I
broke off my journal entry last night somewhat abruptly, for I was suddenly
struck by the realization of a practical matter in preparation for tomorrow’s (now today’s) sad event, a matter that presents something of a daunting
challenge. I
hope the reader will not judge me harshly for dwelling as I have on the more
practical aspects of the sad day before us.
One is not insensible to the distressing nature of the occasion. Nevertheless, one has a job to do. There is, as I have already explained, a strong wish to give
one’s best in tribute to Miss Stephanie.
I have often found too that there is comfort in times of great strife in
the doing of ordinary tasks.
It
is now early morning, I should explain before I go further.
Miss Stephanie’s memorial is to begin at eleven thirty.
I have arisen far earlier than is my habit, for I shall have to prepare
breakfast for Master Bruce and Miss Selina, see to the acquisition of certain
supplies for the day’s menus, and double-check that arrangements are as they
should be for the service proper in the portrait gallery before guests begin
arriving at eleven.
It
is that second matter, the foodstuffs for the buffet following the service,
which have presented me with something of a dilemma.
I
should explain.
Before
retiring to my room last night, I prepared the day’s menus as usual to present
Miss Selina for her approval. I
naturally labored over the proposed menu for the buffet.
The guest list for this sad occasion is more than usually varied:
it includes not only those of unknown alien biology, but of diverse walks
of life. I looked for guidance to
the Queen’s own mandates for her “Meet the People” lunches:
appetizing and tasty foods but nothing too exotic.
I am therefore proposing, and expect Miss Selina will approve, a
selection of tea sandwiches, cold cutlets, small pastry cups filled with
hard-boiled eggs and lobster meat, chicken in aspic, scones and Scottish
shortbread. These last two, I need hardly add, are in acknowledgment of
Miss Stephanie’s Scottish heritage, which she was always so keen to share with
any who took an interest.
I
had completed this menu before retiring to my room.
It was only after I had done so and began writing in my journal that I
realized I had absolutely no way to obtain the ingredients for this or any other
menu.
In
the normal course of domestic service, it is common knowledge when a household
in the neighborhood undergoes one of the ceremonies of life.
When the manor hosted Master Dick’s wedding to Ms. Barbara, for example,
Mr. Harriman of Harriman’s Gourmet Pantry sent over a tray of bagels and
croissants so I wouldn’t have to worry about making breakfast for the
household in the midst of so many other preparations.
Similarly, when our neighbor Ingrid Winthrop perished in a
Firefly-related explosion three years ago, I myself went to Harriman’s to do
the shopping for their cook, Mrs. Babbitt, in order to relieve her of this
time-consuming chore. Any
cook of worth, it should be understood, goes to the market personally and
selects their ingredients with their own hand, so it was an honour that Mrs. Babbitt permitted me to assist her in that way.
The endeavor also enabled Master Tim to infiltrate the Winthrop home
disguised as a delivery boy, and there he obtained a valuable lead resulting in
the capture of Garfield Lynns, the Firefly.
That aspect was most gratifying as well.
The
difficulty in this case, which I had not foreseen, was that no one should know
Wayne Manor was hosting a funeral. If
I go to Harriman’s two days before my usual marketing day, this deviation will
surely pique the interest of Monsieur Anatole.
Monsieur Anatole, the Finn’s chef de cuisine from next door, is
a Frenchman of more than usual arrogance. The
unseemly interest he takes in my purchases at Harriman’s and his presumptuous
use of that intelligence to ferret out my menus is an ongoing nuisance.
My
personal irritation with this man is, I must emphasize, a minor point only.
The security of Master Bruce’s secret (and those of his guests) is the
prime concern. I must somehow
obtain provisions to feed some sixteen guests in a manner befitting the
occasion. I cannot let this
insolent frog compromise the preparations for Miss Stephanie’s memorial.
I
confess I was so confounded by the predicament that I left my room and confided
it to Miss Selina. Her offer to
burgle Harriman’s on my behalf, obtaining whatever ingredients I wished (and
leaving a suitable quantity of cash in payment, of course), did not, I am sorry
to say, seem an ideal solution. She
quickly pointed out that Oracle, Aquaman, Nightwing, James Gordon, and even
Master Bruce have all availed themselves of her services at various times, and I
was obliged to explain that my objections were not ethical so much as practical.
The cutlets must be selected while Mr. Harriman is on hand to assist, and
as for the lobster…
In
any case, I told her that, regrettably, the ingredients I required could only be
obtained while the store was open for business. She looked so disappointed at
being unable to assist me that I acquiesced to her second suggestion, although I
am far from certain of its viability.
But
I cannot take the time to worry about it now.
The sun is up, and I really must see to my duties.
The
day is over.
The
weather was exceptionally fine.
This
appears to have struck Master Dick as a cruel trick of nature, that the day
should be so beautiful when they had gathered for such a solemn purpose.
Of
course, his wedding, also held here at the manor, was equally favoured with
splendid weather. One supposes the
poor lad cannot help but make the comparison.
For
myself, I believe notable weather, good or bad, is more of a blessing on these
occasions than the young ones comprehend.
It gives them something to talk about.
For all the fantastic exploits these young people undertake, they are
woefully but somewhat touchingly inept when faced with the ceremonies of life.
In
any case, the day began early, as the reader is already aware.
Master Bruce and Miss Selina were unexpectedly accommodating in terms of
breakfast. They were both up and
about before I was. That meant no
tray to prepare, no bath to draw or clothes to lay out for Master Bruce, and no
breakfast in the dining room.
I
learned of this unexpected boon as I left my room and detected music and the
rhythmic squeak of exercise equipment coming from Miss Selina’s suite. I ventured in to see what she would require in the way of
refreshment, and it was then that she informed me that Master Bruce had also
arisen and was, as one might have predicted, already in the cave.
“He
figures he can get in about three hours on the, the Brown case,” she told me,
“and still have plenty of time to change before anybody gets here.”
The
Brown case was, of course, Miss Stephanie’s murder.
You may well imagine the vehemence of the master’s resolve in this
matter. A small portion of the
cave, a sort of locker room adjacent to the shower, had been turned into a
temporary store room for several filing cabinets and tumbling mats, while the
space these objects had occupied in the main cavern was reclaimed in order to
organize and study all forensic evidence related to the Brown case.
We
all shared, it need hardly be said, the master’s wish to see this heinous
crime solved and the perpetrator brought swiftly to justice.
But I believe this collective desire to see justice done is amplified, in
Master Bruce’s case, by a wish to resolve the matter before Master Tim could
become involved in its conclusion. After
the tragic loss of Master Jason, no one is more aware than Master Bruce of the
particular danger—it is not too strong a word—the danger to
crimefighters stricken with a loss of this kind. Armed as they are with great arsenals of weaponry, developed
as they are into peak physical condition, schooled as they are in terrible
fighting arts, the danger is very great indeed. I know, because he has told me, that Master Bruce wrestled
with the question of ending the Joker’s vile existence after Master Jason’s
brutal slaying. I know too that he
is plagued on occasion with doubts as to the wisdom of his decision to leave
that heinous clown alive. As
much as Batman wants to find and punish Miss Stephanie’s killer, there is no
question in my mind that Master Bruce’s greater goal is to spare Master
Timothy that decision and those doubts.
In
any case, I left Miss Selina to her exercise and proceeded down the hall to the
portrait gallery. This wide hallway
atop the main staircase overlooks the Great Hall and was therefore thought to be
the most suitable location for the memorial.
The gallery is elegant but austere, making it ideal in terms of tone.
And there were no furnishings to remove, only the Wayne family portraits.
This
task Miss Selina completed last night instead of going out for “her prowl,”
and it was for that reason I was able to approach her about my difficulty
regarding Monsieur Anatole. I found
her hard at it, having relocated about half the portraits by then to the unused
north drawing room and bringing from there a number of small gilt chairs for the
guests to seat themselves.
She
undertook this chore, I need hardly add, over my strong objection. Miss Selina is (although one refrains from telling her so to
her face) the mistress of the manor. It
is simply not appropriate for her to be troubling herself with such
menial tasks as taking pictures off the wall.
While I would not dream of uttering the words “mistress of the manor”
or even “lady of the house” to emphasize my point, I did endeavor to
dissuade her once again from a chore that was so inappropriate to her position.
The
reader will appreciate that this was the close of a long and trying day. I had
enjoyed not a moment’s rest since the arrival of the tragic news about Miss
Stephanie. I had cancelled Master
Bruce’s appointments, managed the ever-swelling guest list from the various
heroes prodded by Mr. Kent to pay their respects, I consoled Miss Selina and
Master Bruce as well as I was able, I had an unexpected dinner guest invade my
kitchen for a chat, I devised a menu for persons of unknown meta-human and alien
metabolisms, and then, just as I had begun to unwind, I was struck with the
not-inconsiderable dilemma presented by Monsieur Anatole.
So perhaps I can be excused if, in the course of expressing my thought to
Miss Selina, I had not fully considered that my words were delivered to Catwoman
as well.
She
winked at me in what can only be described as an elfish manner before remarking:
“Alfred,
please, taking art off the walls is what I do.
And ‘inappropriate’ has never stopped me before.”
There
followed a grin of such naughtily impish amusement that one was forced, quite
simply, to withdraw from the conversation.
I
nevertheless returned to the portrait gallery this morning, immediately on
leaving Miss Selina in her suite, that I might inspect the results of her
efforts arranging the gallery. Those
efforts—inappropriate as they most certainly were for the lady of the house
to undertake—were carried out with undeniable sensibility and taste. The portraits were all removed, and only a single painting, a
rather inspiring sunrise, now hung on the wall facing the rows of gilt chairs.
Two urn stands stood on either side with a simple spray of flowers
displayed on each. Satisfied
with this arrangement, I proceeded downstairs to the kitchen to see about the
food shopping.

Mr. Kent has, of course, never hesitated to give assistance whenever it was sought,
but that did not make the asking any easier. He
was planning to come into Gotham anyway for the memorial. He assured me that coming a few hours earlier would be no
inconvenience. He said making the
necessary purchases from Harriman’s on my behalf would be no trouble at all.
And he himself pointed out (with some amusement) that his means of
delivery was more than discreet.
While
I was grateful, to be sure, for his gracious generosity in helping me obtain the
ingredients I required, I was and am appalled by the trouble Mr. Kent did wind
up taking.
Not
twenty minutes had passed since I had hung up the telephone informing him of the
situation, than there was a quiet knock at the kitchen door.
I opened it, expecting to see Clark Kent holding three or four bags of
provisions from Harriman’s. Instead,
I was confronted with the visage of Superman holding an enormous Maine lobster
still in its trap, a basket of fragrantly fresh vegetables, and another basket
covered with a plaid napkin that smelled of fresh baked goods.
I
admitted him at once, of course, and he began explaining, almost apologetically,
that he had made some alterations in my grocery list because he simply could not
stomach the prices at Harriman’s.
“I
know Bruce can afford it, Alfred, but I just couldn’t do it.
$65 for a lobster, it’s not right.
Especially when the guys on the Rusty Puppet told me that any time I
wanted fresh lobster, I should just swing on by. They were pretty grateful after
I pulled them out of that Noreaster last season.”
I
hastened to assure him that it was the finest specimen of lobster I had ever
seen, but I feared he went to such trouble on my account.
He waved off this concern with a boyish grin.
“What
trouble? And while I was out, I figured I’d stop home for the veggies.
They’re fresher off the vine anyhow.”
By
now, I was peering into the third basket, which I saw contained shortbread and
scones that still steamed with the most delectable aromas.
This prompted Superman to demur:
“I
was just passing over a bakery in Aberdeen when I smelled that.
Figured it would save you the bother of making it from scratch.”
“I
see, sir,” I noted. And I admit I
allowed an eyebrow to lift a trifle at this blatant lie.
“In your travels between Gotham, New England, and a farm in Smallville,
you flew over Scotland.”
“Wind
currents,” he said with a wink reminiscent of that which Miss Selina had
teased me the previous night.
I
was prepared to drop the matter and thank him when the intercom interrupted.
::
May as well send him down, Alfred. Since
he’s here. ::
Superman
glanced at the mechanism from whence Master Bruce’s voice had been heard. Then
he looked to me with a more direct gaze than he had made in our conversation
thus far. He broke this after a
moment and shook his head. He may
have muttered something to the effect of “I knew it,” but it would have been
tactless of me to note his actual words.
I
was naturally aware of devices in the cave that would detect Kryptonian entry
into Wayne Manor’s airspace. I
had seen no need to inform Master Bruce of my visitor, the matter being a
private one related only to my own domestic concerns.
It was a given that he would know Superman was present in the house, and
if he wished to see him he would say so—as he had done.
Since
we were already in the kitchen, I sent Superman down to the cave by way of my
pantry elevator. I had not
yet seen Master Bruce, you may recall, so rather than escort our guest
personally, I endeavored to prepare coffee and a plate of danish before
descending myself. When I brought
these, the gentlemen were already engaged in heated conversation.
“Let
him go with you, Bruce,” Superman was saying, “He needs it. He’s going to do
it anyway! You might as well watch
over him and make sure he doesn’t go too far. Psychologically, Tim needs that
closure. Rather than forcefully
denying him, let him do it, but be with him the whole time—”
I
had, at this point, set down my tray and had just begun to pour as Master Bruce
said “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” while Superman rolled
right over him with the words “Why do you think I was there to help you get
Joker after he killed Jason?”
A
most embarrassing silence followed, made all the more embarrassing by my
inability to remove myself from the vicinity with the speed tactful prudence
required. The act of pouring hot
liquid simply takes a fixed amount of time to complete.
However quickly one may wish to right one’s coffeepot and be gone,
there is a limit to the swiftness with which this can be accomplished.
It may be only a second, but it is long enough that one’s continued
presence is noted. And once noted,
to depart prematurely, leaving one’s employer with a half-filled cup and his
guest with none at all, would only draw attention to the awkward nature of the
hiatus. I therefore took my time
(since I had no choice), pouring the coffee while the gentlemen continued to
stare at each other in an atmosphere of studied agitation.
I left Master Bruce’s coffee at his side and poured another for
Superman. This gave me an
opportunity to break the continuing silence with an inquiry unrelated to the
gentlemen’s conversation.
“Cream
or sugar, sir?”
“Eh?
Yes. Both.
Please,” was Superman’s somewhat halted reply.
I
made these additions to the mug and held it out for him.
I then offered the danish, first to him and then to Master Bruce.
It may seem at this stage that I was delaying my departure unnecessarily,
and in fact that was my intent. There
is, as I observed earlier, a comfort to be found in the ordinary.
Once the gentlemen were forced to disrupt their standoff and engage in
the mundane business of accepting a cup of coffee, the tension between them
eased. I was determined to prolong
this state as long as possible, without making my efforts conspicuous.
“Will
there be anything else, sir?” I asked when I could invent no further reason to
remain.
“No
thank you, Alfred; that will be all.”
“Yes,
thank you very much, Alfred,” Superman echoed.
“The danish was very good.”
I
gave a polite nod and departed. I
was gratified to note that, while neither man spoke until the elevator door shut
after me, it was no longer a strained silence of some tacit ultimatum.
They were now united in a conspiracy of polite pretense for my benefit—not unlike that Masters Dick and Tim engage in when they have been comparing
the charms of Catwoman and Poison Ivy and think I am unaware.

The
guests arrived. The service
proceeded. The buffet was eaten.
I
am negligent in not saying more of the service itself.
I should reproduce the passages Master Bruce read to open the
proceedings. I should faithfully
relate Master Tim’s recollections of Miss Stephanie’s first appearance as
Spoiler: how she undertook her guise to “spoil” the efforts of her father,
Arthur Brown, the criminal known as The Cluemaster. How, as Robin, he had chased her
down on that first occasion and unmasked her, and how his surprise was so great
at discovering a comely female face beneath her disguise that she was able to
escape his grasp. I should
describe his face as he remembered how proud he was introducing her to Batman as
a prospective ally. I should recount Conner Kent’s anecdote of her first
time fighting alongside Young Justice.
I
am certainly remiss in not saying more of young Cissie King-Jones, once called
Arrowette before she left the crimefighting life to become a member of the U.S. Olympic team. This slim, frail
creature, who seemed so unsure as she left her seat to stand before the assembly
and speak a few words, who at first spoke so softly and so haltingly, came to
reveal a startling and intimate friendship with Miss Stephanie which none of their
teammates knew of. Miss Stephanie
had confided in her about many personal matters:
a baby given up for adoption and her subsequent pangs about that
sacrifice, her mother’s reckless use of prescription painkillers, and, of
course, the romantic tribulations common to all young girls.
I
should, as I say, relate all these and more in great detail.
The truth is I cannot, for I was only half listening.
When one has progressed so far in life, one cannot help but be reminded… that is to say, one has been present at too many ceremonies of this kind in
one’s life. It is no slight to
Miss Stephanie when I say I spent much of those hours recalling the too-small
circle gathered years before to bury Master Jason, the motley assembly of circus
folk at the funeral of John and Mary Grayson, the vast cross-section of
professional, business, and social circles who mourned Dr. and Mrs. Wayne… and
an equally diverse assemblage years before who paid respect at the grave of
my father, Samuel Pennyworth.
I
am therefore unable to dwell as I should on the details of the formal
observances this afternoon. I can
only report as I have done: The
guests arrived. The service
proceeded. The buffet was eaten.
Three
persons sought me out for private conversation in the course of the afternoon.
The first was a Mr. Bart Allen, a young person of somewhat anxious
disposition, although undoubtedly a dedicated hero.
I had noted him hanging about the back of the rooms, an area where I
prefer to station myself in order to observe the guests unobtrusively.
He was standing alone, with his hands behind his back much of the time,
flexing his shoulders in a fretful, fidgety manner.
Periodically, he would twist from side to side in the most curious
fashion, and, on one of these occasions, I noticed that he held two fingers tightly
in his right fist and would yank them in the most bizarre spasms of twitchy
energy.
I
approached this young gentleman, as you might expect, to see if I could offer
any assistance for his comfort.
“You
said your name is Pennyworth?” he asked me, for of course I had so identified
myself when I admitted the guests previously unknown to me.
“And you’re the butler?”
I
confirmed my name and function and repeated my offer to assist.
He replied with the most astonishing outburst:
“I
don’t know what to do,” he began in a hurried, hushed tone.
“I don’t know what to do; I don’t know what to say—to Tim, to
Bruce, to anybody.”
“That
is perfectly normal,” I assured him. “Nobody
truly knows what to say on these occasions.
All that is required is that you make this effort to show support to your
friends and comrades.”
“No,
I don’t think you understand, Pennydude.
This isn’t like everybody doesn’t know what to say; I really
don’t know what to say—or do. I’m
not from here. I’m from—I was
never taught to do this. I was
raised by a virtual reality machine. I
don’t get the whole how you’re supposed to—”
“Piffle,”
I told him—somewhat curtly, perhaps, but I confess I have limited patience
with that particular type of excuse. “All
living souls are mystified and humbled at events of this kind, young man, and
that confusion is in no way particular to those possessing whatever super
powered piffle you were about to relate.
The ceremonies of life, if I may so phrase it, bring us together at such
times despite our differences, because at such times the
differences become irrelevant.”
“See,
I’m from the 30th century—” he tried to interrupt.
“Because,”
I repeated more sternly, “Such differences become irrelevant.
We are all in the same boat: mourning
the loss of a fallen comrade and offering what support we can to an aggrieved
friend.”
I
paused, only to see if he would again attempt to voice his excuse.
When he did not, I continued. “You
will find your unease greatly lessened, young sir, if you find something to do
with your hands. I would suggest walking to the buffet, picking up a plate, and
placing a sandwich upon it.”
I
was pleased with the result of this conversation, for young Mr. Allen most
certainly made an effort to meet his social obligation for the remainder of the
afternoon. I was unaware I had made
any impression beyond that until later, when most of the guests had left.
I was clearing plates from the buffet when Mr. Kent followed me back to
the kitchen.
“That
was nice work with Bart, Alfred. He
told Conner you were ‘more bat-dude than the bat-dude.’”
“A
gratifying comparison to be sure, sir, although one cannot imagine in what
context one might possibly…”
“He
tried sneaking up on Batman once. He
was always doing things like that in the early days when he was Impulse.
He had a big magnifying glass with him, which caught a reflection off the
moon, which Bruce noticed. He ran
off—the wrong way—and Bruce noted the draft in a direction the wind wasn’t
blowing. And then there was the
smell—novice speedsters sometimes leak a little energy outside the
SpeedForce they create, ionizing some of the air when they come to a stop.
You
don’t need my senses to detect the smell of ozone.”
There
was a brief hiatus at this point, as I had noticed Mr. Kent’s glance fall
twice on a plate of sandwiches. I
moved it towards him, and he took one as he continued.
“So
anyway, Bruce calls him on all of that without turning around.
Says he knows it’s a speedster back there, but it can’t be Flash
because Flash would never insult his intelligence trying to sneak up behind him.
So it must be the young protégé, Impulse, either studying him or
planning some ill-advised prank. And
whichever it is, it doesn’t matter; all that matters is that he be gone by the
time Bruce turned around. He
was.”
Mr. Kent chuckled in an easy, knowing way. His
story in no way explained why I might be termed “more bat-dude than the
bat-dude,” but I would not dream of embarrassing Mr. Kent by noticing the
omission. Instead, I offered him one
of the remaining cutlets.
“I
see, sir,” I remarked, handing him the dish, “That is indeed most
amusing.”
“It
is, isn’t it? It’d be awfully
nice if Bruce could see that side of things.”
He took one of the cutlets onto his plate, then his tone changed
abruptly. “Alfred, I wanted to
apologize for that, that awkwardness in the cave earlier.
That must have been very difficult for you.”
“Not
at all, sir.”
“I
don’t know what got into me mentioning Jason that way.
I guess I had some idea of being a shoulder, a helping hand, something
like that—”
“I
understand fully, sir. That desire
to assist in whatever way one is able is, after all, the definition of a
servant’s role.”
He
seemed truly troubled by this and began poking at the cutlet as young Master
Dick used to prod an unwanted vegetable.
“I
can’t understand that,” he said finally. “I just can’t, Alfred. I always
think of you as more of a father figure around here.”
“If
I may, sir,” I said, relieving him of the fork and cutlet, and presenting him
with a fresh plate and a slice of shortbread.
“I submit that you are, perhaps, simply uncomfortable with the notion
of domestic service—although I assure you it is a most dignified vocation—and
in your discomfort, you perhaps seek to modify my role into something more
familiar.”
He
looked truly startled by this, and sensing I had put forth an idea which had not
occurred to him, I felt encouraged to continue.
“Parenting
instincts come into play, certainly, whenever one in a position of caring for a
young person. But it is folly to
confuse one of the village that helps raise a child with being the actual
parent. Master Bruce had a father,
and it would be presumptuous indeed to—”
I
broke off because Mr. Kent had turned his head towards the kitchen door, and I
saw now that it was not my discourse but something he overheard elsewhere in the
house which had produced the startled look and which now claimed his full
attention. He closed his eyes and
shook his head as a wide, disbelieving grin spread over his features.
“They
really are perfect for each other,” he told me, then jolted upright a few
seconds before the kitchen door swung open and Miss Selina marched in.
“I’m
going to need a martini, a massage, and a mallet,” she announced.
Mr. Kent’s eyes met mine and he mouthed the word “Bruce”—although super
hearing was hardly necessary to guess the source of Miss Selina’s agitation.
Mr. Kent soon departed the kitchen, saying he wanted a word with Master Tim before
he left. One gathers that the
meeting did not proceed as he might have wished.
Indeed, while I know few of the particulars, I am left with the
impression that Master Tim exchanged frank words with Mr. Kent, Miss Selina, Ms. Barbara, Ms. Lance, and Mr. Valley.
It
was Mr. Valley who alerted me to the situation.
He had, it appears, sought out Master Tim for a few private words of
condolence and been rebuffed in terms less than courteous.
I hastened to remind him of the boy’s misery and he assured me that he
fully understood. He had not, in fact, come to speak to me about Master Tim at
all.
“It’s
Cassie,” he told me quietly. “In
all the concern for Tim, I don’t think anybody’s really noticed her. She’s so quiet anyway.
She’s really torn up, poor kid.”
I
had, of course, noticed that Miss Cassie displayed none of her usual hearty
appetite, and I naturally attributed this to the sad business of the day.
I had not, I regret to say, thought to inquire further as Mr. Valley had.
“That
bastard David Cain raised her to be an assassin, Alfred; an assassin and nothing
else. He brought her up to have no
emotional attachments at all. Death
is the way of the warrior, theirs or yours, it’s all the same thing.
Even the Order of St. Dumas wasn’t that bad.
I mean, I was born, bred and programmed to be Azrael—but they
still taught me to talk. But
what Cain did to that little girl…”
There
was a short interruption as I handed Mr. Valley a glass of milk. I had noticed he was clenching his fist in a troubling manner
as he began speaking of the Order of St. Dumas, and I poured this refreshment so
I might offer him one of those touches of normalcy that are so reassuring when
one is distraught.
“Anyway,”
he resumed while I offered a plate of scones, “She was brought up to have no
emotional ties, but she jettisoned all that with the rest of Cain’s teachings
when she became Batgirl. She joined
the human race—she found a family, she made a friend.
Now look what’s happened.”
“You
fear, sir, that she might reject the principles of ‘joining the human race’
and resume her former… outlook?”
“Yeah.
I think she might do just that, Alfred.
I don’t know how she’s come this far, to tell you the truth.
The guilt, looking back on the things you did—I know what it’s like
for me. I can’t fathom how that
little girl can possibly… Some
days, it just tears you up, knowing what you’ve done to people.
And now we add grief to the mix. Yeah,
I think she might give up on the whole idea of human feelings…” He paused
then, as if considering his own words before adding,
“…I’m tempted myself.”
“Then
I dare say, sir, that you might be best-equipped to speak to the young woman.”
“What!
Me? No! Alfred, I can’t do that.
I can’t talk to people about stuff like this.
I can’t talk to women at all half the time, and I sure can’t come off
all ‘older and wiser than you are, young lady.’
You’ve got to do that!”
I
was not swayed by this appeal. I
ventured to point out that Mr. Valley and I had been conversing on this subject
for several minutes, so he was most certainly able to “talk to people about
stuff like this.” I suggested
that our position in the kitchen had put him at greater ease, and recommended he
bring Miss Cassie for a glass of milk and a plate of food.
He consented.
Unfortunately,
my duties obliged me to leave the kitchen just then to tend to the remaining
party in the drawing room. But I trust that Mr. Valley and Miss Cassie had a
very productive talk. The remainder
of the cutlets and scones were gone when I returned, along with a jug of milk
and half a sponge cake.

To be continued…
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