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Chapter Text

The only sounds that broke the early morning stillness of Tilney Manor were the punctual ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall and the whisper of page over page as I eagerly devoured Catherine Morland’s journey through Bath. The expansive library was my favorite part of the mansion that I had called home since my adoption both for the privacy that its nooks and crannies afforded me as well as for the romantic stories that filled my head with intoxicating visions of love, marriage, partnership.

Jane Austen’s novels were my favorite, and among them, Northanger Abbey  took the highest position, its pages offering fresh delights despite having been read many times over. I had only minutes left, I knew, before I was expected, and so although I knew full well how the story ended, I sped ahead in order to see the happy resolution.

The clock sounded just as I read the final words. Satisfied with my timing and pleased that the ending had not changed since I’d read it last, I took the novel in hand and left the library. I knew that the clock whose ticking had lent my reading a steady rhythm ran several minutes fast, and so although it was currently chiming, I had time yet to make it to my lesson, as long as I moved quickly.

The sound of my footfall was drowned out by the lavish paneling that adorned the hallways of Tilney Manor, and so when I arrived in the sitting room, it was only the slight shortness of my breath that could give any clue as to the speed that had allowed me to be punctual. Although Mrs. Luthor was displeased by my frequent tardiness, it was not in avoidance of her sharp words that I had hurried – little, I felt, could be done to mitigate her cruel tongue. My unusual haste that day was because – at last – Ms. Bird had decided it time to discuss Northanger Abbey.

Ms. Bird was my English tutor. She wore her hair shorter than Mrs. Luthor approved of, but her gentle nature and patience with my questions made her an effective teacher to the unruly child that I was. I admired her for her wide knowledge; in those days, I believed that she had read every book ever written, and that she could intelligently discourse about any of them.

She was seated in her customary place when I walked in, in the armchair closest to the fireplace within which a modest fire burned, no matter the summer heat. Mrs. Luthor, as was her custom, stood behind Ms. Bird’s seat, where she could see the notes that my tutor took during our lessons. Even her presence, however, could not quell my excitement for the day’s lesson, and I eagerly sat across from Ms. Bird.

“You’re on time today,” she said, but I could tell that she meant it with affection.

“Yes,” I said, “I couldn’t be late today.”

“Oh? And why’s that? Are you that excited about White Teeth?”

“Oh, Ms. Bird, don’t tease me! You promised that today we would discuss Northanger Abbey,” I cried, holding out my precious copy.

“Lena,” Mrs. Luthor snapped, “Control yourself.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Luthor,” I said meekly.

“Well, so I did,” Ms. Bird said quickly, “And what did you think?”

“I love it,” I said, and my enthusiasm for the novel erased the sharpness of Mrs. Luthor’s comment, and as we began to talk of the novel’s commentary on the Gothic form, on the rigid expectations surrounding behavior during the Regency, on reading itself, I forgot even that she was present. It wasn’t until the conversation turned to a personal theory of mine that Mrs. Luthor reasserted her presence.

“I feel as if Catherine Morland made the wrong decision in marrying Henry,” I said, struggling to articulate the feelings that the marriage had engendered during my most recent readings.

“Oh?” Ms. Bird said, “What do you suppose she should have done?”

“I think that Eleanor would have made a more suitable match,” I said.

“But aren’t Eleanor and Henry siblings?”

“No, no,” I said – she had misunderstood completely – “I mean to say that Catherine should have married Eleanor; their affection seemed more genuine.”

“I’m not sure-” Ms. Bird managed to say before she was cut off by Mrs. Luthor.

“What was that, Lena?” she asked.

I knew immediately that I had said something wrong, as memories surfaced of Mrs. Luthor’s insistence that our chefs avoid the grocery store owned by two men who were rumored to be romantically involved.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean-”

“Let me see that book, Lena dear,” she said. I unwillingly handed it over.

My well-loved copy of Austen’s first novel looked even more ragged in Mrs. Luthor’s carefully manicured hands. She idly flipped through its pages before tearing it into two halves and throwing them into the fire.

“No!” I cried, rushing to the fireplace. I looked around desperately for a poker, for anything that I could use to retrieve the book that was so beloved.

“Lena,” Mrs. Luthor said sharply, “Sit down.”

“But Mrs. Luthor, I-”

“Sit down, Lena.”

It was a tone that brokered no argument and so I returned to my seat, where tears filled my eyes as I watched my precious book shrivel and blacken.

“That will be all, Ms. Bird,” Mrs. Luthor said. In truth, I had forgotten that she was still there. Her back as she left was the last that I ever saw of her, and I wonder to this day what she was about to say with respect to my theory, what she thought of Mrs. Luthor’s response.

“You’ll stay out of the library,” Mrs. Luthor said once Ms. Bird had departed, “You’ll understand some day, Lena, that I am doing this to protect you.”

I couldn’t stand to be in the room any longer. I was all too aware that the smoke that filled the room, the smoke that I was breathing in, was all that remained of the book that I had so adored and so I fled to the gardens.

By hiding in the gardens and acting as if I had lost track of time, I had hoped to evade my piano lesson for the day, but Mrs. Luthor, howbeit she disdained me and my presence, was somehow ever able to find me when there was something distasteful for me to do.

“What are you doing down there, Lena?” she asked, a question that I knew had no correct answer, “A Luthor does not grovel in the dirt.”

Mrs. Luthor did not miss an opportunity to remind me that being allowed the Luthor name was a great kindness, a blessing that I should be thankful for, but in those days (and, indeed, later on in life) the relation weighed upon me more than namelessness ever could. “We did not take you in to see you wallowing in the muck,” she sniffed.

At this point, dear reader, allow me some space to recount the history of my life, as complete as I knew it at that point. I was born to parents who were of no consequence and who perished shortly after my appearance in their lives, victims of a drunken truck driver. I am told that I stayed for some months in an orphanage, but having been fewer than two years old, I retain no memories of this particular phase of my life. From there, I was adopted by the Luthors; as Mrs. Luthor explained it, my parents had been acquainted with them in one form or another - she was never definite about what that relationship was, exactly - and as no one else wanted me, they accepted the burden of my care and brought me to Tilney Manor.

The Luthors were three and myself: Mr. and Mrs. Luthor, whose names are surely familiar to any reader as they owned and operated one of the largest companies of the century, and their son, Alexander, who went by Lex, and was ten years my elder.

I went largely ignored by my adoptive brother, who I suppose found me too young, too simple, to be of interest. In another life, I like to believe that we were friends, that I was enough to warrant his affection, and that those early years in Tilney Manor were not so unpleasant with an ally and a friend.

Mr. Luthor was not around with much frequency; his work saw him travelling with frequency to the various corners of the world. The idyll that his presence brought to Tilney Manor was balanced by the increased irritation with which Mrs. Luthor viewed me upon his inevitable departure, and I came to dread his presence for the false security which it brought me.

Mrs. Luthor never raised a hand against me. I was not to be touched. I was, after all, a Luthor, in name if not in blood. And therein was the problem: I had not the intelligence, nor the elegance, nor the temperament that Mrs. Luthor expected of me. I could never hope to live up to Lex’s example - he was brilliant at whatever he touched, things that took me days to complete were a matter of hours to him.

Her expectations and my inability to live up to them weighed upon me and the knowledge that I was not enough became a matter of course until even I took my own failure for granted. I had no friends against whom I could calibrate my own abilities, no companions whose cherished company could ease the feeling that I commonly indulged in that I was only a burden on everyone in my life.

At any rate, I have digressed enough and hopefully convinced you, my reader, that I was not a spoiled child, avoiding piano lessons out of sloth, but out of a desire to avoid the shame that was their inevitable accompaniment, and out of a desire to avoid Mrs. Luthor’s presence, so vivid was the memory of Northanger Abbey blackening and crumbling.

Having found me in the mud, with grass stains on my knees and grass in my hair, Mrs. Luthor insisted that I shower before I could be presented, though I knew that Mr. Caldron, who taught me piano, would not care one whit about my appearance. Mr. Caldron was a kindly man, with thin, mousy brown hair, and a weak chin. He wore hand-knit cardigans each day, even in the worst Kansas summers and were it not for Mrs. Luthor’s insistence that she sit in, I suspect that I would have quite enjoyed lessons with him.

“You’re almost an hour late to your lesson, Lena. I hope that you did as good a job cleaning yourself off as you did wasting time,” Mrs. Luthor said once I’d finished my shower and dressed myself. In an act of defiance – and I remember this clearly about that day – I had neglected to wash behind my ears. “Mr. Caldron will not be pleased that you’ve kept him waiting,” she said, though I knew that he would not care, that he would be happy with the opportunity to play the lovely instrument that the Luthors kept in the sitting room.

She took me by the arm and we set off down the stairs to the site of my lesson. On the way, we passed by the kitchens and as I had not been fed since that morning and had worked up quite an appetite over the course of my outdoor activities, my stomach let out an audible gurgle at the lovely smells that emanated from within.

“Time enough for food after your lesson,” Mrs. Luthor said, “If you can manage to get through that on time. Goodness knows you’ve spent long enough learning this silly little piece.”

At Mrs. Luthor’s insistence, I had been set an etude which Mr. Caldron protested was beyond my skill as a pianist. Mrs. Luthor took the implication that anything could be beyond a Luthor as an affront, and took my proving Mr. Caldron correct as further insult. Despite diligent practice, my fingers could not manage the complex runs that the sheet music required of me.

I sat down at the piano bench and began to play as slowly as I dared and as diligently as I could manage, but beset as I was by hunger and distracted by the consequences of failure, such failure (and such consequences) were inevitable.

“Again,” Mrs. Luthor said each time I faltered, her tone never wavering. “Again. Again. Again.”

“No!” I eventually burst out, overcome with hunger, with frustration at my inability to play, with unresolved sorrow at the destruction of my book, with anger at my banning from the library. “I won’t, I can’t. I’m hungry and I do not want to play the piano any longer.”

A terrible, terrible quiet descended upon the room; it was deafeningly still and all-encompassing. After a few seconds, I could not take the terrible silence any longer. “I’m sorry,” I cried, “I didn’t mean it,” and I returned to the etude which had eluded me earlier, desperately trying to wrestle the keys into submission, to prove to Mrs. Luthor that I was capable and obedient, not willful and talentless. It was, however, to no avail, and I was caught up by the wrist and dragged up the stairs to the attic.

“Please, Mrs. Luthor,” I wailed, “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t, Lena, but if a few seconds of thinking led you to that realization, just think how much you’ll learn from a night alone in the attic.”

My blood went cold at her words. “Not the attic,” I begged, “You can’t put me there, Mrs. Luthor, anything but the attic. Kill me instead, please, only do not leave me in that room.”

“Don’t beg, Lena, it’s unbecoming. Luthors do not beg.”

I couldn’t stay in the attic, not for a minute, and certainly not for the whole night that Mrs. Luthor intended. I knew with the absolute certainty that only a child can possess that the upper floors of Tilney Manor were haunted with all manner of specters, and that should I be locked with them, they would certainly take me from the world of the living to their own wicked realm.

My protests, my calls for mercy, were to no avail, and I found myself pushed into the attic and heard the click of the lock behind me. It was some time before I managed to open my eyes which fear had pressed shut. The room was not large; the roof of Tilney Manor was unusually steep, and the resultant attic was more compact than usual. The room and the scant contents - mostly old furniture under drop cloths which lent them a sinister, ghostly appearance - were covered in a thin film of dust; it seemed that the Manor’s staff disliked the room as much as I did and I took this to be confirmation of supernatural haunting.

A small circular window afforded me sunlight, which was a small comfort; I knew that no spirit could claim me while the sun was in the sky. However, as the sun began to set, the light from the window grew longer and longer across the floor and I had to move from my spot every few minutes in order to stay within its protective halo. Eventually, the light disappeared altogether, and with it, the hope that Mrs. Luthor would reveal the whole thing to be a cruel joke and return to release me.

The moment proved to be too much for my constitution and darkness - of the room or of my eyelids, I am not sure - was the last thing I saw before unconsciousness claimed me.

I woke uncertain of where I was, or how long it had been. I had been laid in something soft, and I was warm, but these could have been ploys by the specters to lull me into a false sense of security, so I kept my eyes closed and listened for movement.

“She wasn’t even left alone for very long,” said Mrs. Luthor’s voice.

“Young girls can have a hard time of it,” said a voice that I recognized as Dr. Henshaw, the physician who attended to the family. He had always been kind to me, and I felt that if he were there, the chances that I had truly been abducted were low. My spirits lifted.

“I can’t have her collapsing like this in my custody,” Mrs. Luthor snapped.

“Perhaps a change of scenery could be to her benefit,” Dr. Henshaw replied.

Panic seized me. Was I to be sent away? I was lucky, I knew, to have been taken in by the Luthors and the thought that I’d spoilt that with my earlier outburst was too much to bear.

“I’m sorry!” I cried out as I sat up, unable to maintain the facade of unconsciousness in the face of a tragedy of this magnitude, “Please, I’ll be good, don’t send me back to the orphanage.”

Dr. Henshaw raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Luthor before looking back at me. “That was not what was being discussed, Lena. I was suggesting to Mrs. Luthor that she send you off to boarding school to complete your education.”

Until then, my schooling had been performed by an assortment of tutors, all under the watchful - and critical - eye of Mrs. Luthor, and the thought of consistent teaching, of friends my age, and, above all, freedom from Mrs. Luthor’s sharp words and expectations was too fantastic for me to have believed it possible.

“Truly?” I asked. I could not get my hopes up - if this was a trick, if this was a vision conjured by malevolent spirits, I would not survive the disappointment. Thankfully, it seemed that Mrs. Luthor’s desire to see me gone from her presence outweighed the satisfaction she derived from my misery and arrangements were made with all the rapidity that the coffers of the Luthor Corporation could ensure. This, combined with fortuitous timing, saw me enrolled in Samuel’s Academy for the fall term, which was to begin in a matter of weeks. I was eleven years old and it was to be the first time that I would be on my own since I was orphaned.

The weeks between learning of my enrollment at Samuel’s and departing for that school were as if I were living an entirely different life. Mrs. Luthor’s comments on my shoddy piano playing, on my inability to do my sums, on my weight, my hair, my general character, were repelled by the knowledge that I would soon be elsewhere. I floated through studies that would otherwise have filled me with anxiety, opportunities for failure that they were. I was, in short, invincible, and I went through my days as if I were made of steel, invulnerable to the hurt that Mrs. Luthor could muster, the hurt that had once occupied my every thought, my every nerve.

Chapter Text

The day that I moved out of Tilney Manor was wet and gray, the kind of late summer storm that smells of ozone and loam, smells which I have forever since associated with new beginnings. The trip from Tilney Manor to Samuel’s was not a short one – a bus would take me from Smallville to Kansas City, where I could then fly into Ivy Town where a car would pick me up and drive the final few hours to what I had already begun to think of as my new home. That it was so far from everything that I was familiar with was not a frightening notion – on the contrary, I relished in the distance that I would soon put between me and Tilney Manor, Mrs. Luthor, and the cursed attic which had, in its roundabout way, brought me this freedom.

The Luthors’ driver, a man of some twenty-five years named John, whom I liked for his easy smile and for his habit of sharing with me the chocolate that he commonly kept in his pockets, took me to Smallville where I made the rest of the trip alone. I was, at the time, unaware that it was unusual for a child as young as I was to travel without supervision, but among my scant belongings were several books and I was able to keep myself occupied and out of trouble.

It was late in the night, or, perhaps more accurately, early in the morning when I landed in Ivy Town International Airport, and having had a long day of travel and being unused to staying awake for so long, I fell asleep as soon as I was safely within the car that had been hired to take me to school.

I woke to the driver shaking me gently. “Ms. Luthor,” he said, “We’ve arrived.”

Having fallen asleep in the airport and waking at Samuel’s was like awakening into a dream world. Tilney Manor, which my adoptive father Lionel Luthor had had transported, stone by stone from Scotland to Smallville, was designed to intimidate, to impress. The Scots Baronial building, with its central tower and austere edges stood out in rural Kansas like a tombstone and it was all that I had known for as much of my life as I could remember to that point. Therefore, Samuel’s was as inviting a place as I had ever seen. Red brick and vines of ivy were a far cry from the dull, drab masonry of Tilney Manor, and by the new light of the early morning, the clock tower, capped in well-kept white stucco and the verdigris of old copper, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever beheld.

Despite the early hour, the housing office was open and available when we arrived. The hired driver left me and my bags with Ms. Fried, who gave me my keys and showed me to my room in Lower House.

The room was smaller than my accommodations at Tilney Manor. It was barely large enough for the twin bed and the minimal desk that made up the entirety of the room’s furnishings, I couldn’t both open my closet and pull my chair out, and I had to get into bed from the foot, not from the side. Despite all of that, despite the decades-old carpeting, stained by generations of former students, despite the plain stucco, and despite the poorly set windows which managed to make the room both unbearably warm in the summer and bone-numbingly cold in the winter, I fell in love with the room instantly and would not move out for my entire stay at the school.

Classes did not start until the next week, which was a good thing, since I collapsed on the unmade bed as soon as Ms. Fried returned to her office and I did not awaken until many hours later. Upon waking up, I located the nearest bathroom, eager to wash the sleep from my eyes and mouth. I made my bed, arranged my pens on my desk, and unpacked the rest of the few belongings that I had brought.

It was when I had run out of tasks for myself that I first realized that my time was my own, that I could set my own agenda, that I had an entire campus to explore. Samuel’s boarded students from the sixth grade, which I was to begin, through the end of high-school. Students lived in dormitories according to their sex, but were not segregated by age. The academic buildings were clustered in the center of campus, largely arranged around two quads, although the science building where I would come to spend much of my time was set apart from the rest, it being a newer building.

For my first act of newfound freedom, I set about to see who my neighbors were. Lower House was a smaller dormitory, consisting of two stories with only four rooms each. However, it appeared as if none were occupied yet, as my walk down the hall knocking at each door yielded no responses. Making certain that my keys were in my pocket, I left Lower House and began to wander down the row of dormitories, hoping to find someone to talk to.

I was no stranger to solitary walks, having indulged in them at Tilney Manor whenever I wished to ensure several minutes of solitude. However large the grounds were, their expanses were no match for the frequency with which I needed respite from the stifling atmosphere of the Manor, and so I was quite familiar with the grounds. The extent to which my soul required new tracts of land to explore and to discover had been unknown to me until the novelty of the Academy’s campus was beneath my feet.

Over the week, students began to trickle in, a steady stream of children and parents moving boxes into dorm rooms, of excited chatter and teary goodbyes. Caught up as I was in the excitement of freedom and of new people, the week passed by in a blur and classes were upon me before I knew it.

With the advent of classes came a campus full of students and surrounded by new people for the first time in my life, I came to a startling realization. Despite having never reached Mrs. Luthor’s expectations for me, I came to find that I was highly advanced compared to my peers. Although I began taking classes at the sixth grade level with the other students my age, it quickly became apparent that the material and rigor could offer me no challenges. My classes were redistributed according to my relative acceleration – after some trial and error, I took math and physics with students four years my senior, while my classmates in English and history enjoyed only two years on me. Having never studied languages, I began Ancient Greek with the other novices.

That I was the youngest student in nearly all of my classes – and often by a number of years - was made only worse by my unfamiliarity with other children. The first made me the target of interest, most of it benign, but the second meant that I was unable to defend myself when it was not. Howsoever this dismayed me, I must in fairness admit that it led to unexpected serendipity in that it allowed me an introduction to Jack.

I had begun the term in pre-algebra, and having shown a thorough understanding of the year’s material, moved to algebra within the week. From there, I moved through several succeeding levels until the day that I finally first set foot in the pre-calculus class that would occupy me for the rest of the year.

I entered the room, all too aware of how small, how young I was in comparison to the other students. “I didn’t realize we were babysitting,” one girl sneered as I found my seat.

I felt the blood rush to my face as I shrank into my seat in humiliation, trying to make myself as small as possible.

“Not everyone had to take trig three times,” a boy retorted, “Shove your insecurity up your ass, Shannon.”

To the great relief of my uncertain heart, this remark elicited a great laugh from the rest of the class, which I took to be a positive sign that this class would not be so difficult to stay in.

I looked to my defender and saw a boy of maybe fourteen or fifteen years, his black hair carefully slicked and mussed to look haphazard and untidy. He leaned back in his chair, further back than I thought gravity should allow, as he fixed Shannon with a fierce glare. This was Jack Spheer and he was to become my best friend, my fiercest ally, and my closest confidant at the Academy.

Nervously did I approach Jack, whose name at the time I did not know, after class. He was older, and had already demonstrated his sharp tongue, and no matter that it had been in my defense, those two factors combined to fill me with trepidation in my approach. Mrs. Luthor had taught me the virtue of gratitude, however, and I knew it was my duty to acknowledge the goodness that Jack had wrought on my behalf.

“I- excuse me,” I said, when I had caught up to him – two of his longer strides were worth three of mine in those days – “I wanted to thank you for what you said in class today.” I offered my hand and introduced myself.

“Jack,” he said, shaking my hand, “You’re new here, right?”

I nodded.

He checked his watch. “Have you got fourth lunch this term?”

I had.

“Great. Come sit with me, I’ll tell you who you’ve got to look out for in that class. Christ, you’re young. What are you, ten?”

I had just turned twelve and told him so. His laugh was booming and after the initial shock of the noise, I found it quite pleasant. “No wonder Shannon hates you – she’s seventeen.”

Jack proved to be a generous friend and for some months, he was my only friend, too self-conscious was I about my young age and my unfamiliarity with other children. However, despite spending much of his free time with me, Jack had a large network of friends whom he gradually introduced me to, and so over the course of my first year there, my one friend at Samuel’s Academy became two, then three, then several.

With the onset of friends, especially, for the first time in my life, girlfriends (by which I mean friends who were, like me, girls) came the onset of a peculiar variety of interaction that I had never before been privy to. Being included in “girl talk” was a novel experience and one that brought about a realization that would both change my life and transform my friendship with Jack.

It was the first Thursday night of January during my second year at the Academy. I was thirteen years old. A group of six or seven girls, of which I was a member, had taken to convening in one dorm or another’s common room during the two or so hours between the end of daily sports practices and sign-in on Thursdays to eat ice-cream, watch movies, and, more recently, talk about boys. That I had never seen Mean Girls, or The Princess Bride, or Clueless, or any number of films had struck the other girls as a great injustice, one that they had eagerly taken to rectifying. I enjoyed the films, and it was to their sudden absence that I initially attributed my reluctance to engage in discussion of boys. However, it was during this meeting that I was to realize that that was not the case.

On this particular Thursday, we were gathered in Dawn House, which was part of a small cluster of dorms on the other side of main campus from the majority of dorms, Lower House included. It was an ideal meeting spot for its relative seclusion and its small size; of its four members, three were part of our group, and the other spent most of her free time with her boyfriend.

I was, as was my habit when the conversation turned to boys, sequestered somewhat in the corner, with a pint of Cherry Garcia to myself. I listened idly to the other girls talk, but as I had nothing to contribute myself, I allowed my mind to wander, settling on how lovely Karolina’s makeup looked that day. I wondered if she would teach me, if I asked nicely enough.

“Lena?” Betty asked, the sound of my name bringing me back into the room, “How long have you and Jack been dating?”

“We aren’t together,” I said, confused at what I took to be a ridiculous question.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Betty said, “I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“Is he single, then?” Naya asked, “Because he’s super cute.”

“Is he?” I asked skeptically. The subjects of the other girls’ affections held no sway over me. They discussed the boys of our age, whose incipient facial hair, cracking voices, whose sour-milk smell did not elicit any of the weak knees, any of the constant distraction, or the fluttering stomachs that the other girls described.

“Oh, leave her alone,” said Rey, “Why do we as a society insist that friendships between a boy and a girl have to be romantic?”

Something about those words triggered a memory that I hadn’t thought about in quite some time. “Catherine should have married Eleanor,” I had said – and suddenly many things made more sense.

That I preferred the sight of girls to boys, that my eyes were drawn instead to the soft curves of other women, to the fullness of their lips and the way the light played in their hair, was not a sudden realization, but once I had arrived upon it, it was as if I were looking at an entirely different planet, one that resembled the one that I was familiar with in shape and in form, but utterly distinct in character and quality.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I said as neutrally as I could manage, which I suspect was not very, “Only I’ve just remembered that I have a chemistry set to attend to.” My departure was met with some small disappointment but not with surprise – it was well known that my class load was somewhat heavier than that of my social peers and I was quickly in my room in Lower House with only the horrors of newfound knowledge for company.

The realization tormented me. I spent nights confronted with vivid images of Mrs. Luthor’s face should she find out the secret thoughts that I entertained of the other girls that I knew. I remembered with pain unmitigated by the interceding years the loss of my beloved copy of Northanger Abbey, but most of all, I spent days confronted with the knowledge that I had to tell Jack. I dreaded the conversation, knowing in my heart that such a revelation could only result in the loss of the first real friend that I’d ever had, but I knew also that a friendship could not survive lies of such a magnitude.

And so it was that one morning in the cold winter, I met Jack for breakfast in our normal spot in the cafeteria, and after choking down as much toast as my nervous stomach could manage (Jack indulged in a four egg omelet piled with ham and sharp yellow cheese) I told him that I needed to make a confession.

By my request, we walked to the small forest that adjoined campus. I was desirous of both the absence of any potential eavesdroppers but also privacy in the likely event that Jack, horrified by my revelation, leave me alone to my misery.

I indicated when I felt that we’d walked far enough, and Jack sighed with relief. “Finally. I was starting to get worried you’d dragged me out here to kill me.”

We had been long enough acquainted that despite his dry delivery, I could tell that he was joking, and so I pressed on. “Jack,” I said, “You’ve been a very dear friend to me for some years now and though I fear the worst, I hope that what I have to say does not ruin what we have had.”

“Hang on,” he said, “You’re not asking me out, are you? Because I like you, Lee, but you’re like a younger sister.” This time, he was not joking, and the words that I had carefully prepared to lessen the impact of my admission vanished, leaving me only with the indelicate admission of:

“No- No, I-” I stammered, my mind blank with shock, “I like girls.”

“Oh,” Jack said, “Right on. I think Veronica in my Latin class is bi; I can introduce you if you’d like.”

His easy acceptance of what I felt was a tremendous secret was baffling. “What?” I asked, “You’re not disgusted?”

Jack looked at me for a few seconds, attempting, I suppose, to gauge whether or not I was serious. “Christ,” he said eventually, “Kansas really did a number on you, huh? It’s the twenty-first century, Lee, you’re fine.”

“There was a queer couple in Smallville,” I said, trying to explain, “They owned a grocery store. Mrs. Luthor said they were unnatural, and told the staff to purchase food elsewhere.”

“It’s weird, your saying queer.”

“Oh no,” I said as panic spiked through my veins, “Have I offended? Is it a slur?”

“No- I mean, yes, it used to be, but now it’s one of those words that’s been – what’s it called? Reclaimed by the community – so it’s not the word. It’s that it feels like you learned it from people who meant it the old way.”

“Should I say something else instead?” I asked, desperate to know what I had to do to fit in.

“Queer’s fine, just, you can’t say it like that. It’s an adjective, not a noun. I mean, I think. I’m not an expert.”

I thought about it for a second – it made sense. “So I could say that I am queer,” I said slowly, “But not that I am a queer?”

“Sure,” Jack said, shrugging his shoulders, “I mean, you can talk about yourself however you like, it’s more when you’re talking about other people that you have to watch out. Relax, though. You’re not at home, your mom isn’t going to jump out of the bushes to yell at you.” It was clear from his tone that he harbored resentment towards my adoptive mother.

“Mrs. Luthor did me a great kindness taking me in when no one else wanted me,” I said hotly.

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean that she gets to use you as an emotional punching bag,” Jack replied, his voice tinged with sadness.

“I don’t need your pity,” I sneered, suddenly defensive.

“I’m not- Christ sake, Lee, you’re probably the smartest person I’ve ever met, but you’re so dumb about some things. I don’t know the whole story, but you’ve told me enough for me to get that that woman hurt you.”

“Mrs. Luthor has never raised a finger against me in my life.”

“You don’t have to hit someone to hurt them.”

“She just wanted me to be better than I was,” I argued.

“You were a child!”

“I was an unruly child!”

“Lee, I refuse to believe that you were ever anything other than sickeningly perfect,” Jack said, “I mean it. What’s the worst thing that you did?”

My mouth went dry as my misdeeds raced through my mind. Mrs. Luthor’s disapproving stares were all that I could see. “I- I was late to every lesson I had,” I said, “I ruined many fine dresses playing in the dirt, I skipped meals when I was too occupied to eat and then complained of hunger later in the day.”

“I crashed my dad’s car,” Jack said drily before I could continue my list, “I was nine and I wanted to play in the garage, and he’d left it on neutral. I pushed it out, it rolled down the driveway, and it crashed into a tree across the street. I mean, he was definitely upset about it at first, but I was a kid and in the end, he was happy that I didn’t get hurt, and he thinks it’s a hilarious story to tell in front of my friends.”

“It wasn’t so much any one big thing as much as it was an accumulation of little ones,” I said, but my heart was no longer in the argument. If what Jack was saying was true, if Mrs. Luthor had been unreasonably cruel to me, what had I done that made her despise me so?

Perhaps sensing my inner turmoil, Jack shifted the conversation to an older topic. “Anyway, Veronica. Ronnie. I’ll introduce you next time we’re all in Commons together – you’ve got fifth lunch, right?”

Jack was true to his word and the next weekend would find me eating dinner with Veronica Sinclair at the only date-appropriate restaurant in the little town next to Samuel’s. It was a gaudy place, a chain restaurant specializing in faux-Italian food which catered to the American palate, but as I sat across from Veronica, the mood lighting made me feel as if I were Elizabeth Bennet in the dining hall of Pemberley, left alone with her selected Darcy. I found Veronica’s sharp, angular features intensely beautiful; her neatly outlined lips, her immaculate brows, the subtle lining of her lids, made me all too aware of how clumsy my own attempts at making up my face were.

She was a year and a half older than me, fifteen to my thirteen, and I wondered what the restaurant’s other patrons thought as they looked upon us – was I too young, too untidy, for them to see us for what we were? We hadn’t walked in holding hands; was it clear that we were on a date? Or did she look, as I feared she might, like a girl taking her younger sister to dinner? Or, perhaps, a babysitter feeding her charge?

We spent several minutes in uncomfortable silence looking at the menu; I chose a cheese ravioli, while Veronica ordered a pasta puttanesca in an accent that made her seem incredibly worldly.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” she said after the waiter had departed with our orders, “I’m just a girl, too.”

“I can’t help it. You’re so pretty,” I blurted out.

“Well, thank you,” Veronica said as I blushed, “If the smartest girl in the school says so, it must be true. You’re very pretty yourself.”

I knew that I wasn’t – I had been called gangly, messy, plain, by Mrs. Luthor enough to know that I would never be a great beauty – but I had been taught to gracefully accept a compliment, so I thanked Veronica for saying so.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” she asked curiously.

I tried to deflect. “I suppose it’s true, I am the youngest in most of my classes,” I said.

She laughed. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I- I’m just me,” I said, “I know that I’m quite plain looking.”

“Well, I enjoy looking at you,” Veronica said, and the confidence and sincerity with which she said it warmed my heart.

With the ice thusly broken, the rest of the meal passed quickly and pleasantly. An excellent conversationalist, by the time the meal was over, I felt as if Veronica and I had known each other for weeks, not hours. I paid the bill using a portion of the monthly allowance that the Luthors sent me which my simple lifestyle left largely untouched.

Despite it being my second winter at Samuel’s, I still did not have a good, warm jacket, and so I leaned into Veronica as we made our way back to campus. She put an arm around me and pulled me in close, and in the stillness of the night, with no one else to be seen, I was struck by the intimacy of the gesture.

I let Veronica kiss me as she dropped me off at Lower House. Her lips, which had lost much of their applied color from the number of times she had nervously run her tongue over them as we had walked back, were softer and warmer than I imagined, and her breath, despite the mint that she had eaten after dinner, carried with it the garlic and anchovy of her meal. Although I have shared many kisses since, many, if not most, far better than the clumsy peck that was bestowed upon me that night, I will always remember the elation that accompanied the brief feeling of her lips pressed against mine on that cold, clear night in February.

The three of us, Jack, Veronica, and I, were inseparable in the year that followed. We spoke of attending, if not the same college, at least adjacent ones, of whether we would have any pets in the apartment that we were sure that we would share. I had found in Jack the best friend that I would ever need, and in Veronica, the storybook romance that I had desired since my days spent reading in the library of Tilney Manor.

It had been just over a year since my first date with Veronica. I was in her room in Melville Hall when I read the news that Jack had fallen into the lake while on a solitary walk, that he had hit his head on the way down, that he had drowned before anyone had noticed that he was missing.

“Lena,” Veronica said, gently taking my phone out of my hands and locking it, “It’s going to be okay.”

I nodded mutely, afraid to speak, lest it disturb the tears that were welling up in my eyes.

A memorial was held in the Academy’s chapel. To mourn Jack in the space where he had napped underneath the pews during interminable weekly assemblies felt oddly appropriate. I had been asked to speak, but knew that no matter how carefully I prepared my words, I would not be able to keep my emotions within check, and so I sat in the back of the chapel and watched people that Jack had barely known eulogize the best friend that I had ever had.

I was on my way down the steps from the chapel to the road that would take me back to Lower House when I was stopped by a man who, by the resemblance to his late son and the grief written plain across his face, could only be Jack’s father.

“You’re Lena, right? You’re in most of Jack’s pictures on Facebook.”

I told him that I was and he continued to speak.

“I- I know you were close to my son. I was hoping you could tell me a little bit about what he was like here? He didn’t call often, but when he did, you were usually part of his stories.”

I agreed – what else could I do? As painful as it was for me to think on the friend that I had lost, how much worse must it have been for his father?

“I first met your son when he told an older girl to ‘shove her insecurity up her ass,’” I told him, “She didn’t appreciate that I was in the same math class as she.”

“That sounds like Jack,” Mr. Spheer said, smiling proudly.

“He once turned in an essay written using only one-syllable words. He insisted that the inaccessibility of academic writing was toxic to society,” I said.

“He may have told you that he was in the health center because of food poisoning last October. That wasn’t true. He was in the health center because Kwang bet him that he couldn’t eat thirty cookies, when we all knew full well that he could” I said.

“He missed sign-in more than once because he forgot to reset his watch after Daylight Savings,” I said.

The catharsis that being able to talk about Jack brought me was surprising. Each successive story lightened the load that I felt, the terrible, terrible burden of having to preserve Jack’s memory all by myself. We eventually found ourselves at the baseball field behind Lower House where we sat down on the bleachers after brushing off the thin layer of snow which covered them. “Can you tell me something about Jack?” I asked.

“He crashed my car once when he was younger,” Mr. Spheer said, “There’s still a gouge in the tree across the street.”

“I know,” I said, “He told me about it. He loved you very much.”

It had been the wrong thing to say, or perhaps the right one, because at last, Mr. Spheer began to sob into his hands, the muffled noise sounding for all the world like a stuck drain. As disturbing as it was to see an adult so defeated, I couldn’t help but wonder if, were it me in the casket, Mrs. Luthor would shed such tears for me.

Grief is dealt with individually, by which I do not mean that it is dealt with in solitude, but that each person experiences it uniquely. Veronica and I, the two who had been the closest to him, mourned the longest and instead of taking comfort in each other, we drifted apart. It was some years later that I learned that she had begun to play cards and dice, first with other students and then, later, with groups that met off campus.

Where Veronica had, I suppose, turned to gambling to mask her grief, I began to play the piano, something which I had not done since leaving Tilney Manor nearly four years prior. Jack had mentioned on several occasions that he had always wanted to play an instrument, but that he had never had the opportunity for lessons. It was with his face fixed firmly in my mind that my fingers were put to the keys for the first time in four years, and in his memory that I returned many times after, until my fingers lost the patina which had accrued over the years without practice.

I spent that summer, as I had each summer before, on the campus of the Academy, reminded by the passage of each day that Jack would not return in September, as he had each September before, full of stories of the suburbs of Maine and a promise to take me some day.

Along with the renewal of classes, instead of Jack, September brought college applications. At sixteen, I was to be the youngest graduate of the Academy in some years, and because of this had attracted considerable attention from various schools which made the process more comfortable than I had feared. Princeton, which both Lex and Lionel had attended, was particularly invested in my continuing the family tradition, but in the end, I accepted the admissions offer of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, which I favored for the strength of its engineering program.

As I posted my decision, I could feel that the end was in sight, that the continual pain of living among Jack’s memory was soon to be over. Not content with taking him from me, however, Samuel’s had one more cruelty in store before I could escape to Cambridge.

In May, following the latter’s retirement to Scotland, Lex took over for Lionel as the CEO of the Luthor Corporation. I learned this not from any member of my family, but from the reporters who descended upon Samuel’s in search of information about the new CEO from his younger sister. Lex, they claimed, had declined all invitations for an interview, and the press was frothing for an exclusive.

I was set upon by some fifteen or twenty people, and blinded by the incessant flashing of bulbs and distracted by the salvos of questions they fired at me, I nearly collapsed. It was only the sudden and unexpected arrival of Veronica that saved me from losing consciousness under the sensory assault.

“She’s a minor,” Veronica hissed, “Do you want to get sued for harassment?”

Her words were sufficient to scare the flock of paparazzi into retreating, and gratitude washed over me that I was freed from the suffocating heat and noise of the insistent crowd.

Early the next morning, however, I learned that my gratitude had been misplaced, indeed, that a good deal of trust and friendship over the years had been misplaced. I awoke to several dozen notifications which all seemed to reference a news article, which I clicked on with no small amount of trepidation.

It was with a leaden stomach that I read the descriptions of private moments that I had shared with Veronica and Veronica had shared with the press. From our first kiss to our most recent tryst, my high school love life had been posted for the world to see, under the headline, “Youngest Luthor a Boarding School Stereotype?”

Unable to believe what my own eyes had relayed to my brain, I dialed Veronica’s number with numb fingers.

“Sorry Lena,” she said, and she sounded so sincere that I almost believed her, “I needed the money.”

It was fortunate that I had already accepted an offer of admission to college and that I was so far ahead in the few classes in which I was enrolled; I barely left my room for the scant weeks left of term, attending only the final exams whose abject failure would have resulted in an inability to graduate.

Not three days after the article’s publication, the Luthors were once again featured heavily in the news: Lex had sat for an interview with CatCo Media, and spoken extensively on his plans for the Luthor Corporation. It was, by all rights, a very well done interview; it was technical where it needed to be, it humanized Lex whenever it could, and it carefully avoided the embarrassment that his sister had become.

That the thing which could have seen me unmolested by the press and my reputation untarnished by a former lover was published only days too late was, I felt, only the latest in life’s injustices.

Feeling that it was life’s way to add injury to insult, in light of the words printed about me and cognizant of Mrs. Luthor’s views on the sex to which I was attracted, I did not expect to continue to receive my allowance. I became increasingly convinced that the last Friday of the month, which was normally punctuated with a deposit of some funds into my bank account, would pass as if it were any other day and my panic at the thought of trying to support my college education with my meager savings and lack of employable skills grew commensurately.

It was therefore with great surprise and relief that I received the customary monthly email informing me that a bank transfer had just been posted to my account. The panic abated, but did not disappear, and howbeit that I did not spend money wantonly, I resolved to redouble my efforts at frugality. I could not rely on Mrs. Luthor’s uncharacteristic goodwill.

Chapter Text

It rained the day I moved to Malden, where I would spend the next several years of my life. The drive of three or four hours was overseen by potent clouds, dark and full, which only decided to let loose their contents as I crossed the Charles River on the 93. I wondered if the barrier that I had crossed into the storm was a temporal or a spatial one. Was it raining in Brookline? Quincy?

The deluge was not sufficient to entirely quell the heat of June in New England, and upon leaving my car, I was struck with the unpleasant sensation of being wrapped in a warm, wet cloth. The only boon, perhaps, was that by the time I had finished moving my belongings from my car to my new residence, whether I was soaked in sweat or in rain was unknowable.

The reasons for moving in the summer, as opposed to the start of term, were several. First, my intended course of study, a five-year Master’s degree in Course XXII, Nuclear Science and Engineering, carried with it a research component, and I hoped that by arriving on campus early, I could begin to establish relationships with the professors in the department. Second, being mindful of my tenuous funding situation, I had eschewed student housing in favor of a tiny studio some fifty or sixty minutes west of school at a rate which made it financially sensible to move in as early as possible. Third, I had no desire to stay on Samuel’s campus any longer, hounded as I was by the gossip which Veronica’s article had incited and by memories of Jack.

Chosen as it was based entirely on cost, the studio was larger than my room at Samuel’s had been, but it was by no means comfortable. I was located in the basement of my landlady’s house, in a room not three hundred feet squared which I accessed from a separate door, located on the side of the main building. There was a shower and toilet behind a door underneath the staircase which took me outside, and a kitchen setup opposite it. I purchased a mattress and set it in the corner where, as I did not have a frame, I could push it onto its side against the wall if I needed the space.

Although I had a small desk in the Malden studio, I preferred to do my work on campus. This was partially because by staying late on campus, I could avoid the traffic that leaving directly after classes would subject me to, but it was also because I found that the rhythm of living in the city agreed with me. There was an urgency to life that I had not felt at Samuel’s, a need for constant activity, and it thrilled me.

I had, at Samuel’s, been a consistently highly achieving student, but I responded to Cambridge’s intensity with an intensity of my own, and despite the protests of my academic advisor, registered for a course-load nearly twice that of other freshmen, who were for the most part two years my senior. This came in addition to the responsibilities that I had in the laboratory, having found a professor who had agreed to sponsor the research portion of my desired degree, taking into account my enthusiasm more than my lack of experience.

Although this schedule left little time for social interaction, it was exhilarating, and I found that I did not miss the company. I had, in my life, had two friends. One had died, the other had sold my private life to the media, and I was in no great rush to recreate either heartbreak.

The celebrity which was the result of my youth on campus, my last name, and the article which Veronica had contributed to meant that I was experienced with being approached by strangers meant that over the course of my first year, I received several offers for company, delivered in a tone that left little doubt as to what kind of company was available.

“I’m a big fan,” said a girl with thick curly hair and pretty green earrings whom I recognized from my physics class. She slipped me a piece of paper with what could only have been her phone number upon it. “I read that article about you. If you’d like to eat out some time, give me a call.” The wink that she gave me before raking her eyes across my body left me distinctly uncomfortable for the rest of the day, as if my skin did not fit quite right.

“You’re Lena Luthor, right? Gosh, I think it’s awful that they printed all those things about you – such a violation of your privacy,” said another girl, whose bandana and jean jacket made me feel as I were being solicited by Rosie the Riveter. “I work for the school paper, if you wanted to write something, I’d be happy to help you out. Maybe we could get a cup of coffee and talk about it?” If she hadn’t stroked my arm as she suggested a cup of copy, I might have been less inclined to flee the scene, but as it was, I couldn’t get away fast enough.

Some of the offers were more appealing, many were far less, but I accepted none of them. The fact that the only women who expressed interest in me were those who knew me only from what they had read in tabloids made me feel worthless. It made sense – scandal was appealing, and for someone like me, it was hardly surprising that scandal was all that was appealing. Each subsequent proposition made this all the more clear to me, and made the secret dreams that I still harbored of my very own story-book romance seem just that – a dream that I would never share with another.

However, even for me, life had its gleams of sunshine. I took to spending several hours a week in the music practice rooms of Building 4, seated at a baby grand piano. At Samuel’s, I had played the piano to remember a lost friend, but at MIT, I learned to play for myself, finding in the music the joy which had been denied to me by Mrs. Luthor’s harsh words, or by excruciating memories of Jack’s easy smile.

I also began to read again, something which I had not done for the sole pursuit of pleasure for many years. That the romantic stories which I read contrasted so sharply with the sad reality of my own personal life did not deter me from their pursuit, and it was in purchasing a new copy of Northanger Abbey that I truly felt, for the first time, that I had left Tilney in the past.

Overall, however stifling the loneliness became that first year, I took some comfort in the fact that it was self-inflicted, that I chose to be on my own. However, I did not have such excuses available to me during my second and third years at MIT, during which time my status as a social pariah became one thrust upon me.

My transformation from loner to exile began during the January of my second year when, as I left the hall of my eight a.m. quantum lecture, I was approached by a boy whose ripped jeans were incongruous with his puffy winter jacket and woolen cap.

“Lena, you’re Lena Luthor, right? I’m sorry about what happened in Ohio.”

“Excuse me?” I said. I had heard many pickup lines, but to be offered condolences was new, even if being hit on by a boy was not.

“Oh geez, did you not hear?” The boy fumbled in his pocket for his phone and in a few swipes, had pulled up the homepage of The Metropolis Star. Handing his phone over to me, he stepped back as I read, as if nervously anticipating my response.

Under Lex’s direction, the Luthor Corporation had begun to expand over the last year, purchasing land and beginning construction on a variety of buildings across the country. According to the news report, one of these projects, an unfinished chemical plant near Columbus, Ohio, had been destroyed when a large tank of propellant had ignited, killing over a dozen workers.

“I had no idea. Thank you,” I said, handing back the phone before continuing to class.

Over the course of the day, I was approached several more times with similarly sympathetic goals. Each interaction made me uncomfortable, no matter that it was well intentioned. I had never felt close enough to Lex or to the Luthor Corporation that their misfortune should be to me any more personal than Maxwell Lord of Lord Tech’s third divorce. The discomfort that I felt at receiving unwarranted goodwill, however, was nothing compared to the pain which followed.

As the investigation into the events of the Columbus Explosion proceeded, campus opinion turned against me commensurate with public opinion’s turn against my brother and the Corporation. It was first revealed that despite Lex’s promise to bring jobs to the American people, the construction crew had been largely comprised of underpaid migrant workers. This led to the publication of the horrendous working conditions that those workers had been exposed to, and to the administrative negligence which had resulted in an order of magnitude more propellant stored than deemed safe. It was, the public decided, a miracle that such incidents hadn’t happened sooner.

Under the scrutiny of the media, it seemed that there were no stones that Lex had left unturned in his quest to elevate the Luthor Corporation. The Gazette quickly found that he had engaged in unethical pharmaceutical development, while a husband-and-wife duo from The Daily Planet uncovered evidence that Lex had utilized tax loopholes to avoid paying tens of millions of dollars.

As these further misdeeds were revealed, the talk on campus reached a fever pitch until I could hardly walk from class to class but be accosted by my fellow students discussing, in the crudest terms, my brother’s misdeeds, the punishments they would sentence him to where it within their power, and whether I, by virtue of my name, was complicit in his crimes.

“How does she just walk around like that, knowing what her brother did?”

“I heard that he actually planned the explosion, that he’s a racist who wanted all of those immigrants to die.”

“Well, I heard that he was testing drugs on his workers, so maybe the ones who died were the lucky ones.”

University policy protected me from the type of harassment which might have kept me from attending my classes, but once I was no longer in the lecture hall, I was a target. Any attempts to do work on campus, any spare moments that I could devote to Jack’s memory in the music practice rooms, even my solitary meals, were interrupted by the anger which I invariably attracted.

When the gossip in the library became too much to bear, I retreated to a local coffee shop, where I was able to study for several days before a barista informed me that they “couldn’t, in good conscience, serve a Luthor.”

I was not the only one feeling the effects of Lex’s misdeeds. The Luthor Corporation’s stock price had fallen over thirty percent and howbeit that Lex had not yet been formally charged with any crimes, Lionel had returned from retirement to take control of the company back from his son. The construction projects which Lex had initiated were all disbanded, and employees of all levels within the corporate structure quit in protest, or accepted new job offers.

My own financial situation had become dire as well; with the collapse of the Luthor Corporation imminent and the family’s financial status in jeopardy, Mrs. Luthor had seemingly decided that her newfound tolerance of my well-publicized sexuality could only stand in times of excess, and my allowance was cut off. That this was not unexpected made it no less unfortunate - I had enough saved to keep myself fed and housed through the completion of my degree, but required several loans to pay for tuition. If I could not find immediate employment following graduation, I would be in dire straits indeed, as I knew that interest would quickly send make my debt unmanageable.

I therefore began my job search earlier than I would have, sending my first cover letter in May, over a year before I was due to receive diploma. However, even this had not been quick enough. Lubricated by the massive public outcry, the judicial system’s cogs were quick to spin, and The United States v. Lex Luthor began before I could secure employment.

That my job prospects were damaged by the media’s focus on my adopted brother’s actions is undeniable. I applied to any lab that would hire a Master’s degree and some that wouldn’t, as well as any private company whose research goals were even tangentially related to my course of study. That I had, at nineteen, completed a five-year Master’s program in three years was not enough to offset the liability that my name carried, and as rejection letters piled up, my hopes dimmed.

The trial lasted several months, a period of time which spanned the entirety of my job search. And although Lex was found not guilty by a jury of his peers of the many charges which had been brought against him, the Luthor name had lost in the court of public opinion. Despite Lionel’s best efforts to distance the Corporation from its former CEO, its stock showed no signs of recovery and had, in fact, fallen another five percent from its peak, and I am certain that had the trial ended three months earlier, that not a one of the letters that I received would have reported a different decision.

I began to despair – I had sent nearly fifty applications and received just as many rejections. My diet during the school year had, in order to save money, largely consisted of whatever pizza or sandwiches I could scavenge from the various events around campus, but over the summer, these events were not as plentiful and given my already strained finances, I often had to do the complex calculus of whether buying food and sleeping in an empty classroom on campus would save money over driving home and cooking whatever I could find in my cabinets.

It was in August that my salvation came in the form of a letter from the Dean of Students of Samuel’s. The upper level chemistry teacher was retiring. He had remembered me from my time as a student, had heard that I was on track to complete my degree at an accelerated rate, and suggested that I fill the position while a more permanent appointment could be made. His influence in the department was such that my appointment was rubber stamped despite no small outcry from the school’s board. No matter that I had not left it fondly and was not desirous of returning, without a better plan and with my bank accounts dangerously low, I accepted and within the week, was on the road.

The leaves were blushing with the barest hint of what experience had taught me would soon be a riot of color. As I saw the clock tower come into view, I was struck by how familiar everything felt, a feeling which was only magnified as I pulled into campus proper. That campus had not changed should not have come as a surprise, but the three years that I had been gone had felt an eternity. Even an eternity, however, would not have been enough to quiet the memories that the familiar paths and sights of campus brought to the surface.

“Back for more?” I could almost hear Jack say, “You always were a bit of a nerd. Just couldn’t get enough of school.”

Although campus looked exactly as it had when I was a student, the experience of being a teacher was a very different one. No longer a student, I was no longer able to stay in Lower House and moved instead to the more spacious, but less familiar teacher’s quarters down the road, where the younger teachers were sequestered in small apartments. I was grateful for the move; after the Malden studio, my old room in Lower House would have felt too small, and besides, I had no desire to return to the room which reminded me so powerfully of Veronica and her betrayal.

But where being a student at Samuel’s had made me, for the first time in my life, a member of a group of peers, being a teacher took that community away from me. I turned twenty in the October of that year, which made me closer in age to the students that I taught than to the teachers that I worked with. As a teacher at Samuel’s, socialization between students and teachers was frowned upon, especially “teachers of such a young age and such a reputation” Mr. McGraw said during a staff meeting, an insinuation that I found intensely hypocritical given that, no matter his advanced age, he was well known on campus for giving better grades to female students whose appearances he favored.

Still, unwilling to embroil myself in further scandal, and cognizant that, no matter the strength of my advocates, my name made my position tenuous, I resigned myself to another year spent alone.

At Tilney Manor, there had been no children my age that I was kept from, at MIT, there had been work enough to fill every lonely moment. As a young teacher at Samuel’s, there was no such mitigation of the solitude that, like a cold wind, blew through me each day as I walked alone to an empty apartment, to work by myself on the lessons that I would teach children my age who were free to laugh, and to play, and to spend time together without consequence.

With March came longer days, rains instead of snows, and the fifth anniversary of Jack’s death. Despite being reminded of his presence by every building on campus, the date still managed to come as a surprise. I remembered only the day of and only after seeing the date some dozen times, written in the top right corner of the homework sets which I was currently engaged in grading.

I suddenly could not stand to be on that campus a single minute longer than I had to and set the homeworks aside. I was filled with a desire to get as far away from the Academy as possible and as far away as I could from the memories that it insisted on assaulting me with. This is how, on the eve of my sixth year without Jack, I found myself scrolling through job postings in National City, as far from Ivy Town as I could manage in the continental United States. Amidst the calls for babysitters and dog-walkers and poorly disguised solicitations for sex work, I stumbled upon an advertisement which, despite its simplicity, I immediately felt an inexplicable affinity for.

“Live-in tutor sought for all subjects,” it read, “Must be college educated and experienced in teaching. Appreciation for good takeout a plus. Room and board included. Please send a résumé and any requests for further details to Kara Danvers at [email protected].”

For all that I had read through dozens of similar advertisements and disregarded each, this one stood out to me, and I wrote Mrs. Danvers at the address that she provided.

“Mrs. Danvers,” I wrote, “Although I currently reside near Ivy Town, I read your advertisement with great interest. My name is Lena Luthor. I received my Bachelor’s and my Master’s degrees from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and have spent the last year teaching chemistry at Samuel’s Academy. How old is the potential student, and what are their academic interests? I have attached my résumé and eagerly await your response.”

I fell asleep soon after, still uncertain why an au pair position which I was all but guaranteed to be rejected from on the basis of my name made me so nervous.

Mrs. Danvers’ response arrived during the middle of the last class of my day, the tell-tale buzz of my phone on my desk interrupting my concentration mid explanation of acid-base reactions. So eager was I to read what she had written that I spent the rest of the lecture in a state of distraction, mistaking “ambidextrous” for “amphoteric,” dividing six by three to get four, and initially forgetting to assign a new homework set, all things that my students picked up on.

“Are you okay, Ms. Luthor?” Mary asked once the bell had rung, “You seem a little far away today.”

“I’m quite alright,” I said, mentally urging my students to move more quickly; each moment that they loitered was another before I could read Mrs. Danvers’ email. That I did not have truly have psychic powers had never galled me quite so much as it did in that moment as Mary stayed behind.

“I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about the titration lab that we have coming up,” she said, “But I guess it can wait until next class.”

I warred for a long moment with my better nature before saying, “No, it’s fine – what did you want to know?”

It was several minutes, but each felt longer than the one before, and by the time Mary was satisfied, my chest felt like a bubble, a membrane stretched too thin and supported only by surface tension, ready to pop at any second. As soon as Mary left, I picked up my phone and eagerly read what Mrs. Danvers had written.

“Lena," her response read, “I prefer Kara, but if you must, I’ll accept ‘Ms. Danvers,’ although I won’t be happy about it! Ruby, my niece, is turning eleven next month. She’s interested in science, which sounds like it should be right up your alley! She takes after my sister that way. I didn’t include this in the original advertisement, but Ruby has two mothers: my sister and her wife. If this is going to be a problem, I would prefer to save the trouble. I hope to hear from you soon!"

The cheer of her tone gave me pause; I wondered if she had realized with whom she was conversing. That her sister had a wife made it unlikely that the scandal of and surrounding my sexuality would be problematic, but the fact remained that I was a Luthor. That an aunt would willingly expose her niece to a member of my family went against all that I had learned about the world.

"Ms. Danvers," I replied after much deliberation, “As long as you do not find issue with my name, I am able to tell you that I see no barrier keeping me from your happy employment. You are correct that I have a strong background in science, which I would be very pleased to share with Ruby. All that remains in my mind is negotiation of salary and the determination of a starting date. Please let me know if there is any more information that I can provide you.”

“Hi Lena,” Ms. Danvers wrote back the next day, “Unless I missed the part of the recent trials that implicated you, your family doesn’t reflect on you. To your questions - we can offer you a room to yourself as well as a seat with us at any meals that we eat, as well as-” Here she named a modest sum which I found more than agreeable. In truth, such was my desperation to escape the memories and the isolation of Samuel’s that I would have accepted even one third of what had been offered. “Which I would pay you each week. As to the date, we’d prefer as soon as possible – Sam, Alex, and I have been staggering our days off, but that’s only a temporary solution.”

My relief upon Mrs. Danvers’ response was enormous and I carried I with me for the rest of the day, apparent in the wide, uncharacteristic grin which stretched across my face. Although no contract was signed and I had no more than a stranger’s implied promise, my destiny felt tangible for the first time in some years, as smoke and aether which had substantiated into something that I could grasp.

I wrote Ms. Danvers back that night, communicating the date in late May which marked the end of the school year, promising that I could be in National City the week following. Her affirmative response was all the nourishment that the seed of hope within my chest needed to blossom, and I all but floated through the rest of my days at Samuel’s.

“Good job,” I could all but hear Jack say, “Make me proud in National City, Lee.”

Chapter Text

Term had at long last completed and I found myself on the road, my entire belongings in the trunk of my rather worn car, which had been on the sad side of used when I originally purchased it from a classmate in order to move to Malden. Despite its advanced age and mileage, it was my most dear possession.

On my cross-country trip to National City, it also served another purpose, as I had taken to sleeping in my car in order to preserve the meager funds that I had retained after living paycheck to paycheck over my tenure at Samuel’s. Even so, my debit card was first declined just outside of Odessa, Texas, and I was left only with the cash in my pocket, some eighty dollars.

Still, despite being without money and alone in the world, I was not without good spirit and cheer; the prospect of moving to National City was an exciting one. I had got a taste for the city life living near Cambridge and was eager to see what the West Coast had in store for me. Further, I was buoyed by the knowledge that I had, despite my name, secured employment that if not lucrative, would still allow me to put some aside for my future, a luxury that Samuel’s meager paychecks and the loans which I had taken as a student did not afford me. The salary which Ms. Danvers had offered was bolstered by the promise of room and board, and as I lived quite simply, and had since paid off my debt, I anticipated being able to save most of the money I earned.

I awoke on the final day of my journey in a small roadside hotel, reasoning that a shower before meeting my new employers could do me only good. My mood was cheerful as I moved through the routine of my morning with an uncharacteristic languor – I was ahead of schedule and pleased with myself for it. That my car, ancient already when I had bought it some five years prior, survived the trip from Samuel’s to National City, a drive which spanned several days and crossed more states than I’d ever set foot in before, I regarded as providence and a good omen for my future. That paying for the hotel room left me with only a scant few dollars in my wallet did not bother me; I had a full tank of gas and was about to embark on a new chapter of my life.

It was that morning that I first saw her. It was about nine o’clock and the summer morning was pleasant. The sun was not yet high enough in the sky to be hot and a breeze carried upon it a hint of the sea. I was a few miles outside of National City. Ahead of me, I could make out a blue Volkswagen bug which had pulled over to the side of the road. A thick black smoke emanated from its hood. As I neared, I could see the car’s driver was a beautiful woman, professionally dressed in slacks and a pale blue cardigan. She was perhaps four or five years my senior and her face appeared soft and kind despite the frustrated look that she fixed upon her phone.

I had made good time and was on track to arrive several hours early. Helping this woman could serve to occupy some of that time and keep me from appearing overeager to my new employer, I reasoned, although in truth, I would have stopped even had I been late already, so taken was I with the woman’s general appearance.

I turned down the radio and pulled over, coming to a stop behind the woman’s blue Beetle. “Excuse me,” I said, “Can I offer any assistance?”

Her face brightened, and I knew that I had made the right decision in stopping, so breathtaking was that smile. “You’re my hero. Triple A has had me on hold for an hour. Can you take me into the city? I’ll tell insurance where Mesrour is when I can finally get them on the line.”

“Gladly,” I said, “I’m headed in there myself. Where exactly are you headed?” I hoped it was close to my final destination, as I knew that no matter where she needed to go, I would claim to be similarly intentioned.

She gave the address of an office building located only a few minutes out of my way and we set off.

Are you new in town?” she asked once we’d started to move.

“How could you tell?” I replied, startled.

She laughed, and somehow it was even lovelier than her smile. “Intuition. Also, you have Pennsylvania license plates.”

“You caught me,” I said.

“You’re so lucky!” she exclaimed, her voice bright with enthusiasm, “There’s so many great restaurants that you’ll be able to try for the first time!”

“Oh?” By circumstance, I had never been one for eating out. At Tilney and at Samuel’s, there had always been food prepared by the kitchens, and at MIT, there hadn’t been enough money for such a luxury. However, although I did not plan on changing my habits, such was the woman’s excitement and my desire to hear her speak that I did not tell her that I was unlikely to act on any recommendations she could give me.

“Yes,” she said happily, “National City has the best food. There’s this place just on Chapel and Main that does the best potstickers you’ll ever eat, I promise, and there’s a Moroccan place off Union that’s out of this world.”

She talked at length for some minutes about the various cuisines that were available in the city which was to become my new home and I listened happily, no matter that I had neither the money nor the inclination to try them myself. By her careful and loving descriptions, I could almost taste the food, despite having never heard of many of the dishes which she offered up as her favorites.

“Oh, I love this song,” she said, as we slowed at a red light some minutes from her destination, “Can you turn it up?”

 I turned the volume to sixteen; any higher and I knew that the stereo system with which the car was fitted would begin to emit a loud clicking noise. I recognized the song; it had been popular while I was a student at MIT, and I had heard it often, blaring from the student dormitories, as I walked around campus at night.

“Say what you wanna say, and let the words fall out,” she sang, “Honestly – I want to see you be brave.”

She had a lovely voice – of course she did – clear and unwavering, and she belted with a practiced confidence.

It felt all too soon before we arrived at her final destination, which the branding told me was the CatCo Worldwide building.

“This is me,” she said, “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“Any time,” I replied as she turned and made her way into the building. It wasn’t until her back had disappeared out of sight that I realized that I hadn’t gotten so much as her name, much less her number, and that unless I waited at one of the many restaurants that she had named until she had a craving for potstickers, or I camped outside the CatCo building, I was unlikely to find her again among the millions who lived in National City.

Cursing my own foolishness, I drove until I found a coffee shop near my destination, reasoning that had I been better caffeinated, I might have remembered to ask for some means of contacting her again.

The shop nearest to Ms. Danvers’ home was some six blocks away. I parked across the street, and although I knew it was quite a nice neighborhood, I was careful to lock the doors of my car. I made my way into the shop, called NC Jitters, and ordered a small latte, which I intended to nurse for the hour and a half until I was due to meet my employer. I carefully counted out the coins to pay for my drink, pleased to find that I had just enough.

As I drank my coffee, my good cheer gradually returned. My anger with myself over having not even learned the blonde woman’s name dissipated, replaced instead with an almost giddy excitement, like it was champagne and not blood which flowed through my veins.

At last, it was the appointed time. Armed with nervous energy and a belly full of caffeine, I navigated to the address given to me in my correspondences with Ms. Danvers: 2520 Lace Hill Street. The building was a tidy brownstone, four stories tall, which despite the name was constructed out of unevenly cut red stone. Bright flowers adorned the windows on the second floor, and affixed on the cheerful red door was a knocker in the shape of an S. The steps leading up to the front door were made of the same red stone as the building, their smooth, flat surfaces in sharp contrast to the white marble of Samuel’s, worn by generations of feet into distinctive crescent moons.

I took in a deep breath and marched up the stairs, knocking firmly on the door with the surprisingly heavy knocker. My petition was answered by a redheaded woman, slightly taller than myself. She was younger than I’d expected, but then, I’d formed my images on no more than the style of her writing, an estimation which necessitated large error bars.

“Hello, ma’am,” I said, “Are you Kara Danvers?”

“No, but she’s due back any minute – she was late to work, something about her car. I’m her older sister. I live on the ground floor with my wife, Sam - it’s our kid that you’ll be working with. Come in, please.” That Mrs. Danvers, who could have been no more than eight years my senior, was Ms. Danvers’ older sister indicated that my assumptions of my employer’s age were even further off the mark than I’d thought.

I followed Mrs. Danvers through a hallway into a sitting room, pleasantly decorated by someone who valued comfort over appearance. The two sides of the sectional couch did not match, and several board games were piled upon an attractive wooden coffee table that I could tell had been made by hand. I sat upon the nearest sectional – it was as soft as I’d imagined – and Mrs. Danvers settled onto the other side. “Am I to meet Ruby today?” I asked, eager to begin my work.

She shook her head. “She’s at a friend’s house. I wanted to see you myself before I left you with my daughter. So please, tell me a little bit about yourself. I left the hiring process to Kara”

“Well, ma’am, my name is Lena Luthor, and I have worked-”

Mrs. Danvers froze at the mention of my name and my heart fell – she hadn’t known, her sister hadn’t told her. To have come so far on false pretenses was a disappointment and the humiliation I felt at how excited I had become at the prospect of this job threatened to engulf me. I prepared myself to apologize for wasting her time and to return to the road to do whatever it took to survive when, just then, the front door was unlatched.

“I’ll be right back,” Mrs. Danvers said, and to her credit, her voice betrayed no sign of the enmity that her countenance could not hide. “That must be my sister.” She left back the way we had entered, and began to converse with her sister loudly enough that I could, from my position the next room over, make out every word.

“I can’t believe you invited a Luthor into our house, to work with my daughter,” Mrs. Danvers said, the anger and frustration that she’d concealed so well to my face now unrestrained.

“You told me to pick the tutor, Alex. You insisted.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Danvers hissed, “Because you insisted on paying.”

“She’s not her family, Alex,” came an exasperated voice that must have belonged to Ms. Danvers, “Did you even give her a chance?”

“I need to give her a chance now? After what her family did to Mike?”

“That’s not fair, Alex,” Ms. Danvers said, her voice tight, “At least let me meet the girl, okay? She came all the way from Ivy Town for this job.”

“Kara-”

“This isn’t about what her family’s done,” Ms. Danvers said, “It’s about Ruby, and I know that you want what’s best for her.”

Before Mrs. Danvers could muster a response, I heard footsteps approaching. I hastened to my feet and desperately I tried to school my features into something more neutral. Such an exercise proved unnecessary, as Ms. Danvers’ natural appearance erased all emotion from my face but shock. I had not expected to recognize Ms. Danvers, nor had I expected to see my hitchhiker again, but Ms. Danvers’ appearance proved me wrong at once on both counts.

“You’re Lena Luthor?” she asked, and I was thankful to see her countenance as surprised as I felt.

“At your service, ma’am,” I said.

“Alex, she’s nothing like her brother,” Ms. Danvers said, turning to her sister.

“How do you know? You’ve only just met her.” Mrs. Danvers’ eyes widened. “Wait, when you called and said that you’d been picked up by ‘the most beau-’”

“Alex, shut up!” Ms. Danvers cried out, rushing to her sister and using both hands to keep the rest of the sentence unspoken.

They exchanged a look and several mumbled words, inaudible to me despite my being in the same room. I wrung my hands nervously behind my back, a habit which had stayed with me my entire life despite Mrs. Luthor’s hatred for it. Eventually, the two women turned back to me. While Ms. Danvers wore the sunny smile which seemed to be her default, Mrs. Danvers’ mouth was set into a thin line.

“If it’s agreeable, we’d like to start you out on a trial basis,” Mrs. Danvers said, “A couple of weeks, at first, to make sure you’re a good fit for Ruby.”

My heart soared. I could not fault Mrs. Danvers for being suspicious of my name when she had agreed to do what every other potential employer I’d petitioned had not, and that she did it out of concern for her daughter only further justified her caution. I felt certain that with enough time, I could prove my value and my loyalty to the family that had given me this chance. “I won’t let you down, ma’am,” I said earnestly.

The Mrs. Danvers nodded and walked off through a door that I had not yet been through, leaving me alone with the woman that I now knew to be Ms. Danvers.

“I’m sorry about Alex,” she said, “She’s awfully defensive of people, but she means really well.”

“I’m used to suspicion about my name, ma’am. I’m just grateful for the opportunity to move beyond it.”

“Well, I prefer to judge people on who they are,” Ms. Danvers said. “Let me show you to your room?”

I nodded my assent and we made our way back through the way we’d come, back into the entrance to the brownstone. “We’re upstairs,” Ms. Danvers explained, gesturing towards the stairwell, which was lined with various framed pictures which I examined as we ascended. They consisted entirely of family pictures, of various combinations of Ms. and Mrs. Danvers, a rather tall brunette who I assumed was Mrs. Danvers’ wife, and a young girl of maybe ten years who must have been Ruby. That there were no pictures of Ms. Danvers with a spouse of her own filled me with a gladness that I knew was inappropriate.

“Alex and Sam live on the first floor with Ruby,” Ms. Danvers explained as we walked, “And I’m on the third. Your room is on the second floor, but you have to share with the washing machine and the kitchen.”

I nodded to show that I understood. “And the fourth floor, ma’am?”

Ms. Danvers’ stopped for just a moment and I could see that her grip on the bannister tightened, her knuckles paling. “Please don’t go to the fourth floor,” she said eventually, “It’s not very interesting, just some personal things up that I would prefer to keep private.”

The second floor was clean and sparsely decorated. Exposed brick lined the left side of the hallway, which led to the laundry room, the kitchen, and then the room that Ms. Danvers had set aside for me. The room had been painted a pale, cheerful yellow, and contained a wooden desk, a cozy armchair, and a bed made in plain white sheets.

“You’re welcome to paint the walls if you like,” Ms. Danvers said, “I mean, assuming Alex likes you and you stay.”

I shook my head – the room was perfect and I said so.

“Good. Well, I’ll leave you to get settled in, then. There should be some leftovers in the refrigerator that you’re welcome to. I may have told you about this place, you know, before.”

Such was my first encounter with both of the Danvers sisters. After unpacking my things and enjoying a meal of reheated Chinese takeout which was as lovely as Ms. Danvers had promised in the car, I retired to bed, two resolutions at the forefront of my mind. First, I would prove myself to Mrs. Danvers and earn a long term position at 2520 Lace Hill Street, which I was already quite taken with. Second, I would not fall in love with my employer, no matter how striking I found her.

I arose early the next morning; despite having driven across the country, my mind still anchored itself to the rhythm of the east coast, giving me an extra three hours of morning. I located the bathroom and performed my morning routine which I supplemented that day with a little bit of makeup, so eager was I to make a good impression.

I then made my way to the kitchen where I intended to find something to eat. I was surprised to find the room already occupied by a woman, seated at the kitchen table in front of a steaming mug of coffee. She was professionally dressed, her crisp blouse and pressed pants in contrast to the well-worn jeans which I had selected for the day. Her unfamiliar face told me that she must be Mrs. Danvers’ wife, an assumption which she immediately confirmed.

“I’m Sam Arias, Ruby’s mom,” she said, rising and extending a hand, which I took, “I’m sorry that I couldn’t greet you last night. Hours at the clinic are rough and I couldn’t get the time off.”

“Of course, ma’am,” I said as we both sat at the kitchen table, “What kind of medicine do you practice?”

Mrs. Arias laughed, not unkindly. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m just a receptionist.”

“Oh,” I said, as I felt my face coloring, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume-”

She waved my apologies off. “It’s fine. You assumed because of where we live, right?”

I nodded – the building, situated as it was in one of the nicest neighborhoods in National City, must have cost a small fortune, and privileged as I had been, I sensed that hiring private, live-in tutors was exclusive to the very wealthy.

“It’s all Kara’s,” Mrs. Arias told me, “The house is hers, she inherited it from her birth parents, but she makes enough to have bought it herself, really.”

I nodded. “What is that Ms. Danvers does?”

Mrs. Arias’ face adopted a look of surprise at my question. “You don’t know?” she asked, a question to which I could only shake my head. “She’s the editor-in-chief of CatCo Worldwide.”

“Oh,” I said, unable to hide my surprise.

“You didn’t look her up at all, did you?” Mrs. Arias said, her amusement at my response apparent.

“I didn’t want to jinx things,” I admitted.

“Right, the Luthor thing. I’m sorry about my wife. She’s very protective of us.”

I shook my head. “I’m just grateful to have been given a chance in the end.”

“Well, no matter how Alex acts, we really do appreciate you coming all this way to teach Ruby.”

“Of course. Is there anything that I should know about the circumstances that lead to my hiring?”

“Why Ruby’s not just going to the local school, you mean?”

I nodded.

“Ruby’s- I guess every parent wants to think their kid is special, but Ruby really is. The school district that we’re in won’t let her skip grades though, so she was having a lot of trouble in school. She said everything was too easy and that she wasn’t motivated to do anything.”

I could, of course, relate, and said so.

“Kara offered to pay for private school, but there aren’t any that we liked within a reasonable commute, so here you are,” Mrs. Arias said with a shrug. She checked her watch. “Oh- I’ve actually got to go; my shift starts at six-thirty. I told Ruby to meet you in the living room downstairs at nine, and she can get you up to speed on what we’ve been doing. Do you have any other questions before I head out?”

I told her that I didn’t, and she picked up her bag and hurried out, asking me to please tell Ruby that she loved her very much, and leaving me alone in the unfamiliar kitchen. I located a box of tea bags and having put on a kettle of water, began to review the notes that I had been supplied.

I was not, however, alone for long. It was only a few minutes before, sensing a pair of eyes on me more than hearing anyone’s approach, I looked up to see Mrs. Danvers hovering awkwardly in the doorway. She had a small stack of books and papers in her hands, and whether she could not meet my eyes out of disdain or embarrassment was not yet clear to me.

“Here,” she said eventually, hefting her load, “These are the books that Sam read with Ruby, and some of the worksheets that I’ve been working on with her recently.”

I took the items with a smile, seeing them for the apology that they were.

“Thank you,” I said, “I hope that I can be the teacher that Ruby requires.”

“You’d better be,” Mrs. Danvers muttered, but it felt, if not friendly, then at least good-natured. “Maybe I could just call in sick today, make the transition a little easier on Rubes” she said, looking at the books in my hands, “One more day can’t hurt, right?”

I shook my head. “Ruby and I will be fine, Mrs. Danvers.”

“It’s just one day,” she argued.

“And one day becomes two,” I replied, “I was hired to do this job, please, let me prove that I can do it well.”

Mrs. Danvers fixed me with a look that seemed to last an eternity before she nodded. “Okay,” she said, “I’m going to work. Tell Ruby that I’ll be back in time for dinner and that her Ma loves her very much?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

As Mrs. Danvers filled a travel mug with hot water and instant coffee, I suddenly became aware that only Ms. Danvers had not yet come by the kitchen, and my body buzzed in anticipation of seeing her again.

I shook my head and took a long drink from my tea to try to calm myself, but the drink did not do what my efforts the night before had managed; Ms. Danvers’ countenance and character remained ever present in my mind, rendering my efforts to concentrate on my lesson plans for the day futile. I spent a half hour or so fruitlessly reviewing the same worksheet, unable at the end to even remember what subject it had covered.

Frustrated with my inability to keep my mind in check and on the task at hand, I made myself a piece of toast, and resolved to do a better job of keeping my mind on my job. I reminded myself that a crush on my employer was inappropriate, and more likely than not, the simple result of her being the first attractive woman my age with whom I had interacted in some years. My fortitude regained, I washed the morning’s dishes and returned to work.

So quiet was the morning that even from the floor above, I could hear the front door being unlatched at around eight in the morning. I looked up from my reading in alarm; I had not been told to expect anyone and it had been too long since either woman had left for Mrs. Arias or Mrs. Danvers to have returned for some forgotten item.

I did not have to sit in shock for long, as the mysterious intruder’s first stop was the kitchen in which I sat. She looked to be about my age and we were similarly dressed in jeans and simple tops, but I could see no other commonalities between us; she was beautiful and I knew that I could only ever aspire to plain.

“Oh,” she said, “You must be the tutor. Lena, right?”

I nodded, waiting for her to introduce herself to speak myself.

“I’m Imra, I clean and take care of the house. Kara told me that you would be here today.”

“Yes, today is my first day. Is there anything that I should watch out for?”

Imra shrugged. “Ms. and Mrs. Danvers are great people, but they’re both pretty messy. Sometimes it feels like my only ally in the battle against entropy is Mrs. Arias.” She eyed the mug and butter knife which I had since washed and laid out in the drying rack. “But it looks like maybe I’ve found another.”

I smiled – she had an easy air about her which told me instantly that we would be good friends. “I can’t abide a mess,” I told her.

“I think we’ll get along famously, then,” she said with a smile. “What time are you supposed to meet the kid?”

“Nine,” I replied. And then, because I couldn’t help it: “I didn’t see Ms. Danvers this morning; I wanted to thank her for letting me into her home.”

“Yeah, Kara gets up super early, like four or five. She says that she likes the sun, but as far as I can tell, there’s still plenty of it at eight.”

Imra left soon after to begin to tidy the house, promising to see me at dinner that night. It was not long after that I gathered my papers and supplies and moved to the first floor living room where I was to meet my pupil, who joined me a few minutes before our appointed time. It was clear upon meeting her whose biological child she was – from the color of her hair to the quirk of her lips, Mrs. Arias’ features were faithfully replicated.

“Hello,” I said, “My name is Lena Luthor. You must be Ruby.”

She nodded, and I pushed on, determined to not take her silence as a bad sign. Having reasoned that a history lesson would be the easiest to jump into, I had prepared to talk about the conditions which led to the golden age of piracy, a topic which had interested me as a student. Despite my best efforts, it was clear that Ruby was distracted, a fact that initially led me to believe that our interests were not so aligned and I began to mentally cast about for something else that I could teach.

“Letters of marque were issued to ships, which essentially allowed them to act as legal pirates,” I said, as Ruby frowned, her eyes not quite focusing on the map in front of her, which I had marked with the major port towns that had developed during this time period.

“What kinds of factors do you think would have lead normal sailors to a life of piracy?” I asked.

“I dunno,” Ruby mumbled, clicking her pen several times.

“Do you like pirate movies?” I asked in desperation.

“They’re okay,” Ruby said with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I said – I hadn’t made it half way through the material which I had prepared - “If this isn’t interesting to you, we can talk about something else, or move to a different subject.”

I could tell that Ruby was doing her best to hold something in, and my heart fell, so convinced was I that her distraction was the result of my poor teaching. “It’s okay, really, you can tell me if I’m boring you,” I said, bracing myself for criticisms that I knew were imminent.

Ruby made her decision to speak and looked up at me for the first time since she’d entered the room. “Did Mom and Ma hire you to teach me because they don’t want to spend time with me anymore?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, taken off-guard by the abrupt question.

“Was I too annoying? I didn’t mean to be,” Ruby said, her lower lip beginning to quiver, “I tried to not ask too many questions, even when Ma went really fast.”

“Your mothers love you very much,” I said, and although I had not been long in their acquaintance, I knew that I spoke the truth when I told her: “They want nothing more than to spend their time with you.”

“How do you know?” Ruby asked, “Why aren’t they here now?”

“They have to work,” I said.

“No they don’t. Mom hates her job and they don’t need the money. Aunt Kara has a ton of money.”

Although I was used to unwilling students, I felt utterly unprepared for this line of questioning; what could I say that could assuage such deep-seated fears?

“I’m certain that your mothers are doing everything they do to make you happy,” I said, “I saw them both before they left for work this morning. They both asked me to tell you that they love you very much, and that they wish that they could have stayed with you.”

Ruby’s eyes widened, and for a moment, I could see in them an achingly familiar hope, but it soon passed by her conscious effort. “Whatever,” she said, “They say a lot of things. Let’s talk about pirates.”

I wasn’t eager to let the matter go, but Ruby was not to be deterred. “I mean it,” she said, when I pressed gently, “I want to learn about pirates.”

Despite her sullen demeanor, it was obvious that Ruby was possessed of a keen mind, and we quickly moved into a nuanced discussion as to whether or not privateers were more moral than the pirates that they sought to eliminate from the seas. I could tell that she was trying her best, but that the prospect of having been abandoned by her mothers weighed heavily on her.

Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers returned around six. Ruby had retired to her room some hours ago, leaving me to my solitude, which I had chiefly spent preparing a set of chemistry lessons to take over from where Ruby and Mrs. Danvers had left off. Having walked in together, I heard them visit Ruby in her room before ascending to the kitchen where I was currently seated.

“How was Ruby today?” Mrs. Arias asked me as she tied an apron around her waist, “She didn’t say much when we asked.”

“The lessons went well,” I began, “Ruby is very bright and we’ll be able to move much more quickly than I anticipated.”

“I sense a ‘but,’” Mrs. Danvers said, sitting across from me at the table.

I cast about for a few moments, knowing that I had to choose my words precisely. “Ruby asked if I had been hired because the two of you were tired of having to teach her,” I said eventually.

A stricken look fell upon Mrs. Arias’ face as Mrs. Danvers covered hers with both hands. “I knew I should have stayed behind today,” the latter said, “God, this was a terrible idea.”

I ignored the pang in my chest which Mrs. Danvers’ words induced, my brain more cognizant than my heart that she hadn’t meant it, and pressed on, reasoning that it was best to paint the picture in its entirety before letting it be appraised. “She mentioned that her mom hates her job, and expressed disbelief that either of you have to work, Ms. Danvers’ financial situation being as it is.”

“I don’t love what I do,” Mrs. Arias admitted, “I didn’t think that Ruby had picked up on that, though.”

“We have to work,” Mrs. Danvers said, roughly chopping an onion, “I mean, Kara would probably be fine paying for everything-”

“It was hard to even get her to accept rent,” Mrs. Arias interjected.

“But that’s no way to raise a daughter,” Mrs. Danvers continued, “She has to see her moms taking care of themselves, not just lounging around all day while Kara works herself to the bone.”

I nodded – I didn’t disagree, but even if I had, it wasn’t my place to question their parenting decisions. “Do you always cook dinner?” I asked Mrs. Arias.

“Whoever’s home first makes dinner,” she replied.

“Which means that if Kara’s home first, we eat takeout,” Mrs. Danvers said.

I nodded. “Does Ruby ever help?”

“She doesn’t like to cook,” Mrs. Arias said, “We asked a few months ago, she says she’s afraid of setting the house on fire.”

“All the more reason for her to start with both of her mothers present,” I said, “I think that what she wants, more than anything, is just to spend more time with the two of you.”

Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Arias stopped what they were doing and looked at each other.

“I think I’ll retire to my room until dinner,” I said, “If that’s okay?” In truth, I had already spent much of the day alone and had been eager for the company which Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers could provide, but I was not so selfish as to deny a girl the attention of her mothers.

Mrs. Arias nodded, but Mrs. Danvers had already left; I could hear by the fall of her feet that she was rapidly descending the staircase. I made my way to my room, where I passed the next hour or so completing my lesson plans for the next day.

“Dinner’s ready!” I finally heard Ruby cry out.

The hallway was filled with the delicious smell of the nightly meal and I followed my nose back into the kitchen where Mrs. Danvers was setting out plates. Although she didn’t say anything, the hint of a smile that she gave me as I re-entered the room was enough for me to know that my suggestion had been well received by all parties.

Dinner was a chicken and vegetable stir fry, cooked in a fragrant brown sauce, and served with rice which Mrs. Danvers proudly told the table that Ruby had made. The chicken was delicious and the rice only slightly hard, and having lived for the last week on gas-station food, it was heavenly.

My enthusiasm for the food was perhaps matched only by Ms. Danvers’. “This is so good,” she said, her mouth full of chicken and rice.

Ruby giggled. “You say that about everything, Aunt Kara.”

Ms. Danvers shook her head. “Nuh uh. Celery is gross. It’s a plague on society.”

“There’s celery in the stir fry,” Mrs. Arias said.

“What!” Ms. Danvers brought her face down as close to her plate as she could manage without touching it to search for the offending vegetable. “How could you betray me like this, Sam?”

Despite myself, I found her antics endearing and spent the meal quietly watching the family interact. Their comfort was strange to me, nothing at all like the formal, tense occasions that were family dinners at Tilney Manor, and it redoubled my determination to win Mrs. Danvers’ approval and to obtain permanent employment.

The meal was over before I knew it; the food was too good and we were too hungry to linger over it. “Lena and I can handle the dishes,” Imra said, “Thanks for cooking.”

Ruby and her moms smiled and headed downstairs as Imra and I gathered the plates. Before leaving, Ms. Danvers turned around and said, “Lena, when you’re done, can you meet me upstairs? I wanted to check in.”

Somehow, despite my traitorous heart grinding to a halt, I managed to agree. However, my mental agitation did not go unnoticed by my fellow.

“She’s pretty,” Imra said casually, as she scraped the leftovers into a glass container.

“She’s my employer,” I said, willing my heart to accept what my head knew, “It doesn’t matter how pretty she is.”

Even as I focused on scrubbing the dishes in front of me, I could feel Imra’s stare. “That’s probably a good idea,” she said eventually, “Kara’s a complicated person.”

My heart burned to ask what she meant, desperate as it was to consume any piece of Ms. Danvers, no matter how small, but my brain prevailed, and I turned the conversation to safer waters.

It was not long before I deposited the final plate into the drying rack. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Imra said, “Good luck with the boss.”

I nodded, and made my way up the stairs and to the door which Ms. Danvers had indicated as her bedroom during my tour the night before. I knocked sharply, although I knew that my heart thundered against my chest louder than my hand against the door.

“Come in,” Ms. Danvers’ voice beckoned.

The room which I stepped into was cheerfully furnished with an eclectic mix of pieces whose only commonality was their bright coloration. The bed was dressed with sheets striped in shades of green and blue, her shelves were an almost garish, plasticky yellow, and throw pillows of all hues and patterns adorned the room like a constellation. Ms. Danvers was seated at a vintage writing desk with the cover open, her fingers flying across the keys of her Macbook.

“Sorry,” she said, “I just need to finish writing this email.”

“Of course, ma’am,” I said, standing in the doorway. By force of will, I managed to slow my heart’s palpitations until I could almost convince myself that the rhythm of my pulse was due to the stairs that I had ascended and nothing more.

Eventually, she turned, fixing me with a frown. “Have you just been standing there this whole time?”

I nodded, confused at what I had done wrong.

“Oh my gosh, come in,” she said, and, motioning towards the plump couch which sat at the foot of her bed, told me to sit.

I did, and was surprised when she sat beside me – Mrs. Luthor would never sit with an employee, preferring to stand in order to maintain a hierarchy. I felt the cushion beneath me shift to accommodate her weight and turned to her. “What did you want to speak me to about, ma’am?”

“Ma’am,” she said, shaking her head, “It’s like I’m still at work.”

“Well, I do work for you,” I reminded her.

She nodded. “Right, that’s right. Anyway, I just wanted to check in and make sure that your first day went okay. Were you able to find everything that you needed? Ruby didn’t give you too much trouble?”

I shook my head. “Ruby is bright and well-behaved,” I said truthfully, “She’s the kind of student that teachers dream of having.”

Ms. Danvers beamed as brightly as if I had complimented her own child. “Alex and Sam will be so happy to hear that.”

The longer that I looked upon her, talked to her, the easier it became to act as if I was unaffected; perhaps, I thought, with enough time, I could inure myself to the queer feelings that her presence incited within me.

“I noticed that you were very quiet during dinner,” she said, “I’m sorry if it was overwhelming, I now that we can be a bit much. I promise that we won’t be offended if you want to eat on your own.”

Such was my surprise that it took me some seconds before I could answer, and I fear that my mouth gaped in a way that would have scandalized Mrs. Luthor. “Ma’am,” I said, “I can’t remember the last meal that I spent so pleasantly.”

My heart’s response to Ms. Danvers’ sunny smile should have been all the evidence that I required that I could never become inured to the intoxication of her presence, but as I would soon come to learn, Ms. Danvers has ever been able to confuse my sensibilities.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, her words echoing the sentiment written plainly upon her face, “I want you to be happy here.”

This concluded my first full day in National City, in Ms. Danvers’ home, and I fell asleep with a head full of her smile and a heart full of hope.

The next morning passed in much the same way that the first had. I did not wake early enough to see Ms. Danvers off, but ate a leisurely breakfast, briefly accompanied by Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Arias, who greeted me on their way to work. Mrs. Danvers was noticeably warmer to me that morning, which I took as a positive sign for my future at 2502 Lace Hill Street.

Ruby also responded well to the chemistry lesson that I had prepared. Although I knew that she had a natural inclination towards science, I suspected that her enthusiasm for the material had less to do with the subject at hand and more with the time that her mothers had spent with her cooking dinner the night before.

Still, her positive attitude towards me was encouraging, and when we ended for the day, it was with a sense of satisfaction and excitement that I returned to my room to work on lesson plans for the next day. Although I did not see the sense in doing so without knowing if my employment would be permanent, I hoped to eventually build up a body of lessons to which I could refer without having to spend each night in preparation.

From my room, I could hear the front door open, and from the subsequent sound of footsteps above me, I could tell that it was Ms. Danvers who had arrived home first. I idly indulged a notion that when she went to the kitchen in order to prepare for dinner, I could happen to be there and thereby pass an hour or two in her company. However, after a few minutes without hearing her move from her room, I remembered what Mrs. Danvers had said the night before about her sister’s cooking. I was suddenly beset with chagrin at my overactive imagination. It could do me no good to harbor an attraction to the woman upon whom I so relied; an unrequited affection could make her uncomfortable, while a requited one could end in rancor. I saw no need to risk my employment at the hands of either of those possibilities on what I was sure was just a physical attraction, magnified by the years which I had gone without any physical intimacy.

It was a new Lena Luthor who emerged from her room at the call for dinner. The kitchen table overflowed with plastic containers filled with a variety of Indian dishes, of which I recognized several, having eaten them with Jack what seemed like a lifetime ago. I willed my heart to steady at the sight of Ms. Danvers cheerfully loading her plate with servings from several of the containers and settled in to enjoy the feast which she had set before us.

Dinner was a pleasant affair, and in my effort to keep from gazing upon Ms. Danvers’ face, I enthusiastically joined Ruby in recounting the lesson of the day to her mothers. I was heartened to hear how well she had retained the material, as I knew that Mrs. Danvers, with her degree in bio-engineering, would be able to spot any mistakes in her daughter’s recollection. However, my student did me credit, and it was with a proud look that Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Arias regarded their daughter as she waxed rhapsodic on the development of the periodic table over a plate of saag paneer.

By the time the meal concluded, I was comfortably full of good food, a sensation which I would come to associate closely with 2520 Lace Hill Street. There were no dishes to be done; we had eaten off of the paper plates and plastic cutlery which the restaurant had supplied. Imra and I collected the leftovers and stored them in the refrigerator as the others gathered up the trash.

“Lena,” Ms. Danvers said, once we had finished, “Do you want to come up and chat for a few minutes?”

“Of course, ma’am,” I replied as I washed and dried my hands.

I followed Ms. Danvers to her room and sat in the same spot on the couch as I had the night before.

“What is that you wished to speak to me about, ma’am?” I asked, after some seconds had passed in silence.

“Oh, I was just- I was just hoping that we could get to know each other a little bit better,” Ms. Danvers said, and if the premise weren’t so ridiculous, I might have guessed that she was nervous. “It’s a strange feeling, I guess, to have someone living in my house that I know so little about.”

I considered this. Although it seemed unlikely that she would sell my story, given the conversation between her and her sister which I had overheard upon my arrival, I was cognizant that she was the editor-in-chief of the largest news organization in National City.

“What do you want to know?” I hedged.

She shrugged. “Whatever you want to tell me. What do you like to do for fun? What kind of music do you listen to?”

“I like to read,” I answered, “And I like to play the piano, when I have time.”

Ms. Danvers’ face brightened. “Do you? That’s great! We have a piano downstairs, you know.”

I nodded – I had seen it while working with Ruby. “Who in the family plays?” I asked.

“No one,” Ms. Danvers replied, “It was my mother’s. The whole house was, actually, before she passed away.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, horrified by my tactless questions, “Mrs. Arias told me as much yesterday, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no,” Ms. Danvers said, waving away my apology. “I’ve made my peace with it. It happened so long ago, and there was some good that came out of it. I wouldn’t have met Alex otherwise, you know?”

“Yes,” I lied – the idea that anything at Tilney Manor could have been worth losing a family which cared for me an entirely foreign concept.

“You’re adopted too, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said once more, although the line of questioning had my guard up. I was newsworthy, I knew, only for my tenuous connection to the Luthor line and for any additional scandal that I could bring upon the already disgraced name.

Thankfully, she did not pursue the question further. Instead, she hummed for a moment, while looking around the room, until:

“Are you seeing anyone?” she blurted out.

My heart sank as soon as the words left her mouth, and I knew with awful certainty that she, like so many others, was just after my story. My horror must have been apparent on my face, however, as she immediately back-tracked.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry – that was really inappropriate of me, wasn’t it?” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t mean to pry, or invade your privacy, I promise. We can talk about something else?” She laughed awkwardly, and that, more than her words, convinced me that not to bolt.

“What kind of music did your mother play, ma’am?” I asked.

“All kinds of things,” Ms. Danvers said, her relief at the change of subject evident in her voice, “I remember that her favorite was The Battle of Waterloo, by Anderson.”

“I’ve never heard it before,” I admitted.

“I’m sure there’s sheet music for it somewhere in the house,” Ms. Danvers said her eyes misting over somewhat.

We stayed in pleasant conversation for another ten or fifteen minutes, before I excused myself to my room. I had work yet to be done before Ruby’s lesson the next day.

The rest of the week passed in similar fashion. My rapport with Ruby only continued to improve, and although I never saw Ms. Danvers off for work, rising too late in the morning for that, we spoke briefly each night after dinner.

Although my trial period officially lasted two weeks, true to Mrs. Danvers’ initial offer, by the end of the first, so natural did my being there feel, that I all but knew that the position was mine. Only one incident broke the idyll of that first week at 2520 Lace Hill Street, an omen of the misery which lurked on my horizon.

It was the Saturday of my first week when I first heard the noise. Cognizant that there were to be no lessons on the weekends, I had woken later than my usual time and entered the kitchen at around nine or ten in the morning. I fixed myself an English muffin with a scrape of raspberry jam and had just sat down to begin my breakfast when, from above, there came the strangest sound. It sounded like a scream, but not one of pain, or of emotion, but the kind of scream that a child makes, just to hear its own voice and to let the world know that it still exists.

I dropped my muffin onto the table. So shocking was the cry that I forgot about the impropriety of the action and my own resolution and dashed instantly to Ms. Danvers’ room; even in that first week, I sought comfort at her side. Howbeit that it was still morning on a Saturday, my mistress was working at her desk when I burst in. “What was that strange cry?” I asked.

“There’s some machinery on the fourth floor that acts up every once in a while,” she explained, “It’s alright, I sent Imra to look into it.”

That she seemed entirely unbothered by the noise calmed me somewhat, and although I had been quite certain that it had been produced by a human voice, presented with Ms. Danvers’ guileless face telling me otherwise, I began to doubt my own recollection.

“Does Imra come in every day?” I asked instead.

“Every weekday and weekends if she’s available and we need something done,” Ms. Danvers said cheerfully, “She’s really more of a family member than anything else.”

I nodded, the hope that Ms. Danvers would one day say the same of me blossoming within my atrophied heart. “I’m sorry for causing such a commotion,” I said, ashamed of my childish behavior, “I’m afraid my imagination got the better of me.”

“No,” she said, her gentle countenance perturbed, I perceived, by my self-effacing, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t apologize for things like that.”

I tried my best to take her advice to heart, and although I continued to apologize for things which she told me did not require it, I was able to curb my reaction to the noise, which occurred once or twice a month. Eventually, I was able to all but completely ignore it, as I settled into a comfortable routine at 2520 Lace Hill Street.

Chapter Text

No matter the internal turmoil which bubbled within me, I will always remember those first months at 2520 Lace Hill Street as among the happiest of my life. With Ruby as a bright, engaged, and enthusiastic student, my work was rewarding, and my relationship with her mothers, howbeit that Mrs. Danvers and I had not started off on the best of terms, had evolved into a tentative friendship.

However, no matter the kindness that they showed me, no matter the sessions with Ruby which I learned as much from as she, it is the evenings which I spent with Ms. Danvers that are most clearly and permanently embedded within my memory. She invited me to her room after dinner each night, and although our resultant conversations took on a wide variety of subjects, she never again asked for information on my romantic life, a fact which I found immensely relieving, for in that arena, I harbored a secret which I knew I could never be revealed.

I clad my heart in steel the way I had been taught – Luthors, after all, do not show their emotions. I could not let Ms. Danvers realize the truth, that over the course of our conversations, I had at some point fallen deeply and terribly in love with my employer. ­­­As hard as I tried, as much as I knew better, I must here confess that my best efforts were powerless in keeping the fondness in my heart in check, and it was over the sum of many small moments that I fell in love with my employer, the initial tug which drew me to her transforming over an abundance of tiny interactions into something much larger than the sum of those minute increases in affection.

I began to feel that 2520 Lace Hill Street itself conspired against me – what other explanation is there for being able to hear her move about her room above me late at night, despite the thick, solid floors, which otherwise permitted no noise? So well had I learned the layout of her room that with each muted footfall could I tell whether she was walking to her closet, or to her bookshelf, her desk. I lay awake more nights than I did not, listening to her shuffle about her room, fighting the desire which burned within me to join her in her insomnia.

How tormented I was by that forbidden desire! My original plan of quenching my affections had not been successful, and as if in punishment for the attempt, they multiplied. When we were relative strangers, I could convince myself that it was physical attraction only that drew me to her, but once familiar, I no longer had any such luxury. I loved her, I knew I loved her, but more than that, I knew that I could never act upon that love. Although I bore the scars which Veronica had left upon me, I was not afraid that Ms. Danvers would hurt me. To imagine such a thing seemed too many steps removed from the reality of my situation.

There were many reasons that a relationship between us could never work. I was in her employ and entirely reliant upon her. I knew that no good relationship could come from such an unequal beginning. I taught and cared for her niece – any change in my relationship with Ms. Danvers would likely effect Ruby, and I could not guarantee that such a change would be for the better. Further, she was a woman of prominence, the editor-in-chief of the largest news organization on the West Coast, and I was the scandalous daughter of the country’s most hated family – any public affiliation with me could only reflect poorly on her.

These were the arguments that I, in my cowardice, used to justify the distance which I kept between us, but I knew even then that if she asked, I would abandon my reason and throw myself into her arms. What kept us apart was the simple fact that she did not desire me as I did her – how could she? I was plain, of no great ability, with no family, no friends, and no prospects. And so, unwilling to burden her with affections which she did not – and should not – return, I hid my feelings, no matter that I felt that they were so obvious as to be seen from outer space.

Still, I persevered, and the days turned to weeks which stretched into months, as summer languidly gave way to the mild winter of the West Coast and the new year dawned.

The San Diego Zoo was not the first trip that I had undertaken with Ruby, but it was the first which we went on without either of her mothers. However, with both of them unfortunately tied up at work that weekend, Mrs. Arias at the office and Mrs. Danvers at the station, it fell to Ms. Danvers to accompany us both.

There was a briskness to the late February morning that would have been typical of early spring back at Samuel’s, but on the West Coast, caused Ms. Danvers to don a jacket and shiver as we walked about.

“How can you walk around in just a t-shirt?” she grumbled.

I shrugged. “I have a sweatshirt in my bag for later, unless you need it now?”

“No,” she said stubbornly, “I’m fine.” The effect, I felt, was somewhat ruined by the shiver which punctuated her words.

“Lena,” Ruby said, impatient with the slow moving adults and their care for silly things like finding a parking pass and placing it on the dash of the car, “Aunt Kara, come on. I want to see the lizards.”

“Yes, but remember what we’re here for,” I said.

Ruby nodded seriously. “We’re looking at examples of divergent evolution.”

“That’s right,” I said, pleased with her answer and pleased that we’d finally made it out.

No matter that it was ostensibly an educational trip, Ruby’s excitement could not be contained, and by her brisk pace, a small distance began to grow between me and Ms. Danvers and our charge.

“It’s so great of you to work in trips like this,” Ms. Danvers told me, as we hastened to keep pace with Ruby, “Her moms and I really appreciate it.”

“Thank you,” I said, the compliment resting warmly in my belly like a good meal, “Although in truth, I admit that I planned this trip as much to show Ruby the difference between bird and bat wings as to see the zoo myself. I’ve never been before.”

“This is your first time? The San Diego Zoo is an institution! You’ll have to tell me how it compares to the others you’ve seen.”

I frowned. “You’ve misunderstood,” I said, “This is my first time at any zoo.”

“What?” Ms. Danvers asked, shock turning her voice sharp. “Your first time ever?”

“I’m- I’m sorry,” I said, my heart racing, “I didn’t know that was a problem.” Although I couldn’t determine what I’d said that had caused offense, that the otherwise unflappable Ms. Danvers was agitated was unmistakable.

“No,” she said, calming down somewhat, “It’s not you. I’m just surprised, I guess. And a little sad, that you’ve never been before.”

There was a sadness at the corner of her mouth that I wanted nothing better than to dash away with a kiss, but I settled instead for saying, “Well, I’ve made it to one at last, and I can think of no one I’d rather be here with.”

My words had the desired effect and Ms. Danvers’ sunny smile returned in force. “Well, I’m pleased to be here with you,” she said.

“Oh, you misunderstood again,” I said, “I meant that I am pleased to be here with Ruby.”

“Hey!” Ms. Danvers said, offended.

“Come on!” Ruby wailed, cutting off my next remark, “How can you both be so slow?”

Suitably chastised, we ran to catch up to Ruby, who waited for us at the entrance to the zoo which we had driven out to see.

Once at the ticketing booth, I pulled out my wallet to pay for three entrances. “Let me,” Ms. Danvers said, using one hand to push mine away.

“I planned this outing,” I reasoned, “It would be uncouth for anyone but me to pay for it.”

“I know how much you make,” Ms. Danvers said, “I don’t pay you enough to take all of us to the zoo.”

I looked up in surprise – “Where did Ruby go?” I asked, my voice panicked.

“What?” Ms. Danvers turned around, only to find Ruby patiently waiting exactly where we’d left her. “That’s not fair,” she said, as I handed her a ticket.

I shrugged in response and we made our way into the zoo. Ruby was all but vibrating with energy and I confess that I was little better. I had wanted to see a zoo ever since Jack had first told me of a visit he had made with his parents, but I had never had the time nor the money to make such a trip.

“What should we see first?” Ms. Danvers asked once we’d crossed through the gates.

“We have to see the bats!” Ruby cried.

“Why the bats?” Ms. Danvers asked.

“Bat wings are an example of convergent evolution,” Ruby told her, “That means that the common ancestor of birds and bats didn’t have wings.”

“Oh?” Ms. Danvers asked, “How do we know?”

It was with great pride that I listened to Ruby’s resultant explanation of the anatomical differences between the different types of wings. That I had helped her, in some small way, to develop the enthusiasm with which she spoke was a humbling experience and it was with great difficulty that I restrained my eyes to simply misting over.

“Good job,” Ms. Danvers said softly, once Ruby had charged ahead, intent on finding her way, “You’re so good with her.”

I blushed, in part because of the compliment, and in part because Ms. Danvers was so close to me. “Thank you. It’s kind of you to say so,” I said, “But in truth, Ruby is everything one could ask for in a student.”

“Yeah, she’s a good kid,” Ms. Danvers said happily, “But it doesn’t change that you’re good with her.”

We followed Ruby to the bat roost, and then to see the birds. We went from there to see the lizards, the fish, and – my personal favorite – the cheetahs, along with the rest of the African animals. Ruby was tireless, bounding from exhibit to exhibit, while Ms. Danvers and I tried valiantly to keep pace.

Ruby was just ahead, watching in fascination as a family of gorillas groomed each other, when Ms. Danvers and I were interrupted.

“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind us.

Ms. Danvers and I turned as one to see an older woman, perhaps fifty-five or sixty, who regarded us both with fondness in her eyes. I could detect an English lilt to her voice as she told us, “I just wanted to say that the two of you make a lovely couple, and your daughter is absolutely the sweetest thing.”

That I had been mistaken as Ms. Danvers’ partner filled me at once with pleasure and guilt at that pleasure. Although I could have reveled in the misconception for hours, I was quick to correct the compliment, as I knew that I could not bear to hear Ms. Danvers do so herself.

“Thank you, but we’re not together, ma’am,” I said, “Ruby is her niece and my student.”

The lady tutted at me. “I have tenants who are just like you, you know, completely in denial. Give an old lady credit for having a pair of eyes.”

My face flushed and I opened my mouth, ready to protect my heart once more when I felt Ms. Danvers’ hand at the small of my back.

“Thank you,” she said simply, flashing the older woman a smile, “It’s kind of you to say so.”

The lady smiled in return and wandered off towards the otters. It was another few seconds before I realized that Ms. Danvers still had her hand on my back.

She must have made the realization in the same instant, because she whipped her hand away as soon as I began to turn to look down at her arm.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I don’t mean to overstep.”

“It’s not a problem, ma’am,” I replied, hoping that my cheeks were not as pink as I feared they were, “I understand why you did it.”

“You do?” Ms. Danvers asked, her brows knitting.

“Yes. I’m glad to know that you’re comfortable enough with me to put on a show for a well-intentioned stranger,” I said, smiling happily at her.

“That’s not- What? I-” but before she could finish her sentence, we were interrupted by Ruby’s sudden reappearance.

“Can we go to the gift shop?” she asked, “I’ve been saving my allowance and I want to get Mom and Ma something.”

“That’s a very good idea,” I said, and although I desired to know what Ms. Danvers was going to say, she didn’t bring it up again, and so neither did I.

After the gift shop, we stopped for dinner on the way back to 2520 Lace Hill Street, and as a result, did not return until eight or so. It had been a long day and Ruby was tired; despite a relaxed bedtime over the weekend, she was in bed as soon as she’d given her mothers the commemorative mugs which she had purchased for them.

“Will you join me for a few minutes?” Ms. Danvers asked.

“Of course. Let me just put Rapscallion away,” I said, holding up the stuffed cheetah which Ms. Danvers had pressed upon me, insisting that I take it as a souvenir of my first trip to the zoo. Once in my room, I laid him safely beside my pillow, and after taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart, made my way to the third floor, where I knocked at Ms. Danvers’ door.

“You know,” she said, once she had let me inside, “You can call me Kara.”

I blushed at the prospect but knew that it would be impossible to continue to hide my feelings if I allowed such familiarity, and so I declined. “Thank you, ma’am, but I couldn’t. You’re my employer and it wouldn’t be proper.”

Ms. Danvers’s laugh was succor to my lovelorn heart. That she be any lovelier was simply not possible. “If you say so,” she said, “Does it bother you that I call you Lena? Am I being too familiar?”

I could tell that I was being teased, but I answered nonetheless. “It doesn’t bother me, ma’am.” And indeed, it didn’t; hearing my name on Ms. Danvers’ lips was a secret pleasure that I did my best to indulge in as frequently as possible, striking up conversation about whatever topic I could manage just in order to hear her voice.

“Good. Anyway, I have news - James and Lucy are back from their honeymoon, so game nights are starting up again,” Ms. Danvers informed me, “We were thinking Thursday night.”

“I understand,” I said, “I’ll stay in my room and out of your way, ma’am.”

Ms. Danvers’ face crumpled in confusion. “What? No- Lena, I was hoping you would join us. I wanted to introduce you to my friends.”

“I- is that appropriate, ma’am?” Although I was joyful that Ms. Danvers meant to include me, I feared that she had not considered fully the implications of such an invitation. I was her employee, and familiarity between us could be easily misconstrued. Additionally, although I knew that Mrs. Danvers looked past my name, I was cognizant also that Ms. Danvers’ friends might hold judgements of their own in such regards and I was not eager for her reputation to be tarnished for my proximity.

“They’ll be here around seven,” Ms. Danvers said, as if I hadn’t spoken, “Well, apart from Winn, who’s always late, and Imra will be around already, of course.”

“Ms. Danvers,” I said, my tone made sharper than I intended by my agitation and nerves, “Am I required to attend?”

Her pretty face adopted a somewhat pained expression and my heart ached for having put it there. “I mean, not required, obviously – you’re not required to do anything, Lena. I would just really like you to be there. Everyone will love you.”

I had my doubts, but her desires were, to me, as good as commands, and I selfishly wanted her prediction of my acceptance to be proven true, so I acceded.

“And you’ll call me Kara while they’re around?” she asked hopefully.

I shook my head – there were some things that I had to be firm on, even in the face of the disappointment present on my beloved Ms. Danvers’ face.   

The day of the game night came far sooner than I would have preferred. I delayed my arrival as long as I could, nerves outweighing my normal need to be punctual. I feared that Ms. Danvers had not warned her guests as to my identity and that there would be conflict, but I feared also that she had, and that they had been silenced into veneering their enmity with pleasantries.

I had spent so long in my room ostensibly getting ready (although in truth, as I was not one for makeup and typically wore my hair in a simple ponytail, there was not much to prepare) that Ms. Danvers came by to enquire after me. It was twenty minutes past seven; the first guest had arrived over half an hour ago. “Are you feeling okay?” Ms. Danvers asked, and that she cared enough to come to check on me was all it took to convince me to make an appearance. I would not embarrass her by failing to show up.

Game night was held on Ms. Danvers’ floor, in the sitting room that occupied much of the floor’s area. Several squashy couches surrounded the coffee table that Ms. Danvers and I had shared many a cup of tea at and which was now stacked with several games, none of which I had played or seen before.

Besides Ms. and Mrs. Danvers, Mrs. Arias, and Imra, there were two other people in the room whom I had not met before but could recognize by Ms. Danvers’ descriptions. James was tall and solidly built with dark skin and no hair. He sat with his wife, Lucy, identifiable by her angular face and her bright red lips.

Ms. Danvers had clearly told James who I was, but also warned him off of bringing it up; I could see the question on his lips each time he looked at me. Desperate to clear the air, I jumped into the only thing that I knew to say.

“Congratulations,” I told James and Lucy, “Ms. Danvers tells me you’ve just returned from your honeymoon.”

Lucy laughed. “Is that what she said?” When I nodded, she explained. “James and I spent nine months on assignment in Tehran. He’s a photographer, and I’m with the diplomatic corp.”

“Then you’re not married?”

She held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers; there was a thin gold band securely on her fourth finger. “Happily so, but not recently. What’s it been, babe?”

“Six years next month.”

I may have been off the mark, but my questions did succeed in unthawing James, whose eyes no longer held the same suspicion that they had upon my entry.

“How long have you been in National City?” Lucy asked me, as James began to show Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers some pictures on his phone.

“I arrived in July,” I told her, “Some six months ago.”

Lucy nodded, but before she could respond, the doorbell rang. “That must be Winn!” Ms. Danvers said, jumping to her feet. She dashed to the front door and quickly returned, leading by the hand a man not much taller than her, his blocky face framed with short brown hair and a cheerful grin.

“Hi, everyone,” he said, “James, Lucy, nice to have you both back stateside.”

The pair nodded. “It’s good to be back,” Lucy said, “I tell you, I had a heck of a time getting Jimmy back in one piece.”

James winced. “It was one time, Luce,” he protested.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “He wanted to take pictures of the bomb squad while they were working on live explosives,” she told us, “I got a call from the troop’s CO telling me that I had to collect him from holding.”

Mrs. Danvers, Mrs. Arias, and Winn laughed raucously, but Ms. Danvers was not so amused. “That’s terrible, James,” she said, “You could have really been hurt.”

“That’s not fair, Kara,” James said pointedly, “What about the work that you did in the DMZ? That’s hardly safe.”

“That’s different!” Ms. Danvers exclaimed, although by the eye roll which followed, it was clear that James did not think so. Before she could explain, however, Mrs. Arias quickly cut in, dropping a pile of games onto the coffee table around which we gathered. I sensed that the argument between my mistress and James was a familiar one, one which the group was not eager to retread.

“So!” Mrs. Arias said brightly, “We’ve got eight. We could play Cards Against Humanity, or we could split into teams and play something else?”

A spirited debate ensued, which I, being unfamiliar with each of the games discussed, did not participate in, and the group voted to play Settlers of Catan. The two married couples paired off quickly, and a faint spark of hope which I did not realize that I had harbored was cruelly extinguished when Ms. Danvers paired off just as quickly with Winn, leaving me to play with Imra.

The rules were explained for my benefit as I was the only one who had never played before. I did my best to remember the rules, but Ms. Danvers had settled in next to Winn with a proximity that I couldn’t help but be distracted by. Unaware of the mental turmoil in which I was embroiled, Mrs. Arias continued through the rules, and before I knew it, the board was set up and the game had begun.

Thankfully, Imra seemed to be an adept player and I was quickly able to fill in the gaps in my understanding by watching her play. That she began the game handicapped by my distraction and unfamiliarity with the game did not faze her. She played confidently, explaining her strategy to me in hushed tones so as to not be overheard.

It was only a few turns into the game when an unlucky cast of the dice relieved Ms. Danvers and Winn of half of the resources which they had accumulated. I was shocked to hear Ms. Danvers swear loudly in response - I had never seen her so rattled before.

That Ms. Danvers harbored such a fierce competitive streak only furthered my confusion at her choice of partner – Winn was enthusiastic but did not seem to be in possession of a coherent strategy. In building new towns, his first instinct was to place it in locations that offered little value, and it was only Ms. Danvers’ corrections to those placements that kept them in the game at all.

The first round ended suddenly – over just a few turns, Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers were able to deftly out-maneuver the other teams and gain the remaining six of the requisite ten victory points.

“Yes!” Mrs. Danvers cheered, “Longest road! Suck it, guys.” She leaned in briefly to press her lips to her wife’s cheek.

“You guys got lucky,” Ms. Danvers grumbled, “I want a rematch.” By this time, I felt that I had a comfortable understanding of the rules and strategy required and was eager to try my hand at the game. We were not alone in our desire to play again, and the game board was quickly set up, the players divided among the same four teams as before.

The first few turns went smoothly, with few decisions to be made as each team tried to stockpile resources in order to develop their positions on the board. There was little talk, other than the quiet mutterings of strategy between teammates, until Winn eventually broke the silence.

“How’s work these days, Alex, Sam? Still doing the same things?” he asked after Ms. Danvers swatted his hand away from the game board for the third time in as many minutes.

A shadow briefly crossed Mrs. Arias’ face, but she was quick to school her features into a more neutral cast before turning back to study the game.

“Work’s fine,” Mrs. Danvers answered first, “I’m on traffic duty more than I’d like, but it pays the bills.”

“You’re making an actual difference though,” Winn pointed out, “I mean, it’s important work that you’re doing.”

Mrs. Danvers shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure how much I’m doing writing up parking tickets, but yeah, that’s the goal.”

“Right on,” Winn said. Having, perhaps, noticed Mrs. Arias’ nonverbal response to his question, he turned instead to Lucy, asking if she’d been able to keep up with the performance of the local sports teams while on duty.

Their conversation, which held little interest to me, was further diverted by a play which Mrs. Arias had just made. I spent some seconds in deep thought, trying to determine why Mrs. Arias had placed her road where she had. It offered no immediately recognizable strategic value, did not bring her closer to claiming the longest road, did not open up any building opportunities of particular utility.

Had it been anyone else, I might have decided it was a mistake, or the result of a lack of thought, but Mrs. Arias had played the entire night with precision and strategy, and it was therefore with great trepidation that Imra and I took our turn.

It was several turns later that Mrs. Arias’ complicated plan came to light – by combining an uneven resource distribution across the board, an unclaimed port, and several development cards, she was able to turn the road which she had placed earlier into a powerful position on the board. Imra and I, who had been in a commanding position, saw our lead dwindle to a single point.

I looked up in surprise at Mrs. Arias who just shrugged. “I tried,” she said, “But unless the dice go very strangely, I think the two of you’ve got it.”

“What?” Winn said, studying the board, “Darn. Sorry, Kara, I thought we had it this time.”           Mrs. Arias’ prediction played out, and the second game soon went to me and to Imra. Despite the anti-climax of the moment, it having been predicted some turns before, there was a vicious satisfaction in victory: I felt that Ms. Danvers, given her desire to win, would surely recognize her mistake in choosing Winn over me.

Indeed, when I looked over, dissatisfaction was writ large upon her face, but such was my infatuation that I could derive no pleasure from her mood and I felt instantly guilty for wishing such a negative feeling upon her.

Winn glanced between me and Ms. Danvers and smiled knowingly before leaning over to her and whispering for some moments into her ear. The intimacy of the gesture was magnified by the immediate effect that it had on her mood; she brightened considerably, once again possessed of the sunny brilliance with which I usually associated her.

“Winn is starring in a new show,” Ms. Danvers said proudly, all vestiges of her former foul mood gone, “They wrote the role with him in mind.”

Winn blushed, but nodded in thanks as the rest of the group exclaimed their congratulations. “It’s really exciting,” he admitted, “Rehearsals have been great so far – the rest of the cast is so good, it’s really inspiring to be a part of. Sometimes you can just tell that something’s going to be great, you know?”

I looked over at Ms. Danvers and was surprised at the clear affection with which she listened to Winn describe the show’s progress. Her face shone with an adoration that I wanted nothing more in the world than to have directed towards me, but in that instant, I saw clearly how foolish I had been. I had spent several months pining after my employer, a woman who clearly had eyes for another.

The sudden realization preoccupied me for the rest of the evening, and well into the night. Although no more games were played, the guests stayed for some time longer, catching each other up on the months of their lives since they’d convened last. So caught up was I in my thoughts that I registered very little of this conversation and retained even less, barely even noticing when their departures eventually came. 

I was roused from my reverie by Ms. Danvers’ soft touch at my shoulder.

“Thanks for coming, Lena,” Ms. Danvers said, her voice low and quiet, “I’m sorry if it was overwhelming.”

“Not at all,” I managed.

“Would you like to-” Ms. Danvers began, but I shook my head before she could invite me to her room for conversation as I knew she would.

“I’m feeling quite tired, ma’am,” I said, “I’m afraid I won’t make good company until I’ve gotten some sleep.”

Her smile filled me with guilt, cognizant as I was that the first half of my statement had been untrue; I was not tired, filled instead with a kind of terrible, staticky energy which I feared would rob me of any rest that night.

Indeed, once I’d retired to bed, those tumultuous thoughts left me unable to sleep. My mind was filled with the image of my beloved Ms. Danvers so clearly taken with Winn and I wallowed in it for some time – whether it was minutes or hours I have no way of knowing – until I knew that enough was enough and that I had to take a more reasoned approach to my feelings.

I knew that Winn enjoyed several advantages over me in a contest for Ms. Danvers’ affections. For starters, he was male, and as I had seen no indication from Ms. Danvers – no mention of a former lover, no sidelong glances at anyone in the streets – which could have given me a clue as to her preferred gender, I had to assume by simple statistics that he held the advantage there.

There was also the issue of looks. Although they held no sway over me, I knew from observation what kinds of features were desirable in men, and with his boyish charm and handsome appearance, it pained me to admit that Winn was a fine specimen. I, on the other hand, knew that I was no great beauty – Mrs. Luthor had told me often enough that should I be lucky to attract a man at all, it would be because of the name, the education, and the upbringing that the Luthors had granted me.

He also enjoyed gainful employment; though I had little first-hand experience with the theater, I knew enough to know that a lead actor made more than a live-in tutor. Do not mistake me – I was not so self-pitying or shallow to think that Ms. Danvers would prefer someone over me simply because their income was greater. It was instead that Winn was possessed of a financial independence that I, reliant as I was on the continued good graces of the Danvers and marked as I was with the Luthor brand, was not.

That Ms. Danvers spend her life with Winn felt entirely wrong to me. He was pleasant enough, but Ms. Danvers deserved more than that. To see her tied to such a person felt like setting Damascus steel into a plastic handle – he could serve, perhaps, but she deserved someone as special as she, and I knew in my heart that he was not.

Howsoever strong my feelings on the matter, though, I knew that it was not my place to say anything, and so I resolved to swallow my pride and the hope that I had foolishly let continue, and to be happy for my mistress no matter her choices.

I woke the next morning surprisingly refreshed given how little I had managed to sleep. There was a kind of catharsis in letting go of a long and deeply held hope, and although its loss had left a tender kind of vacancy within me, I was confident that with time and perhaps some distance, it would heal over, and I could move on. After all, given Ms. Danvers’ busy schedule, it was unlikely that I would have to spend much time in the presence of the happy couple, a fact which I was sure would aid in the transition.

Buoyed by my new take on life, it was with particular gusto that I approached my lesson with Ruby that day as we discussed Gettier’s problems. Although she balked initially at the esoteric nature of the question, by the end of the day, my enthusiasm proved to be sufficiently infectious to draw her into a lively debate.

My high spirits lasted all the way through the end of dinner, at which time Ms. Danvers asked me, as she always did, if I would come by her room for some minutes to talk. I did so, confident in my ability to be happy for her without rancor.

“I’m sorry for my abrupt exit last night,” I said once I was seated in that familiar couch, “I had a lovely time.”

“Oh good,” Ms. Danvers said, “I was worried that something was wrong. You looked a little distant last night.”

I shook my head. “Not at all, ma’am. I think that Catan agrees with me.”

Her laugh was no less joyous than it had been the day before, but I was proud that my heart’s reaction was more subdued. With time, I felt, that reaction could be further reduced until Ms. Danvers affected me no more than any friend ought. “Beginner’s luck,” she teased, “I’ll get you next time.”

“Next time, ma’am?”

 “Didn’t I mention? Game nights are usually a weekly thing.”

“Oh,” I said dully, as the prospect of watching Ms. Danvers and Winn each week suddenly loomed before me. “Will I be expected to attend each week?”

“Well, you’re invited,” Ms. Danvers said, undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm. “And I do know where you live.”

I nodded. “As you say, then.”

“Really though, it would make me happy if you were there,” she said, her tone suddenly quite serious.

No matter that I had vowed to leave my childish infatuation with her behind me, I knew that in order to make Ms. Danvers happy, I would endure any amount of pain. And so it was that I agreed, that night in her bedroom, to be a devoted attendant of that weekly tradition, feeling for all the world as if I had just signed something very dear to me away.

Chapter Text

It had been six or seven months since I had first seen Winn and Ms. Danvers together and although they had never explicitly discussed it in front of me, that they were together could only be lost on the most ignorant of observers. That they always chose to be on a team with the other, that they sat so close as to nearly be in the other’s lap, that they often burst out into laughter over some joke that only they were privy to, paled in comparison to the casual, unmistakable intimacy which existed between them.

Game night had become near torturous and I spent much of the week dreading Thursday nights. I did my utmost to disguise the pain which I felt upon seeing Ms. Danvers and Winn together, cognizant that to express the true depth of emotion which their relationship drew from me would only distress Ms. Danvers.

I took solace in that I was not the only one bothered by Ms. Danvers’ romance. Mrs. Danvers could not observe her sister and Winn exchange so much as an affectionate glance without rolling her eyes and scoffing quietly. I did my best to ignore that after such an interaction, both Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Arias would often regard me with what I could only interpret as pity, but it was clear that I had miscalculated my own mental fortitude. Despite what I had told myself all of those months ago, Ms. Danvers’ relationship had become no less distressing to me for its familiarity.

Still, game night was not without its merits and when I could put the wrenching of my heart aside, I found that I enjoyed the competition which the weekly session afforded me.

While Imra and both Danvers sisters were capable players of most of the games, as were Lucy and James when the competitive spirit struck them, it was Mrs. Arias who made the fiercest adversary. She read not just the game state, but the other players, to a degree which I found both impressive and frightening.

Between the couples normally pairing off with each other and complaints that it “wouldn’t be fair” in the rare occasions that they did not, I was only able to play as Mrs. Arias’ teammate in a handful of cases, but the insight that being so aligned with her afforded me into her thought processes was highly edifying.

“We have to press our advantage now,” she whispered to me once.

“But we’re behind,” I remarked, “We should step back and consolidate for some turns.”

“No,” Mrs. Arias said, shaking her head, “Imra’s worried that Lucy and James are going to come around the side, so she’s playing more cautiously than she has to.”

The rest of that game played out as Mrs. Arias had envisioned, and to no one’s surprise, we claimed victory in what only Mrs. Arias and I knew had been an incredibly close match.

Games like those were an exception, however, and I lost as many games to Mrs. Arias’ skill as I took myself.

Apart from game night, my life was not much changed. Ruby continued to prove herself to be a capable and enthusiastic student, and I was pleased with the progress that we had both made.

It was an otherwise pleasant day in mid-September that Ms. Danvers made an invitation which disturbed the bittersweet equilibrium which had sprung up in 2520 Lace Hill Street.

I had finished my lesson with Ruby for the day and while she had retired to her room for the evening, I remained in the first floor living room where I allowed myself to indulge in a few pages of Brideshead Revisited. I had read only a few dozen pages when I heard the rattling of keys at the front door followed by Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers’ voices, engaged in quiet conversation.

“If you hate the office that much, you should quit,” Mrs. Danvers said, her words heated.

“I can’t,” Mrs. Arias replied, resignation clear in her voice. “Taking Kara’s money isn’t an option, you’re the one who keeps saying that.”

“Yes, but that was before I knew how miserable that stupid place makes you,” Mrs. Danvers hissed, “Do you think my pride is more important than your happiness?”

“It’s my pride,” Mrs. Arias said gently, “And I am happy. You and Ruby make me so happy. You know that, right?”

Mrs. Danvers sighed, before muttering, “Yeah, I do babe. I love you so much,” a sentiment which Mrs. Arias readily replied.

I held my book up to my face, hoping to use it to cover the flush in my cheeks if they passed by me on the way to their room. I was embarrassed to have eavesdropped, even inadvertently, on such an intensely personal conversation.

 I was thankfully spared the interaction, as both women headed straight for the kitchen, apparently intent on beginning dinner. Once a long enough period of time had passed that I judged that they would be fully involved in their preparations, I made my way up the stairs to my room as quickly and as quietly as I could manage.

During dinner that night, I watched for signs of the exchange which I had overheard in the faces of Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers, but so utterly unremarkable were their behaviors that I began to suspect that this was not the first such conversation that they had had.

Dinner ended without fanfare or incident, and Imra and I did the dishes before she went home for the night.

As I walked to Ms. Danvers’ room for our typical talk, I considered for some moments whether it was appropriate to voice my concern about Mrs. Arias’ happiness to her sister-in-law, but eventually decided against it. Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers were both adults who would, I knew, ask for help if they felt they truly needed it. It would not be appropriate of me to betray their privacy in such a way, even if my intentions were good.

“Winn’s show is going to open next week,” Ms. Danvers told me once I had settled in, “I’ve got tickets, do you want to come with me?”

The question was a difficult to answer and I found myself torn. On the one hand, such was my pathetic infatuation that even knowing that she had feelings for another I knew that it would bring me great joy to spend time with Ms. Danvers. On the other, I had little desire to watch Winn be the center of attention, and less still to have to watch Ms. Danvers watch him. However, if this story has taught you a single thing so far, it must be that I am nothing if not weak, and I agreed to accompany her.

It was the following Tuesday that Ms. Danvers was to drive us to the theater in Mesrour. Unsure of how formal the event would be, I dressed as nicely as I could manage, pairing a black sheath dress which I had not worn since my graduation from MIT with a pair of heels which had once belonged to Veronica.

I knocked on her bedroom door at precisely five o’clock. The time between the dissipation of the sharp rap and her opening the door felt an eternity, measured out in six or seven pulses of my loudly beating heart.

“Wow,” Ms. Danvers said, with a sincerity that seven months ago would have filled me with the deepest elation, “You look great.” She said it so genuinely, so intimately, that in that moment, I very nearly allowed myself to believe her.

“Thank you,” I said, as guilt at the happiness which I derived from her comment rose within me. That I reacted in such a visceral way to her polite, platonic remark felt like a violation of sorts, like I had abused her confidence by keeping my infatuation for her a secret and therefore allowing her to make such remarks unaware of the response that they would elicit. “You look lovely yourself,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady, so taken was I by her appearance, by the smooth skin which her dark red off-the-shoulder dress displayed. Her lips had been painted a similarly striking color, and her hair, which she typically wore up in a tight ponytail had been let out.

Ms. Danvers’ cheeks tinted pink at my words and opened her mouth as if to say something. She seemed to think better of it, however, as she paused a second before asking, “Shall we go?”

The night was crisp and cool, but then, so were most of them in National City. That the California September felt like the same month on the East Coast, however, comforted me in its familiarity.

As she knew intimately the location of the theater, Ms. Danvers drove us both there. I sat in Mesrour’s passenger seat, suddenly and uncomfortably tongue-tied. We had not been alone in such a fashion since my first day in National City, when I drove her to work. Our interactions since had taken place in short conversation seated on her couch, or with Ruby as a buffer between us. I did my best to use my dress to wick the sudden moisture from my palms.

“Have you seen Rent before?” Ms. Danvers asked eventually, “I know it played in Metropolis for a while a few years ago.”

I shook my head. “I’ve never been to the theater before,” I admitted.

“Well,” she said brightly, “This should be a great introduction to it, then.”

“I hope so,” I said, although I secretly felt that any night spent watching Winn could not be a great introduction to anything.

Ms. Danvers fell quiet then, and I joined her, unwilling to break the comfortable silence between us. The rest of the trip was not long, but I wanted it to last forever. There was a weight to the air, to the evening, and I knew that as soon as we arrived at the theater, that it would be lost.

The theater was far busier than I had expected when we arrived, and my hand froze on the car door, unable to make the simple motion required to open the barrier between me and the bustling crowd outside.

There was a touch at my shoulder, which broke me out of the paralysis in which I had found myself. “It’s okay,” Ms. Danvers said softly, “I’m here.”

I nodded mutely and stepped out of the car. Ms. Danvers was quickly at my side, her hand at the small of my back. Had I been in better possession of my faculties, I like to believe that I might have maintained a more professional distance, but overwhelmed as I was, I all but sank into her touch.

We pushed through the crowd and found our seats. We were on the main floor, only a few rows away from the stage, but far enough that we wouldn’t have to crane our necks to see what was happening.

“You don’t want to be in the first couple of rows,” Ms. Danvers whispered to me as we settled in, “Stage actors tend to spit a lot while they sing.”

I was unable to discern in that moment if she was telling the truth, but before I could press, the show began.

I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but from the opening number, I was hooked. For all that I begrudged Winn’s existence in Ms. Danvers’ life, I could not deny his talent. His portrayal of Mark Cohen, a Bohemian filmmaker living in the East Village amid the AIDS crisis was so riveting that I entirely forgot that we were sitting in a theater in California in the late 2010s.

The rest of the cast was equally gifted, and the music was like nothing that I had heard before. So engrossed was I in the show that it wasn’t until much later that I realized that Ms. Danvers’ hand had come to rest on my arm. It felt like no time at all had passed before I realized that the lights in the theater were coming on.

“What’s happening?” I asked, almost frantic in my surprise, “The story’s not finished – they can’t end there.”

“It’s just intermission,” Ms. Danvers told me with a smile, “But I’m pleased that you’re enjoying it.”

I nodded – what could I say? Words hardly seemed enough.

The second act was equally enthralling, and I confess that by the finale, I found myself in tears. I looked over at Ms. Danvers and was gratified to see that she had fared no better. As the cast took the stage for their curtain call, I was filled with the most incredible sense of exultation and felt that I had no choice but to join the rest of the audience in showing my gratitude in the only way that I could: by standing and applauding as loudly as I could manage.

“That was amazing,” I said as we left the theater. Darkness had fallen, but the bright neon lights of the theater district lent the street a hazy, dreamlike quality.

“Are you hungry? Winn texted to see if we wanted to get food,” Ms. Danvers asked, and before I could answer, the rumble of my traitorous stomach gave me away. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said with a delighted laugh.

So pleased was I to hear her laugh and so full of lingering emotion from the spectacle which I had just bore witness to that I couldn’t muster the dread which spending time with Winn usually brought about. Instead, I allowed myself to be led by the hand to a pizza parlor down the street where Ms. Danvers assured me Winn would meet us.

Indeed, it was not long before Winn walked in, along with a man who seemed vaguely familiar. Both of their faces bore the shine characteristic of having been freshly cleaned of makeup, and both wore equally wide smiles. “Kara!” he said, when he spotted us, his voice somehow no hoarser for having spent the last hours on stage singing, “Lena!”

He and his companion placed their order at the counter and settled into the booth across from us. “Kara, Lena, this is Cisco Ramón. Cisco, this is Kara and her friend, Lena.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Cisco said, and I recognized his voice as soon as I heard it – he was the actor who had played Angel – “I’ve heard so much about you both.”

I knew that he was just being polite – what would Winn have to say about me? – and smiled pleasantly. “I enjoyed the show quite a lot,” I said to the two actors, “Thank you very much for the performance.”

“This was her first time at the theater!” Ms. Danvers interjected, and I blushed – I didn’t want to appear uncultured. However, far from inviting scorn, the remark appeared to delight both Winn and Cisco.

“I’m honored!” Winn said happily, “And we’re so glad that you liked the show.”

Cisco nodded. “Absolutely. I mean, I’ll be gladder when The King and Scather Boi like the show, but it means a lot.”

“Who?” Ms. Danvers asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Cisco likes giving critics supervillain names,” Winn said, rolling his eyes, “He thinks he’s funny.”

“I’m a riot,” Cisco said before turning to me, “So, Lena, Winn tells me that you’re brutal at board games.”

I shrugged. I could hardly deny it – there were few games that were not won by me or by Mrs. Arias. “I suppose,” I said modestly, “Although if it’s Winn telling you that, he might be an unreliable narrator.”

“Why’s that?” Cisco asked, leaning forward in interest.

“I get the impression that he doesn’t care about winning very much,” I said.

“I just like spending time with friends,” Winn said with a shrug, “Sue me.”

Perhaps it was because the small booth meant that Ms. Danvers was pressed into my side, but in the casual atmosphere of the pizza parlor, basking in the afterglow of the show which I had just watched, I suddenly felt a strange affinity for Winn. In another world, one in which I did not have to see him with Ms. Danvers, I felt that we could have been good friends.

“Well, you’re clearly very smart. Winn showed me your Master’s thesis,” Cisco said, “Super impressive. Those Mössbauer measurements must have taken forever.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Did Winn not tell you that we both studied physics in college?”

I shook my head. It was possible that he had and I had ignored it, as I did much of what he said, but this seemed like a fact that I would have remembered.

“Yeah, we met in quantum lecture,” Cisco said, giving Winn a look which I can only describe as affectionate. “He asked me for notes after sleeping through the fourth lecture.”

“It was the fifth,” Winn muttered, but otherwise, offered no rebuttal.

“You read my thesis?” I asked, almost in a daze.

Winn nodded. “It was really good work,” He said, “I’m surprised you didn’t go for a doctorate.”

I had considered such a track but felt that finding an advisor willing to take on the Luthor name would have been too much of an ask. I knew, however, that the present company was too polite to admit such a thing, so I only allowed myself to say, “It didn’t feel right at the time.”

“Well at any rate,” Cisco cut in, “I thought you did a really good job with the deconvolution. That stuff is tough.”

It was with great delight that Winn, Cisco, and I dove into a discussion into the science which I had spent so many years of my life studying. I had not had such an outlet in the years since my graduation; there had been no one from the same field as me at Samuel’s, and Ruby, while bright, was hardly ready for the material.

The conversation ended when we were shooed out of the parlor by the elderly proprietor who needed to close up for the night. The lights of the district had mostly gone out for the night, leaving the street in a still darkness which felt as if we were the only people left in the entire world.

I0 felt almost drunk as Ms. Danvers and I bade Winn and Cisco a good night and walked back to Mesrour. “I’m so sorry about that, ma’am,” I said once we’d made it to the car.

“What are you apologizing for?” Ms. Danvers asked, genuine confusion in her voice.

“I’m afraid that we subjected you to a conversation which you had no interest in,” I said, “Unless you are also harboring a secret degree.” I squinted at her face, as if by improving my vision, I could discern her educational history.

“I studied journalism, I’m afraid,” Ms. Danvers said, “But the conversation made me really happy. You’re usually so reserved, it was nice to hear you so enthusiastic.” Her words filled my heart with an almost unbearable lightness, and my mouth felt terribly dry.

“And it was nice to see you getting along with Winn,” she continued, “I know that you’re not very fond of him.”

She looked at me expectantly, almost challengingly. “I- I have no qualms with Winn,” I said eventually, and it might have been a trick of the light, but I almost thought that I saw disappointment flash in her eyes.

There was an almost unbearable pause, before: “Well, I’m glad you had a good night,” she said finally, “If I get more tickets to another show, would you be interested in coming with me?”

“Oh yes,” I said, relieved that she had broken the silence, “I’d be very pleased to accompany you.”

And although our conversation on the ride back was pleasant as we discussed which songs were our favorites (Ms. Danvers preferred “I’ll Cover You” while I favored “Out Tonight”) I couldn’t help but feel as if some intangible quality of the night had been lost.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel that the night had been a great success overall. I had spent a night in the company of Ms. Danvers, seen and thoroughly enjoyed a show, and even found some common ground with Winn. Such was my good humor and my newfound fondness for my rival in love that I found myself looking forward to that week’s game night as I had never done before.

Unfortunately, I would not attend that week’s meeting. It is a strange fact of our modern society that one’s cellphone will respond to an emailed cat picture as it will dire news from a long-estranged family member. When my phone chimed partway through the next day’s lesson with Ruby, I thought nothing of it, assuming it to be of the former category.

It was not until a few hours later, when we had finished for the day and I was in my room that I remembered the notification. Its contents were so shocking that I found that I had to sit down.

Mrs. Luthor was quite ill, which surprised me less than her knowledge of my email address. The missive itself was short, terse, although whether that was due to her illness or evidence that her views towards me had not evolved, I could not be sure. And although it would have given me great satisfaction to turn down what was likely to be the final request she made of me, I knew that I could not, and so that night at dinner, not hours after receiving the email, I requested a week’s vacation to visit my ailing mother.

“You don’t talk about your parents much,” Ms. Danvers noted around a mouthful of potatoes.

Mrs. Arias gave her a sharp look. “Lena, if you need time off to see your mom, you should go. You haven’t taken a day off yet and I’m sure Ruby can go a week without classes.”

To her credit, Ruby tried to not look too pleased with the prospect. “I’ll miss you,” she said, with a sincerity that brought a smile to my face.

“I’ll miss you too,” I said, “I would much rather be here with you than in Kansas with Mrs. Luthor.”

I had little desire to fly again – my first and last trip by plane had been from Kansas City to Ivy Town on the way to Samuel’s, and the combination of the enclosed space and the height had left me with only unpleasant memories. However, to drive to Smallville would be a trip of two or three days, and I could not afford to spend so long on the road.

Ms. Danvers offered to purchase my plane tickets, which I declined. I had enough saved up that such a trip would not exhaust my finances. She then pressed upon me a check for several hundred dollars more than the wages I was owed – I told her so, and she waved my protests off. “It would give me peace of mind if you took it,” she told me, “You can return the extra when you return.”

I agreed, but knew that I would not spend the money that I had not earned.

I set off early the next morning, a small pack of clothing slung over my back. Ruby and her mothers slept in, and although I knew that she was in the habit of seeing the sun rise, I knew that today, Ms. Danvers had woken to see me off. “Come back safely,” she said softly.

I nodded. “As you say, ma’am.”

She fretted back and forth for a couple of seconds, as if trying to make up her mind, before swooping in and giving me a tight hug, which I returned gratefully. As we separated, she held me by the arms and leaned in to give me a delicate kiss on the cheek, just off the corner of my mouth. “For luck,” she said, blushing prettily.

I nodded, too surprised to respond in any other fashion, and resisted the urge to touch my skin where her lips had just been pressed. “I’ll be back within the week,” I said. I left before the tears that threatened to slip from my eyes were able to make good on their promise.

I wondered at Ms. Danvers’ strange behavior all the way to the airport. She was not shy with her emotions, but there had been an intimacy about her that morning that I hadn’t experienced before. Had she not been so clearly involved with Winn, I might have suspected that her actions were a sign of her return of affections which lay dormant, but not forgotten, but I quelled that dangerous thought before it could take root. She was my employer and, I hoped, my friend, and it would not do to poison that relationship with my own desperate loneliness.

We had not been in the air more than half an hour when we ran into turbulence which was sufficient to banish all thoughts of Ms. Danvers from my mind as I concentrated instead on keeping down the toast and jam which I had taken as breakfast that morning.

It was a long three hours later that I was met at the Kansas City airport by John, who recognized me instantly. “Ms. Luthor,” he said, delightedly, “Look how you’ve grown. Do you still prefer the raspberry chocolates, or are you too old for them now?”

I hadn’t had one in years and told him so, a fact that scandalized him. “And after all this time, I thought I’d made an impression!” he said, “It’s a good thing I came prepared.” He removed several of the brightly wrapped sweets from his pocket and handed them to me. For the second time that day, I fought back tears.

The sweets were even lovelier than I remembered and went a long way in easing my nerves as we drew closer to Tilney Manor. The exterior of the building had not changed largely, but there was a ramshackle air about it that was unfamiliar and out of place on the forbidding structure. This, more than the ceasure of the monthly allowances, or Mrs. Danvers initial response to my name made the disrepute that the Luthor name had acquired real to me. Mrs. Luthor despised mess and disorder as much as anything else and I knew that if she had the funds, she would sooner see the Manor well-kept than the family well-fed.

John brought me directly to the Manor’s door and waved cheerily as I got out. “I can bring your bag up to your room, Ms. Luthor,” he told me, an offer which I declined.

“It’s only the one,” I said, “I’m sure you have better things to do.”

He shook his head. “With respect, Ms. Luthor, the last I saw of you, you were only as tall as my chest, and now you’re a woman grown. I’ve missed so much of your growing up, it’s the least I can do to bring your bag to your room.”

I nodded then, unable to speak for the sudden lump which had appeared in my throat. As John walked me through the Manor’s great doors, I felt a great chill come over me. I had so long assumed that I would never return that I could scarce believe my own senses which each told me, from the terribly familiar smell of the old wooden paneling to the quiet punctuated only by the ticking of the great clocks, that I was back in my adoptive family’s home.

“Mrs. Luthor doesn’t leave her room these days,” John told me, “Should I tell her that you’ve arrived while you freshen up after your trip?”

I shook my head. “I’ll see her right after we drop my bags off. It hardly seems necessary.”

“As you say, Ms. Luthor.”

As we wound our way through the Manor towards the room which I had once called my own, John filled the oppressive silence of the vacant building with the minutiae of his life since I’d left. He’d gotten married, I learned, and had a newborn child. The news cheered me somewhat – John was a good man and I was certain that his child was lucky to have such a father.

Eventually, we stood before the room. It was a good thing that John had accompanied me after all, because I found myself unable to throw open the door and cross that final threshold into my past.

Noticing my paralysis, I felt John’s careful touch at my shoulder. “Shall I open the door then, Ms. Luthor?” he asked kindly.

It took me a moment to register his words and then another before I could manage to nod.

The room was precisely as I remembered; there was not even the barest layer of dust to indicate that any time at all had passed since the room had been last occupied. It was a plain room, unadorned, and without decoration. A small, child-sized bed stood by the window, dressed in the same green sheets which I had lain in for so many years. A wooden dresser sat on the right wall, across from a worn rocking chair in which I had passed many of my spare minutes, engaged in some book or another. The only other items in the room were those which I had not had the room nor the sentimental connection to carry to Samuel’s – a small hand mirror, which now rested on the dresser, a box full of collected buttons, a small stack of books which I had not returned to the Manor’s library.

“I gave the room a proper cleaning when I heard you were coming,” John told me conversationally, as he deposited my bag at the foot of the bed.

“Thank you,” I said, in a voice which felt as if it were coming from very far away, “I imagine there must have been quite an accumulation of dust.”

John shrugged. “It’s not every day that we have visitors. If you need anything else, Ms. Luthor, please let me know. I’ll be in my quarters. You remember where they are?”

I nodded, and John, pleased with the answer, took his leave.

Now that I was within the room and enveloped once more in the remembered atmosphere, it was not so debilitating. So removed did I feel from the girl who had once slept in that tiny bed that it was with an almost clinical detachment that I could navigate the space. It felt as if I had entered a room which had been minutely and precisely described to me, but which I myself had never stepped into.

I indulged in the oddity of the feeling for a short while before gathering the courage to do what I had come back to Kansas for. As I checked to make sure that the makeup which I had applied in the airport had not become mussed, I willed my heart to steady. Residual childhood wisdom told me that Mrs. Luthor would be able to sense my agitation.

Upon making it to her room, I heard her before I saw her. “Lena,” Mrs. Luthor said, after I’d opened the door, her tone still as imperious as it had been all those years earlier.

“Mrs. Luthor,” I replied, entering the room. The air was hot, heavy, and smelled cloyingly sweet. My shock upon seeing her face was great. Gone was the careful makeup which I had never seen her without, gone was the healthy glow of her skin, gone was the brightness in her eyes. She looked more corpse than human, frail and sallow, her paper-thin skin pulled tight across the bones of her face.

“You know, that was always one of the things I appreciated about you,” Mrs. Luthor said, her unchanged voice at odds with the specter which she had become, “You never called me mother.”

“You never seemed like a mother,” I said, the truth slipping through gaps which shock had introduced into my Luthor façade.

“Oh, please,” Mrs. Luthor scoffed, “You don’t know how lucky you are that we took you in.”

“I would have been a happier child had I been left in the orphanage,” I replied hotly.

“You were never sent to an orphanage,” she said, with the air of one explaining something to a small child, “Lionel would never have allowed it. He’s your real father, you see. He knocked up some slut on one of his business trips and after he learned that you existed, I almost thought he’d leave me for her. Can you imagine?”

A bout of coughing came over Mrs. Luthor just then, leaving me alone to my shock until she recovered.

“She was useless, a nobody,” she eventually managed, “And although it pained me to look at you – you look just like her, Lena – I knew that no child of my husbands, no Luthor, could ever be as useless as she was. So if I pushed you, it was to overcome your useless mother’s genetics. Don’t gape, Lena,” she snapped, “It’s unbecoming of a Luthor.”

I snapped my jaw shut reflexively before my brain was able to catch up. “You dare claim any part of my achievements?” I said, the acrid tastes of anger and disbelief mixing on my tongue.

“Achievements?” Ms. Luthor repeated incredulously, “Living as the servant of a pair of immoral freaks? What achievements do you have for me to claim?”

“Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers have looked past the name which I have been cursed with, a kindness which I have not received elsewhere,” I replied.

“A Luthor does not require kindness from others,” Mrs. Luthor told me contemptuously, before breaking out into another bout of coughs. This one did not abate for some seconds, and Mrs. Luthor waved me out of her room as imperiously as she could manage while doubled over.

It was not until I had returned to my room and the lethargy of an adrenaline crash was upon me that the full implication of what I had learned in Mrs. Luthor’s room began to sink in. I had family – Mr. Luthor was not my adoptive father at all. But beyond that, I was a Luthor not just in name, but in blood. The small solace which I had taken in the knowledge that the name which had been such a burden on my life was not truly mine was not a luxury available to me anymore.

I suddenly felt as if I could not be alone and sought out John’s quarters. He answered my sharp report against his door with a look of delight and surprise. “Ms. Luthor!” he cried out, “What can I do for you?”

“I- I have recently come into some very distressing news,” I said, “My parents were not who I believed them to be.”

“Oh,” John said, and by the pity and shame which I could perceive upon his face, I knew that he already knew. “Ms. Luthor, I’m so very sorry that you had to find out like this.”

“It’s true, then?” I asked, almost desperately.

“I’m afraid so. Would you like to come in?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

I nodded mutely and stepped into a space which I had never entered before. “Is your wife home?” I asked.

“It’s quite late,” he said, “With any luck, both she and the baby will be asleep.”

“Won’t we disturb them?”

John shook his head. “The walls of this old building are too insulated for that,” he told me, “Unless we really try, I don’t think we’ll wake them. Are you hungry? When did you eat last?”

“I had a sandwich at the airport,” I told him.

He tutted disappointedly. “Come sit in the kitchen with me, we can talk while I put something together.”

John’s quarters were made up of a small entrance room, sparsely furnished, which led to either the kitchen, or to the bedroom, where his family slept. I sat at the kitchen table, while John pulled eggs and a package of sausages from the refrigerator.

“So she finally told you?” he asked as he moved about.

“About Mr. Luthor? Yes.”

“How are you doing? Are you doing okay with that, Ms. Luthor?”

I thought on the question for a few seconds. My feelings on the matter were not yet settled and I knew that they would not be for some days hence.

“Where is Mr. Luthor?” I asked instead of answering the question. I had never called him “my father” before and could not bring myself to do so now.

A shadow passed over the John’s face. “Mr. Luthor had a business meeting which he had to take,” he told me, “The state of the company being what it is, he didn’t have any choice but to go.” It was clear from John’s tone that he didn’t believe his own words.

“I see,” I said. I opened my mouth to say more, but before I could manage, it, John put a glass of orange juice in front of me.

“Drink,” he said, “Food is ready soon.”

Somehow, he had realized what I had not, that what I needed was nothing more than quiet company. John’s presence, like the rest of the Manor, was familiar, but it was also calming in a way that nothing else was. The eggs and sausage were serviceable, if over peppered, and when I had finished tucking into them with the gusto of one who has not eaten in many hours, he gave me a fond smile.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

I nodded, and it was the truth.

“You should get some sleep then, Ms. Luthor,” he said, “I’ll introduce you to Jodi and Brian tomorrow.”

Despite the tranquility which John’s presence had brought me, I slept fitfully that night, beset with nightmares of a kind which I had not experienced for many years. Familiar specters flitted through my unconscious, but they bore new faces. Mr. Luthor, howbeit that I had not seen him in years, howled that I was a disappointment, his appearance a mixture of my own clouded memories of him, the images which I had seen in the news over the past years, and the most gruesome phantoms and ghouls that my imagination had ever conjured.

I woke early the next morning, little better rested than I had gone to bed the night before. I dressed quickly and cleaned the sleep from my mouth and eyes in the bathroom down the hall. The air in the Manor was entirely still in the early morning. I strained my ears but could not make out any sounds of life; the only noise at all was my own breath and the ticking of those great clocks.

I made my way to the library which had so fascinated me as a child. The shelves and the tops of each of the books, once kept immaculately clean by the Manor’s cleaning staff, was now covered in a thick layer of dust which spoke both to the disrepair that the Manor had fallen into, but also to the building’s general lifelessness. That so many books had gone unread for so long filled me with a strange sorrow and I longed to rescue the stories from their captivity.

It occurred to me in that moment that I might even be able to do so – as a Luthor myself, I could not be faulted for removing the books from the building. It was only the lack of more appropriate place to store them which gave me pause. I considered donating the collection to a local library and found the thought pleasing.

I decided to do my best to restore the library to the shine and grandeur which I remembered it by. Although it was apparent that it was not a well-used room, I felt that I owed it at least this much for the solace which it had afforded me all those years ago.

The cleaning process was almost meditative and it was several hours before I emerged from the focused mental state which I had entered. While the library did not sparkle as it had in the past, the worst of the dust and mess had been removed, and a casual passerby could mistake it for a room which enjoyed semi-regular use.

The effort had left me ravenous and although I wanted little more than to take advantage of my efforts and curl up in a familiar armchair with a book, I knew that I had to sate my appetite before I could do so.

The kitchen was occupied when I entered, something which I had suspected by the noise which emanated from it, but which surprised me nonetheless.

“Ms. Luthor!” John exclaimed, turning around so quickly that the blue apron which he wore flapped dramatically. “I’m just finishing preparing Mrs. Luthor’s meal. If you give me just a few minutes, I can introduce you to my wife, and we can all eat together.”

I agreed and sat down to watch him finish cooking.

“Do you want me to bring it to her?” I asked, uncertain of what answer I hoped to receive.

He turned and looked at me with an intensity that was almost unpleasant. “No, Ms. Luthor,” he said eventually, “I think it’s best if she doesn’t have to associate you with my sorry excuse for food.”

“The eggs last night were lovely,” I protested, but I was relieved at the out which he provided me.

It was a pair of minutes before he returned, having divested himself of the tray of food, but having gained a companion, whom I assumed to be his wife. She was a striking woman, with red hair that ran in waves down her back. There was a warmth to her eyes, a maternal softness which was only accentuated by the baby which she carried at her hip.

“Ms. Luthor,” he said, “This is Jodi, my wife and Simon, our son.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said, standing and offering a hand for Jodi to shake.

“Oh, none of that,” she said, before handing the child to John and pulling me into a hug which, after the initial shock of the gesture passed, I returned with gratitude.

I spent the next few days of my visit split between conversing with Jodi and John, reading in the library, and wandering the familiar grounds. I wrote several letters to Ms. Danvers which I had no intention of sending, I held Simon for as long as I could, terrified every second that I might drop him, and I wrote up several new lesson plans which I could use upon my return. In short, I did everything I could to avoid spending too much time with Mrs. Luthor.

Although I know that I do not deserve it, I hope that my reluctance to see her can be construed charitably. I had returned to Kansas and to Tilney Manor with the fullest intention of spending as much time as I could with the ailing woman, but such was my distress at the information which she had shared with me during our last meeting that I did not know if I could manage to stay in her presence for very long.

I visited with her for as long as I could manage, but between her deteriorating condition and the host of memories which her presence triggered, our first conversation was the only one of any substance which we managed.

Mrs. Luthor passed away on the fifth day of my visit, which came as little surprise given the state she had been in upon my arrival and the rapid deterioration of her condition since. I was left with the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that she had been waiting to see me again before letting go.

I thought about Mrs. Luthor, alone in her last moments, her husband across the world, her house occupied once again by the bastard daughter which she’d never wanted, a cruel reminder of Lionel’s inconstancy. I thought about Mrs. Luthor’s desire to see me specifically, and the urgency with which she had told me of our true connection.

The four walls around me suddenly seemed too close, and I knew that I could not stay one more night in the Manor, steeped as it was in years of unspoken hatred. I knew also that once I left, that I would never again return to Tilney Manor, and it was therefore with a heavy heart that I bade farewell to John and to Jodi, who promised to take care of the funeral arrangements for their now deceased mistress.

“What will you do afterwards?” I asked, “I do not have the means to guarantee your employment at the Manor moving forward.”

John shrugged. “I have a brother in Wisconsin, might be I stay with him for a while and see if I can’t find work. Family looks after each other.”

Jodi murmured her agreement. “We’ll be fine, Ms. Luthor,” she promised me. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the service?”

I nodded. I was certain of little in life, but I knew that I had to leave Kansas as quickly as possible. There were too many ghosts at Tilney Manor for me to stay any longer.

As I gazed out the window of the airplane, I watched Kansas shrink and recede from view. I was pleased to be returning to the life which I had made for myself in National City, unaware of the changes, the triumphs, and the subsequent heartbreak which awaited me on my return to 2520 Lace Hill Street.

Chapter Text

I did not return to 2520 Lace Hill Street until very late in the night. The sun had long since set, and the taxi ride which brought me home was expedited by the emptiness which the hour lent to the usually busy streets. Howbeit that it had been only hours since I’d left my childhood home, there existed such a gap between Kansas and National City that it felt much longer. 

I turned my key in the lock, intending to shower as quickly and quietly as I could manage before going to bed, eager to put the day, and my memories of Tilney Manor, behind me. Given the hour, I was surprised to see a faint light from the kitchen. I deposited my bag outside my room and walked towards the kitchen, expecting to see Ruby, taking advantage of the cover of night to sneak a pudding cup from the refrigerator.

I was surprised to instead see Ms. Danvers hunched over her laptop, diligently typing away, headphones firmly covering her ears. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun and her bookish glasses reflected the sickly blue light of her computer’s screen. My heart leapt with the full force of my affection, unhindered by the days that I had spent apart from her.

I cleared my throat, hoping that it would alert her to my appearance where my entrance had not. She started and looked up, pulling the headphones off her ears.

“You’re back,” she said in surprise.

“Yes,” I said, my tongue stupefied by her unexpected presence.

She stood and crossed the table to me and threw her arms around me, pulling me flush against her chest. Such was the hammering of my traitorous heart that I felt certain that she could perceive its rhythm, beating its lovesick staccato against my ribcage.

“I missed you,” she admitted, in a voice that wasn’t quite low enough to be called a whisper.

My heart soared, but I had gathered enough of my wits at that point to respond more demurely. “It’s only been a few days, ma’am.”

She released me then and leaned back against the table, a motion that increased the distance between us, but not by much. She had shifted her feet so that I stood between her legs and angled her torso forwards, so that there were not more than twelve inches between our faces, between our lips. “Is your mother okay?” she asked.

I shook my head, minutely, unwilling to make any motion that would cause my eyes to leave her face. “No, ma’am, she passed away this morning.”

Ms. Danvers’ face fell. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “Do you need more time off to go to the funeral? Do you have to take care of that?”

“I- that won’t be necessary. I do not plan on attending Mrs. Luthor’s funeral.”

“You can have the time off,” Ms. Danvers protested, her brow slanting in confusion, “Alex and Sam will totally get it, you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.”

“I would view it as a kindness if you would allow me to resume work,” I replied.

I could see the struggle which my request elicited as various emotions flitted across Ms. Danvers’ face. “Was it that bad?” she asked eventually, “I mean, I’m sorry, I don’t want to pry, I just- I can’t imagine not being there for Eliza.”

“Mrs. Luthor and I did not- we had a difficult relationship,” I allowed.

“Oh?” Ms. Danvers asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Ms. Danvers made a frustrated noise. “Why do you always do that?” she asked.

“Do what?” I asked, confused as to how I had caused offense.

“You always keep me at arm’s length,” Ms. Danvers said, the expression on her face a terrible mixture of hurt and confusion.

“You’re my employer, ma’am,” I said, and I said it so guilelessly that I almost believed myself. “I don’t want to be overly familiar.”

“Am I just your employer?” Ms. Danvers asked, a sudden intensity in her eyes.

“Ma’am?” I asked, my heart beginning to race – did she suspect my affection?

“Aren’t we friends at this point?” Ms. Danvers asked, and I felt the tension release from my body at her question.

Ms. Danvers must have mistaken my relief as consternation, because she rushed to qualify her question.

“I don’t mean to guilt you into sharing with me,” she told me quickly, “I just-” and here, her speech slowed, her expression became more thoughtful, as if she were choosing each word with particular deliberation, “I just want you to feel comfortable sharing what you’re feeling.”

She gave me then a look of such sincere care that I knew that I could not deny her the intimacy which she desired. “I- I learned a terrible truth from Mrs. Luthor,” I said slowly. John and Jodi had already known the secret, and so I had not yet had to speak the words out loud.

Ms. Danvers leaned forward, pushing herself slightly away from the table. Her face was so close to mine, I could perceive the flecks of green within her eyes which I had always considered to be blue. It struck me as I felt her breath against my skin that air was circulating directly from her lungs to mine.

“I- I have always carried the Luthor name as a burden,” I began, “A burden which was lightened only by the reminder that I was a Luthor in name only. That I was adopted was at times the only solace I could find in a world which hated me before it knew me.”

Ms. Danvers nodded sympathetically, and I took a deep breath before managing to form the words. “It seems that I am to have that comfort no longer, as I have learned that I am Mr. Luthor’s natural born child.”

“Oh,” Ms. Danvers said, and I could feel the word upon my face. Had mine landed so hotly, so intimately, upon hers? “I’m so sorry to hear that, Lena.”

I wasn’t certain that I had the words to convey the tumult within, so I simply nodded.

We breathed together in silence for some seconds. At the exact moment that I felt I could take the exquisite torture of her proximity no longer, she spoke. “Thank you for telling me,” she said.

“Of course, ma’am,” I said, inclining my head as much as I could without pressing our faces together. “I apologize if by my actions you thought that I considered you anything but one of my closest friends.”

She smiled then, so brightly that I had no choice but to fall in love with her all over again.

“You’re my best friend too, you know,” she said, “Even if it’s ridiculous that you still call me ‘ma’am.’”

I looked at her in confusion. “What about Lucy and James?” I asked, and then, because I could allow myself no happiness, “What about Winn?”

“Winn?” Ms. Danvers asked, a set to her lips which I can only describe as amusement. “Tell me, Lena, what do you think Winn and I are to each other?”

I had brought this misery upon myself and I had no choice but to sleep in the bed which I had made. “You are romantically involved,” I said, my voice as steady as I could manage as I looked down upon her face, her eyes, her lips.

“And how does that make you feel?” Ms. Danvers asked, cocking her head and leaning in closer, her breath ghosting hot upon my lips.

“If he makes you happy,” I said, willing myself to believe my own words, “Then I am happy for you.”

“Such a diplomatic answer,” Ms. Danvers teased, “You don’t have to like him, you know.”

I had never wanted anything as much as I wanted to capture her lips in mine. That she was so close, that it would take only the smallest inclination of my neck to realize this fantasy made it only the more intolerable that I could not have it. “Ma’am, I couldn’t presume to care so much about who you’re involved with.”

“What if- what if I wanted you to care?” Ms. Danvers said quietly, locking her eyes to mine, and from that sea of green-flecked blue, there could be no escape.

“Ma’am?” I managed, “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.” Each breath I took felt weighty and enormous, of a magnitude that I had never experienced before, and my every word pulsed and pounded in my head, until I wasn’t certain what I had spoken out loud and what I had simply thought.

“I want you to care who I date,” Ms. Danvers said, her words surer, stronger.

How could I hold my heart back in the face of such an admission? My carefully constructed walls, fortified and reinforced over years, tumbled in an instant by nine words, so quickly uttered. “Ms. Danvers,” I said, far calmer than I could ever have imagined myself capable of in such a situation, “These past months, I have watched you with another, with one who, for all his good qualities, is inferior to you. Very well, you have the truth now – I scorn him and I scorn your union.”

A look of triumph and elation transformed Ms. Danvers’ face, and I found that I could not look upon it any longer. How terrible that she could find such glee in the pain which life had seen fit to afflict me with. I stepped back from her, ready to seek refuge from this assault in my room.

“Wait,” Ms. Danvers said desperately, grasping my wrist as I backed away, “Don’t leave, please.”

“You are my employer but not my keeper, ma’am. I am a free human being with free will, which I now exert to leave you.” I wrenched my arm from her hold and strode away.

“No, Lena, please, no,” Ms. Danvers cried, “You misunderstand. I want you to care because I want you to want it to be you.”

The words, so terribly close to what I had desired to hear from her for so long stopped me in my tracks. “Do not taunt me so, ma’am,” I begged, “Do you think that I am an automaton? A machine without feelings? That I can bear to have all I want dangled in front of me, just out of reach?”

“Call me Kara,” she begged, “Please, Lena. Call me Kara and let me be yours.”

“You have another,” I reminded her as dispassionately as I could manage, “I do not mean to be someone’s dirty secret.”

“We’re not- we were never together,” she said, “We’re only friends.”

I turned to look at her, allowing hope to bloom within my heart for the first time in many months. “Are you in earnest? Do you truly want me? Do you truly wish for me as I have for you?”

“More than you can know,” she breathed.

I stepped forward until our faces were as close as they had been just minutes before. “Then I’m yours to take, ma’am,” I said, “As I have been since the very first day that I laid eyes on you.”

“Kara,” she corrected, “Call me Kara.”

“Kara,” I said, relishing the feeling of her name on my tongue, the way the ‘r’ folded my tongue up against my soft pallet.

“Lena,” she said, before placing one hand on each of my cheeks and pressing her lips firmly against mine.

Having felt her lips against my cheek not a week before, I might have thought myself prepared, had I been given warning enough to form such thoughts. How wrong I would have been! That first contact between Ms. Danvers’ lips and my own was so far from what my own brain, limited as it was by the shallowness of my experience, could ever have imagined. For all that I disdained the airplanes which had taken me to and from Kansas, kissing Ms. Danvers felt like soaring, like I could swoop through the clouds unassisted, airborne only by the warmth which grew within my chest.

She was the second woman I’d ever kissed but I knew that she would also be the last.

Our lips broke apart, but she still held my face in her hands. Leaning in, she pressed her forehead to mine and I could see that her eyes were still closed. Her breath tickled hot at my still parted lips, and although it might have been my own, I felt that I could perceive her pulse pounding through her delicate hands.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” she whispered, “Since the day you picked me up off the street.”

“You could have had me,” I told her, “I have always been yours, even before you claimed me.”

She shook her head. “You always held me at arm’s length. Always so concerned with being professional.”

I could not deny it, so I answered her instead with another kiss. “No longer,” I promised, once we had broken apart once more. And it was the truth. My reasons to maintain a professional distance between myself and Ms. Danvers, no matter that they had seemed so sensible at the time, were of no importance whatsoever now that it had been revealed to me that I could be hers in the full capacity that I had desired.

“Then why did you act in such a fashion with Winn, if you were not actually involved?” I asked.

Ms. Danvers blushed. “I’m not proud of it,” she said, “I’m afraid you’ll think it’s so stupid.”

I shook my head. “I promise that you will have the most generous interpretation I can muster.”

“I was trying to make you jealous,” she admitted, “I was frustrated because I thought you were interested but you were so careful all the time. I thought it would make you crack. It didn’t work as well as I’d hoped.”

“But to maintain the charade for so long?” I asked.

Ms. Danvers chewed at the end of her ponytail sheepishly. “Once I’d let you assume that Winn and I were together, I didn’t know how to tell you that we weren’t without admitting to what I’d done.”

“So you would have continued to pretend to date him indefinitely?” I asked, unsure if I should be amused or horrified at Ms. Danvers’ inability to extricate herself from a situation of her own devising.

“Not indefinitely,” Ms. Danvers protested, “Cisco would have killed me.”

“Cisco?”

“Yes,” Ms. Danvers said, “He’s Winn’s boyfriend.”

“You mean to tell me that you allowed me to eat dinner with Winn and his partner while believing that you and he were together? That I was jealous of a man whose boyfriend sat across from me?”

Ms. Danvers had the decency to look ashamed of herself. “I wanted you to see the show,” she said. My heart softened at the sentiment, but I would not be deterred by her soft words and her kindness. I felt that there was but one outstanding issue remaining between me and Ms. Danvers, and I meant to have it resolved, no matter how disastrous resolution might be. Although it seemed unlikely that Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Arias would be troubled by my sexuality, it was not so hard for me to imagine that the nature of its expression, that it was so directed towards their sister, my employer, might not be so easily accepted.

“We cannot do that to each other again,” I told her, as sternly as I could manage. “Our relationship cannot be based in secrets.”

A look of concern flashed across Ms. Danvers’ face and her brow knit. “You mean-” she said.

I nodded. “We must tell your sister and her wife of this development.”

Ms. Danvers’ face brightened. “Right,” she said, “Of course.”

“There can be no secrets between us,” I warned, afraid that she was not taking seriously the risk inherent in revealing news of such a magnitude, “I mean for them to know, even if it requires me to seek employment elsewhere.”

“What? Why would that happen?” Ms. Danvers asked, “Alex and Sam love you. Well,” and here she colored deeply red, “They really like you.”

“And I like them as well, but they know me as a tutor for their daughter. Our-” and I was proud that I faltered only slightly over the next word, “Relationship represents a shift in that understanding. We have no guarantee that they like me as your partner as well.”

“They’ve been telling me to ask you out for ages.”

“I- they what?”

“Yeah,” Ms. Danvers said, nodding, “Sam’s been telling me for months that you were interested and Alex threatened to just ask you out for me.”

I looked at he, knowing full well that my horror was plain upon my face. “Have I been that obvious?”

Ms. Danvers shrugged. “If you were, I couldn’t tell. Was I?”

“I’ve spent these past months believing you had a boyfriend,” I reminded her.

“Right. Anyway, I’ll tell Alex and Sam tomorrow,” Ms. Danvers promised, “Unless you want to do it?”

I shook my head. “I think that task falls most sensibly to you.”

“If you say so. You’re telling Ruby, though.”

I balked, but against her kiss-swollen smile, I had no defense, and so I agreed. I was rewarded with another kiss which, enjoyable as it was, paled in comparison to her reverent admission that, “I can’t believe I get to do that.”

“As much as you like,” I said, but I had to amend my statement as out of the corner of my eye, I began to see the golden light of the day creep across the kitchen floor. “Later. I fear that I’ve kept you up all night.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “It was worth it. I’ll take being a little tired today in exchange for kissing the woman of my dreams.”

“Your charms won’t win you another,” I warned, “I’m a woman of my word.”

Ms. Danvers nodded solemnly. “Later, then. Get some rest, Lena, you’re not supposed to be back for a couple of days, anyway.”

She then left for her room and I for mine. I went to bed as the sun rose, high and bright above 2520 Lace Hill Street, and dreamed of a smile, equally bright, and of the incandescent infinity of Ms. Danvers.

I woke late, some hours past noon, feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks. I left my room intending to find a quick breakfast and then to search the house in order to find Ms. Danvers and exercise my newfound ability to kiss her senseless.

These plans, as exciting as they were, were unfortunately stymied by the presence of both Mrs. Arias and Mrs. Danvers who sat together at the dining table, each with a mug of tea in front of them.

Meeting your girlfriend’s family had not been covered in the protocol classes which Mrs. Luthor had insisted that I attend as a child, and having never met any of Veronica’s relatives, I was without any data from which to model my behavior.

“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Arias said politely. Although I could tell from her smile that she was amused by something, whether Ms. Danvers had already spoken to her or whether she was teasing me for my late awakening was not immediately clear.

“Good afternoon,” I replied politely. I could feel their eyes on my back as I walked to the refrigerator but did my best to shrug off the curious attention.

Everything became clear when I opened the door and found not the jam which I had intended to spread on a slice of toast, but a large sheet cake, frosted white, with “Congrats on the sex!” written upon it in letters which were not quite as red as my face.

I spun around in horror and was met with an outburst of laughter which judging by the magnitude, had been long suppressed. “I didn’t- we just-” I tried, before taking a steadying breath. “What if Ruby had seen this?”

My question only invited further laughter and Mrs. Danvers had to pound the table several times before she could collect her breath again. “Oh my god, she’s precious,” she eventually managed.

“Be nice,” Mrs. Arias chided, but the effect was mitigated by the wide grin which she had not managed to wipe away. “Ruby’s at a friend’s house,” she told me, “She was actually already there when Kara told us the news, so we just told her we’d pick her up a few hours later than planned.”

“I’d say good timing, but that would be a lie,” Mrs. Danvers said, “Kara’s been a mopey mess for months.”

“I- I apologize for any distress that I have caused.”

Mrs. Arias rolled her eyes. “Alex is teasing. We’re very happy for the both of you. Kara was certainly in a good mood when she told us the news.”

That I could brighten Ms. Danvers’ day brought a smile to my lips. “Where is she?” I asked, before returning to the refrigerator, where I retrieved the jam while steadfastly ignoring the congratulatory cake.

“She went into work,” Mrs. Danvers told me, “She said that she had some things to take care of. I think she expected you to sleep in longer, though.”

“Oh,” I said, frowning slightly.

“That eager for round two?” Mrs. Arias said with a knowing look.

“I-” try as I might, I could not manage to form any words, so deep was my embarrassment. I was not, however, the only one.

“Please don’t,” Mrs. Danvers groaned, “That’s my baby sister you’re talking about. Wasn’t the cake bad enough?”

“Oh please,” Mrs. Arias told her wife, “They’ve been pent up for months. Let them have this.”

“I only kissed her,” I blurted out before Mrs. Danvers could respond. While I was familiar with the kind of schoolyard teasing in which they were engaged – I had, after all, been best friends with Jack who, for all his many qualities, could not be called discreet – but that I was employed by them made the innuendo and insinuation more excruciating.

Mrs. Arias’ gleeful expression was replaced with one more serious and my relief outweighed the guilt I felt at spoiling her fun. “We don’t mean to tease, Lena. Really, we’re very happy for the both of you.”

“I mean to tease a little,” Mrs. Danvers clarified, but there was a conciliatory tone to her voice that dulled its barb.

I knew that they had meant no harm, and in an effort to show that my feelings were not injured, I forewent my toast, cutting instead a large slice from the cake. I fetched a fork and thanked the two women for the food, which I left with to eat in the solitude of my room.

“They only kissed!” I heard Mrs. Danvers tell her wife as I left, “Pay up.”

The cake was quite good, and it went far in restoring my mood to the good cheer in which I had awoken. Unfortunately, such was Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Arias’ enthusiasm that the cake was of a size to last the rest of the week and by the sixth slice in as many days, its appeal was significantly diminished.

Before I could become sick of congratulatory cake, however, I had to tell Ruby and although the support which Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Arias had extended made me hopeful for a good outcome, I was too cautious to allow myself any such expectation.

We resumed lessons the very next day, the week which I had taken off having elapsed. Although Ms. Danvers had told me with all of the significant sincerity which she could muster that all would be well, I could not shake the feeling that there was disaster lying in wait. That Ruby would be uncomfortable with her tutor being involved with her aunt seemed exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me, and I was loath to allow myself to settle into complacency too soon.

So it was that I woke the next morning with a heart heavy with anticipation. I went through the motions of preparing breakfast for myself, noting that someone – probably Ms. Danvers – had scraped the lettering off of the cake which remained in the refrigerator.

However I wished that it would not, my quiet morning passed, and before long, I found myself in the first floor living room, sitting across from Ruby.

“Before we can begin, I have some important news which I have to relate,” I said, wiping my uncomfortably damp palms against my jeans. Although I was painfully aware of how ridiculous my nerves were, the knowledge did not cause my anxiety to abate. “Your aunt and I have been close friends since we first met. We have, however, recently reached a new understanding which I felt that you should be apprised of.”

Ruby squinted, as if trying to make sense of what I have said. “Are you telling me that you’re Aunt Kara’s girlfriend now?” Ruby asked, in the matter-of-fact way that only a child can be capable of.

I willed down the jubilant smile which the question threatened to elicit, and in a neutral tone replied, “Yes, although in fairness, it would also be accurate to say that she is mine as well.”

“Oh,” Ruby said, “Good. Then when you get married, you can be my teacher forever! Or, I guess, until I go to college.”

And with that, she deemed the matter settled, and opened up the book which I had left her to read while I was away. “I liked it,” she said, “But it wasn’t really what I expected. I didn’t know it was written in diary entries and newspaper articles and letters and all that.”

“Yes,” I said, hardly able to believe how nonchalantly she had received news which, even two days later, continued to amaze me, “It is a prime example of what we call an epistolary novel.”

Ms. Danvers returned home from work earlier than usual, but late enough that the lesson had completed. I greeted her at the door, the exultant lightness in my heart more than remedy enough for the shame I felt at my over-eager behavior and the foreboding which remained unmitigated by Ruby’s easy acceptance. “Hello,” I said, matching her smile with my own.

“Hello yourself,” she said, kissing me gently on the cheek.

My inquiry into her day was cut off by a loud whistle from behind me – I spun to see Imra watching us both. “Didn’t know that was one of the benefits of employment,” she said, grinning widely, “I don’t even get health or dental.”

“Lena’s been promoted,” Ms. Danvers joked as I blushed.

“Well, if there’s domestic trouble, Lena, I can get you the number for the Department of Labor” she said, before shooting us a wink and disappearing into the back room.

“Well, I think that went well,” Ms. Danvers said, matter-of-factly, “Did Ruby take the news well?”

I nodded and related Ruby’s response to the news.

“Until she goes to college, huh?” Ms. Danvers said, her tone less pleased than I had expected.

“Yes,” I said, “I thought it was a nice sentiment. Is there something wrong with that?” I asked, suddenly nervous that I had misinterpreted something.

“Not wrong,” Ms. Danvers said, “I guess when I think about the future I don’t really expect you to keep working for us like that.”

“Why not?”

“I just assumed you would find a better option,” she said with a shrug, “You have a Master’s degree, you can’t be happy working as a live-in tutor.”

“Working here makes me happy,” I said, “Being near you makes me happy.”

For the simple act of speaking my mind, I was rewarded with another kiss, which went some way in off-setting the feeling that Ms. Danvers was in some way disappointed with my satisfaction in my current position.

I knew few people in National City and lived with most of them. It was only a few days before game night brought me into contact with the rest. James and Lucy arrived punctually and expressed a desire to “double date some time,” a prospect at which I thrilled. The thought that James and Lucy considered me a good enough friend – or, perhaps, Ms. Danvers a good enough friend and me acceptable enough – to suggest such an outing was a pleasant contrast to the distance at which they had held me upon first meeting me.

Winn’s reaction upon arriving at game night and observing my hand clasped in Ms. Danvers’ was immediate. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed, “Did you finally talk to her? Can I invite Cisco now?”

Ms. Danvers smiled at her friend’s relief and pressed the back of my hand to her lips, a motion which had never failed to fill my whole being with an almost unbearable lightness. “Sorry about the wait,” she told Winn, who waved off the apology with a happy grin.

“You can’t invite Cisco though,” Mrs. Danvers said, “We’d have odd numbers then.”

Winn’s laughter lasted only a second or two before Mrs. Danvers’ unchanged expression stopped him short. “Wait, you’re not- You’re not serious, right?”

Mrs. Arias rolled her eyes and threw a goldfish cracker at her wife. “Of course you can bring Cisco,” she told Winn kindly, “We’re all excited to meet him.”

“Cisco is lovely,” I said, conceding to the guilt which I felt upon remembering the ill will which I had harbored towards Cisco’s boyfriend for so long.

“Yeah, isn’t he great?” Winn said, sinking into the couch next to me. “Man, game night is so much better when Lena doesn’t hate me.”

“I- what?” I spluttered, “I never hated you.”

He patted me knowingly on the shoulder. “It’s okay, it was kind of the whole point. Definitely not going to miss that glare you kept shooting me,” he said, “Oh, ooh, there it is. Wow. That’s really-”

“Be nice,” Ms. Danvers whispered to me, and the combination of her voice in my ear and the voiced sentiment caused me to relent, offering Winn a conciliatory half-smile.

“Okay!” Winn said, rubbing his hands together, “Imra, does that mean we’re a team now? What are we playing?”

That Winn was able to so calmly receive the news seemed almost anti-climactic and I found myself without any concrete worries to which I could attribute the sense of foreboding which hung over 2520 Lace Hill Street. In the succeeding days, Ms. Danvers proved herself to be as gracious a partner as an employer, and with the opinions of the house so in our favor, I gradually allowed myself to ease into a more comfortable mentality.

Although I still spent much of my week with Ruby, my weekends belonged to Ms. Danvers. She showed me her National City, taking me to her favorite restaurants, to the city’s various parks, its museums and theaters. For all that I had lived in the city for over a year, it was not until I began to see it through Ms. Danvers’ lens, in Ms. Danvers’ company, that I truly began to see it as a place to love.

It was a crisp Saturday morning, some two to three months since Ms. Danvers and I had begun our courtship, that I awoke to a note on my desk, written in the looped hand which I recognized as belonging to Ms. Danvers.

“Good morning!” it said, and I could see Ms. Danvers’ smile in each letter. “I was hoping you’d join me at 104 M------ Street today? I’ll be there at 9:30.

xoxo

Kara.”

My heart’s response to these gestures of affection had not been dulled by the months’ exposure, and it was therefore with a jubilant buoyancy that I rushed through my morning routine, eager to see what Ms. Danvers had planned.

I left 2520 Lace Hill Street at 9:10, allowing plenty of time for the short bus ride which brought me to my final destination. The neighborhood was a pleasant one; trees, decked with unlit fairy lights lined the streets, which were populated with a variety of open-air eateries and kitsch boutiques.

The address which Ms. Danvers had given me belonged to a used bookstore, whose window was prettily, if eclectically, decorated with fake ivy and various stuffed animals. I stepped inside, relishing in the immediate and distinctive scent of old and well-loved books. I was pleased to see that the storefront, which had appeared quite small, was deceptive, that the shop was deeper than I had expected, and that it was possessed of a second level as well.

I was delighted. That I had loved the Manor’s library was well known to Ms. Danvers, and while National City had a perfectly respectable public library, there was something about the age and affection with which these books were possessed that felt far more familiar.

I had been standing in the store’s entrance for not longer than thirty seconds, just taking in the shop’s heady atmosphere, when I heard the door open behind me, followed shortly by a very familiar voice. “You made it!”

I turned to see Ms. Danvers just before she enveloped me in a tight embrace which she punctuated with a brief kiss on my cheek.

“Of course I made it,” I said happily, “How could I not?”

“Well, you do sleep in so late,” she teased, “I wasn’t certain I’d given you enough time”

“We can’t all rise with the sun,” I said, rolling my eyes affectionately.

Ms. Danvers just smiled her typical brilliant smile and tugged me by the hand. “Come on,” she said, “I know you want to get up close and personal with the goods.”

I recognized many of the volumes and editions from the Manor’s library, pointing out those that I had been particularly fond of. “I always preferred Dalia Hartman’s cover art,” I’d say, or “This edition wasn’t very well copy edited,” or “I think that I read this one at least a dozen times.”

So sincere and rapt was Ms. Danvers’ attention that I chattered happily for some hours, not realizing how long we’d been amongst the old books until I heard her stomach grumble loudly.

“Do you want to maybe get something to eat?” she asked sheepishly, “We can come back afterwards.”

“Of course,” I said, horrified at how terribly I’d lost track of time.

“Oh,” I said, feeling my face flush, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize that it had been so long.”

“It’s okay!” Ms. Danvers said, “It’s cute when you get so excited. But, uh, if you don’t mind taking a break, I am pretty hungry.”

We left the bookshop behind and walked to one of the nearby cafes. The lunch rush having ended some thirty or forty minutes ago, we were easily able to secure a table outside where we could take our meal while enjoying the crisp late winter morning.

“So what do you think?” Ms. Danvers asked, once we’d ordered our food – a grain bowl for me, and both a panini and a plate of pasta for her.

“Of the bookstore? It’s lovely,” I replied, “How did you find it?”

She shrugged, but did not meet my eye, a sure sign that she was hiding something. “Oh, I think someone wrote an article about this area and I decided to check it out.”

“No secrets,” I warned, although she was so transparent that I couldn’t help but be amused.

“Not even if it’s for a really cute surprise?”

I weighed the options, doing my best to give her request a fair chance, but could not help but shake my head. “I’m afraid I don’t care much for surprises,” I admitted.

Ms. Danvers nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense,” she said. “I was thinking of converting the guest bedroom across from the kitchen into a mini-library.”

I smiled; it was a lovely thought. I knew the space and could see how it could be so transformed. It was no work at all to picture rows of bookshelves lining its walls, a squashy armchair tucked into a corner, lit by the bright, east-facing window through which sunlight could fill the room. “That sounds like a grand idea,” I told her, “If you need any suggestions with which to fill it, I’d be pleased to offer my services.”

“Well, I’d hope so!” Ms. Danvers said, smiling happily at my enthusiasm for her idea. “It’s kind of- well, it’s kind of for you?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Well, you’ve mentioned before how comfortable your library made you feel when you were growing up and I wanted to make sure you had that kind of space here in National City, too.”

“I do have that space,” I said, “You have allowed me into your home and made me feel welcome in a way that I never have before.”

Ms. Danvers smiled at that and she reached out and clasped my hand in hers. “My home is your home,” she told me, a sentence which filled every nook and cranny of my heart, pumping it full of hot, happy gas. “So you’ll help me fill it?”

I agreed to do so – of course I did. So infatuated was I in that moment that I would have agreed to do far less agreeable things without so much as a second thought.

Our food soon came and we spent the remainder of our meal in eager conversation, planning how to lay out the future library. I was in that conversation the happiest that I could ever remember being - happier, even, then I had been during those first years at Samuel’s. How little did I suspect of the events to follow! How easily did I disregard the inkling that this was all too much too fast, as well as the dread which I should have taken for the warning sign which it was.

Chapter Text

I woke to a sudden weight at the foot of my bed and it should be taken as a testament to how comfortable I felt at 2520 Lace Hill Street that I did not react with immediate and total panic. Instead, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and leaned forward on my elbows to see what was going on.

A tray was thrust in front of me, held by Ms. Danvers, whose seated position was the cause of my sudden rousing.

“It’s been three months since we first started dating!” Ms. Danvers told me, a sunny smile upon her face, “I made you breakfast.”

I looked down at the tray with some apprehension. Although I cared greatly for her, between her wide knowledge of National City’s restaurants and the household’s tacit knowledge that days that Ms. Danvers came home first were days that we ate takeout, I did not put much stock in her ability to cook food herself. Thankfully, the meal she had brought me looked like what I made for myself most mornings – a slice of toast with a spread of jam.

“Thank you,” I said, sitting up and taking the tray into my lap.

She sat on the edge of the bed and watched me with rather more interest than I thought necessary for having toasted bread, but so endearing was her expression that I could not muster the effort to begrudge her that.

To my surprise, my first bite was completely unfamiliar. The bread was lighter, crisper, then I remembered our favored brand being, and the jam was a new flavor.

“What is this?” I asked curiously, “This isn’t the bread we normally get.”

“Do you like it?” Ms. Danvers asked nervously, “It’s okay, right?”

I nodded, punctuating my assent by taking another, larger bite. “It’s very good,” I said, “We should get this brand more often.”

Ms. Danvers smiled widely. “Oh, I’m so glad you like it,” she told me, “The jam’s not too sweet? The berries were so nice that I wasn’t sure how much sugar I really had to add.”

I considered her question for a moment before I realized what she’d said. “You made this?” I asked incredulously.

She nodded. “The bread, too.”

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I don’t like to, usually. It’s a lot of work and there’s a lot of good restaurants in National City. But I had a special occasion today,” she said, her direct and sincere gaze leaving me no room to playfully and willfully misinterpret her words.

Her kindness warmed my heart and the rest of my meal tasted even better with the knowledge that Ms. Danvers had made it specially for me.

That she knew how to cook and in fact did it quite well was just one of many things that I would come to learn about my beloved Ms. Danvers over the coming months. From my first day in National City to the library that we built together, I was well acquainted with her generosity, and from watching her interact with her sisters, her niece, and even myself, I was well aware of how powerfully she could love. I knew the broad strokes of who she was, but our newfound closeness allowed me a smaller brush.

We had begun to take our evening conversations in the streets, walking around the neighborhood of 2520 Lace Hill Street. Although I was not by nature a jealous person, I could not help but be bothered by her wandering eyes – she would stop speaking mid-sentence to crane her head and watch people passing by, before returning to speak to me as if nothing had happened.

It was several nights that I endured this before I realized what was truly happening: it was not other people that were attracting Ms. Danvers’ eye, but their dogs. No matter the breed, no matter the size, Ms. Danvers could hardly pass a dog and not stare longingly at it. My irritation at her inconstancy vanished instantly and was replaced instead with a feeling of soft endearment.

“Why don’t you get one?” I asked one night after she had wrestled her attention back to me from a particularly majestic German Shepard.

“Oh,” she said with a blush, “You noticed”

I couldn’t help but laugh – so innocently did she display her heart on her sleeve that the months which we had spent dancing around each other seemed altogether too comical. “Yes,” I replied, “I did.”

Ms. Danvers shrugged. “I’ve thought about it. But Ruby’s allergic, and no dog is truly hypoallergenic, you know? And besides, I’m so busy these days that he wouldn’t really be my dog, and Alex and Sam aren’t really dog people.”

“Did you have a dog?” I asked, “Growing up, I mean.”

“Yes,” Ms. Danvers said, “We had a white lab. His name was Krypto. We got him when I was three or four. I remember crying when my mom told me that I couldn’t take him to school with me.”

“And he-” I started, unable to finish the question which caught in my throat.

Ms. Danvers nodded, and her voice had become thick with sorrow. “He was in the house with my parents.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, frustrated with my inability to do more to console her, “You can take me to work with you, if you like. I’ll fetch whatever sticks you throw.”

Ms. Danvers’ happy laugh filled the night air. “Krypto also slept in my bed with me,” she said slyly, “After he washed his feet, of course.”

I blushed bright red at the suggestion, which only caused Ms. Danvers to laugh all the more raucously and we completed our walk, her good cheer restored.

Some days later, we were in the living room, I at the piano and her my captive audience. She leaned against the back of the instrument, closing her eyes and listening to me play. This was not the first time I had played for her, but I had a theory to test which I had been mulling over for some time.

In the several preceding months, we had made our way out to the theater district a number of times, branching out from Winn’s production to the area’s other shows. I had initially assumed that Ms. Danvers was humoring my great interest in them, but I had begun to reconsider.

In order to test this, I had spent the past few weeks listening through the soundtracks of any musical that I could find, relishing in the aesthetics of the form which was so different from the classical music upon which I had been raised.

With a gentle flourish, the Moonlight Sonata turned into the opening to “Singing in the Rain.” Ms. Danvers’ eyes lit up, joining in without missing a beat.

She was equally able to jump into “Edelweiss,” “Anything Goes,” and “On My Own,” and sang “Let It Go,” “Once Upon a December,” and “Hopelessly Devoted To You” with practiced aplomb.

“You said you hadn’t been to the theater before Rent!” Ms. Danvers said, the accusation in her voice playful and delighted.

“I hadn’t,” I replied, “You started something of an obsession within me, but I see that I’m not alone in my fascination.”

“Guilty as charged,” Ms. Danvers said, “Play a duet! Let’s sing “Tonight” together – you can be my Maria.”

I shook my head. “I don’t sing,” I said futilely, knowing that she would not accept this answer.

“Everyone sings,” Ms. Danvers said cheerfully, “Come on, I’m sure you know it.”

I did, of course, know the song, and ever unable to deny Ms. Danvers what she wanted, turned back to the piano and began to play.

In truth, my piano lessons had only begun once Mrs. Luthor had sat in on one of my voice lessons and determined that there was no hope to be found in my atonal wailing. It may be that sticking to those lessons might have helped me develop the vocal pitch which I utterly lacked, but in my current state, such talent was not to be found.

That I was worse than she had expected was evident in the slight widening of her eyes as soon as I began Maria’s opening lines, but the shock on her face was quickly replaced with an encouraging smile, and so I pressed onwards.

She soon joined in, and to my surprise, I found that her bright soprano was able to lift my muddy voice to something lighter. My voice, which had been tight with anxiety, loosened, and I began to enjoy the experience of singing the romantic song with the woman that I loved.

As the final bars of our duet faded away, I found myself entirely unable to look away from Ms. Danvers’ radiant face. There was a pinkness to her cheeks, a shine to her eyes, and her breathing was heavy with the exertion and passion of her singing. I was equally breathless, although whether it was due to my own mediocre singing or the sight which I beheld I could not say.

A sudden round of applause from behind us broke the reverie. I turned to see my humiliation complete: Mrs. Arias, Mrs. Danvers, and Ruby had settled in to the couch behind us. Mrs. Arias looked faintly amused, while Mrs. Danvers mimed gagging.

“That was really good!” Ruby said, “Except for the parts where Lena sang.”

“Be nice!” Mrs. Arias said, but I noted that she fairly did not defend my voice.

Ms. Danvers just smiled and, ever the diplomat, said, “Maybe we can do “Sing!” from A Chorus Line next time.”

Each of these new realizations – that she wanted a dog, that she knew the words to any musical theater number from the last century - served only to increase the affection which I held for Ms. Danvers. There was, however, one secret which, whose revelation was not so benign. It had been some four or five months since my return from Tilney Manor that everything fell apart.

The framework of the library had come together quickly and it was only the process of filling its shelves, a happy prospect which I hoped to stretch over the coming years, that remained.

Ms. Danvers and I were together in that room, she at the armchair, working on some article, and I curled up in a beanbag chair by her feet, reading a recent addition to our collection. It had become a habit of ours to take what moments together we could, which often required us to work together in comfortable silence. This was such an occasion, the sound of a rare California rain punctuated only by the sounds of her typing and the occasional whisper of a turned page from my book.

I had finished my mug of tea and made it nearly through the reading when I realized that Ms. Danvers’ keyboard had fallen silent. I looked up to see if something was the matter. I was met with Ms. Danvers’ eyes firmly fixed upon me, a look of longing and sorrow within them.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, “Do I have something on my face?”

Ms. Danvers shook her head. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, “It’s really not my place.”

I stood and took her face between my hands before she could turn back to her work. “No secrets,” I reminded her before releasing her, “What is it?”

She chewed anxiously at her bottom lip for a moment. “You told me, months ago, that Lionel Luthor is your birth father,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied, curious as to where this was going. “Does it bother you, that we are related by blood?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just-” She glanced over at her wall calendar. “Today is the anniversary of my parents’ death,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, my mind racing to determine what I could say to reverse the stricken expression upon my beloved’s face.

“And I was just wondering if you had considered reaching out to him. To Mr. Luthor, I mean.”

It was not what I had expected. “I hadn’t,” I said honestly, “I’m afraid I don’t know what I would say to him.”

“Right,” she said, “You guys didn’t have a great relationship, did you?”

“It wasn’t so bad with Mr. Luthor. He was more absent than anything else.”

She nodded but did not otherwise respond.

“What would you want to tell your parents?” I asked gently, “If you could write them a letter, what would you tell them?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ms. Danvers said thickly, her eyes filming over with nascent tears, “Everything. I’d want to tell them about CatCo, how proud I am of it. I’d want them to know about Alex, and Sam, and Ruby, and how even though they’re gone, I still have a family. You, I want them to know about you.”

My heart swelled, laden both by affection for Ms. Danvers and sorrow for the pain which nothing could ever assuage.

“Lena,” she said, and I fell into her arms. We stayed that way until we parted, some minutes later, I to go to bed and she to spend some more time, she said, in memory of her lost family. I lay awake for some minutes, thinking about what Ms. Danvers had said and finding myself entirely unable to fall asleep.

I opened my laptop and found the address of the Luthor Corp headquarters. Finding a pen and the best stationary that I could among my things, I began to write a letter which I could never have imagined writing.

“Mr. Luthor,” it read, “Or, I suppose, in light of that which I have learned from Mrs. Luthor before her passing: father. I hope that this letter finds you well. I write you without expectation – I do not harbor any illusions that a single letter will reunite a family as fractured as ours – but that does not mean that I write without hope.

I write with an outstretched – but cautious – hand. I have found happiness which feels firm enough that I can be so greedy as to hope for more, and if that cannot be, I at least want to have tried.

I have spent this past year or so in the employ of a wonderful family who accept me without restraint and – I apologize for my saying so – despite the name which I bear. National City is far enough away from Metropolis that I am not so commonly recognized, but it happens with enough frequency that the kindness of the Danvers is notable.

My employer is Kara Danvers, whom you may know as the editor-in-chief of CatCo Worldwide. I tutor her niece, an endeavor which I have found to be more dynamic and challenging than I could have expected.

It is because of my Ms. Danvers that I am writing now. Although she did not tell me to do so, it was in conversation with her that I realized that this letter was necessary. And although I am aware of your late wife’s thoughts on the matter and realize that in so doing I could ruin my best efforts before they ever have a chance to bear fruit, I must here confess that she is not just my employer, but my partner. She brings me joy and I will not apologize for anything that makes me feel the way she does.

I hope that this letter finds you in good health and in good enough humor that you will write me back, that we can begin to claim some of that relationship which we never had while I was growing up.

Your daughter,

Lena Luthor.”

Letter written, addressed, and stamped, I was finally able to fall asleep.

I was haunted that night by a most peculiar dream from which I awoke feeling little better rested than I had gone to bed.

It had taken place in my room. In my dream, I lay in the selfsame bed which my body slept in. I knew it to be a dream, however, by the skeletal figure who stood in my room. In my dream, I lay quietly, somehow aware that he did not mean me any harm but unwilling to alert him to the fact that I was aware of his presence. He was skeletal, far thinner than any human could be, his skin sagging off fleshless bones. The early morning light cast dark shadows across his face which transformed his already sunken eyes into hollow sockets.

He was engaged in some motion at my desk, shuffling about, and my brain was briefly concerned for the letter which I had written before I could remember that it was only a dream. I soon awoke before I could determine what it was that he had been doing.

I sat up and stretched, until I saw something which caused me to briefly forget how to breathe. My heart stood still, momentarily paralyzed by terror: sitting upon my desk was a bouquet of flowers and groggy as I was, it was some moments before I could consider the obvious explanation.

I spent some seconds absolutely convinced that my dream had been truth, that the flowers had been left upon my desk by a specter of a man, but it was not too long before reason won out and my heart, so recently squeezed in the cold fist of fear, bloomed, warm and content.

Dressing quickly, I headed to the kitchen, where I saw Ms. and Mrs. Danvers eating breakfast. Mrs. Danvers was dressed for an outing, while Ms. Danvers seemed to expect a day in, clad as she was in sweatpants, with a pair of glasses perched on her sculpted nose.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I told Ms. Danvers, “Although I do think that they have seen better days.”

“Flowers?” Ms. Danvers asked, doing an excellent job of playing unaware.

“Yes,” I said, “I admit, it gave me quite a shock when I saw them on my desk. I had the oddest dream.”

“Did you?” Mrs. Danvers asked me, one eyebrow quirked.

I nodded. “There was a strange man, skeletally thin, who was in my room, and in my dream, he was occupied at my desk. Imagine my surprise when I woke to your flowers!”

“Ah,” Ms. Danvers said, the game over, “Well, you’re welcome.”

“Will you be going in to work today?” I asked Ms. Danvers.

“I don’t think so,” she told me, “I might try to get some work done here though.”

“Will I see you later?” I asked as I began to toast some bread.

“Of course,” she said, “I’ll come find you.” And with that, she placed her dishes into the dishwasher and headed upstairs.

I fetched the jam from the refrigerator and waited for my toast to be ready, cognizant of Mrs. Danvers’ presence behind me, but unaware of the turmoil with which she wrestled. Her better nature eventually won out, however, and she gained my attention with an uncomfortable clearing of her throat.

“Look, I know that Kara makes you happy,” she said, once I had turned to look at her, “And I think that’s really great. You’re good with Ruby. I think you’re a good person. I know that I’m her big sister and I was supposed to say something like ‘If you hurt Kara, they’ll never find your body,’ at some point, but I don’t think that was ever on the table.”

“No,” I agreed, “I couldn’t.”

Mrs. Danvers shook her head. “That’s not it. It’s- there’s something that you need to know, and it’s not something that I can tell you.”

It was clear that whatever the secret, it weighed heavily upon Mrs. Danvers’ conscience – I had never seen her quite so agitated before. “What should I do?” I asked.

“Ask Kara about Mike, and Lena, please, give her a chance to explain herself,” Mrs. Danvers pleaded, “I’m meeting Sam and Ruby at the aquarium. I hope you’re still here when we get back.” I could tell by her tone and – perhaps more worryingly – by the quick hug that she gave me that she did not expect to see me again.

She exited the building then, and as she walked away from 2520 Lace Hill Street, I was left with the most terrible feeling of dread.

I ate my toast in silence and then quickly climbed the two flights of stairs to Ms. Danvers’ room, eager to see the matter quickly resolved and to return to the bliss with which I’d begun the day.

I opened the door to her room to find Ms. Danvers curled up in her bed, tapping away at her laptop’s keyboard. She looked up at my entrance and smiled, moving over in bed to make room for me. I declined to join her and stood instead at the foot of the bed.

“I just had the queerest conversation with your sister,” I told Ms. Danvers.

“Oh?”

“She told me to ask you about someone named Mike. She seemed to think that you’re harboring a terrible secret.” For all that I meant it as a joke, I was terribly afraid that there truly was something that Ms. Danvers had kept from me and it was with some difficulty that I kept my voice steady. “Is there truth to her warnings?”

Ms. Danvers’ face crumpled and so did my hope that Mrs. Danvers’ warnings had been for naught – there was something amiss.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Ms. Danvers asked, “I mean, couldn’t we just have this for a little while?” There was a pleading quality to her voice that I longed to give in to. I wanted desperately to be able to forget what Mrs. Danvers had told me and to jump headfirst into the romance that I’d desired since a childhood spent in the solitude of the library of Tilney Manor. I remembered, however, what I’d told myself years ago at Samuel’s before I came out to Jack – a relationship could not survive a lie of magnitude –and with his reassuring smile in the back of my mind, I pressed on.

“I’m afraid I need to know,” I said quietly.

My beloved Ms. Danvers looked stricken but nodded. “It’s best to show you first,” she said.

To my surprise, I followed her to the locked door at the top of the stairs which led to the fourth floor. From within her shirt, Ms. Danvers produced a key which hung on a small chain around her neck. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping through first.

She turned the light on to reveal a sight so jarring that I can still recall it in minute detail. The floor had no hallways, no internal structure. It was one large room, divided only by a thick glass wall into which a glass door was set. The side that we had entered in held several cabinets whose windowed doors showed a prodigious number of bottles of pills and tinctures. Behind the glass wall, there was a bed, a desk, and a man whom I had seen the night before.

“Lena, this is Mike Matthews,” Ms. Danvers said, “My husband.”

Before the full horror of those words could set in, Mike caught sight of us and let out a cry which had become so familiar over the past years. He walked forwards, and, like a bird in flight, crashed into the glass. Dazed, he stumbled backwards, before shaking his head clear and preparing to try once more to reach us. Ms. Danvers quickly turned off the light and pulled me back out to the stairwell.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said quietly, once there was another locked door between us and the sight we had just born witness to, “He has good days and bad days.”

“You’re married?” I asked dully.

“Mike was an old family friend,” Ms. Danvers said, a strained look in her eye, “We married so that he could receive a green-card; changing immigration policies had put his visa status in jeopardy. He worked as a contractor on the Luthor Corporation building, but due to negligent management, he was exposed to incredibly high levels of heavy metals, particularly lead. The doctors said that it was a miracle he survived. I couldn’t end the marriage, not when he needed my healthcare plan, not when his ability to stay in the country was in danger. It was never meant to come to this.”

“Does he stay up there alone all day?” I asked, unable to muster the strength to say anything else.

“No, Imra spends time with him each day. He responds better to her than to me,” she said ruefully.

“And who else knows of this?”

“Only Alex and Sam,” Ms. Danvers admitted, watching me nervously as if anticipating some great verdict, “He’s no danger to anyone but himself, you know that Alex and Sam would never have let Ruby into the house if he was.”

“Why-” my mouth had gone terribly, horribly dry, and I licked my lips, partly to attempt to moisten them, but mostly to delay asking my next question. “Why did you not tell me sooner?”

Ms. Danvers laughed hollowly. “I- I never really knew how. I couldn’t tell you when you’d just moved in; you’d never have stayed on, and especially after we started seeing each other, it just never seemed like the right time.” And here her voice adopted a desperate, beseeching tone, as she continued to say, “I wanted to tell you, I promise I did. Lena, you have to believe me,” but my ears were too full of an awful rushing sound to listen to her pleas.

That she had courted me while married, while her husband lived just upstairs, that she hadn’t thought fit to tell me until Mrs. Danvers forced it out of her, was too great a betrayal to stomach, and I saw my happiness whither and perish in a moment. The difference between her and I, between our situations, could not have been made clearer: I relied upon her for my very survival in a way that had allowed her to enact this terrible pain upon me. In an instant, I made my decision. “Tell Ruby that I’m sorry to leave in the middle of a unit like this,” I said, and rushed to my room to pack up what I could.

She followed me as far as the entrance to my room, where she watched helplessly as I randomly stuffed clothing into a bag.

“Where will you go?”

“I’m afraid that’s none of your business anymore, ma’am,” I said, unable to look her in the eye.

“I need to know that you’re going to be okay,” she said desperately.

“You’ve guaranteed that will not be possible,” I replied, hoisting my bag over my shoulder.

“At least take some money,” she begged, reaching into her pocket. She grabbed me by the hand, tried to impress upon me the contents of her wallet, including one of her credit cards. I shook my head and dropped the money on the ground as I headed for the front door.

“Do you think that because I am without money, because I relied upon you for employment, that I am soulless and heartless? That you could hide this truth while you had your way with me and that my pain would be as ephemeral as starlight? You think wrong, Ms. Danvers – I have as much soul as you, and as much heart, and my pain is a galaxy. If this world had blessed me with some beauty and enough wealth of my own, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me as it is now for me to leave you.”

And with those words spoken and my bag in hand, I walked out of 2520 Lace Hill Street, confident that I would never, could never, return.

“Lena!” Ms. Danvers cried and the anguish in her voice was so wrenching that I desired nothing more than to turn around, to scoop her up into my arms, and to tell her that we could forget the whole business, that we could be blissfully happy together, but I knew that we could not. As I walked away from the building which I had happily called home, I could hear Ms. Danvers - my employer and the woman whom I had believed to be the love of my life - weeping on the stoop, and it took everything I had to not turn for one final view of the face that had so entranced me.

It was not until I had been driving for some minutes that I realized that I had nowhere to go. I had no friends in National City that were not her friends as well, nowhere to go that would not remind me of what I had just walked away from. I could not stand to be so close to her and to the lies that she had perpetuated. And so it was that I began a trip that I thought I would never have to make again. I was going back to Tilney Manor.

I had driven for some five or six hours when, tired of the phone calls and text messages which I could not bear to answer, I pulled over in Phoenix, parking in front of a store whose signage advertised that they bought gold, jewelry, and small electronics.

The inside of the store was small and cramped, with nearly every cubic inch of space filled with some cheap looking knick-knack or another, all hidden behind thick glass shields. The air was stale, the miasma of pounds upon pounds of forgotten items combining to a plasticky stench of stagnancy.

“Hello,” the woman at the register said. She was shorter than me by some inches and her thin grey hair was offset by the garishly bright Hawaiian shirt which she wore at least two sizes too large. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to sell my phone,” I said, declining the call which lit up my screen just then, viciously swiping across Ms. Danvers’s smiling contact image.

“Messy breakup?” the woman asked, her tone sympathetic. “Let me see what you’re working with.”

She took the device in her hands and turned it over in her hands before turning it off and then on again.

“I’d normally say fifty, but I’ll give you sixty-five, sweetheart.” Her voice was gentle and that, more than anything else about my situation, sent a terrible pang through my chest.

I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to talk and hold back my tears at the same time. I accepted my sim card and the small stack of bills which I was handed, signed on the dotted line, and walked out of the pawn shop and back underneath that wide, vast sky which I knew Ms. Danvers also stood beneath.

I gave myself a minute then to take stock of the situation. It was not, I knew, a pretty one. I was alone, with very little money, having left most of it, along with most of the rest of my belongings, in National City. I had enough to, with some luck, make it Kansas, although I would not be able to stop for anything else along the way. Upon reaching Tilney Manor, though, what was there for me? I was certain that John had long since gone away and with him, any hope of finding a friendly face. Would I even be able to access the Manor? I had no keys, and although my driver’s license declared that I was Lena Luthor, I knew that that alone would not gain my entrance to the family estate. Even if I still had a phone, I would not know who to contact to gain access to the building.

Still, I had no other options left to me, and it was with a mind tormented by thoughts of squatters, of slow starvation in the empty Manor, but most of all, by the terrible, ghastly image of Ms. Danvers’ husband, that I returned to the road.

Aware that I had no spare money with which to spend the night at a motel or even to stop for a cup of coffee or a bite to eat, I drove continuously for the next twenty hours, stopping only to fill my tank with gas and deplete my wallet of my remaining funds.

It was with fumes in the tank and just a small handful of change in my cupholder that in the small light of the early morning, I finally saw the signs informing that I had just entered the limits of Smallville, signs which I had never thought would be – and in fact, was not sure were - a welcome sight.

I was deliriously tired, and my exhaustion conspired with my grief to cloud my vision. Relief upon finally nearing my destination compounded this compromise of my facilities, and it was at some thirty or forty miles per hour that I briefly fell asleep at the wheel, awakening only to the great crash of my car breaking through the guard-rail of an old bridge.

My head crashed into the wheel as I fell into the river, and my last thought before I lost consciousness was how fitting it was that after spending my whole life trying to escape Tilney Manor, it was on its doorstep, after breaking every vow I had made to never return, that I was to meet my end.

Chapter Text

Ms. Danvers pushed open the attic door and stepped inside, motioning for me to follow. I did so and found myself standing in a studio space, brightly lit by the floor to ceiling windows which lined the left wall. A man sat on a small bench, grunting as he curled a heavy looking weight with his right hand. He looked up as we walked in, a wide grin splitting his face.

“This is Mike Matthews,” Ms. Danvers said, “My husband.”

He was possessed of a solid, muscular figure which was revealed as he stood and walked towards us, taking Ms. Danvers in his arms. He dipped her low, her back against his knee as he pressed his lips to the smooth skin of her neck. “Oh Lena,” Ms. Danvers said, looking at me with pity in her eyes, “You didn’t think I actually cared for you, did you?”

I woke with a violent start and immediately wished that I hadn’t. Asleep, I had been blissfully unaware of the galaxy of aches and pains which made up my body, of the stiffness of my joints, of the pounding of my head. My throat was terribly dry and each breath that I took was not sufficient to fill my starving lungs.

That the pain I felt meant that I was alive seemed in that moment a small comfort, especially as the remnants of my dream swam behind my eyelids. I opened my eyes as much as I could and for my trouble was granted only a view of a nondescript, off-white stucco ceiling. I hoisted myself onto my elbows, grimacing at the lance of pain which the motion caused me, and sat up a little in bed, letting the green sheets pool at my waist. My new vantage point revealed to me that I was in my childhood bedroom in Tilney Manor, that I lay in the bed which I had slept in for many years, and I had sudden cause to reconsider whether or not I had actually survived the crash.

I must have made some noise while sitting up, because I heard from the hallway a terribly familiar, but unplaceable voice cry out, “You’re awake!”

No matter that his voice was familiar to me, no matter that I had woken in Tilney Manor, there was nothing in the world that might have prepared me to then see my half-brother, Lex Luthor, burst into my room.

“What-” I croaked, but the words were sandpaper to my already abused throat.

“Shh, no, don’t,” he said. He pulled a chair over to the side of my bed and sat in it. He took a glass of water from the bedside table and raised it to my face, the plastic straw poking at my lips. “Drink,” he told me.

I didn’t want to drink; there were more important, more pressing matters on hand. How was I alive? How had I come to be in Tilney Manor? Why was Lex here? But so insistently did Lex prod at my lips with the straw that I had no choice but to acquiesce. The water hurt to swallow, but the coolness soothed a pain that I did not even realize that I felt.

“Better?” he asked, once I had drunk all that I could manage.

I nodded again, slightly more vigorously this time, a motion which caused me to burst into a series of painful coughs. Lex took my hand in his, holding it tightly until the fit subsided, and then gently nudged me backwards into bed.

“Get some rest,” he told me, “You’ve been through a lot. I’ll be back later.”

I intended to protest, questions ready at the precipice of my lips, but Lex was more aware than I gave him credit for and exhaustion claimed me before he had even left the room.

When I awoke, I found that I was back in the bookstore which Ms. Danvers had taken me to. Relieved that all had been a dream, but embarrassed that I had allowed myself to drift off in public, I began to walk through the store in search of Ms. Danvers. Try as I might, however, I could not spot her.

Reasoning that she might have stepped out to find some coffee or some other sustenance, I took up a copy of The Castle of Otranto, intending to spend the time until she returned within the novel’s familiar pages. However, when I opened the book, there no words to be found; the pages had been wiped clean of any ink. Frowning, I replaced the volume and pulled out instead a copy of Brideshead Revisited. To my dismay, I found the same blankness within. I pulled book after book off the shelves, forgoing reshelving them as a pile of empty pages, bound prettily in board and cloth built up before me.

Before long, I had stripped the shelf clean without having found a single word. From behind the now emptied shelf, movement caught my eye. I peered into the gap and saw the elusive Ms. Danvers, wrapped in the embrace of a man whose appearance, though by all rights healthy and normal, sent a supernatural chill down my back.

“Aren’t you here with someone?” he murmured against her lips.

“Oh, shut up and kiss me,” she replied, and the world faded to black.

I woke to a gentle jostling, as if I were on a ship in calm waters. I looked about as best as I could manage and saw Lex shaking the bed.

“It looked like you were having a bad dream,” he told me, his face crinkled with worry. “I don’t know if I should have woken you or not.”

“’S fine,” I said, the words grating in my throat. “How long?”

“You drove off of the Welling Road bridge at six in the morning on Monday,” Lex told me, holding a glass to my lips from which I sipped gratefully. “It’s Sunday now – you woke up briefly on Friday, but you were unconscious for over four days.

You’re concussed,” he told me, “It’s minor, thankfully, but still. You broke your left radius, I guess against the steering wheel.”

I looked over at my arm which I was surprised to see was encased in a white plaster cast. “You swallowed a lot of water before you were pulled out; it did some pretty severe damage to your throat. And I think that’s it, other than a lot of bruising across your chest where your seatbelt saved your life,” Lex said.

“A-” and here he paused, appearing to weigh his next word carefully. “Friend saw you go over and was able to pull you out of the car and bring you to shore. He says it’s lucky that your window was slightly open, or the pressure would have made it impossible to get you out. He saw your name on your driver’s license and brought you here. I don’t know if you had a phone or a bag with you, but everything that wasn’t on you when you went into the water is probably gone for good.”

I shrugged as best I could, hoping to convey my sentiment without having to muster more words. The loss of the few pieces of clothing that I had packed was no great burden, although I would mourn the car itself which had carried me so faithfully across the country.

Lex seemed to understand as he moved on from the particulars of my accident. “So how did you know I was here? I thought that I was pretty under the radar.”

I stared blankly at him and it was some seconds before he spoke again.

“Oh. You didn’t. I guess that explains why you didn’t call ahead, Lee. Is everything okay? I mean, other than the obvious,” he said, gesturing at my body.

I shook my head slowly. Lex’s face tightened. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, “If you want to talk about it, let me know.”

I was grateful that he did not push the matter further. Not only was I physically incapable of talking for long enough to convey what had happened, so fresh was the wound, so recent the betrayal that I did not have the distance that I required to even think on it without feeling the pain anew.

“Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I’m here, then,” Lex said, and I was pleased for the change of subject. “Whats the last you’ve heard of me? You never struck me as the type to set up news alerts on your last name, but I guess you never really struck me as the type to drive off a bridge either. I’m kidding!” he hastily added in response to my baleful glare.

He sat back a little and tilted his head towards the ceiling. “You knew I became CEO of LuthorCorp,” he said, “It happened while you were at high school. There was the explosion at the plant in Ohio, you knew about that?”

I nodded.

“And then the journalism that followed? The trials?”

I nodded at both of those as well.

“And the failed Martian colonization?”

He laughed at my dumbstruck expression. “That one was a joke. It sounds like you’re pretty up to date. I flew out to Vancouver to lay low as soon as I could get away from the media circus. I made it a couple of months before I was recognized, and I’ve been hopping from place to place ever since, trying to stay out of the limelight. I was in Spokane when I heard that mom passed away, and, well, I figured someone had to take care of the place.” He shrugged his shoulders then and spread his hands. “So here I am. It’s been pretty quiet, too. I don’t have to interact with too many people, so I’m hoping that I’ll be able to stay in the area for a while.”

He stayed with me for another hour or so, filling in the details of his years on the road. I was glad not just for the company but for the respite that his presence and words gave me from thinking about Ms. Danvers and I eventually found myself drifting off into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

I spent the next weeks in much the same manner, with nearly every waking moment spent in Lex’s company. He was a careful and compassionate companion, filling the quiet of the Manor with the kind of idle chatter that Mrs. Luthor never tolerated. “So I was watching this video on different ways to make scrambled eggs and I thought I’d give it a try,” he’d say, by way of explaining the fire alarm which had woken me up, or “I’ve been thinking of getting into origami. Do you know anything about it?”

I was grateful that Lex was so willing to fill in for both sides of the conversation; even as my damaged throat healed, I was reluctant to say much, afraid that once I started, I might not be able to stop until the whole story was out.

Still, as time passed, I grew stronger, more well, and although Dr. Henshaw warned me that cold weather might always make my arm ache, it was not too long before I was as good as new. However, the clean bill of health which I was granted drove home to me the reality of my situation. I could not pretend any longer that National City, that Ms. Danvers, had not happened, or that it had happened to somebody else.

The day after Dr. Henshaw declared me “as fit as a fiddle” marked two months that I had been at Tilney Manor and I knew that I had to tell someone – anyone – my story, and thereby unload some of the awful weight which had sat in my gut for so long.

I pulled on the old pair of sweatpants which Lex had given me to wear around the house, promising that we would go into town as soon as I felt up to it. They were much too big, but their warmth was a blessing in the drafty cold of the unheated Manor.

I made my way on wobbly legs down to the kitchen from which I could faintly make out the sounds of life. “Lex,” I said softly, tentatively, “I have delayed telling you my story for long enough.”

He turned from the stove to look at me. “I’ve put hot water on,” he said mildly, “Tea will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” I said, sliding in to sit at the small kitchen table. I sat without speaking, my mind turning over the tumult of the last few years of my life. The quiet of the kitchen eventually gave way to the cheerful whistle of the kettle, and a steaming mug was placed in front of me.

“Okay,” Lex repeated.

“I- I suppose I should start at the beginning,” I said, casting my mind back to my boarding school days, looking for the right words. Lex was quiet, watching me with careful eyes as the kitchen began to fill with the light floral scent of green tea. “The day that I moved out of Tilney Manor was wet and gray,” I eventually began, “The kind of late summer storm that smells of ozone and loam, smells which I have forever since associated with new beginnings…

…My head crashed into the wheel as I fell into the river, and my last thought before I lost consciousness was how fitting it was that after spending my whole life trying to escape Tilney Manor, it was on its doorstep, after breaking every vow I had made to never return, that I was to meet my end.” With those words, I brought my story to a close, the recollection of which had lasted some hours.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Lex said, the sincerity of his words written plainly across his face. “I can’t believe that Kara did that to you.”

I chuckled weakly. “It was inevitable, I suppose,” I said, the late hour and the emotional rawness which my retelling had brought about loosening my tongue, “Everyone that I’ve cared about has left me or betrayed me. I should have seen it coming.”

Pain pulled at Lex’s eyes. “Lena, no, that’s- that’s not it. It’s going to be okay.”

“Will it?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended, but not as sharp as I felt. “Jack died, Veronica sold me to the media, you blew up a factory, and Ms. Dan-” I could not muster the rest of the sentence and could feel myself deflating.

“Lee, that’s- none of that was your fault. You can’t beat yourself up about it.”

I shook my head. I could feel the tears within me but I would not let them flow. “Maybe not. Maybe I deserve better, but I’m not going to get it.”

There was silence for some seconds before Lex eventually broke the quiet. “I’m sorry about Veronica,” Lex said, “I think those reporters only went after you because I wasn’t giving interviews.”

“She would have done it eventually,” I said, “That doesn’t come from nowhere.”

He frowned but did not press the issue further. “Thank you for telling me all of this,” he said instead.

I shrugged. “You’ve been so generous with your time. I felt you deserved the truth.”

“A real Luthor, huh. You don’t have to be so quick to put your shields back up, Lee. You’re allowed to grieve.”

“I’ve let myself wallow for long enough,” I said, and I felt that my words were true, even if the implication that I did not hurt any longer was not.

He rolled his eyes. “If you say so. I’m pretty hungry – do you want to see me try to make a stir fry, or do you want to order in?”

Desirous of a meal which would be both wholly edible and produced without alerting the fire department, we opted to order in. And later that night, with a belly full of vegetable pad thai and my story told, I could almost believe that things would be okay.

With my story behind me and my voice returned, I found that there was much for Lex and I to talk about together. Although he had studied business and mechanical engineering, Lex was a consummate intellectual and was able to hold his own in whatever scientific discussion I wanted to bring up.

“You were always smarter than me,” he said one afternoon after a discussion on the progress of the fusion project, which had recently made the news.

“What?” I asked, confused, “Mrs. Luthor never thought so.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, of course not. Mom insisted on directly comparing you to me when we were ten years apart. I’d like to think I could outshine my baby sister with those odds.”

I tried to brush his remark aside, but on this he was insistent. “I mean it,” he said seriously, “You’re inspiring. You’ve done so much, endured so much. It’s kind of incredible.”

“I- thank you for saying so,” I said.

“When I’m in charge of Luthor Corp again, you should join me,” Lex said, “Head of R & D. Or CFO. Whatever you like.”

It was the first that he’d mentioned Luthor Corp, but as the weeks went on, it would not be the last. Somehow, Lex had decided that my working for him at Luthor Corp was the panacea that our lives needed and on this point he would accept no disagreement.

“Metropolis is on the other side of the country from National City,” he’d say, “What better place to get over this Danvers woman?” or, “Think about it. You can keep me in line, make sure I stay on the up and up. Your brains and morals, my- well, my whatever, we’ll be unstoppable.” Or even, “I’ve got a- well, I don’t know if friend is the right word, but I could introduce you to Kate, she lives in Gotham, it’s basically right next door.”

Every time, I demurred, although I was not certain why. There was a certain attraction to the idea of working with Lex, with the brother that I didn’t know that I truly had, and I had no doubts that between us, we could be a formidable team.

I felt somehow that to take a position under Lex would represent a negation of the work that I had done to distance myself from the Luthor name, the steps that I had taken to carve out an identity and a space for my own. For all of the newfound affection that I felt towards my half-brother, it was easiest to think of him as just “Lex” and not “Lex Luthor” as he would inevitably become once he retook his position at Luthor Corp.

While Lex planned the eventual rise of the Luthor siblings, I was also introduced to his Smallville friends. Some days after I had first told him my story, he broached the subject to me. “Lena,” he said over breakfast, his tone careful, “I, ah- I was hoping to introduce you to some people today. The friend who pulled you out of the river and his partner. He’s a farmer and she owns and operates the coffee shop in town; I think it opened after you left.”

“If they are friends of yours, I’m pleased to meet them,” I said, somewhat surprised by how earnestly I meant it. I was curious as to what manner of person my brother had surrounded himself with. I had found – however briefly – friendship and love at 2520 Lace Hill Street. Had Lex been as lucky?

“Good,” he said, “They’ll be over in a couple of hours, I think.”

Lex, being a proper Luthor, was always dressed sharply, but it was clear that he had taken particular care in his appearance that day. His shirt was meticulously ironed, his shoes recently shined, and he had applied a hint of cologne, something which he had not done in the two or three weeks which I had spent with him in Tilney Manor.

I left for my room to try to freshen up; we had not had company at the Manor yet, and there was little for me in the way of clothing to wear.

Before too long, I heard the unfamiliar sound of the Manor’s doorbell, its chime reverberating through the building. I made my way to the entry foyer where I saw Lex greeting an attractive couple at the door. He looked up as I made my way down the stairs and I could see how nervous he was. Resolving to do my best to reflect well upon the brother who had so carefully nursed me these past months, I stepped forward to greet the couple.

“Hi Lena,” the man said, his handshake surprisingly gentle. “I’m Clark; I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m glad to see you’re doing better. Lana and I were real worried.”

“Any recuperation that I’ve managed can only be thanks to you,” I said politely, “You’ve saved my life.”

“I was just in the right place at the right time,” Clark said, his smile wide and genuine. “This is Lana,” he said as our other guest stepped forwards. She ignored my offered hand and pulled me into a gentle hug. I was pleasantly surprised that she had the presence of mind to not press our chests together – although I had been medically cleared, there was still some soreness to my chest.

“Whenever you’re well enough, come down to the Talon,” Lana told me, “Anything you want, on the house.”

“What, you’ve known her two minutes and you’re already giving her freebies?” Lex objected.

“Well, if you ever get pulled out of the river, I’ll buy you a cappuccino,” Lana replied, “But until then, Lena’s the shiny new toy, and you’re old news.”

“She doesn’t mean that,” Clark said.

“Maybe I do, Clark,” Lana replied, smiling cheekily. “Ever since Chloe left for Metropolis, I’m just surrounded by boys all the time. It’ll be nice to have a girl friend again.”

“And it’ll be nice to see more of Lex as well,” Clark said earnestly, “I mean, it’s great that you’re up and about, Lena, but we’ve missed having Lex around.”

I noticed that Lex, normally a paragon of Luthor stoicism and reserve, had turned away slightly at Clark’s remark, his baldness revealing that even the top of his head had pinked ever so slightly. I smiled to myself, pleased that Lex had found friends that could break down what I had come to see over the past weeks was a carefully constructed façade.

“Can I get either of you anything to drink?” I asked, eager to draw attention away from my half-brother.

Clark, I came to find, was almost infuriatingly nice, from his offer to help me fetch a glass of water to his insistence on returning later that week to repair a window which a stray bird had cracked to his eagerness to always assume the best of people. Lana was just as nice, but her sharp humor made it palatable where Clark was almost saccharine. They were well matched, and it was clear in their body language that they were entirely comfortable with each other. They moved around each other, each seemingly aware of the other’s presence and position at all times.

“How did the two of you meet?” I asked, some time later. We had by this point moved to the living room with mugs of tea and coffee.

“Well, we were always friends,” Clark began, but by the blush which suffused his entire face and neck, I could tell that there was more to it than that.

“Friend might be overselling things, Clark,” Lana said, her voice amused. “Clark had the biggest crush. It was adorable. He walked into a signpost once because he was too busy staring to look where he was going.”

“You noticed?” Clark asked, horrified. “Pete promised me that you didn’t.”

Lana rolled her eyes. “Oh please. I watched you just as much as you watched me. I was just subtler about it.”

Even despite Clark’s apparent surprise, their story had a well-practiced air about it that seemed fitting given the pair’s comfort.

“That’s very sweet,” I said, ignoring the twinge in my chest that I told myself had nothing to do with Ms. Danvers.

“Well, we do our best,” Lana said, her smile bright.

By the time Lana and Clark left Tilney that night, I was pleased that Lex had managed to find such good friends and excited to take Lana up on her offer of coffee and company.

As neither Lex nor I had anything else with which to occupy our time, it was the next morning that Lex drove me to the Talon and although he was a conscientious driver, my ears roared and my vision flashed every time we made even the most gentle of turns.

“You don’t have to do this,” Lex said quietly, “Lana would be happy to come over again. Or we could walk; it’s not that far, only a couple of hours.”

“No,” I gritted out, “It’s fine.”

Lex snorted but did not stop driving.

The ride was not long, lasting only a matter of minutes, but by the time we parked, I was nearly shaking. “Hey, it’s okay,” Lex said, a reassuring hand at my back, “Let’s go get something to drink.”

I nodded and followed him inside.

The Talon looked like it had once been intended to be a movie theater; the neon sign in the front a worn, but well-kept indicator of this alternate identity. The inside was done up as comfortably as any space could be; couches and piles of pillows alternated with chairs and barstools to make an eclectic but inviting space. Being mid-morning, the café was largely empty, but the smell of fresh coffee nevertheless filled the air.

“Lex! Lena!” Lana said from her position behind the counter, “Welcome to Smallville proper.” She put down the mug that she had been drying and wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “What can I get you?”

“I don’t think coffee is a good idea right now,” I said, still uneasy from the ride over, as Lex ordered a black Americano to go.

“I can do you a green tea latte,” Lana offered, “Sugar?”

“No sugar,” I replied, “But a latte sounds good.”

“Coming right up! Why don’t you guys go take a seat and I’ll come over when everything’s ready.”

The ease with which Lex sank into a blue couch made it apparent that he was a frequent customer, but that only made the tension which he carried in his shoulders all the more queer. Before I could say anything, however, Lana sat between us, handing each of us a steaming mug.

“That was fast,” I said, impressed.

“Well, the Talon prides itself on good service,” Lana said primly. “Actually, the green tea latte is my favorite drink so I was steaming milk when you walked in.”

I nodded and took a sip, pleased with how creamy and earthy the drink was. “Will Clark be joining us?” I asked.

“Oh, no, he’s down at the farm,” Lana said, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes, “He’s pulling weeds, or whatever it is you do to make sure the corn grows.”

I nodded, sipping at the drink which Lana had brought for me. I noticed that despite her teasing the day we had met, she had not charged Lex for his coffee.

“I don’t really know much about farming,” Lana admitted, “But Clark loves it, and I guess I’m not complaining if he comes home looking like that.”

Just then, Lex coughed heavily into his coffee, pounding at his chest with one fist to regain his breath. “I- I think I have some errands to run,” he said, “Is it okay if I leave you two ladies alone for a while? Lena, Lana has my number if you want to head back.”

I nodded, Lex’s tension, his hesitation about what to call Clark, and the extra effort put into his appearance all making sudden sense in light of his clear infatuation with Lana. “I’ll let you know,” I promised, making a note to broach the topic when I deemed fit. “Thank you for the ride.”

If Lana noticed that something was the matter, she made no indication of it, saying only, “Well, thanks for dropping by, Lex!”

When he left, however, I could see her shoulders deflate, although it lasted for only a second before her good cheer returned. “I heard that all of your clothes went down with the car,” Lana said, “What were you wearing when we visited?”

“I- I borrowed from Mrs. Luthor’s closet,” I admitted.

Hearing that, Lana’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Well, that won’t do,” she said. “You’ve got a couple of hours free, right?”

I almost laughed at that – I had nothing but time – but managed to just nod instead.

“Then we’re going shopping,” Lana said firmly, “Since Chloe left, I haven’t had anyone to do this with. Clark just says that everything looks good; he’s totally useless.”

“I- I don’t have any money,” I said, the latte which I would not have been able to purchase myself suddenly sour against my tongue.

She waved my concerns away. “Don’t worry about it. When Clark’s tractor broke down a couple of months ago, Lex worked on it for a week nonstop – it’s better than ever. He’s so stubborn; he refuses to take any payment for it, so really the absolute least we can do is get you some clothes. Your brother dresses nice, but I wouldn’t trust him with something as important as a new wardrobe, you know?”

Her easy humor and pleasant smile were infectious and I could not help but agree.

“Great! Give me a minute to close up and we can head out. There’s a department store just across the store. I’m friends with the owners; I’m sure I can swing us a discount.”

In the months that followed, both Clark and Lana proved to be loyal, giving friends, and our only real contact with the world outside of Tilney Manor. With the amount of time that we therefore spent together, it was easy to gather further evidence for my brother’s infatuation and for the pain which it caused him. There was a set to his lips, a tension in his back, a rigidity to his bearing, when she was around, but when she left, I could see him flatten, as if the air had been let out.

“Lex?” I asked one night after Clark and Lana had spent the day with us. “Do you want to talk about it?” I had seen the brief, despairing glances that he had directed at the pair, and knew that it was my duty as a sister – even a half-sister – to at least try to bring it up.

“I- talk about what?”

“Lana,” I said, undeterred by the flimsy attempt at dissimulation.

“Oh God, am I that obvious?” he asked, groaning as he sank back into the couch, the poor posture more than anything else evidence of his distress.

“Only to me,” I assured him. “How long?”

“Since we first met,” he said, and if I’d had any doubts that he was in love with the Talon’s owner, they were banished by this admission.

“Have you talked to her about it?” I asked gently.

“What would I say?” he asked, “’Lana, sorry if this inconveniences you, but I think I’m in love with you and your boyfriend?’ I don’t know if I see that going over too well, Lee. And besides, I'm not going to be in Kansas forever. Once I'm in charge of Luthor Corp again, I won't have time for- well, for things like that.”

“I-” my voice caught at the mention of Clark, something for which I had not calculated, had not prepared.

“Oh, did you not know that part? I’m glad I’m not that transparent,” he said, laughing ruefully. “Look at us. You didn’t know that the girl you were dating was married, I’m pining after a couple that might as well be. I blame mom for this. It’s her fault somehow.”

 “Genetically, it’s more likely to be Mr. Luthor,” I pointed out, “He is, after all, our only common relation."

Lex shook his head. “This can’t be genetic. What kind of evolutionary advantage is that, falling for unavailable people? This is definite a nurture, not nature, kind of deal, Lee.”

The solemnity with which he presented his evidence was too much for me to handle at that moment and I couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t long before Lex joined in, and although we did not speak of it again, this was a transformative moment in our relationship.

I would catch his eye after spotting him looking wistfully at Clark, or watching Lana pour a cup of coffee, and we would both smile. “What’s so funny?” Lana asked once, a question for which we could muster no answer.

“Inside joke,” Lex managed eventually, “Probably too long to explain.”

Lex and I continued in this fashion for some months, and although it dulled and receded, my thoughts of Ms. Danvers did not ever truly disappear. The most innocent things would remind me of her; seeing her favorite cereal in the grocery store, hearing on the radio a song which she had once sung, even ordering Chinese food and having to stop myself from adding an additional order of potstickers, were enough to send me into a new spiral.

“Would you go back?” Lex asked me one night, “If she asked?”

I missed her; my soul cried out for her, but I knew that I could not return to National City, to Ms. Danvers and her husband, with my tail tucked between my legs to ask for my old position back. “I can not,” I told him, “I can’t go back to that, go back to being so reliant on her in all things. She was my heart, my home, my everything. I need more independence than that.”

He nodded knowingly. “So when you’re the head of R&D at Luthor Corp, you can hit her up,” he said, “I’ll send some goons to off the guy; we’ll get this all worked out, you’ll see.”

I snorted with laughter and shook my head. “I thought those days were behind you.”

“Yeah, well, I make an exception for my sister,” he said, tousling my hair affectionately.

It was a hot August day that the relative idyll of Kansas came to an abrupt end. Lex and I were lounging in the living room, each of us doing our best to move as little as possible and thereby generate the smallest amount of body heat when the chime of the Manor’s doorbells filled the air. Lex and I exchanged a look. “Clark and Lana aren’t coming over today, are they?” I asked.

“They didn’t say anything about it,” Lex said, as puzzled as I felt.

I put down my book and Lex closed his laptop. There was a strange charge in the air, an electricity that hadn’t existed moments before. I wondered if Lex could feel it as well. We made our way to the front door just in time for our mysterious visitor to ring the bell once more.

Lex pulled the door open to reveal a rather short man, his platinum-blonde hair carefully slicked back. He wore a black suit and his red tie was pulled neat and tight – there were no allowances for the hot Kansas August. He held in one hand an old-fashioned leather briefcase.

“Mr. Luthor,” the man said, inclining his head briefly. His eyes widened in recognition as he saw me over Lex’s shoulder. “And Ms. Luthor,” he added, surprised.

“And who are you?” Lex asked, his voice tight and flinty, “If you’re with the media, we just want to be left alone.”

The stranger shook his head. “Do you not recognize me, Mr. Luthor? I am- I was your father’s attorney.”

“Was?” I asked, as visions of a letter, addressed, stamped, but unsent, lying on a desk in National City flooded my mind, “Do you mean-”

“Yes,” the man said, nodding. “I was your father’s attorney and I am here to read you his last will and testament.”

Chapter Text

It was a couple of seconds before Lex was able to gather himself enough to motion the man in. “Please, come in.”

Once I had collected myself enough to move, I followed the pair into our living room where I sat beside Lex on the blue couch, opposite our late father’s lawyer. I knew that the ensuing conversation would change my life, but in that moment, I had no idea to what degree.

“I’m sorry,” Lex said once we were settled, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“My name is Jonathan Freeman. I have been your father’s attorney for seven years.” That he was able to keep the rebuke from his tone was impressive. “Shall we begin?”

“Fine, fine, get on with it,” Lex said, waving his hand at the man.

Mr. Freeman opened his briefcase and removed a piece of paper which he unfolded and began to read from. “To Alexander Joseph Luthor, I leave an annuity of fifty-thousand dollars, to be for the rest of his life or as long as our finances allow.” Mr. Freeman said, pulling another set of papers from his briefcase and pushing them across the table to Lex. “If you’d sign here, here, and initial here, Mr. Luthor.”

“Hold on,” Lex said, “Is that it? Is this a joke?” There was a redness to the back of his head, a heat to his voice that gave me some pause. Mr. Freeman, however, was not so shaken.

“If you have any questions about the contents of this document, I suggest you take them up with their author. If I may continue?”

Lex was silent but did not sign. His grip on his pen was tight enough that his knuckles whitened and he levelled upon Mr. Freeman so vicious a look that I was surprised that the man did not instantly catch fire.

“To Lena Kieran Luthor,” Mr. Freeman said, watching me so carefully that I felt he must have had the words memorized, “I leave my shares of the Luthor Corporation, which amount to fifty-one percent of the same, Tilney Manor and its related properties, and the contents of my various investment and banking accounts – which are detailed in an attached document – except for that sum which is required to pay her brother his annuity.” He put down the paper which he had not needed and looked me directly in the eyes, his expression far too mild, I felt, for what he had just revealed to me. “Would you like me to go over those accounts and their holdings now, Ms. Luthor?”

“I- what?” As confused as Lex had been by the paucity of his inheritance, I was far more baffled by the grandeur of mine. “I’m sorry, there must be some mistake.”

Mr. Freeman shook his head. “Mr. Luthor anticipated that the two of you might feel this way,” he admitted. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two envelopes which he handed to us. The paper was rich and creamy, the ink in which our names – just “Lex” and “Lena” – were written a dark, emerald green. It was with shaking hands that I opened mine and with increasingly watering eyes that I read the words which my father had so carefully written by hand.

“Lena,” he wrote, “You may wonder why I have left you everything. You may think that I have done so in error, that you are not deserving of or prepared for the burden which I have left upon your shoulders. My daughter, I assure you that on these counts, you are wrong. You are as much a Luthor as Lex; my blood flows as thickly in your veins as in his. All that our family has is as rightfully yours as it could be his.

As for preparation, you have always been a bright child and, I am confident, you are now a bright adult. I have followed your academic achievements with pride and am certain that you will lead the Corporation ably. And if the humility and love with which you wrote to me are any indication, you will lead it with goodness as well.

But moreover, you have something which Lex never did. The letter which you sent me warmed my tired heart and gave this old man some peace. Lex, for all his brilliance, was never able to find a partner. The world is not a challenge that can be tackled alone and while you have found someone with which to meet it, Lex always believed that he could do everything himself. To separate him from the company is not intended as a punishment but as a gift in its own way.

Lena, I have but one regret in a life which I consider to have been well-lived and it is that I did not treat you as the daughter you are. Please allow this old man a final (perhaps first) act of love. Trust me enough to take on the mantle which I have placed upon your shoulders and forgive me when it becomes difficult. Let those whom you love and who love you to help you; you need to do nothing more to make me proud.

I’m sorry that we didn’t have the time to build the kind of relationship that you hoped for.

Your father,

Lionel Luthor.”

I never saw what our father wrote to Lex, but it was with a determined set to his jaw and acceptance in his eyes that he replaced the letter in its envelope and quickly signed the paper which Mr. Freeman had offered him earlier.

“That’s that then,” he said, the cheer in his voice not quite managing to fool me. “I’ll pack my stuff up tonight. I hear Maine is beautiful this time of year.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, my voice still thick from the emotional assault which I had just sustained, “You’re staying right here.”

“But it’s your house, Lena.”

That my brother could be at once so brilliant and so daft seemed incredibly unjust. “And you allowed me to stay these past months, believing that the Manor as good as yours. Please, stay. It will save me having to find someone to care for the place,” I said, somewhat wryly, before continuing in a gentler tone. “And besides, you have people who care for you here. Clark, Lana, they would not be pleased to see you go.”

At the mention of his friends’ names, a wondrous smile crossed Lex’s face and I was nearly as surprised by the smile as I was that he did not instantly wipe it from his face. “I guess I could stick around for a while. Thank you. Where will you go?” he asked. “Metropolis?” And although I hadn’t thought about it before, the answer came to me instantly.

“The Luthor Corporation needs a new image,” I said confidently, “A new name, perhaps, a new direction.”

“And with it a new headquarters, I assume?” Lex asked, a teasing lilt to his voice.

I nodded soberly. “I have to go back, Lex.”

His face tightened but he did not protest. “Don’t let her hurt you again,” he warned.

“I cannot promise that, but I do know that I will not forgive myself if I don’t try.”

My need to return to National City as quickly as possible outweighed my disdain for flying and with the help of Mr. Freeman and the newfound funds at my disposal, I was quickly set to arrive in National City in two days, giving me just enough time to work out the finer details of my inheritance.

The day of my return to National City dawned and I arose with the sun in order to make it to Kansas City in time for the flight which would take me back to the West Coast. Although I had told him that he did not have to, Lex, who typically woke some hours later than I, had come to see me out.

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

Lex nodded. “I was thinking about this all night and I think dad was right. I feel freer than- well, freer than I can ever remember feeling, really.”

I smiled, his words producing a pleasant lightness within me.

“I’ll be back to visit,” I promised.

“You’d better. And bring that lady of yours. I have to give her a talking to about hurting my baby sister.”

His posturing caused me to roll my eyes, but it was with affection that I did so. “Then I expect to have a similar conversation with a certain couple.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “We’ll see, then.”

I smiled and pulled him into a tight hug, trying by action to convey the gratitude and affection which I felt my words were unable to adequately express.

“Goodbye,” I said eventually.

“You’ll be back,” he reminded me.

Hefting my bag in my hand, I set out the door. It was a strange feeling to leave Tilney Manor and to know – even to be excited – that I would return some day, that I had something to return to.

The ride to the airport and indeed the flight itself were both uneventful but for the gradual increase in the rate and intensity of my heart rate. Each second stretched; time felt as jelly in the air, thick and restrictive, leaving me alone to my thoughts.

Over the past two days I had steadfastly refused to think on what I would say to Ms. Danvers, aided in this resolution by the flurry of activity which was required of me in assuming those my inheritances. The solitude – the interminable, suffocating solitude – of the flight to National City offered me no such distraction.

Before I could determine what I would say, I had to determine what it was that I felt. Was I still angry? What had I been angry about in the first place? Was it that she had been married the whole time? Was it that she had hidden it from me? Or was it that I had allowed myself to become so reliant upon one person that I could lose everything all at once?

Such was the emotional miasma in which I spent I flew from Kansas back to California and by the time I landed, no matter that I had done nothing but sit for several hours, I was exhausted, my heart raced, and I was no nearer to figuring out what I would say to Ms. Danvers.

Still, no matter that I did not yet have a plan, I could not wait in the airport until I did – such a delay might never end – and so I called another car, asking to be taken to 2520 Lace Hill Street.

The ride back into National City was an odd one. I had only flown in once, after returning from seeing Mrs. Luthor and that had been in the middle of the night. As a result, much of the area, despite being a major transportation hub in the city which I had called home for nearly two years, was almost entirely unfamiliar. As we drove in towards the city proper, things became more and more familiar – I recognized restaurants that Ms. Danvers and I had eaten at, parks which I had taken Ruby to, streets upon which Ms. Danvers and I had walked, hand in hand.

This rush of memory grew and grew in intensity until I knew that we were only blocks away. My heart, which had beat so furiously for so long, took this as the chance to all but stand completely still; the moment during which we turned from Wilson Street onto Lace Hill seemed to last an eternity.

The moment passed, of course, but as the block upon which I had lived in such happiness came into view, I wished that it hadn’t. No matter how familiar everything had seemed, no matter how I knew that it could not be the case, every fiber of my being cried out that I must have been mistaken, that we were in the wrong place.

There was almost nothing left of 2520 Lace Hill Street. It almost appeared to have been cleanly excised from the street, with only a few deeply charred bricks remaining to give any hint of what once had been. The surrounding buildings had suffered some cosmetic damage as a result, with soot-black bricks clinging like scabs to their sides.

“Are you sure this is the right address?” my driver asked once we’d come to a stop in front of the gaping wound in the streetscape. So disturbing was the image in front of me that I found myself at a complete loss for words. “Only, I think it’s a safety issue if I drop you off here, lady.”

I shook my head and shut my eyes to try to rid myself of the burned building. “I’m sorry, could you take me to-” and here I named the clinic which I knew that Mrs. Arias worked at.

“Sure thing,” my driver responded, taking me from the scene.

As we drove off, horrible images filled my mind, images of Ms. Danvers burnt to a crisp, of Ruby choking on billowing smoke, of Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Arias roused from their sleep by their family’s screams.

Telling myself that it would do me no good to harbor such fears until I knew that their deaths were confirmed, I took several deep breaths, trying to calm the racing of my heart and the screaming of my pulse. However, I could not shake the feeling that in leaving National City, I had thrown away my last chance to see them.

We arrived at Hawk Pediatrics not minutes later and I positively fled the car, my bag slung over my shoulder. “Don’t forget to give me five stars!” my driver called out behind me as I ran.

I burst through the doors, terrified that Mrs. Arias might not be behind that desk, that she had been claimed along with the brownstone.

Providence smiled upon me and upon my found family, however, as upon entering the clinic’s waiting room, I was met with a familiar face, too preoccupied with the screen in front of her to pay any heed to the frantic, panting woman who had just burst into the room.

“Mrs. Arias,” I breathed, relief making my head spin.

She looked up from her computer screen, her eyes widening almost comically when they met mine. “Oh my god, Lena,” she said, before vaulting over the counter to catch me up in her arms.

“I was at the house,” I said, my voice muffled against the taller woman’s shoulder, “What happened?”

“Everyone’s okay,” Mrs. Arias said, a sentence which caused me to want to sink to my knees in gratitude and relief. “Well, I say everyone-”

But before she could finish that worrying thought, she was interrupted by a sharp voice, which spoke in clipped tones.

“We don’t pay you to socialize, Mrs. Arias,” it said, and by the tensing of her shoulders, I could tell that this was not a welcome interruption for her either. I looked up over Mrs. Arias’ back and saw a woman in a white coat, her red hair pulled back so tightly it might have been responsible for the pursing of her lips.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Anderson,” Mrs. Arias said dully, although she did not let go of me. It was the resignation in her tone, more than the sharpness of her rebuke, that enraged me.

An idea struck me, one so perfect that I wondered that I had not come up with it before. “Mrs. Arias,” I said quickly, quietly, “You do not like working here, do you?”

She stared at me with widened eyes. “Lena, I- what are you talking about? I’m sorry, Dr. Anderson, I don’t know what she’s-”

My voice grew stronger as I grew more confident in my plan. “You hate it. You don’t have to work here. Work with me.”

“I- what?”

I nodded. “I will be announced in the coming days as the new CEO to the Luthor Corporation. Work with me – there is no one I would rather have as CFO.”

“Lena, what are you talking about? I have no experience, I don’t know the first thing about business.”

I shook my head. “Neither do I, but I am confident that we can figure it out together. Work with me,” I repeated, “It will be like Game Night again, only this time we’ll always be on the same team.”

She broke apart from me to look me in the eyes; I had never before seen her so serious. “You mean it.”

“Yes,” I replied simply.

A wide, jubilant grin broke out across Mrs. Arias’ face. “Then of course I accept, Lena.” In a louder voice she then continued to say, “Dr. Anderson, sorry that I’m not giving you two weeks notice, but I quit.”

The ease with which she accepted my proposition, with which she placed her trust in me, warmed my heart.

“Let me just grab my things and we can head out,” Mrs. Arias told me, speaking over the doctor’s sputtering, “I can take you to Kara. If you want.”

I nodded and stepped out of the clinic to wait for my new CFO on the sidewalk.

So eager was Mrs. Arias to see the last of her former place of work that it was not long – some two or three minutes at most – that I was joined, that exultant grin still firmly plastered upon Mrs. Arias’ face.

“It’s not too far of a walk,” she told me, “We can catch up on the way.”

My skin felt itchy and hot, a sensation which only grew with each second that I was apart from Ms. Danvers, and my heart screamed at me to call a car, to run, to do whatever it took to put myself face-to-face with Ms. Danvers once more, but I agreed all the same.

“God, I thought we’d never see you again,” Mrs. Arias said, “We must have called, texted you a hundred times.”

“I sold my phone,” I admitted.

“And your email? Did you just not check that for four months?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t want to see what was there.”

“That’s- that’s fair enough.” Mrs. Arias sighed frustratedly, clenching and unclenching her hands. “I wish Kara had- well, I guess I should let her say all of that. She’s okay. Alex and Ruby, too.”

“And Mike?”

Mrs. Arias shook her head. “It was him, they think. The fire department.”

“The fire?”

“It was a couple of months ago while the four of us were at the park. He must have gotten out somehow – Kara or Imra left the door unlocked, I guess – and tried to use the stove. He didn’t make it.”

“Oh,” I said. I was not certain how the news made me feel. I had borne the man no ill will -  none of what had happened to me had been his fault – but I felt no emotional connection to him either. It was as if I had been informed of the death of a complete stranger.

Perhaps sensing my discomfort or perhaps because she was too curious to observe decorum, Mrs. Arias pressed on. “So where have you been for the last four months? I don’t mean to guilt you, but Ruby’s been a little frantic.” Although her words were casual, there was a mother’s well-practiced and disapproving chide within them.

“I was at Tilney Manor with my brother.”

“Lex?”

I nodded.

Mrs. Arias whistled. “If we had a little longer, I’d press more, but I have a feeling I’ll have to wait my turn in line to get the Lena Luthor story,” Mrs. Arias said, “We’re here.”

I looked up; we had made it to the offices of CatCo Worldwide. “Do you want me to wait outside?” Mrs. Arias asked, “I mean, in case things don’t go well?”

I shook my head. “Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Arias, but that shouldn’t be necessary.”

Mrs. Arias frowned. “None of that. If we’re working together, you have to call me Sam.”

The words brought a smile to my face. “Of course, Sam. I’ll be by later to work out the details of your position.”

“Okay,” Sam said, “Kara knows where we live.”

I nodded.

“Good luck,” she told me, before pulling me in for another hug. “Thanks for coming back. And, uh, for the job.”

 “I could not stay away,” I said quietly.

Sam nodded and broke the hug. “Go get her. And then come back and talk to me; I bet you’ve got a story.”

“I will,” I said, before turning and walking into the office building. The elevator quickly brought me to the 25^th floor, where I walked out and across to Ms. Danvers’ office. As I approached, I was stopped by a familiar voice.

“Excuse me, do you have an appoi-”

“No appointment, Jess,” I told Ms. Danvers’ stunned assistant, “But I hope she’ll see me anyway?”

Jess nodded, gesturing towards the door behind her. “Just go right in. I’ll clear her schedule for the rest of the day.”

I pushed the door open, my pulse pounding against the knob.

“Are you my two o’clock?” Ms. Danvers said, “Sorry, just give a couple of minutes and I’ll-” She looked up then and the words died in her throat as our eyes met again for the first time in some months.

Face to face with her once more, the words which I had spent so long preparing deserted me, leaving me without the shields and barriers which I had intended to raise. “You- you sent my letter,” I said eventually.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes never leaving my face, staring at me as if I would disappear if she looked away, “I didn’t want you to lose that chance at communication on my account.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.”

There was a long, terrible silence which was filled only by the thundering of my own heart. Eventually, we both spoke at once.

“You didn’t come all this way to-” Ms. Danvers said.

“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” I said.

“You what?” Ms. Danvers said, her brow furrowing. “How did you-”

“I went-” and here I had to swallow the word ‘home,’ substituting clumsily with, “to Lace Hill Street first. Upon finding it in ruins, I went instantly to Mrs- to Sam’s clinic. She walked me here. She told me what happened.”

Ms. Danvers looked down. “I- I know that I should be upset. He was my husband. And my friend.” Her shoulders began to shake and it was then that I realized with some small horror that she was crying. “But I’m also kind of- kind of relieved?”

“Ms. Danvers,” I said, “You don’t have to-”

“No,” she said fiercely, looking back up at me. She was beautiful even then, defiant, her cheeks an angry red with makeup tracks running across them like cracks. “No more secrets.”

I nodded.

“I should feel bad,” she repeated, “But I don’t. I- I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it.”

“It can’t have been easy for you, ma’am,” I said gently, “He was not the man that you once new.”

“No, he wasn’t,” she sniffed. She took a deep breath before reaching for a box of tissues and dabbing gently at her cheeks and eyes before loudly blowing her nose. “God, this isn’t how I wanted this to go,” she said once she’d finished.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“Well, for starters, in my head, I was collected enough to invite you in to have a seat.”

I smiled, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. I walked to the couch along the left wall and sat down, motioning towards the seat next to me.

“Are you sure?” Ms. Danvers asked, her voice nervous, “I don’t-”

“I came back,” I said simply.

Ms. Danvers nodded and sat. “Where from?” she asked, kicking her heels off, turning to me, and crossing her legs underneath her. “I mean, where did you go?”

 “I went back to Tilney Manor.”

“You drove all the way to Kansas?” Ms. Danvers asked, a note of pain in her voice.

“Yes,” I replied. “Well, most of the way, at least.”

“What do you mean most of the way?”

I licked my lips, hoping to avoid admitting what I had done. “It isn’t so big of a deal,” I tried.

“No secrets,” Ms. Danvers said, against which I could muster no argument.

“I drove off of a bridge just outside of Smallville,” I said as quickly as I could manage.

“You what?”

“Not intentionally!” I cried, “I had been driving for so long; I was somewhat addled.”

“You drove off of a bridge,” Ms. Danvers repeated.

“Yes, but I got better.”

“You got injured driving off of a bridge.”

“Ma’am, this hardly seems like the point.”

Ms. Danvers shook her head. “Lena, I’m so sorry.”

“Ma’am, it’s hardly your fault that-”

“I drove you away by lying to you,” she said, her voice tight, her hands clutching her knees, “How is this not my fault?”

Her admission loosened some phantom hand’s grip upon my heart and I felt as if I could breathe for the first time in four months.

“I came back,” I repeated.

“I’ve dreamed about this happening ever since you left,” Ms. Danvers admitted shakily. “No, I mean it. Like, I’ve literally had dreams about this.”

“And how did these dreams go?”

Ms. Danvers shook her head. “I can’t- no, I can’t do that to myself.”

“Ms. Danvers,” I said, hoping by my tone to convey what I could not find the words for.

“Why did you come back?” she asked.

I knew that the question was inevitable, but even that preparation did not keep the jolt from my heart. “My father died,” I said, pleased with how even I was able keep my voice. “He has left me the Corporation.”

“Oh,” Ms. Danvers said, and I could hear the moment of heartbreak in her voice. “So you’ll be moving to Metropolis, then?”

I shook my head. “That’s actually why I’m here, ma’am. I have something to announce and I was hoping that I could count on CatCo Worldwide to break the story.”

If her furrowed brows were any indication, Ms. Danvers had not understood, so I pressed on.

“I have decided to rename the company L Corp, to signify our new direction,” I said, “And with our new CFO, Sam Arias-”

“What.” Ms. Danvers said, but I pressed on, despite the interruption.

“We are planning on relocating. Somewhere in National City, I think.”

Ms. Danvers stared at me, her mouth agape. “Am I dreaming?” she eventually asked.

I shook my head. “Ms. Danvers,” I said, “In describing why he left the Corporation to me, Mr. Luthor said something which caused me to realize that I had to return. The world, he told me, is not a challenge that one can tackle alone. And so, although I intend to remain in National City no matter your answer, I returned hoping that-”

“You don’t have to say it,” Ms. Danvers whispered, “I- I think I know what you want to say, but if I’m wrong, I don’t know if I could take it.”

I considered her offer. Vulnerability was never something that came easily to me, especially with one who had caused me so much pain in the past. And although I might have gotten away with relying on that understanding to keep my cards close to my chest and give a safe answer, I knew as strongly then as I had back at Samuel’s that a real relationship must be based on the truth – I would not begin this one with a lie of omission.

“I returned hoping to start over,” I began, looking Ms. Danvers directly in the eyes. “I returned hoping that I could meet you as an equal and that we could care for one another without any deception or prevarication between us. The months we have spent apart and the pain you have caused me have not dulled the feelings that I have for you and although I may survive without seeing them returned, it would be a lesser life.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ms. Danvers began, and I could see the beginning of tears in the corners of her lovely eyes. “I nearly ruined everything, I can’t believe that you’re here. I can’t believe you came back.”

“You may have hurt me, but I am not so fragile as to be destroyed in a single instant,” I said, placing my hand upon her cheek and using my thumb to catch a falling tear. “And for as much pain as you may have caused me, you gave me happiness many, many times over.”

“I don’t deserve this,” Ms. Danvers said, her shoulders now shaking with emotion.

I shrugged. “I think you do, ma’am. But even if you don’t agree, I hope that you would not deny me a chance at happiness just to punish yourself for a perceived wrong.” I closed the distance between us, moving forward on the couch to pull her into my arms.

At first contact, Ms. Danvers all but fell into me, holding me tightly as if afraid that I might disappear into the aether if she did maintain a firm grasp. By the shaking of her back and the slight dampness at my shoulder I could discern that she was now fully crying.

“It’s okay, Ms. Danvers,” I said gently, stroking her back with one hand as I used the other to cradle her head against my shoulder. It was some time, perhaps thirty or forty seconds before she was able to sit up and return my gaze.

“Okay,” she said, a familiar strength in her reddened and tear-swollen eyes.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Okay. We’ll try again,” Ms. Danvers said, and my heart had never felt so light. “On one condition though. You have to call me Kara. And I mean it this time.”

“Kara,” I said, her name as lovely on my tongue as ever, “My Kara.”

“Gosh, I like the sound of that.”

“Do you think you’ll ever get tired of it?” The second question, the “of me?” went unspoken but not, I think, unheard.

Kara smiled affectionately and kissed me tenderly upon the lips. “Lena,” she said softly, “I let you go once and I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

“Good,” I replied, “Because I’m not planning on going anywhere.”