybody, not like Jerrianne. The other girl had tried to turn the fact that Em's father was Harry Potter into grounds for a case that Emerson therefore had a superiority complex. And that was an outright lie. Her father didn't let his fame define him so she had never had any reason to let the fact that he was her father define her.

But Emerson Potter did like herself. She did think she was special. Her family had always showered her with love, had always taught her that she should be proud of who she was and to not change for anybody.

And someone was trying to take that away from her.

Who was sending her these things? Why did they hate her so? And, perhaps most troubling of all: why did they want her to know it?

********

End Notes:

1. The "sliced bread" line is from "Good Eats" on the Food Network. Alton Brown is almost as cool as Jamie Oliver. Almost.

2. The poem "Mia Carlotta" is by T.A. Daly and is owned by him and whomever else owns it. It ain't mine. The full poem can be found here: http://www.bartleby.com/104/51.html.

NEXT CHAPTER: We finally meet the "she" from the Prologue who has been writing to Emerson. Till next time, rock on and drop a review!