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Picture Windows	By : Maureen Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 596 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Picture Windows
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 1
- 2
Picture Windows 1

Disclaimer: Neither the kernel of inspiration I took from the movie or any of
the characters I borrowed from Gundam Wing are mine.

Warnings: It's going to look like I'm bashing the hell
out of Relena in this fic, but I'm not... please recall that characters are
allowed to have opinions about other characters that are not shared by the
author!

Rating: PG to NC-17

Pairings: Main focus 3x4x3, mentions of 1xR, 2xH,
5xMeiran, Une x Sally, and various OCxOC (none of these side pairings will get
any substantial screen time)

Notes: Thanks (or curses, maybe) go to Dana
(love ya, babe!) for planting this particular little plot bunny - it came from a
fic challenge she issued lo these many moons ago, to write a fusion with the
movie "Somewhere in Time," although you'll find very little
resemblence to the actual movie, other than the fact that it's a cross-time love
story. And also thanks for the cover art!

And especial thanks to Kay
Zozma, beta-extraordinaire, for her kind patience, gentle advice, and
unflinching manner in dealing with comma splices and gaping plot holes. However
if boo-boos still remain, it is entirely through my own oversight.

"Hey Trowa! You got plans after school man?
Hilde�s havin� a gory movie orgy, wanna join in? Wu-wu and his wu-man are
coming, and Heero�s going to bring that new chick, Relena Darlian. I�m sure
you can find yourself a girl to jump in your lap during the scary parts�"
Duo paused to cram an entire piece of toast in his mouth. "Yeth, an foo�
too, lossa foo�!"

"Duo, did anyone ever tell you have the eating
habits of a rabid Rottweiler on crack?" Trowa�s steady shuffle never
faltered, nor did he look up from the multicolored leaves his feet were plowing
through. He and Duo had walked to school together every day for the past 12
years; he had enough mental images of Duo breakfasting already. "Besides, I
told An- I mean Ms. Une that I�d help her with some heavy lifting after school
today."

"Koo-Koo ka-choo, Mrs. Robinson � say my man, is there any truth to the
rumor that you are actively shelving more than books on your after-school
afternoons with our dear town librarian? �Cause you could always bring her
tonight, we�re your friends - we don�t care that you�re a 17 year old
freak that prefers the company of dried out old hags to nubile little freshmen
girls�" Duo bounced ahead, his heavy braid swaying back and forth as he
kicked at the leaf piles lining the gutters.

Trowa shook his head in silent laughter as he watched
the other skip away. While Trowa did not appreciate the rumors that were
floating around the small town about himself and Ms. Une, he did think it was
preferable to people knowing the truth behind his relationship with the
enigmatic and often standoffish woman. He had known of her most of his life;
living in a town of barely 2000 souls meant everyone had at least a peripheral
awareness of everyone else. However, it was only two years ago, when the
pressures of being the only one of his kind in the tiny town had finally worn
him down, that he had really gotten to know Anne Une. Desperate for an
understanding ear, he had searched the Internet, skimming past links to porn
sites until he found a mention of a LGB (Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual) support
group at a midsize college only 60 miles away. He toyed with the idea of
attending one of their meetings for several months, but it was not until the
group advertised a seminar about the pressures of coming out that Trowa found
the perfect combination of need and courage.

Anne had been there, too. The college was her alma
mater, and she had been the president of the LGB student organization in her
years on campus. She had recognized Trowa immediately, and approached him with
the one word that made everything all right, "Welcome!" From that day
on, Trowa could often be found in her company, helping her either in the
school�s library, or in the small public library she ran in a one-room
storefront next to the Town Hall. She provided Trowa with a haven of sanity, a
place to go with questions and concerns that he dare not discuss with anyone
else, not his closest friends or his only family, his older sister, Cathy. At
times, Trowa felt that Anne was the only person who truly understood and
accepted him, and he knew he provided a similar refuge to her.

Trowa�s musing and leaf kicking soon caught him up
to Duo, who was lounging about a block away from school, at the corner of 4^th
and Adams, intent on exploring Hilde�s tonsils. Wufei and Meiran stood
conversing quietly together off to one side, and Heero was explaining something
to Relena in his quiet, earnest way, while she simply giggled and twirled a long
strand of her dirty blonde hair around one finger. Trowa winced at a
particularly high-pitched "Oh, Heero, you�re so funny!" Wufei
sympathetically caught his eye and shrugged, both wondering what Heero saw in
the simpering brat.

"Hey Anti-Social Boy! Duo says you don�t want
to come to our pre-Halloween horror marathon tonight � what�s your
problem?" Hilde broke away from Duo�s probing to face Trowa. One hand
rested on her cocked hip while the other wagged a reprimanding finger at him,
her elfin face scrunched in an imitation of irritation. "Besides, I�m
cooking � I know you love my lasagna!" She grabbed Trowa�s arm and
began dragging him the last block towards school.

"Hilde, I already told Duo that I�m helping Ms.
Une after school tonight. As much as I love you all, she pays me�" Trowa
mentally smacked himself, hoping against hope that Duo had not heard that
comment.

"Oh, he�s just a gigolo, and everywhere he
goes� Tro-Magnon man, you should have told us. Can I be your pimp? I bet I
could get you tons of business and I promise not to beat you too much. Unless
you ask�" Duo danced ahead and turned to bat his large violet eyes at
Trowa, and chortled wildly as he dodged the kick Trowa aimed in his direction as
the group entered the school.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After classes were over for the day, Trowa good
naturedly suffered through another round of Duo�s gibing, and quickly escaped
to the parking lot where Anne was patiently waiting.

"So, we�re really going get to go into the
House on the Hill?" Trowa asked as he vainly attempted to brush his long
chestnut bangs back from his face. "I�ve always wanted to see what the
inside of that place looks like."

"Why � do you believe all the ghost stories the
town fools tell about the House? You shouldn�t, you know. It�s just an old
house � no witches or ghosties to worry about." Anne gritted out as she
struggled with the gearshift on her orange 1969 Beetle.

"What is it with you and this car? I know that
being the librarian in a town this small probably doesn�t pay that well, but
can�t you at least get something a little better than this?" Trowa winced
as the car finally popped into gear with a loud crunch. "And no, I don�t
believe the stories � I just think it�s a beautiful house � it looks like
something out of a fairy tale."

"You know why I keep this car � sentimental
value�" Anne trailed off with a wistful smile. The car had been with her
since her early college days, and had been decorated by her art major lover,
Sally. The roof was lined with Day-Glo pink fake fur, various action figures
danced along the dashboard and every other available surface of the car acting
out poses from the Kama Sutra, and a large plastic bat bobbed from the rear view
mirror. Anne and Sally had parted with resigned longing after college � Anne
had returned home to care for her aging parents, while Sally followed her muse
to New York City.

"Couldn�t you just keep it sentimentally in the
back yard and get something else to drive?" Trowa groaned the car bounced
over an especially vicious pothole. "I didn�t know there was anyone still
living in the House � I thought it was just up there collecting cobwebs. Hey,
that�s disgusting!" Anne had taken a corner especially hard, causing the
Sailor Mercury figure directly in front of Trowa to nestle her head between
Sailor Venus�s legs in response. "Remind me again why I hang out with
you�"

"Because you�re a gay teen trapped in a tiny
town with only a lesbian for company. Hmm, that sounds like a really bad
Twilight Zone episode or something � �Here for your examination, one Trowa
Bloom, a young man struggling with societal pressures in small town middle
America. His only companion, Anne Une, a bitter spinster lesbian librarian �
she is his guide into the misty underworld of homosexuality � but will either
of them survive? Nee-nee-nee-nee, do doo da doo! And now, we enter the Gay
Zone!�" The car choked slightly as Anne steered it up the base of the
hill that gave their destination its name.

The small car chugged valiantly up the road that
wrapped around the hill and lead to the House on the level summit. It flirted
with Trowa�s vision through the leafless trees; he caught fleeting glimpses of
the curved rose tile roof glowing warmly in the afternoon sun, and the graceful,
almost oriental swoops of the roofline darted just out of his eyes� reach.
Anne�s low chuckle filled the air, "You look just like a kid, with your
nose pasted to the window like that. I suppose the House does have a certain air
about it� I hope going there won�t spoil the mystery for you."

Trowa remained silent. The House was something he
could not discuss with anyone, even Anne. He had always felt as if he knew the
House, and that it knew him. They had observed each other from afar for many
years, both waiting quietly for some unknown catalyst or event, for the hush to
end. Every time Trowa looked at the House, he felt a strange tightening in his
chest and an almost unbearable thrill of anticipation, like the feeling he had
as a child watching the annual airing of the Wizard of Oz with Cathy. She would
grab his hand right before Dorothy opened the door of her black and white world
and stepped into the Technicolor Land of Oz waiting outside. �This is it, Tro
� in this one instant, her whole life is going to change forever!� she would
whisper and his heart would turn into a fiery ball of energy that burned for
days afterwards. Once, he had attempted to explain the feeling to his sister,
but the words fell flat and the sensation had faded, leaving him achingly empty.
Trowa felt the magic of the House would disintegrate as well if he tried to
explain it to Anne, the words would sound too childish if spoken aloud. Perhaps
it was a silly fantasy left over from youth, but Trowa was still loath to let
this last bit of magic go. "You can spoil one mystery for me � who lives
there?"

"Ah, yes. That would be Iria Winner, the last of
the Winner clan. It was her grandfather, Ibrahim, who built the House, in
1880. It�s hard to believe that she�s the last one - old Ibrahim had 30
children. Yeah, you heard correctly, kindly put your eyeballs back in their
sockets!" Anne snorted. "He was trying for a boy. The whole story
would be funny in an ironic sort of way if it all hadn�t ended up so
tragically. Ibrahim started out relatively poor but became fantastically rich
when he was 36 � he owned the right piece of land during the 1849 copper rush
in the Upper Peninsula. He then became obsessed with having an heir to leave his
fortune to � so he married the first of what would be four wives. And started
having children. One a year in fact, but much to Ibrahim�s consternation, they
were all daughters. His first two wives each gave him ten girls, and the third
nine, before their bodies gave out and they died in childbirth or from its
complications." Her honey blonde ponytail flared as she shook her head
vigorously in disgust. "But then there was Katarina, his last wife. You
see, Ibrahim had never loved any of the others � its not that he was abusive;
he actually treated them quite well. He just saw them as broodmares. But when he
met Katarina, everything changed." Anne turned the car into the final
assent before continuing. "He fell deeply, passionately, madly in love for
the first time at the age of 66, with a 20 year old immigrant who he�d hired
to act as a nanny to his younger children. He adored her; he didn�t even want
her to have children � he was afraid she�d die in childbirth. So,
predictably, that�s just what happened, barely two years after they met and
married. And in an especially bittersweet twist, she ended up giving him the son
he had so desperately wanted." The tale had eaten up the last of the road,
and Anne neatly parked her car next to the House. "He built this place for
her. Unfortunately it became her Taj Mahal."

The House rose regally above them, a fairy tale castle
built for a tragic queen. "He has my eternal gratitude for building it �
this place paid for the last two years of my undergrad degree," Anne told
him as they unfolded themselves from the tiny auto. "I had to do a house
history for my one of my classes � and my Prof was so intrigued with the place
that he ended up writing a book about it, and hired me as his research
assistant. Dr. Peters calls it "Frankenhouse;" he says it�s the
single most confusing bit of architecture he�s ever seen." She came
around to Trowa�s side of the car and paused as she saw his raised eyebrow.
"It doesn�t follow any certain style or time period. Look at the towers
for instance," she gestured to the two structures that flanked the long
building. "What do the domes remind you of?"

The tops of the towers were bulbous, and tapered to
points. Trowa had always associated them with flying carpets as a child.
"They look almost middle eastern."

"Exactly! Now, trace the roofline with your eye
� where have you seen something like that before?"

Trowa followed the swoops and dips of roof, noting the
careful symmetry and control, graceful lines. "On a pagoda or Japanese
temple."

"And the roof itself? Specifically the tiles -
they belong on a hacienda! The House is a mish-mash of styles and periods �
the intricate spires, ornamental tracery, dormers, and peaked windows indicate a
�Carpenter�s Gothic.�" The trim on the house dripped down in curved,
geometrically abstract patterns, and elaborately carved points poked up from
every available peak. "The wrap around porch, towers and balconies scream
�Victorian.�" Balconies of every size and shape dotted the surface of
the house � some only large enough for a single person, while one on the third
floor echoed the span of the porch below it. "There are also �Medieval
Revival� and �Baroque� touches in the details. And of course, the eastern
influence adds the final dash of confusion. Hell, even the way it�s painted
defies conventional definition � it�s the only monochromatic �Painted
Lady� anyone�s ever seen."

The House was painted in several gradiations of green,
with the thinnest bands of rose to gild the highlights, complemented by the
slimmest lines of heathery purple to deepen the shadows. "�Painted
Lady?�" The other architectural terms had barely grazed Trowa�s
consciousness, but this one intrigued him. "And what about the stained
glass?" He asked as he gestured to the massive round window directly above
the entrance.

"The Victorians liked to trick their houses out
like cheap tarts � painting them in all sorts of outrageous and garish color
combinations, thus the term �Painted Lady.� And the window? Dr. Peters wrote
a whole chapter on it! One of the older daughters, Margaret, was obsessed with
the Impressionist painters � she designed it." The window was not typical
stained glass � instead of depicting a recognizable scene it consisted of
innumerable tiny pieces of in every shade of red, pink, and green.
"Margaret called it "Summer�s Rose Garden," but Katarina loved
it so that it became known as �Katarina�s Garden�. There�s also some
interesting stained glass in Quatre�s Tower," She indicated the northern
tower. "See how those small diamond shaped windows curve around it? They
follow the staircase that climbs around inside � each is a different color,
starting with the palest pink at the base of the tower and deepening to an
almost black-purple by the time you reach the top. Another chapter�" She
shrugged apologetically. "And I�m getting pedantic."

"That�s alright." Trowa slung a
companionable arm across her shoulder. "I�m just glad that someone else
appreciates the place as much as I do."

"Remind me to lend you Dr. Peter�s book. But
for now, simply behold the fantabulous architectural monstrosity that is
Frankenhouse!" Anne laughed as she stepped towards the porch.

"Hush," He frowned down lightly at her,
"She�s beautiful � you�ve no right to speak so of such a fine
lady!"

"With friends like this young gentleman, you
might learn some manners yet, Annie my girl." An incredibly small,
incredibly old lady offered from the open front door. Trowa could see her light
blue eyes dancing as she motioned for them to come into the house. He could not
help but smile as he drew closer the woman he presumed to be Iria; for while his
eyes told him that she was ancient, his heart insisted that a sprightly young
woman stood before him. Her rich laughter did nothing to dispel the illusion.
"He�s a strapping tall one, isn�t he, Annie? He�ll do just right for
all those tall shelves and such, I�ll wager. Needs fattening up, though!"
She grasped Trowa�s hand as he crossed the threshold, her grip firm though her
skin was loose. "I�m Iria Winner, and I�m mighty pleased to meet you!
Annie always brings the nicest, handsomest young men to visit!"

Anne stepped in and stuck her tongue out in response
to Trowa�s questioning look. "I�ll tell Dr. Peters you said that, Miss
Iria."

"Oh Annie, when you get to be 94, men in their
50�s will seem young to you, too!" The petit lady drew Anne down for a
hug. A startled exclamation from Trowa drew her attention. "My, yes, it is
the right time of day for that!" The slanting afternoon sun was piercing
the stained glass window, coating the walls of the vaulted ceiling three-story
entrance with a dizzying array of color. "Light the candles, Annie." A
gently sweet floral scent filled the room as Anne complied with Iria�s
request. The old woman claimed Trowa�s hand again. "Aunt Margaret always
insisted on burning perfumed candles when the window put on its show � she
said it added depth to the illusion. It�s been so long since I�ve seen it
through fresh eyes � tell me, lad, what do you think?"

Trowa had no words to describe the phenomenon � he
simply squeezed her hand gently as he drank in the many blossoms painting the
walls in fiery radiance. A subtle enchantment was woven through his senses; he
could feel the summer�s sun on his skin and a light breeze in his hair. They
stood quietly for a few minutes until the light began to slip away from the
window and the flowers slowly faded from view. Finally he broke the spell, his
voice a bare whisper in the echoing silence. "My name is Trowa, ma�am,
Trowa Bloom. I�m pleased to meet you, Miss Winner."

"Oh, call me Miss Iria, everyone always has. Now
you two come on into the kitchen before you start working � I�ve a fresh
baked apple pie and I insist that this underfed boy eat at least two
pieces." She kept her grip on Trowa as she led them spryly through the
house, her pace affording Trowa only the smallest glimpses of the interior in
the fading light. The d�cor seemed to spring from all corners of the globe.
Framed Native American beadwork hung next to long oriental scrolls adorned with
lotus blossoms and flying cranes. Tiffany lamps illuminated shelves of crusty
amphorae. Elaborate African masks stood guard over displays of fragile Italian
glasswork. Best of all were the hundreds of framed photographs that were
scattered over the walls � each one a window to the House�s past, filled
with women with flowing dresses and elaborate hair.

The trio finally reached their destination � a
well-lit kitchen at least 30 feet long and 20 feet deep. Iria pulled them to the
�working� side of the kitchen, where a long low wooden table extended nearly
half of the room�s length. She quickly dished up large slices of the promised
pie for Anne and Trowa, and offered them hot tea to drink. Once her guests were
happily eating, she seated herself and turned towards Anne. "So Dr. Peters
has decided that I ought not leave the House to the University, eh? I don�t
understand half of the legal guff � all I really want is for you to be in
charge of the place when I�m gone. I know he thinks the House ought to be
turned into a museum � but I say that�s all up to you, my girl."

Anne sipped her tea, "Really, Miss Iria, this
place is a museum already � I don�t think you�ve ever thrown anything
away!" She removed her glasses and polished them idly on her t-shirt as she
smilingly refused a second piece of pie. "Besides, the true treasure here
is you � you know all the stories. That�s the real reason I brought Trowa
with me today � I�d like it if he could start spending some time with you
after school and on the weekends. I thought it would be easier for you to tell
him your memories, rather than just sitting around and talking into a tape
recorder by yourself."

"Gracious, surely there�s a better way for such
a handsome gentleman to spend his time. Eat this, boy!" Iria dropped a
second piece of the sweetly spicy pie on Trowa�s empty plate without asking.
"You know, sonny, you�d look even better if you get all that hair out of
those lovely green eyes!" She pushed the offending locks back and looked at
Anne, "You see! Classically beautiful features, clean and strong � I dare
say Michelangelo himself would have a hard time doing this face justice!"

Trowa could feel his cheeks burning under her delicate hands and he mumbled his
thanks around a forkful of tender apple and flaky crust. He then swallowed
sharply as he realized what Anne had said. "You mean this isn�t just for
tonight? I�ll get to come back here � and be able to explore the House?
Really? And you," he turned to Iria, "You�ll tell me stories about
how everything used to be? About the people, and where all this stuff came from?
About when the House was new?"

"Such enthusiasm!" Iria clapped her hands
together in delight. "I�ll agree on two conditions. First, you let me
feed you when you come to visit � we�ve got to get some meat on those bone,
my boy! Second, you have to let me pay you for your time." She shook her
head to forestall Trowa�s protests. "Listen here, young man, I�m richer
than Midas ever dreamed of being and have no one to leave all my money to � so
allow an old woman her whimsy. Besides, we won�t just be sitting in the
parlor, sipping tea and talking � you�ll be lifting and moving junk that
hasn�t been touched since Teddy Roosevelt was in office."

Trowa laughed softly. "I accept your terms, even
though I�d pay you for the privilege of just sitting here!" He turned to
Anne, "Can I ask Miss Iria my own questions, too?"

Anne rummaged through her large purse before she
replied, and placed a tape recorder and a package of blank tapes on the table.
"Just as long as you have this thing recording when you do. You�ll be
taking an oral history from Miss Iria � I want you to let her talk as much as
she likes � try not to interrupt too much, but do ask clarifying questions.
I�m personally interested in the stories of the women that lived here �
especially Phoebe Winner. Dr. Peters wants more information about the house
itself � although that�s a secondary concern. Please feel free to ask Miss
Iria about anything that grabs your curiosity � don�t worry if its
information I�ll want. People are like books, we all contain boundless amounts
of information that becomes forever lost when we pass on, if no one takes the
time to listen and ask questions. And Miss Iria is too valuable a volume to go
unread."

Trowa had loaded the tape recorder as Anne instructed
him, and turned it on when she fell silent. "Miss Iria, Anne told me
something on the drive here that intrigued me. I hope that I�m not getting off
to the wrong foot by bringing up painful memories, but could you tell me what
happened to everyone? Anne said your Grandfather had 30 children, how did you
come to be the sole survivor?"

"Such a nice boy! No, it doesn�t bother me to
talk about my family, they�ve all been gone for so long now� Let me see! Six
of my aunts never married, another nine married but were either widowed young,
like my Auntie Iria, or turned out barren. The remaining 14 sisters had 32
children between them, and only five of those were boys. None of the boys lived
to be twenty � World War I claimed the only one that made it out of childhood.
As for the rest, there were childhood illness and accidents, and after the 1918
influenza epidemic, my Auntie Iria and I were the only ones left alive. I was
barely 11 years old at the time. She had been the youngest of the sisters, so
she was, oh let me see, 39, I guess. I remember at the time I felt so horribly
guilty for being thankful that she was the one who remained alive with me �
I�m afraid I loved her more than my own mother." Miss Iria�s white head
was bowed in memory, and when she looked up at Trowa, he could see the sparkle
of unshed tears in her eyes.

"What about your Uncle? Did he die young,
too?" he asked gently.

"Quatre? Oh, no � no one knows what ever
happened to him. He disappeared in 1897, and was never heard from again. Aunt
Iria always used to insist that he was coming back here someday � in fact, her
final words to me were, "I�m so glad that there will be an Iria there to
greet him when he comes home." That was in 1962, and I still haven�t seen
hide nor hair of him. And since he�d be 121 years old by now, I doubt I ever
will." She rose from the table and gestured to the recorder, "In fact,
bring that contraption along and we�ll go to his Tower now � the albums I
told Anne about are there, and that�s a good enough place to start if we�re
going to be talking family history." She led the way and Trowa savored the
warm glow of the hardwood floors as they went. "One of his hobbies was
photography, he must have taken thousands of pictures of my family. Yes, sonny
boy, there were cameras "way back then," too." They came to what
Trowa guessed to be the middle of the House; a long corridor seemed to cut the
dwelling in half, large arched doors at either end. Iria looked up at him as
they started towards the door on the left end. "Kodak introduced the first
real mass market camera when Quatre was just a child � it came with a hundred
picture roll of film, and when you filled it up, you sent the whole thing back
to the Kodak factory. They developed your pictures and sent your camera back
loaded with a new roll of film. My grandfather bought several of them for his
children, but one by one the girls tired of the novelty and passed their cameras
on to Quatre, who carried one with him where ever he went."

As they came to the end of the hall, Trowa saw that
the door looked like something from a medieval castle: arched, heavy, and oaken.
He stepped forward to open it for the ladies and it swung easily inwards on its
hinges. "Move aside, lad, and let me get the lights. Grandfather built this
Tower for Katarina, but Quatre ended up being the one to live in it. This first
floor was his music conservatory � Auntie swore he was a world-class musician,
the second floor his bedroom, and the third appears to have been some sort of
servant�s quarters. It�s been left almost exactly unchanged since the day he
disappeared � Aunts Iria and Phoebe were the only ones who spent any time in
here after that." The lights flared to reveal a round, high room elegantly
clad in sky blue and cream, with light dashes of gold flaring around the edges
of the woodwork. There were several sets of built in shelves; some of the cases
filled floor to ceiling with books, while the rest were stocked with every
musical instrument Trowa could imagine. The room had no windows; instead there
were two sets of French doors overlooking a dormant garden.

Trowa let his eyes linger slowly around the room;
while an insistent echo of his sister�s childhood words looped repeatedly
through his mind. �This is it, Tro!� He was filled with the maddening
certainty that something was about to change, irrevocably, and he was determined
to stand on the cusp of the moment for as long as possible � longing for his
future, but unwilling to let everything else go just yet. He sent his eyes on a
higher sweep of his surroundings and froze as the floodgates of his perceptions
burst fully open for the first time in his life. The gentle murmur of his
companions� conversation became a symphony to his ears; the blue walls flared
as if internally lit by an incandescent light. "Ah, yes," Iria moved
to stand next to Trowa, but her voice sounded as if it floated down to him from
the top of a deep well. "And that would be Quatre."

The young man in question was captured in a life size
painting that hung above the marble mantelpiece opposite the door. Quatre�s
lean body was dressed in a blue silk waistcoat almost the exact color of the
walls, and the collar of the white shirt worn under it stood straight to frame
his slender neck. His light golden blond hair curled and waved around his head
like a nebulous halo. Quatre held a bow in one hand and a violin in the other;
his posture and flushed cheeks both suggested that he had just finished playing.
Trowa�s eyes caressed the small, sweet smile arching the boy�s cupid bow
mouth, and then were snared by the intense ocean blue gaze that burned out of
the oil paint at him. "He�s so, so�"

"Alive?" supplied Iria helpfully.

"Exquisite." Trowa breathed softly. He found
that Iria was correct, he was tempted to step forward and offer the boy a hand
down from the painting; Quatre appeared that real.

"Yes, Auntie Iria always did say he was the
prettiest of all of them." Iria patted him tenderly on the arm. "Snap
out of it, my boy, and run up to his room. There�s a few boxes on the bed that
need a good strong man to tote them around. You can go back to staring once you
bring them down for us. The door to the stairway�s to the right, and the light
switch is directly inside."

Trowa made his way to the discreet doorway, and
slipped into the outer layer of the Tower. The stairway was surprisingly small,
he could lean against one wall and graze the opposite one with his fingertips,
and he was able to barely brush the ceiling. He quickly made his way to a short
landing, and entered Quatre�s room. As Trowa flicked on the light he was
immediately enchanted � everything was clothed in shades of blue and indigo;
the colors lighter on one side and gradually deepening as they followed the
curve of the wall. A curtained four-poster bed stood in the exact center of the
room, to take full advantage of the unusual space. As with the downstairs,
crammed bookcases dominated most of the wall surface, save for two massive
half-circle windows, one facing due east and the other directly opposite.

Trowa brushed aside the midnight blue drapes of the
western window to see if any light was still visible, and found a window seat
deep enough to be a window bed. He wondered how many nights Quatre had lain in
there, watching the light fold back from the sky. He caught sight of a violin
case nestled in the cushions and leaned forward with reverent fingers to feel
the surface that Quatre must have touched countless times. A static shock snaked
up his arm on contact, and Trowa�s ears were filled with a string of
piercingly melancholy notes. He backed away, stunned, but the music continued
and he had a sudden vision of Quatre; framed against the window and backlit by
the sunset, instrument nestled under his chin and eyes closed in ecstasy. The
image burned so strongly that Trowa softly called out the other boy�s name,
shocking himself in the silence.

Abruptly, the only sound in the room was the rapid
thumping of Trowa�s heart. He considered panicking briefly, but opted to
retrieve the boxes he had been sent for and flee the room. He stumbled on the
bottom stair as he almost threw himself through the door. Trowa carefully
schooled his expression before moving towards the women.

Anne relieved him of his burden; she practically tore
the boxes from his hands. "Which one is it in, Miss Iria? She found it,
Trowa! And Phoebe�s diaries, too! And�" She oh-so-carefully placed the
boxes on a low table running the length of the blue damask fainting couch Iria
sat on. "I can�t believe you�ve had these all week and you didn�t
tell me!" She moaned, cautiously pulling back the cardboard lids. One box
was entirely full of large books. The other had a tissue paper wrapped bundle on
top. Anne removed this parcel with shaking hands and moved with almost
ceremonial care to lay it on the top of the grand piano. The paper rustled with
her nervousness as she toyed with the tape holding it together. "I really
should be wearing gloves for this!" She grinned at Trowa, and he thought
she looked almost nervous.

"Who was Phoebe?" Trowa asked, determined
not to look at Quatre�s portrait.

"One of the younger sisters, she was born in
1875. I�ve been dying to get my hands on her diaries � I want to write about
her life." Anne absently stroked the bundle, the far off look in her eyes
warned Trowa of the speech to come. "Phoebe Winner was a lesbian � she
purportedly left detailed accounts of her one relationship and its destruction
in those books. Finding primary source material of this nature is
unprecedented� but I�m sure you�re more interested in the personal than
the academic." She finally broke the tape on the package and began
unfolding a large black cloth. "Phoebe was attending Mount Holyoke College
in 1895 � it was a progressive sort of women�s school � where women were
taught to think, not to cook and clean. It was there that she met a young woman
named Annabelle Lee, and they became lovers. I don�t know any of the details
yet, but apparently one of Phoebe�s elder sisters found Phoebe�s diaries and
exposed the affair to Ibrahim. He was furious � he immediately yanked Phoebe
from the school and brought her home. She was cut off entirely from the outside
world � he refused to let her have any of her mail and all visitors were
turned away. Eventually, Annabelle Lee was forced to marry � when Phoebe found
out, she willingly spent the rest of her life in seclusion, in this house."

The material was now totally unfolded and spread
across the piano, so large that it draped over the edges. "It�s a crazy
quilt. Well, quilt top�she worked on this until she died � in 1918, right
Miss Iria?" The tiny woman nodded as she and Trowa moved to flank Anne. The
quilt consisted of a jumble of black velvet scraps, knit together with elaborate
designs crafted from multicolored silk thread. Additionally, the center of each
fragment contained a skillfully embroidered image. It was a cacophony of life:
flowers of every kind budded and bloomed, birds of every description swooped and
danced, and jewel-toned insects buzzed and crawled over the surface of the
quilt.

"I can�t even sew a button on my shirt, but I
think I understand why this took twenty years to make." Just looking at the
intricate stitches made Trowa�s fingers ache.

"Mercy, yes. I can remember sitting at her feet
for hours, in this very room, watching her working on this, and listening to
stories of her and the others' childhood." Iria sighed as ran a loving hand
over the elaborate designs. She moved back to sit in front of the other box,
"Come sit beside me and I�ll show you their pictures." There were
twelve large albums nestled in the carton, "Quatre took all these, there
are many more volumes in his room, but most of those contain the products of his
photographic experiments � these are just family."

The trio spent the next few hours combing through the
pictures. Trowa was amazed at the vitality captured within the century-old
photos, for in every instance, the women and children were frozen in some
perfect motion, or moment. There was no staging, no set-up, no �say-cheese�
moment in any of the photographs; even the portraits appeared honest and
spontaneous. One sister dominated the bulk of the albums, "That was Iria
the first � she and Quatre were mighty close. She was only a year older, so
they grew up together." There was an Iria for all seasons, for all moods,
her brother�s devotion clearly captured in the prints.

Eventually, the talk and the tapes ran out for the
night, and Iria served them a simple dinner of tender beef stew and flaky
biscuits. Trowa made plans to return the next day, and as the were preparing to
go, Iria cried, "Dear me, I almost forgot, Annie! When I turned up
Phoebe�s diaries, I found one of Quatre�s, too � I put it in the same box.
I didn�t know if you�d be interested �"

"I�d like to see it eventually, but perhaps Trowa would like to read it
first." She opened the box and pulled out a book that was only a little
smaller and darker than the rest. "Well, are you interested?" Anne was
always pushing him to read for his own betterment � usually Trowa refused, but
this was different. The quiet conversation of the evening had dulled the
apprehension of earlier, and had blurred the �encounter� with Quatre from
his memory. The sensations return, intensified, as Anne placed the book into his
waiting hands. He turned it over, briefly noting the heavily tooled leather
cover, decorated with vines and small blossoms, and tucked it under his arm.
After he delivered a quick good-night kiss to Iria�s cheek, Trowa slipped
thoughtfully from the house to follow Anne to the car.

The ride home was uncommonly quiet, each lost in
contemplation of a different Winner past. When Anne dropped him off, Trowa
exited the car with a mere nod. He crept quietly into the house and up to his
room; he had no desire to chitchat with his sister, he wanted to think. Trowa
was a naturally silent sort of person, so much so that people often questioned
his intelligence. Trowa was not stupid, nor was he slow, as some others
believed. He was simply someone who thought things through; he thoroughly
examined every facet of any situation or problem before forming an opinion about
it. And the events of the past few hours begged to be pondered.

He quickly stripped down and showered with the lights
off. There was something about standing under the hot running water in the dark
that had always been soothing to Trowa. His mind lazily sorted through his
confusion as the shower pounded down upon his neck. Perhaps his hormones had
finally revolted in frustration and were going to plague him with delusions
until he finally had sex� or maybe the House was haunted � could that sweet
little old lady have put drugs in the food� "I just don�t know enough
to know," he told himself as he turned off the shower and stepped out. He
flipped the lights on with on hand and grabbed a towel with the other. Trowa
attempted to reason with his hair for a few moments before he was forced to
admit defeat. He toweled off and slipped into a pair of flannel pants, then
settled down in bed with Quatre�s diary.

Reading held no special joy for Trowa; he had always
preferred more tactile pleasures. A half an hour with a flute, notes poured
forth in a meandering manner, brought his mind to more ideas and understandings
than any amount of time with a book ever had. Besides, he preferred to figure
out things for himself. But sitting here, holding Quatre�s thoughts in his
hand, he for the first time understood why Anne called reading an adventure. He
stroked the worn cover for a moment, and he felt a flash of voyeuristic guilt.
Trowa shrugged it off and flipped idly through the pages, and settled on one
towards the beginning, dated 1895. "He would have been 15."

At 15, Trowa had been newly orphaned, his world turned
upside down by a single car accident. His older sister Cathy had returned home
from college to care for him. She had put her Master�s on hold � Cathy had
been working towards a career in child psychology � now she was teaching
fourth grade at the local elementary. He had become a bitter and withdrawn young
man for almost a year, angrily accusing Cathy of using him as a lab rat when she
attempted to talk to him about his rage. He had also been dealing with the
pressures of coming out to himself. An ugly incident involving alcohol, a
blowjob, and his best friend had cost him the solace of Duo�s company for
almost five hellishly empty months. At 15, Trowa had been almost hopeless, close
to desperate, perched on the edge of suicidal. He very much doubted that Quatre
had felt even close to the same.

June 25,
1895

No wonder Iria calls
me a butterfly! I simply cannot maintain an interest in any one thing for more
than a passing moment! Well, there is my photography (I have seven cameras now!
Elizabeth presented me with her unwanted Kodak this morning!) And of course, the
violin, but with any other thing I try, well! I am hopeless and that�s all
there is to say. Except, perhaps to add that, quite predictably, my mad
infatuation with dance has ended. But I did manage to take several
interesting shots of dancers; I am trying to develop my ability to perfectly
capture a moment of motion on film. I want to freeze forever every perfect
moment of happiness I see; a baby�s first step, my nieces� Christmas morning
glee, my sweet Iria�s wedding � I hope she will find her love soon. She
deserves so much happiness. And I am eagerly anticipating her children! I want
to coddle a little Iria or two. Goodness, I sound like Father now! I don�t
want any of my own, really, I am perfectly happy to drown in nieces and nephews
� but I suppose the pressure to marry will begin soon. I used to hope for a
few years of happiness away at college, but after the whole calamity with Phoebe
� given what Father already suspects about me, I doubt I will be spending any
time away, in the company of other men my own age.

Trowa read the last sentence a few times, and then
called Anne. "Were these people kind of vague when they wrote things?"

"Well hello to you, too, Trowa. What exactly do
you mean � read it to me." Anne chuckled.

"Does this mean he was gay? �I used to hope for
a few years of happiness away at college, but after the whole calamity with
Phoebe � given what Father already suspects about me, I doubt I will be
spending any time away, in the company of other men my own age.�"

"Sounds like it to me � keep reading and tell
me if you find more proof."

"OK, now tell me why I even care that an
extremely dead guy was gay. I still don�t get a date�" Trowa aimlessly
traced over the pattern on the book�s cover, feeling slightly disgusted by his
own perverse excitement.

"You are speaking of one of your sexual
ancestors, my young, queer friend! Besides," her voice rumbled with a
poorly suppressed chuckle, "I recall someone saying that Quatre was
�exquisite�� And he was gay! Why wouldn�t you be interested?"

"Because I�m not into necrophilia!

"Hey, if you can�t have a real lover, you might
as well enjoy an imaginary one�"

"Good night, Anne!" Trowa huffed and hung
up. He decided to put the book aside and sleep; things occasionally made more
sense seen in the light of a new day.
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Picture Windows

June 25,1895

June 25,
1895