Really, this should have happened earlier. Wouldn't it have been nice, for Nick to be able to say, this is my poor, sweet wife; this is when she broke from reality. Please, save her from herself. Still the perfect husband, still the all-American everyman, still able to wrench the image of the "good guy" back out of the hands of a public that had been willing to hang him out to dry just minutes before.

Would I have been a doll to parade out in front of the cameras, slack-jawed and empty-eyed? Deliberately touched up to look untouched, plain-faced enough to elicit awws of sympathy for the woman who's been through so much, but not so pretty that anyone would feel threatened, feel like this was a show, when of course that's all it would be.

But I think I'd come up with something better than an escape to the English countryside for my mental break, something more than watching the last dregs of a monarchy no American has given any serious thought to since the death of Princess Di swirl around the drain, as accompanied by a seemingly endless parade of characters spit out of half-formed fairy tales. Which leaves me with the question: what really is going on?

[ Amy (obligingly, she thinks) wears the dress she finds stowed away in the closet of the room she wakes up in. (She can't think of it as her room just yet, not really.) The sharp lines of her bob serve as a contrast to the soft, flowing lines of her clothes, but it's not a juxtaposition she really minds — it makes her stand out to a degree, which seems like the more important thing.

For most of the day, she's just one more body in the crowd, smiling and laughing at the requests of the vendors and coming away with a few trinkets here and there for her trouble, though there's nothing of real value here, as far as she can tell. But eventually, she makes her way to observe the wrestling matches. At first, her eyes widen when she realizes what's going on, glancing around to see if any of her fellow spectators are as shocked as she is.

Upon locking eyes with one, the look on her face skews innocent, doe-eyed, as she says, ] Wanna wrestle?

[ Then, after waiting just long enough to get a look of surprise (or not), still cheerful, ] I'm kidding.

[ There must be some cosmic irony, she thinks, in the fact that she's handed a bloom of lily of the valley before being ushered into the forest. You know that this is poisonous, right? falling upon conveniently deaf ears as a set of horns are placed on her head.

Not that it matters that much once she actually steps into the woods. Instantly, she feels a familiar sensation crawling down her spine, one that anyone else would call predatory but one she thinks of as— natural. Fun. Bodies come and go, flashes of color passing before her eyes until—

—there. A gasp, unbidden, slips from her mouth even as she steps out of the shadows, her hand reaching forth to grab the arm of the one carrying the same flower, the same cascade of white blossoms. ]

You—

[ Excitement barely concealed in her voice, visible gleaming in her eyes. ]

Got you.

[ hit me with whatever! you know the drill, @ the juicyfruits on disco. ]