Chapter Four: Grace
"Boy, am I glad to sit still for a minute."
Marissa dropped down onto the couch in the small lounge area that connected their suite of rooms, letting out her breath in a rush as she did so. "Does anyone else feel like we've been doing more things here than there are hours in the day to do? Interviews, photo calls, more interviews, live performances...not to mention last night's opening concert. I'm about ready to drop!"
"Well, we have tonight off." Madeleine cast her bandmate an amused smile. "But I agree with you, actually. Sophie has been keeping us pretty busy. Plus, I'm starving. It's gone nine o' clock and we've missed dinner already - I really hope the guys are back with the pizza soon. I know it's not healthy, but right now I could eat the couch."
"That's probably even less healthy." Stefana lounged in the doorway of her bedroom. "What is that mad French bitch up to, anyway? Is this some kind of punishment tour, do we think?"
"Most likely she's following Rory's itinerary." Marissa wrinkled up her nose. "You know how he can be."
"Boy do I." Stefana nodded, coming to sit beside her friend on the couch. "No sign of Luca or Clay yet?"
"Nope, none at all." Madeleine shook her head. "I guess they had to queue."
"I knew we should've called out." Stefana grimaced. "Much quicker."
"I think Luca wanted to talk to Clay away from the rest of us." Marissa settled herself more comfortably, curling up against the arm of the sofa as she did so. "He's been preoccupied - you guys must have noticed it - since the interview with Perle and all those questions about Wissex. You know how Clay is - he doesn't like to show how he's feeling, but I know he's upset that it's all spilled out how it has. He's afraid that people are going to think of him only as the son of that Earl...and not as the kickass drummer we know he is. He's worked so hard to make his own name...I think he's smarting just a little bit."
"I think he should just make the most of it." Stefana mused. "I mean, sure, we all know Clay can play drums and whatever. And it's not like this Earl Mason dude did anything for him, anyway. But it's free publicity for Diablo and everyone loves a title, even if it's the wrong side of the bedcovers. I say he should exploit it. Might as well use the connections he has."
"That's the point, though." Madeleine pursed her lips, her dark eyes becoming soft as she considered. "Clay has no connections. His father turned his mother away and has basically denied all knowledge of his existance since. What he makes of the press buzzing only he knows...but I know that if my Dad had treated my mother that way, I wouldn't like him all that much either. And I certainly wouldn't want to be dragged into the public eye over it."
"Exactly." Marissa nodded. "Mom's always said that it's better to let sleeping dogs lie, and in a sense she knows better than anyone. Grandpa left her mom when she was a baby, and she never saw him. He was some drug-crazed rock and roll singer and he died in a motorcycle smash when she was ten or eleven. The rest of the world thought him a hero and an idol cut down too soon. She hated him with a passion."
"Well, maybe that's the story the press will begin reporting next, once they're bored with Clay." Stefana shrugged. "All I'm saying is, the press are going to say what they're gonna say. He might as well use it to his advantage."
"We all have things we don't want in the press though, Stef." Madeleine said gently. "You know how you'd feel if everyone knew about your drug problems. Me, I'd die if they knew exactly what I'm being monitored for, over at the hospital. It's the same for Clay. This goes deep inside of him...we just have to try and, well, understand that."
"It's a little different." Stefana objected, a slight touch of pink touching her cheeks at Madeleine's words. "I went completely schizo and tried to total myself over...God knows what, to be quite honest. I almost killed Marissa and I turned myself into a flaming lunatic. And you..."
She paused, then,
"I get why you want to keep this whole HIV business dark. I mean, the world is full of morons, and you don't deserve that. But Clay's is different. It's just biology. It's nothing he's done or that's really even happened to him. It's just a name and while the press are interested in that name, Diablo are drumming up an even bigger sensation. I don't see the problem. He's not the overly sensitive type. I woulda thought he could deal with it."
"He can." Marissa looked troubled. "But I think it affects him more than you realise."
"I hear voices." Madeleine held up her hand before Stefana could speak. "I think they're back, so let's drop it, huh?"
"About time, too." Stefana muttered, as the door of the suite swung open to reveal the two missing band members. "We're dying of starvation in here, guys - what took you so long? You have to go to Italy to get the pizza?"
"No...Clay and I got mobbed for autographs on our way back." Luca looked rueful. "Sorry, girls. Didn't mean to take such an age."
"But we're here now." Clay added, dropping his burden down on the table. "Luca's got the drinks. I suggested beer, but since we're up early tomorrow and I know what happens when we let Stef too near the alcohol, we decided to go for cola instead."
"Hey, I resent that!" Stefana protested. "I'm no alcoholic! I can take my drink!"
"Well, I never said you were." Clay flipped open one of the pizza boxes, taking a slice and settling himself between the two girls on the sofa. "But I do remember the last time we played an early morning show after you'd been out drinking the night before...and I also remember three misplaced chords and a solo you almost forgot to play because you were hungover."
"Bah." Stefana pulled a face at him. "One time, Clayton. Now quit being a smart ass and let me at the pizza, will you? I'm starved."
"Another quiet, relaxing evening in with Diablo." Luca chuckled, taking his own slice of pizza. "We got cheese and tomato, pepperoni and cheese and ham, everyone."
"So how early do we think Sophie will call us tomorrow?" Marissa asked, as she helped herself. "Mm. I needed that. I know we're playing a television show, but are we talking the crack of dawn, or something more reasonable?"
"No idea. She didn't say and I couldn't find that on the itinerary." Luca shrugged his shoulders. "The show goes out at nine, though - so I'd guess we'll be leaving here at seven...maybe before."
"Who said that rock and roll was a fun life?" Stefana rolled her eyes, sitting back in her seat.
"It is, so long as you don't require sleep." Madeleine grinned. "Aw, come on, guys. We do all right. We're tougher than that, aren't we?"
"Well, you sure seem to be." Clay winked at her. "The rest of us - not so much."
At that moment the phone on the coffee table began to ring, and Luca reached over to scoop it up.
"Patrigan suite, Luca speaking." He said. There was a pause, then he frowned, casting a glance at Clay.
"It's for you." He said with a shrug, holding the phone out. "Something about a message at the desk...I think it's urgent."
"Urgent message? For me?" Clay frowned. "I wonder which paper wants the exclusive rights to my story this time."
He took the receiver, putting it to his ear.
"Hello? This is Clayton Blake."
"Mr Blake? I'm glad that we caught you - I know you're all very busy." The voice of the receptionist responded. "There's a message down here at the desk for you - I'm told it's urgent and of a private nature. Is it possible for you to come down and take it?"
Clay pursed his lips.
"I guess if it's like that, I haven't much choice." He acknowledged. "All right. I'll be down as soon as possible."
"Thank you, Mr Blake." The receptionist sounded relieved. "We'll see you shortly. Good bye!"
Clay set the phone down carefully in it's cradle.
"Urgent and apparently private message waiting for me downstairs." He said wryly. "Shall I start taking bets on which tabloid it is, or would that be too crass?"
"I think you should just go down and find out." Marissa told him gently. "And if it is press, well, tell them where to get off. They need to quit harassing you over this and the sooner they know that, the better."
"No arguments here." Clay shrugged his shoulders, getting to his feet. "All right, people. I'll be back as soon as is humanly possible, I promise...don't eat all the pizza without me."
With that he sauntered across the room, unlocking the door and disappearing out into the corridor. As the big wooden door clicked shut behind him, the remaining band members exchanged looks.
"Tacky idiots." Stefana snorted. "Sneaking into the hotel, now."
"Maybe." Marissa licked tomato sauce off her fingers. "But I wish they'd stop it. Maybe he can handle it, but he shouldn't have to."
"I guess that's what happens when you hit the bigtime." Luca
"It sucks, but he's a big boy and he can deal with it. He'll send them
packing with a flea in their ear and that will be that...I think it's
we let him handle these kind of things. He made it clear when we were
getting food that it wasn't something he really wanted to talk about.
have to respect that, and just let him do what he has to do."
Meanwhile Clay, for his part, had made his way slowly down the main staircase, deep in thought. It would not be, he mused, the first time that someone had trailed him for an exclusive since the story had first broken. And he knew, deep in his heart, that no matter how little he offered them in the way of encouragement, they would always be back for more.
He swung open the door to the lobby, crossing the patterned floor to the big desk that stood to one side.
"Clayton Blake." He said briskly. "I had a call...you had a message for me?"
"Yes, sir." The receptionist nodded her head. "You have a visitor...she's in the salon, waiting for you."
"A visitor?" Clay looked floored, then, "What kind of visitor?"
"She didn't want me to say, sir." The woman looked apologetic. "Thought you mightn't speak to her if that was the case. I know it's irregular, but she seemed very desperate to talk to you. She's in the salon - do you mind?"
Clay frowned. Then, at length, he shrugged his shoulders.
"The salon?" He said. "Fine. Though for future reference, I'm not big on unexpected guests. Particularly ones who don't leave their names at the desk."
He turned on his heel, heading towards the salon which, during the day time, was hired out to private parties and special events. Now it was empty, save for one slim figure by the window and, as he entered, she turned, casting him a hesitant smile. He paused, confusion in his face.
"Are you Clayton?" She asked him softly.
"Who wants to know?" Clay's eyes narrowed. "Who are you and why didn't you tell the receptionist who you were? If you're more press..."
"I'm not with the press." The woman shook her head, and, as he glanced at her, Clay realised she was telling the truth. She was simply dressed, but her attire was both elegant and clearly expensive. She was, he estimated, somewhere around thirty or thirty five, with thick waves of hair neatly combed back from her face and a delicate prettiness to her features. She was a complete stranger to him, and even the knowledge that she wasn't a reporter did nothing to assuage his confidence.
He reached out for the door handle.
"I think you better explain who you are and what you want, before I go right back upstairs." He said frankly. "I don't like being kept in the dark. Who are you?"
"I was afraid you wouldn't speak to me if you knew that." The woman looked apologetic, and she beckoned for him to join her. "My name is Grace Hawthorne."
"Hawthorne?" Clay reeled as if struck. "What the hell do you think I want to do with anyone called Hawthorne?"
"I don't know." Grace looked troubled. "And you might react even more violently when I tell you that my husband is the Earl...Mason Hawthorne, your father."
"He's not my father." He said in low tones. "He's a creature who turned his back on my mother and treated her like a whore instead of standing up and being a man. I have nothing to say to you or to him. I have nothing to do with Hawthornes." He turned to go, but her next words made him pause.
"You know, you're very like him." Grace observed, moving to sit down in one of the vacant seats. "Obstinate and headstrong - both classic Hawthorne traits. I can almost see the likeness, when I look at you like this. You're a handsome young man, Clayton. The Wissex gene suits you."
"It's a damn good thing for you that I'm not in the habit of hitting out at women." Clay snapped. "Get to the point, and be smart about it! Why are you here? What do you want with me? And how dare you say I look like that bastard? He's nothing to me and he never will be!"
"I came because of the recent stories in the press." Grace seemed unmoved by this burst of anger. "It's quite the hot gossip at the moment, you know - your connections to my husband and to our estate."
"Yes, and don't I know it." Clay muttered. "But if you're here to threaten me or tell me to shut up, you're talking to the wrong person. I've never wanted that connection in the public eye and I wasn't the one who blabbed about it, either. Some reporter in America dug it up and I've had to put up with all the stupid questions ever since. If you really want to know, I'm sick to death of it. All of it! I never wanted to be any part Hawthorne and I'd really rather I wasn't!"
"I didn't come here to threaten or to silence you." Grace shook her head.
"Did Mason send you?"
"No. Actually, I think he'd be angry if he knew I'd come." Grace looked sheepish, and despite himself, Clay paused.
"So why are you here?" He demanded. "What can you possibly want with me?"
"I only wanted to talk to you." Grace indicated the empty chair opposite. "Will you sit down? I won't keep you long. I just...knowing you were in England, I had to take my chance to meet with you. It's important to me that I do."
Clay eyed her for a moment. Then, with some reluctance, he took the proffered chair, sitting down in it heavily.
"Well?" He demanded. "I'm here. Talk."
"Mason is not a bad man, Clayton." Grace spoke softly. "He's stubborn, yes, and he grasps ideas and clings to them on occasion. You have to understand, though, that being a Hawthorne is more than having a title and an estate to go with it. He's never been fully able to relax and enjoy his position...he's never felt that it's entirely safe."
"Good." Clay said frankly. "Get to the point."
"We don't have any children." Grace said carefully. "I'm not always so well, and noone seems willing to let me risk trying, even though I'm sure I could muddle through. I always knew he had had you, and more, that in some ways he feels threatened by you. What you have to realise is that greedy men and women have fought over Wissex for many years. I suppose I've come here simply to find out what kind of a Hawthorne you are - for my own peace of mind, as much as anything else."
"I'm no kind of Hawthorne." Clay responded firmly. "I'm a Blake. So that should answer your question. I may have been born in Wissex, but I'm as Scottish as you'd like to make me. My mother's family are my family. Not yours. I haven't any interest in your husband or his paranoid delusions. I'm a musician and I make my own way. I don't need anything from him and I never have."
"It's so hard to explain without betraying family confidences." She said at length. "But I don't feel that you should remain estranged from your father. I lost mine before I had the chance to make up a final quarrel, and it sits with me still. Mason is not a tyrant or a monster. You must know that when he inherited his estate, it was in the aftermath of murder and covert plotting...even when he came of age, he narrowly avoided losing his life before claiming his inheritance. Now he is never quite sure that he, or any of us are safe. You may well be in danger yourself, now that this connection has been exposed. Since you are Mason's son..."
"Mason's problems are not mine." Clay interrupted her. Then his tone softened.
"I appreciate what you want to do, and it's not your fault I feel this way." He added, in more measured tones. "But I've never felt any kind of link with Wissex or Mason Hawthorne or anything else. I'm not interested in him or in the estate. If his life is in danger, well, that's not my problem. I'm sorry that it's yours, but I'm not surprised that there are people who want to kill him. After what he did to my mother...well, I'm sure that he must have irritated a lot of people in his life. Maybe he should look at that."
Grace's expression became sad.
"Then I can't convince you to at least come to Wissex and speak to Mason? To maybe even work something out between the two of you - some kind of truce?" She asked. "You don't know how important your existance might actually be...won't you even trust me and try?"
"You seem like a nice person, and I think you believe everything you say." Clay shook his head. "But I'm not going to shame my mother by moonlighting with my father. He made his decision when he cut us both out of his life. If he has problems now, they're not problems I share."
He offered her a slight smile.
"Goodbye, Lady Wissex. I have other things to do this evening."
Before she could respond, he got to his feet, striding across the salon and opening the door. Without a backward glance he made his way purposefully towards the lift shaft, jabbing the buttons as he waited for the car to reach him. Inwardly, his mind was whirling at the encounter, but he kept a firm hand on his composure, determined not to let anyone see how shaken he was.
"Why would his wife come and see me? Why would she tell me all those things?" He muttered, as the lift finally touched the ground floor. He stepped inside, pressing the button to go up and then leaning back against the metal panelling as the lift began to judder. "What would she have to gain by talking to me and trying to persuade me I need to speak to my father? And what did she mean, that I might be in danger, too? I've no interest in that estate and I never have had. If the old man's a paranoid nutcase, then the further away from him I stay the better for all of us."
He frowned, pursing his lips.
"So, do I tell the others?" He mused aloud. "Or do I keep this one dark? I'm still trying to figure it out for myself...maybe it's better I don't talk about it. Or not just yet. Not until I have got my head around what she said. God, I wish we'd never come to England! Lord knows this is a complication that I don't need in my life!"
* * * * * * * * *
"I can't believe how much bloody junk is in this house."
Jetta surveyed the front room of Bertie's home, a resigned look on her face. "It looks like we're gonna be 'ere a while, Justin...sortin' through all this crap for anything that's worth keeping and then gettin' rid of the rest. And I thought 'is affairs were supposed to be in order...some order."
"His lawyer seemed to think that everything would be straight forward in terms of settlement." Justin remarked, glancing around him. "And I doubt we can take much to Cali with us, anyway. I thought there wasn't much you'd want to keep...am I wrong?"
"I just want to see if there's anything of my Grandpa's, really." Jetta admitted. "The saxophone was the one thing I really was bothered about, an' I already took that back 'ome with me. But there might be some stuff in among the junk. I'm not sure what, exactly. Only that I guess I'll know it when I see it."
"Well, then we'd better get started." Justin looked rueful. "I wish Laura was here with us, today, and not at young Stephanie's recital. The more hands the better."
"Yeah, but this isn't exactly 'er problem." Jetta said matter-of-factly. "All right. I think the best thing to do would be for you to scour through downstairs, see if there's anything worth lookin' at twice. Bin anythin' you think is junk, unless it's somethin' like a letter or anythin' that might mean somethin'. Oh, an' he probably 'as a bunch of meds still in the kitchen cupboard that need bagging up and takin' back to the pharmacy - he always kept that kind of stuff there. I'm going to go upstairs and take apart 'is room. If you 'ave doubts about anything, give me a yell...okay?"
"All right." Justin nodded his head. "And I will do so. I don't want to chuck out any family heirlooms."
"I doubt there are any." Jetta said dryly, beginning to mount the stairs two at a time. "I guess we'll break for lunch at around one - by then we'll probably both need it!"
She made her way up the steps, padding along the landing and pushing open the door of the room Bertie had once slept in. A strange sense of emptiness washed over her as she glanced around the starkly decorated chamber. There were few pictures and the wallpaper was peeling at the edges. An old oak wardrobe in the corner had seen better days and the bed was sagging in several areas, indicating where springs had long since given up the ghost. Faded curtains fluttered at the window, and she felt a pang of guilt.
"I left him to this." She muttered. "Did he deserve that? God, what's got into me? He's dead now. He don't care where he's sleepin' no more. I'm here and I have a job to do, dammit. Sooner I do it, sooner I can go home...and it doesn't look like there's much to be fussed over in this room, neither. That's all to the good."
She made her way over to the dresser, glancing at it's sparse contents with a frown. A drinks mat, a dog-eared book and an outdated copy of the Racing Post lay across it's top and, as she scooped them up, something fell to the floor with a clatter. Bending to pick it up, she bit her lip. It was a photograph that she had seen many times as a young girl - a picture of the family that had once hung in her grandfather's front room.
"Who woulda thought you'd have taken it and kept it, huh, Dad?" She murmured, picking it up and putting it on the bed as she cleared the rest of the rubbish from the unit. "I never saw it after he died, but that woman said you was confused. Maybe you thought we were all here with you, if you 'ad the damn thing out. Though you'd 'ave 'ad to 'ave been very lonely, to do that. Desperate, even."
She picked her way across the threadbare carpet to the wardrobe, pulling open the doors and coughing as a cloud of dust enveloped her.
"Someone's not opened this in a while." She remarked, then, "Here, wait a minute. Where are all your friggin' clothes? Don't say that woman sent them off to charity already...but wait, no, she can't have. Not till we've been through. So where did you keep them, then? What was wrong with the wardrobe? Was the door stuck? Doesn't look like it's been opened in ages."
She got down on her knees, pushing piles of old magazines and newspapers to one side as she hunted around for anything of any value. Her hand closed around an old shawl and, pulling it out, she realised she recognised it as one of her mother's.
"So you kept a memento of her in here." She realised. "Oh, is that what this is? Is that why you didn't keep your clothes in this wardrobe? It's some kind of shrine to Ma or something? I don't know if I should be creeped out or touched by that. What other junk did you keep down 'ere, huh? More of her clothes? Jewellery?"
She dug around again, pushing through the piles of rubbish till her fingers touched the smooth surface of a book. Curious, she grasped at it, pulling it out with some difficulty and sending up another cloud of dust. She coughed violently, dropping it down onto the floor as she got her breath, wafting as much of the dust away as she could manage and hurrying to open the window.
"Geez, someone needed to do some spring cleaning!" She exclaimed, then, "Hey...that's a photo album. I didn't know that there were any photos...not that weren't on the shelf downstairs. Most of them were from Gramps' archive...I haven't seen this one before."
She bent to pick it up, sitting on the bed as she ran her fingers over the faded covers. The book was old, she realised that...and delicately decorated with silver and gold edging. A word was printed across the front, but time had concealed it and she was unable to make it out.
Carefully she flipped it open, aware that any sudden movement might send up another flurry of dust. A bevy of strangers stared back at her, and she frowned, running her finger along the edge of the page.
"I don't know any of these people." She murmured. "But this doesn't look like one of Gramps' books. And they don't look like the sort of people Dad woulda been mixing with, neither."
She turned over a page or two, pausing as she recognised her grandfather and grandmother. A smile touched her lips.
"This is old." She decided. "Maybe even before I was born. No wonder I don't recognise hardly anyone in here. No doubt it got shoved away up here because there wasn't any space downstairs."
She turned another page, then stopped as she took in the top picture on the next sheet. It was of a man and a woman, one of whom she recognised as the man she had grown up calling father, and the other whose features were hauntingly familiar. Beneath the photograph was written, 'Patricia and Albert, Wissex Downs, 1960', and she ran her fingers over the words, pursing her lips.
"My real mother." She murmured. "God, no wonder Dad said I looked like 'er. I can see it a mile off...no doubt at all. Is that why this book has been tucked away like this? Because she's in it? I never saw a single photo of Patrica when I was a kid...is this why? Was it that painful for Gramps to remember that 'e made sure everything was tucked away an' out of sight? I wonder. It would explain a whole bleedin' lot."
She turned over more pages, observing gaps here and there where photographs had either been removed or had fallen out. As she reached the end, however, she let out a gasp of surprise. Clustered over the pages were a handful of baby images, none of which she had ever seen before. Glancing at the date at the top of the page, she swallowed hard, her throat becoming dry as she registered the words beneath many of the pictures.
"Sheila Rose, 6lbs 6 oz - one day old. Sheila Rose, age one week. Sheila Rose - Christening. Sheila Rose and Charlie..."
She trailed off.
"Oh my God...that's me. But I haven't seen these before...and God knows Grandpa had a lot of baby photos of me and of Jeremy. But geez...I was baptised? And...who are all these people? That's Grandpa, but...where was this taken?"
She turned over the final page, and a curse escaped her lips. There was only one photo here, of a man, a woman, a small boy of about three or four and a baby girl, aged approximately nine months. In clear concise handwriting beneath the photograph, someone had written,
'Patricia and Jeremy, with Jeremy jr and Sheila Rose - Sheila Rose's first Christmas.'
"Justin!" She let out a yell, pushing the book away from her and onto the worn bedspread as realisation sank in. "Justin, get up here now!"
There was a clatter of feet on the stairs and Justin pushed open the bedroom door, concern on his face.
"What's up?" He asked. "You sounded frightened - did something happen?"
"I don't know." Jetta spoke numbly. "Come 'ere a minute. Take a look at this. I found it in the bottom of 'is wardrobe. Justin, I think that's me. An'...an' if it is, then..."
"Then that's your real mother and father."
Justin came to stand beside her, glancing down at the picture with growing comprehension. "No wonder you freaked out. I didn't realise your Dad had kept pictures of that stuff."
"Me neither." Jetta bit her lip. "But Justin, I know that's Dad's sister. I know that's Patricia - my real mother." She pointed. "I found another picture of 'er an' Dad told me we looked alike. I can see it...so it must be true. An' if that's my brother Jeremy...it means...that guy is my real father. The guy I know nothin' about...except that 'e was of wealthy stock an' that 'e fell for a Burns girl."
"Looks like your brother was named after his Dad." Justin mused, sitting down on the bed and slipping an arm around her shoulders. "Talk about a blast from the past. And you're right, you know. You do look like her a whole lot."
He glanced at her. "Are you taking this with you back to Laura's?"
"I am, when I'm done going through his junk." Jetta nodded. "I'm not sure how bothered I am about my real family, Justin. But at least it's nice to have a photograph."
She looked rueful.
"According to this, I was baptised." She added, flicking back the pages and pointing. "Look at me, dressed up in a white frilly gown an' lookin' just about as ticked off as I could be. Ain't it ironic?"
"More than a little, but you're cute." Justin laughed. "And even then you were obviously a little madam...big eyes staring out at the world deciding what she could get from it. Yes, that's definitely you, Jetta. I can see it already."
"Git." Jetta punched him on the arm playfully. "Oh, but it is weird. Dad never told me anything about my real father except he was rich and in the navy. Now I know what he looked like and his name too."
"It's not too late to dig into it and find out who he was, you know." Justin suggested. Jetta shook her head.
"For now I've other things to do." She replied. "But I'll take the album back with me to Laura's house and we'll discuss it later. There are some photos missing, anyway...maybe they're in with all this rubbish. And we've got a house to get cleared out...so..."
"So back to work." Justin got to his feet, nodding. "All right. But
the option is still there, you know - so keep it in mind, okay?"
Prologue: London, England
Chapter One: England's Rose
Chapter Two: Delving
Chapter Three: Wissex
Chapter Four: Grace
Chapter Five: Revelations
Chapter Six: Facing Shadows
Chapter Seven: A Change In Plans
Chapter Eight: County Show
Chapter Nine: Trevor Hawthorne
Chapter Ten: A Sea Chest
Chapter Eleven: Binding
Chapter Twelve: Homecoming
Chapter Thirteen: Hawthorne Blood
Chapter Fourteen: Mayfair
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All events in the stories on this site are based on original ideas and are not rooted in any existing Jem fiction nor in any real life event or person.