It's midafternoon when there comes a knocking on Liam's door: as
reasonable a time as any, when there's no predicting the resident's sleep
schedule. Tap tap? Tap tap tap?

All times are reasonable with Liam, or all times are equally bad -- he
tends to be on call twenty-four seven, at least for residents of
Chinatown. He is, however, always happy to see Kitty. And he's awake. Or
something. There's no answer to the tap, but there /is/ a deep, shrieking
scream of pain coming from the loft upstairs.

Okay, that wasn't particularly what Kitty was expecting. She flicks a
glance over her shoulder, then slips casually through the door, taking the
stairs two at a time in dead silence - it's easy to do that when you're
not touching the steps, just the air above them. The bundle of firewood
she's carrying in one arm isn't dropped. It might be useful for hitting
someone with, if necessary. Pete's borrowed coat flutters around her
ankles, hem more than a little ragged. The question at hand is, what's
going on?

Liam's apartment, normally so calm and sedate, is currently filled with
five young Chinese gang members, in their late teens, dressed in leather
and rags and bandannas. The little grey cat is huddled at the bottom of
the stairs, tail all puffed out, and she nearly jumps a foot when Kitty
comes through the door. There's blood on the stairs, and one of the
gangers is shrieking, sitting in one of the kitchen chairs and writhing as
he clutches his shoulder. Liam, black coat over his shoulders, is bending
over the guy. One of the gangers, catching Kitty's movement out of the
corner of his eye, whirls -- and suddenly there's a gun in his hand.

OhthankGodit'snotLiamscreaming. Kitty lets out a soft breath, not
distracted by the gun, and ... really, as long as there's no threats going
in Liam's direction, the girl in jean's and an oversized men's shirt
doesn't take the gun as badly as she might. She relaxes, stooping to set
down the firewood beside her at the top of the stairs. "Could you put that
away?" she asks. "The cat's already scared enough." And she doesn't want
to have to do repair to any of Liam's walls, because she's not inclined to
go solid enough to get shot.

Mind the blood. That's really going to stain the floor, which in turn
calls attention to various other, older stains on the floor. "Yo, bitch,
get out," snarls the young man with the gun, hand shaking just slightly.
He points it at Kitty, still, apparently under the impression that it will
somehow intimidate her. They're all looking, now, even Liam's navy eyes
glancing up and widening -- just before the flash of metal heralds a knife
to his own throat. The angel holds himself very, very still as the ganger
beside him hisses, "You don't do nothin' but /fix him/."

No, no blood on the firewood. Smells terrible when it burns that way.
Kitty's brown eyes go a little flat, a little unreadable, but her voice
stays even. "You don't want to threaten him." Threatening /her/ is fine.
Threatening /Liam/ is out of the question. It does mean that, for that
instant, she doesn't move ... only gathers herself, a slight shift of
weight. Don't want to challenge you, don't want to get Liam in more
trouble, but knives? To the angel? No.

"You know the ru-- " Liam begins, very calmly, but then there's a jerk of
a cruel hand, and a prick of blood at his throat and he subsides again,
little hints of power rising in his eyes. He could hurt them, of course.
He really doesn't want to. Even these, he loves. "You don't listen," says
the nervous kid with the gun. "Get *out*." He takes a step forward,
bringing him closer toward Kitty; one of his friends moves to back him up.
They're so young to have such dead eyes. The remaining two gang members
don't know where to look, to Kitty or to the healer, or to the guy in the
chair, who even now lets out another shriek.

"If you," Kitty says quietly, "and him," jerking a nod of her head toward
their friend with the knife, "come out with me, huh? You can watch and
make sure I'm not getting up to anything. And you've still got people here
to see nothing goes wrong." Reasonable tones. Calm expression. Not
challenging; not afraid; maybe the girl's a little crazy. And subtext: the
people who play by the rules can stay.

Liam's aura is beginning to gather, little plays of light, little coaxing
hints of peace and love and disappointment and support, but cautiously,
slowly. He has that knife at his throat, and if he spooks the guy holding
it, things are going to get nasty indeed. "I can't help your friend," he
points out, quietly, unmoving, "with you threatenin'." The whirling
sapphire gaze pleads with Kitty -- be careful. "Get out!" yells the guy on
the chair, blood bubbling for the first time from his lips. "Oh god, oh
god, oh god, let him...." He's twitching, trembling, limbs jerking. It's
enough to get the knife away, at least before the guy holding it jabs it
once more at Liam's face. "If he dies!" Stalking toward Kitty. Grabbing
the guy with the gun, pulling him along. "I'm gonna cut out your tongue,
bitch." Their insults could really be more creative.

Well, yes, but they score high points for intent and enthusiasm. Kitty
backs away as the guy with the knife comes forward, easing down the stairs
one step at a time. Not making any noise. Careful, careful. And careful
not to step through the poor cat, either. At the bottom of the stairs, she
finally takes her eyes off of them, glancing away to concentrate on the
door: bringing one hand solid, fumbling to unlock and open it. The gang
members will need to use it, she'll need to use it if she doesn't want
them seeing her walk through a wall, and the poor cat would quite possibly
like to flee. No response to the threat - because she can't answer it
without either /making/ it a challenge, or upping the ante. Neither one
sounds good.

The little cat would /really/ like to flee, which is fortunate, because
the open door allows her to narrowly escape the boot that just went
slinging for her head. A streak of furry grey into the street, and she's
gone. The two gangers follow her out, the guy with the gun shielding his
hand within his coat but not putting the weapon away. Both of them case
the street, in imitation possibly of some mafia movie they've seen. And
then the guy with the knife's advancing on Kitty. "You didn't see nothin',
you understand? Or I'll take you into that alley and slice you to pieces."

"Why should I have seen anything?" Kitty replies, unperturbed, as she
closes the door behind her. "All *I* saw was a guy getting medical help,
and a couple of his friends getting a little overprotective." You come
near Liam with that knife again, and he'll be on my case for increasing
his workload. She draws her hands back, sets them on her hips. The little
silver star at her throat glitters off and on as the wind catches her
clothes and plays with the loose fabric. "Real overprotective. Look - you
know the rules. That up there, that was a little crazy." So's her reaction
to a threat that was probably meant to be literal.

At this point, possibly brought back to reality by the chafing cold wind
and the bustle of the snowy afternoon street, the kid with the gun puts it
away, actually looking a little rueful. "Look, she's right, the doc ain't
-- " "Shut up!" Knifeboy, not so easily cowed. "That's /my/ brother up
there, so you just shut /up/. If that little shit doesn't fix him, she
/and/ the little freak are gonna get it." There's another wail from the
loft above, but it abruptly dies off. Both gangers jerk.

The kid with the gun isn't so bad, Kitty decides absently - it's the other
one who's the problem. And it's him she doesn't take her eyes off of for
long - particularly at the shriek of pain, and its sudden stop. "... so
you're going to blame him for what somebody else did?" Kitty asks, very
quiet. "He's trying to /help/." Little freak. Oh, don't you call him that.
At least she's closer to the door than the guy with the knife is. If he
snaps and charges back, he'll probably go after her first.

And he does. Snap, that is, his moment of frozen indecision broken as he
lunges for the door, knife out and ready, a snarl of horrified fury
twisting at his features. And Kitty's directly in his way, which means
that same knife is stabbing directly for her gut. /Get out of my way/. To
the gunboy's credit, he does reach a startled hand to try and stop his
friend, but he's too late.

Fine by her. Because Kitty is /not/ tangible - which means that knife is
going to embed itself nice and safely in the door. Yes, Liam, there will
be repairs later, she promises. She keeps herself phased, still, looking
down at the man who can feel the solid wood of the door, see his arm
disappearing into her body. No blood, anywhere. Sometimes you just don't
have to speak louder than a whisper. "Don't. Do. That."

"Oh. Fuck." That whisper comes not from the guy with the knife, but from
his friend, both suddenly frozen again, staring wide-eyed. And now
Knifeboy's retrieving his hand, very slowly, leaving the knife in the
door. "She's another fuckin' freak," he breathes. Both now, taking a step
back, their friends upstairs at least temporarily forgotten.

"Actually," Kitty says, her tone conversational again, "no, I'm dead.
Sorry." She steps aside, half-turning to reach for the knife - still
talking, sounding slightly distracted as she solidifies one hand and eases
the blade out of the wood. Phasing's good for moving furniture, too. "The
doc did a friend of mine a favor, though, so I hung around to look after
him." Hilt-first, the knife's held out back to its owner. "Please don't
make me have to haunt you."

There's no way the guy's taking that knife back. Stumbling backward, he
slips on the ice and lands flat, scrabbling backward, running straight
into his buddy's legs. Both now look thoroughly terrified. And it's not
going to help when the door opens, probably moving straight through Kitty,
in order to facilitate the two remaining gang members, coming down the
stairs with their half-conscious buddy propped between them.

That would be quick steps forward and out of the way, before Kitty
crouches down to set the knife on the sidewalk. There, neutral territory.
"See? He's gonna be fine. Nice knife, by the way. Good steel." And then
she ghosts back through the closed door, avoiding the little gang reunion,
because giving the two that were outside evidence on their behalf is about
the only way she's going to save any face for them. The lock's shut before
she takes the stairs again. "Liam?!"

Still blood everywhere. For the discerning eye, now that it's a bit
quieter, there've been a few minor changes to the loft -- the strings of
Christmas lights, which Kitty's probably seen before, haphazardly strung
on the wall over the stairs, the pile of three large faded pillows by the
fireplace, the fake plant above the mantle that has leaves edged with
iridescent fibreoptics. The little angel's just sitting at the table now,
unharmed; he'd have his head in his hands, but his hands are covered in
blood, so his forehead's propped against his raised wrists, instead.
"Kitty," he says, calmly. "An' how's your day been?"

Advantage of airwalking: no tracking the blood further. Kitty doesn't come
back down and let her concentration go till she's next to where the
angel's sitting, and can lay her hands on his upper arms and squeeze very
lightly. "Fine. Poor kids. They're all okay, just a little freaked. I, uh,
told them I was a ghost and threatened to haunt them if they gave you any
trouble. Are you okay?"

Threatened to haunt them. That gets a tired chuckle. "M'alright." At the
touch, Liam raises his head and turns, looking up at Kitty. Blood on his
throat, too, but just a little. Shadowed eyes, gone dark again, quiet
navy. "Bloody pissed because they're goin' to go out an' do it all over
again. They always do. You alright?"

"Fine. Pete's been enforcing a little mini-vacation, I haven't been /out/
to get in trouble." Kitty flickers a smile, but her eyes are down watching
his throat. Not too much blood? Good. "The weather's been so bad, though,
I thought I'd drop by and make sure you had enough wood on hand. Looks
like a hand cleaning up would be more helpful, though."

Wood's pretty helpful too, the pile by the fire /is/ running low at the
moment. Not too much blood. Just a nick at his throat, where the edge of
the knife scored. "Ta, lass." He'd protest, but he's tired now, and it's
not good to have the floor covered in crimson when a squeamish demon is
likely to stop by at any given time. So there's a grateful smile, instead,
before the angel moves to rise, careful not to touch anything. "Just goin'
to wash this off. Sorry you walked into that."

"Sorry it went weird," Kitty admits. "Not sorry I walked in - I didn't
know who was making the noise, you know?" Worried, so worried, but only
for a moment. She shrugs off the oversized coat and lays it over the back
of a chair, then starts rolling up sleeves. "Where can I find a mop around
here? - Anyway. One of those two, he's not so bad, just scared. Maybe
getting a /real/ scare will give him a wakeup call." And maybe she'll ask
Pete to keep an eye out for him. They've both got a soft spot for people
who're in over their heads.

"They're all scared," replies Liam, who loves them all, even when he
doesn't /like/ them very much. His own coat is still over his shoulders;
he shrugs it off, but not until after he's washed his hands off with soap
and water, voice drifting from the little bathroom. "That's one thing the
same's at home. Kids gettin' in stupid wars, for lack of hope, or
education, or money. I bloody hate it." They come back to him, over and
over again, shot and stabbed and bleeding. Sometimes too late. "Ah...
mop's in the kitchen." In the tall, pantry-like cupboard. "Anyway. Glad
you had some time off, been enjoyin' it?"

Kitty doesn't dispute Liam out loud - just knows that it's the ones that
aren't scared anymore that frighten her. Fortunately, there aren't so many
of those. "Wish we knew a way to help them. There's a woman that takes
care of some, down in the Badlands, but ... well, it's not a problem that
gets solved by hitting it." The cupboard's investigated. Mop, yes. Bucket,
yes. Bleach or equivalent disinfection, because blood is nasty... This is
going to be interesting; she's /still/ formally not allowed to get blood
on Pete's shirt. "Oh, yeah. B-movies, card games, catching up on some
reading." Trying not to flinch and reflexively close up when her husband
needed to get very drunk as part of his coping with her almost getting
killed twice in four days. "Got some mundane work done, too, and plans for
setting up a network in the house. How've you been? And Lorne?"

Liam hasn't been able to get very drunk. It's been a couple of months
since he's had the chance. Not that he isn't thinking about it. There's
bleach next to the mop. Liam chuckles, wandering his way back to the rail
so he can hang up his coat. Careful of where he steps; he's got sock feet.
"We're losing our ability to shock, cupcake," he says, dropping his own
accent to adopt a fair imitation of Lorne. "Kitty didn't even blink at you
sleeping here." Lapsing back, he continues, "An' I said, would this be the
same Kitty what asks me about you every time I see her?" Amused. "He's
fine. Goin' a bit stir crazy. An' I'm alright. Wouldn't mind some time
off, myself, but I did take a day not long back where I refused to get out
of bed, so that were somethin' close."

And blood in socks really pretty much means that the socks are destined
for a future as rags at best - it just /doesn't/ come out. Ah, absorbent
materials. Kitty runs water to make up the rest of the solution, then
starts with the farthest-in of the blood splashes. She'll work her way
toward the stairs and down them. "Like she who acquired a boyfriend within
six hours of hitting the city has any grounds to blink at the two of you,"
Kitty half-teases back. Yes, amused. "At least it's only a month or so
more till spring starts officially. The weather shouldn't be this bad for
/too/ much longer." So what did you do for Valentine's Day? - er, no.
Let's not ask. "Hm. Was the vacation in bed voluntary or because you were
unconscious? Because being out cold just doesn't count."

Fair question, though Liam slides a wry look at Kitty. "Strictly
voluntary, that one. It were freezin' rain out, an' I were warm, an' I
didn't bloody feel like movin'." He had to fight back the guilt, of
course. "Had Lorne fetchin' me Guinness an' ice cream. Terribly lazy. An'
we're not...." He has this vague impulse to try to explain the whole
thing, but then he stops. Lost for words. Shakes his head. Moving into the
kitchen, he fetches an old rag and a bowl of soapy water, going to wipe
down the table and chairs.

"Warmth, Guinness, and ice cream. Okay, that definitely counts as time
off." Kitty flashes Liam another grin, more cheerful again despite the
cleaning up of potential biohazards. "Not to mention counting as /way/
comfortable. Good for you. And, um -" She hesitates, just for a moment.
"Not my business, or anybody but the two of yours, what the two of you are
or aren't. Not unless one of you is really unhappy with it, and whatever
the /it/ is, you don't seem to be."

"I had the urge to try an' explain it, but I'm not sure I've figured it
out myself." Wry, still, Liam scrubs at the chair, black wings extending a
little for balance behind him. "I've this terrible feelin' I'm goin' to do
badly by him, in the end, but it seems to be workin' alright at the
moment."

"Most people," Kitty observes, "like to call their versions of that
feeling 'insecurity.' Though I'm not sure if that's the word you'd want to
be using." She pauses, eyeing the mop for a moment, then eyeing Liam.
"'Want to be using?' I think your syntax is rubbing off on me." Wash blood
out of mop, start over again with a closer patch, rinse blood away again.
Poor kids.

"Aye, well, the world'd be more civilized if you didn't all have those
strange accents." Running the rag down the chair leg, now, careful to keep
trailing feathers up and away from the floor. "An' I don't think
'insecure' is the right word, no. I'm not meant for..." He considers that
a moment, before he continues. "As bloody nice as it is, to have someone
lovin' me? I'm not made for one person. Can't be. An' it's not fair for
him to offer himself to me, when I have to give myself to the world. If
that makes sense to you."

No blood in the feathers, good heavens, no. Ugh. Kitty's silent for a
moment save for the quiet sounds of her work. Then she says, "Sort of. If
Lorne's half as smart and as perceptive as he comes off as when he's not
trying to look harmless, though ... well, he /knows/ what you're like.
Knows what you do, and what you can't do. That's part of the package deal.
And if he knows, and wants it to be like this anyway - well, /he/ has to
think it's fair, at least at some level, right?"

"He's bloody smart," confirms Liam, "an' perceptive, an' he knows what's
what." Rising, again, to rinse out the rag in the bowl. "Only he's got it
in his head that no one'll love him, an' the only reason he'll believe it
from me is because I spill it right out from my skin. So there's that." He
sighs slightly, then quirks a smile, looking over at Kitty. "Anyway. He
thinks it's fair, I'm not so sure. But if I can make him happy, I'll do
that for as long as it'll hold."

Kitty frowns ever so slightly at the floor, distracted for a moment, then
takes the opportunity to move the chair Liam's been working on and tackle
the worst of the stains, there beneath where the wounded boy was seated.
"At least he'll believe it from /somebody/." She glances up to the angel
and lifts eyebrows to indicate teasing again. "If you do make him happy,
though, and you like it yourself... well, even if it's temporary, I can't
see it as being /bad/."

"There's that," says Liam, again, slight smile lingering. Tilting his
head, he looks at Kitty, navy eyes gently sober. "It'd been an awful long
time, since anyone'd loved me. Which is as it should be -- I keep to
myself, mostly, except where I can help, an' everyone else -- they've
lives to be livin'. But some are different here. There's Lorne, there's
Kess, there's you. So, ta for that."

Kitty drops her eyes from his after a moment, concentrating on the
mop-work. But that doesn't stop her from mumbling, a little awkwardly,
"Same back atcha." Someday she might even tell him why.

Aw. He's made her uncomfortable. Liam instantly moves back a little, and
over to a chair at the other end of the table, after a blood smear so
small that it might not actually be there. "Sorry, lass," he apologizes,
easily. "Apparently knives make me introspective. Can I offer you some
tea?" Tea solves all difficulties.

Not uncomfortable! Just - well - okay, kind of uncomfortable, but not in a
way that's fault... oh, hell. Kitty surrenders to chatter, just a little.
"Like introspective is bad? Tea'd be wonderful. Especially if you've got
anything with a good strong scent ..." To override some of the smell of
blood; the bleach doesn't quite cut /all/ the way through it. Heck, to
override some of the smell of bleach, too. "I was just thinking, it's the
same for me, kind of. About ten years since I'd dealt with anybody outside
of business, before I got here. And now there are ... well, people who let
me come over to their apartments and mop their floors. So. Um. Thanks."

"Ach, well, the moppin' isn't a privilege for any day. Only special
occasions, so mind you don't get ahead of yourself." Lightness, in
response to her awkwardness, Liam's eyes sparkling just a little. The
chairs and table are about as clean as they're going to get; Liam picks up
his bowl of soapy, bloody water, carefully, and takes it back into the
kitchen. He can put the kettle on while he's there.

"Awww. And most girls only get chocolate and flowers for Valentine's."
Kitty works her way toward the stairs, and starts on the way down.
Top-down, so that water spills only onto areas that /aren't/ quasi-clean
yet. Chlorine fumes, good for the making of dizzy, but not that bad.
"Liam, I'm /touched/."

"I knew you would be. An' you realize that I of course didn't know the
date yesterday? Came home to that fascinatin' plant over the fire, the one
what changes colours." Liam messes about in the kitchen, pausing only
momentarily to lean against the counter. "An' I regret I've neither
flowers nor chocolate, though I can offer you bread an' soup if you're
hungry."

Kitty glances up toward the mantel automatically. "Is /that/ where it came
from? Aww, that's sweet. And that's okay, I'll save your share of the
chocolate for Seravina - I promised to load her down with it, but I didn't
get a chance to drop by her new place yesterday." Or to get out of the
house at all, actually. "No, tea's wonderful enough. The mess doesn't put
me off my appetite, but bleach-smell does the job for it just fine." She
can manage to sound cheerful about the damnedest things. "Used to live a
couple of floors away from a medical facility - I /never/ got used to the
disinfectants. Did you get forgiven for not knowing? Or are you still
figuring out ways to apologize?"

Liam chuckles. "I were forgiven before I walked in, I think. He does
/know/ me, after all. Give it another few days an' I'll have to ask you
what month it is again." Herbs are sorted. Ginger? Cinnamon? Peppermint?
"Cinnamon alright with you?"

"Cinnamon's fine. It kills everything. Except in chili, for some reason."
Now Kitty's voice is from out of sight, as she works her way methodically
down the steps. "Seriously? Liam, do I have to hunt you down a calendar?
... or are you one of those people who forgets to turn the page and starts
going through January for the fourth time when it's actually April?"

"Ah.... if I say I've done that, will you laugh at me? I warn that I'm
very sensitive." Amused. Liam retrieves the kettle and gets out the
teapot, the cinnamon just beginning to steep. Won't be long before the
pleasant scent begins to drown out the other airs in the apartment, aided
by the wood smoke from the fire.

"In that case, you'd probably better not tell me." Also amused. "Okay,
I'll see what can be done about an /automatic/ calendar... no, you'd be
disturbed by the city invading your haven, wouldn't you." Teasing. Just
teasing. Kitty unlocks the door and checks outside for the cat, glancing
one way and the other; if the cat comes in, or there's no cat visible,
she'll pick up the bucket and haul it back upstairs, too. Time for
disposal.

"You keep your technology away from me. I'll settle for a few pretty
lights." No cat. No gang members, either, just some blood on the ice where
they used to be. Liam's just bringing the tea out to the table. Looking at
the floor, and then up at Kitty, he offers a grateful, "Ta, lass, really.
Let me get that." The bucket being what's he's talking about, limping
forward to reach down for it.

Kitty hands it over, then snags the opportunity to ferry the firewood the
rest of the way across the room and meld it with the rest of the stack.
Hah. Initial purpose accomplished. "That smells /really/ good. I don't
think I've actually run into cinnamon tea before." Ooh, hey, she gets to
look at the flower from close-up, too. "... and the lights /are/ pretty,"
she adds after a moment. Glowy. Ooh. Better not stay entranced by the
colors too long, though; she makes her way back to the table.

Bucket, taken and emptied in the bathroom, contents rinsed well away. Liam
washes his hands again before stepping out, running a hand over his face
and through his hair. "Aren't they? Been starin' at it for hours, off an'
on." He snags himself a chair at the table and sits, wings settling to the
side. "So I'm guessin' you've had no problems with black angels or the
like? It bein' my assumption that you might've mentioned it by now."

Kitty perches herself in a chair easily enough, sleeves still rolled up to
her elbows. "Not a one. One minor husband-versus-dragon skirmish, a couple
of 'dear, what did you just explode in the kitchen?' incidents, having to
rescue a kitten from various improbable perils, and finding two college
kids passed out on top of each other in a snowbank in the front lawn. And
that has been /it/. Do you realize how weird it is to have normal
problems?"

Tea is now poured, and a cup slid over toward Kitty. Liam chuckles. "Aye,
well, enjoy 'em while they last. You think it's over now that Sera's
daughter's been born? Celliers has yet to find his Tower."

"Sera's daughter's been born?" Someone is behind on the news. Kitty sits
up fast enough she splashes tea on her jeans, and completely fails to
notice. Somebody will be smelling like spices till she gets the chance to
change. Somebody is also grinning like an idiot.

"Careful!" Hot tea! Liam looks concerned for a moment, but since Kitty's
clearly not burned he settles back in his chair, with a blink. "Ah..
sorry, I thought you'd know or I would've told you first thing. Aye,
little girl, she an' her mother're both doin' fine."

Jeans, not hand. Soaking gives it enough time to cool and dissipate before
doing actual damage. Kitty relaxes, sheepish. "Well - we haven't been as
good as we should've been about picking up messages. Or answering the
phone. Or answering the /door/, actually, we've been closeted upstairs
with the television a lot. Katie, huh." As startlement continues to fade
to 'awww,' she adds, "So I really /should/ stop by and leave chocolate.
About a ton and a half of it. That's got to be one tired mom." More
house-cleaning in Kitty's near future. Heh heh heh. "I think... that
part's over. I don't know about the Tower, and I'm not particularly trying
to right now."

"Aye, well, saw Claire the other night but completely didn't think to ask
her." Liam lifts his own tea, and sips at it, his jeans remaining
cinnamon-free. "An' she seems to be doin' alright, as well. For Claire."
The conversation disturbed him a little, but then again, it usually does.

"Good." Kitty doesn't, for once, promptly ask after the details. She
/does/ manage to get tea in her mouth rather than on her clothing, and
after an appreciative sound and a swallow, she adds, "I think she might be
looking forward to the spring, too."

"Think we all are," says Liam, with a brief look of what could only be
described as pathetic longing. "It used to be /warm/ outside." He slumps a
little further down in his chair, casting a glance at the window and the
frigid world beyond.

"Give it a few months," Kitty reassures. "It's less than two weeks till
March. By April it ought to start being okay, right? Though I warn you,
even Beacon Harbor spring flowers /don't/ glow."

"At this point, they could have slugs for petals, an' they'd still be the
most beautiful things I'd ever seen." Liam pulls a face. "Aye, it'll be
over soon enough. An' if I ever say a single word about it bein' too hot,
you're to smack me."