A/N: sorry for such a long absence from the story! Thank you for the few new reviews, and for those who read the update. The first bit has an omniscient narrator rather than Clara, though Clara narrates the second half. I'm sorry if this is confusing—these are sections that keep the story alive in me while I write them in my very limited time, but they don't really further the story or help with plot and character problems. Critiques are appreciated anyway; I'd love to make these sections stronger. Thank you in advance!

It was during an early afternoon garden party and Missy Tremont was in the middle of an intense flirtation with one of the county's most handsome young men when she first saw Peter Van der Moer. She hadn't meant to capture Peter's interest, not at first. But as she leaned forward to laugh, thrillingly conspiratorial, at one of Wint Normand's jokes, some electric current went through her and she turned her head and the full force of her laugh (low, breathy, genuine) fluttered through the air, not into Wint Normand's eager face but into the ears-eyes-mouth of an innocent passerby who was strolling some half dozen feet away. Peter stopped in his tracks, the laugh curling itself into his senses. His green eyes were dazed, but they cleared quickly and he looked over at Missy, who stood, suddenly serious, her neck stiff and straight and her dark eyes alert, proud.

"Missy?" Wint Normand felt somehow that disaster was imminent—what a thought on this clear, hot day, but Missy wasn't looking at him anymore, was she?

Missy knew the game—turn back to Wint, laugh at his joke, reassure him. He'd filled half her dance card for later that evening, after all; she owed him—but just because Missy knew the rules didn't mean she always played by them. She won far more frequently at her own games, anyway.

"Who is that man?" she asked her suitor impatiently, as Peter bowed stiffly from a distance and continued walking.

"Oh, him?" Wint chortled nervously. "Peter Van der Moer, you know, of the—"

"Havoc's Van der Moers, of course," Missy breathed. An old name, to be sure.

"Yes, and I hear they're just ripping through their money. The old man hasn't got a penny left, they say." Condescension was evident from Wint.

"Gossip, Wint? I expected better from you," Missy said absently. "You know him?"

"Went to school with him," Wint said dully. "Got good marks, and played football. Utter bore."

"Introduce me," Missy demanded, and Wint, helpless did.

Wint Normand was my mother's doctor. I should say, he was my doctor, all throughout my mother's pregnancy. No one could understand why she continued to see him, when he had been her most persistent suitor until she dropped him at the turn of a hat for Father. At one point he had stood the best chances of ever chaining Missy Tremont with a ring. The Normands were a good family, and Wint was handsome. He wasn't Father, certainly, but he was a good-looking man. He had loved her, Ol' Missus told me. I wasn't surprised. Everyone loved Mother. Hated her, loved her—same thing, when one got right down to it. Everyone felt passionately about Missy Tremont.

I will be vulgar. I will wonder how many times Wint Normand stared between my mother's legs and wished that baby growing inside her was his. Did he hate me, or covet me? I don't like to think that a stranger could feel so strongly about me before my very birth, and yet—it is interesting.

He was a young man, but a good doctor. The whole county, I heard, had been surprised at his decision to attend medical school. Before then, his track record left his parents wondering what in the world they would do with him—he was setting himself up to be the dandiest of dandies, living comfortably on his family's money all his life without ever lifting a finger.

Then, Ol' Missus said, then Missy Tremont dropped him like a used hanky and threw herself at Peter Van der Moer. And Wint Normand hardly spent a second moping, he just picked himself up with the best show of character he'd ever exhibited, and sent himself off to medical school.

By the age of twenty-five he was the best doctor the county had ever seen. He attended to everyone in Havoc, practically, somehow found time for all of us. Didn't even charge that much, and would work for the poor, as well.

He was never anything but polite and professional with Missy Van der Moer. His long, cool hands lifted my bloody body from my mother as they had done with countless babies and countless mothers before.

But I find it strange, I continue to find it strange, that Wint Normand loved my mother, and that Wint Normand was our doctor, and that it was Wint Normand who diagnosed me: slight cough, heartless. And Wint Normand who said that despite everything, yes, I'd be just fine, just fine, when, in fact, I wasn't fine at all.