How To Shop Vintage: Out with new and in with the old: Vintage has taken over the fashion world by storm, with charity shops, small boutiques and online stores popping up all over the place promising thrills of lace dresses, sparkles and memories of long ago. There's something beautiful about vintage that I find so intriguing. When I buy a vintage dress the different ideas of who wore it, what were they doing at the time, how were the feeling, rush into my mind straightaway. Read on to find out how you can buy and find your own classy vintage items. Step 1. Find out what era suits you best. Whether it's the sex appeal of the twenties, the glamour of the thirties or perhaps even the new heights of the sixties, there's oodles of items that can make a person think straightaway of a particular era. It's always best to try on a few items from different era's just to see what suits you best. You don't want to look like you're dressing up though, so be careful and use accessories or other items of clothing from the modern world to tone down your outfit. There's plenty to choose from, the classic swing dress, the mini skirt and of course, the classy Chanel suits. Step 2. Go online. Online boutiques, online stores and markets are popping up all over the web and here's just a few examples, try Beyond Retro, Oxfam, even Ebay, you'll be surprised how many gems you can discover. Step 3. Search the high street. It's always best to try on any items you buy and it's difficult to do this whilst shopping online. Scour the very edges of your local towns and villages, there's bound to be caverns of original vintage pieces hidden away in charity shops. Don't be afraid of wearing second hand clothes from the 1940s. Just think of the memories people have made in them, weddings, true love's first kiss, sunny days at the beach. You can get anything ranging from £2 to £200. The price ranges are limitless but that means you can always rely on finding something amazing. Step 4. Look through your Granny's wardrobe. Your Grandma was once just as wild and as young as you, she too had dreams and adventures to fulfil and if some memories were particular she may have kept the dress. You'd be surprised at how many beautiful items of clothing she may have kept back, and with a little bit of altering and a bit of elbow grease on the sewing machine you can change it to suit you and your image. (DON'T FORGET TO ASK FIRST, GRANDMA'S CAN GET ANGRY, DESPITE ALL THE SOFT LAYERS OF PATSEL WOOL JUMPERS.) Step 5. Flick through old magazines. Search through books, watch old movies, flick through magazines, look at what the celebrities wore at the time, how they styled their hair and did their makeup. Hollywood stars such as Ginger Rogers, Katherine Hepburn, Mae Murray and Marilyn Monroe graced our screens with classiness and beauty since the 1920s to the 1960s and their styles have lived on thanks to vintage lovers. Step 7. Enjoy your new and unique look. You're now up to speed with the world of vintage fashion. Smile, put on your red lippy and enjoy the glamour and excitement of the past with all the pros of the modern world.

Shakespeare If music, be the food of love, play on.

The Patent Shoe Chapter One The #lifeless body of Isis Grenada lay face down on the carpet. Her long, tangled blonde hair was spread about her head in a bloody tangle. She'd been beaten to death. Bronwen Oswald peered quizzically at the body and frowned. She'd been called to the investigation just ten minutes ago, and her colleague Jack Ruben was yet to arrive. "Got any ideas Miss?" A hoarse, croaky voice asked, and Bronwen turned to see the grey Middle aged police man stood curiously by the door, a notebook in his hand. Bronwen smiled wryly and stooped to peer at the white, frozen wrist. "Eight so far," she replied, but a quick glance at the body's wrists made her turn once again to the officer and say, "Make that three." The Officer whistled tunelessly between his teeth and took off his cap. "Lets hope you solve it Ma'am."Bronwen uttered a silent murmur of acceptance and straightened up. "Lets hope so." She looked up at the presence of a young man. He stood in the doorway, his felt hat in one hand. He was dressed in dark pants and braces, a crisp white shirt and a tie. He would have looked professional if it were not for the ragged look to his attire. His shirt sleeves had been rolled carelessly up to his elbows and his tie hung loose around his neck. He smiled at his colleague, "Miss Oswald I presume?" Bronwen took in his appearance and raised an eyebrow, her face however was unreadable. "Yes, Jack Ruben?" The man nodded and held out his hand. Bronwen turned away sharply, uttering the reply, "It's very unlucky to shake hands over a corpse." Jack didn't reply. He caught eyes with the Police Officer stood in the corner and the two men exchanged a conversation through their eyes. "Good luck with this one mate," the older man's eyes seemed to say, and Jack nodded in agreement. "Mister Ruben," Bronwen called, her voice was shallow, and she was crouched down beside the body, her eyes narrowed. "I thought there was something strange about the body, and I think," she added calmly, "I know what it is?" Jack, who had barely enough time to examine the body for himself stepped forward and dropped to a crouch, mirroring his colleagues position. "What is it?" He asked, and he watched as Bronwen carefully took off the red patent shoe of Isis Grenada. It was a completely ordinary shoe, the shoe an average woman of the 1930's would wear, there was nothing peculiar about the shoe, and yet Miss Oswald's eyes were telling him to look closer. Then it hit him, like a freight train. "Oh," he said at last, "Her shoe. Where's the other one?" "Exactly," Bronwen replied. She turned her head to the Officer, who still had made no effort to move from his corner. "I want you and your team to find the missing shoe." Bronwen frowned and tapped the wooden floor with her own shoe. "Why would someone hide a shoe?" "Maybe he had a fetish." Jack added, causing a giggle to stir from the greying officer. A sharp glance from Oswald sent him quiet. "Don't be surprised," she said, "If that is the case." Then she blinked and added angrily, "I still see no shoe, I thought you'd get your team on that?" The Officer nodded foolishly, reddened and left the room. "Right away Miss," he mumbled. Jack coughed awkwardly and turned back to the body. "From what I know," he said, hoping that his new colleague would keep him in her good books, "Isis Grenada is twenty three years of age and supposedly happily married to Graham Grenada. They own an estate in Chicago and have no children." "Chicago? That's an awful long way away from home." Bronwen looked up and frowned, "Her husband didn't come with her?" "No," Jack shook his head, "Mister Grenada's just been alerted." Then the man tilted his head to the left and snapped his fingers sharply, "Hold on," he murmured, grabbing the victim's left hand, "If she's married, then why doesn't she have a wedding ring?" Bronwen peered at the hand, it was naked, not a ring to be seen. The hand was completely smooth, and no obvious damage had been to the nails or the flesh, suggesting the woman had not fought back, or hadn't got the chance. Bronwen met eyes with the detective and raised an arched, filled in eyebrow, "It seems," she said eventually, "That there's more to this mystery than meets the eye." It was gathering dusk, almost night and there was a beautiful red glow in the room. The vibrant colour set fire to the bare walls of the hotel apartment and Bronwen sighed, "Look at that will you," she said contentedly, "Ain't the sun set beautiful?" Jack looked up and nodded, the body had been removed an hour ago, and the sixth floor was out of bounds for visitors. Only the cleaners and staff could work here, but room 18, where the body had lain was out of bounds.The two detectives shuffled through bits and pieces of Isis' belongings. It would seem that she only intended to stay one night, as only one dress was found in the wardrobe with a pair of clean stockings and garters. Bronwen stood wondering about what kind of woman Isis had been. Had she been a floozie? Or a business woman? A desperate woman torn from her lover? Or a woman of the world, seeking some alone time away from her moralised husband? Bronwen had no answers, but she was soon to find out why the room was still glowing red, despite the fact that the sun had set almost two hours ago. She'd smelt the vile copper smell all morning, but self consciously, she'd ignored it, putting it down to the bloodstains on the floor where Isis had died. Now that the body was removed and samples had been taken the blood had been removed, but the metal stench was still there, and it pulled at their nostrils, it's scent strong enough to drive any man mad. Bronwen covered her nose with her cardigan sleeve and grimaced, it was getting stronger. Her green eyes flickered to the window and she wondered whether she should open it. Before she could decide she heard Jack make a low sound in the back of his throat, it was a grunt, a sound of complete and utter disgust. Bronwen turned to him and gagged. "Jesus!" She stepped back and looked at the object in Jack's hand in alarm. The gas lamp was burning brightly, it's flame vibrant, but the sticky, crimson substance that coated the glass was not ink, nor was it stained glass that made that colour. The glass had been painted a sickly red with the blood of Isis Grenade. Bronwen suddenly knew why the walls were tinged red, the luminous lamp had reflected the vile colour on the bare walls, in the sunset they had not noticed it, neither had they been aware the lamp was burning in the bright sunlight of the day, but now here it was for the two detectives to stare at in disgust. Jack moved first, dimming the light and placing it down at arms length on the floor. He glanced up at Bronwen who had not moved from her position. She stared back silently until he coughed awkwardly and wiped his hands on his leg, "I'll use that as evidence then?" Bronwen blinked, snapping quickly out of whatever had sent her into such a static state. "Um yes, good idea," she stepped towards the door, grabbing her coat from the hook. It was a beige wrap around coat with a thick belt, it reminded her of the coats the stars wore in the movies, but she obviously looked less glamorous in her thick knit cardigan and victory rolls. "It's getting late Mister Ruben, there's no point looking for clues in the dark," she swallowed, "I'll send the evidence we have found to the station, tomorrow I'd like a full brief in on who saw Isis last and who was with her." Hastily, Bronwen pulled at her coat belt and hugged the fabric to her body, it was late November, and the nights were cold, much colder than the hot summer nights that were there one minute and gone next. Seasons reminded her, in a strange way of the lives people lived. One day it was warm, the sun is shining, and the next it's freezing cold, the sky is dark, and no one for the likes of them can explain why, or even come up with an answer. Chapter Two Jack trod slowly up the stairs to his apartment. The stairs creaked under his weight and he eyed the banister cautiously, this wasn't the first time it had made that noise, old Jim Craw from upstairs had fallen through the staircase just last week. He didn't want to be next. His wife Katerina was sat in the arm chair when he came in, and he took off his tie and loosened his braces before he approached her. "Good day at work Jack?" Jack grunted and laughed, taking Katerina's hand in his own. "I love you Kat," he said, and Katerina laughed and kissed him, but could not reply because she wasn't really there. She had been dead two years. Jack stared at the empty arm chair and felt a surge of guilt in his chest. She'd died in childbirth, giving birth to their first and only child. She hadn't wanted children at first but he'd persuaded her, and she'd listened, soaking in the ideas that were to come, walks in the park, pushing the perambulator, their child, rosy cheeks and dark hair, toddling around the room with both hands gripping his wife's little finger. It was a dream that never became reality. Katerina had always been their to support him when he had particularly bad cases. Gruesome cases. One time he'd came across a case to find a woman, naked and beaten, her features no longer beautiful, but twisted and mutilated. Katerina would lie with him at night and tell him stories of her childhood in Italy, and how she would cycle through the villages on her bicycle, in search of fresh bread and most importantly, adventure. Jack would roll up onto his elbow and listen, not speaking, not moving, just listening and soaking in the calm, soothing effect of her voice. She was not here now, and Jack lay in bed and rolled over, trying to ignore the empty, cold space beside him. Bronwen was waiting for him in the Hotel reception the next day. She was dressed in a bright, floral feed sack dress and an oversized thick knit cardigan. She looked as if she were going to say something, but then she smiled and seemed to have changed her mind. "We found that shoe of hers," Jack threw his coat across the coat rack and faced Bronwen, "They did?" Jack frowned, "Where was it?" Bronwen reached behind her and pulled out the other red patent shoe, the heel was broken, it hung half-heartedly. Bronwen held the shoe at arms length and Jack noticed that the shoe was covered in something dark and crusty. He took the shoe from her and inspected it carefully, "Looks like we've found that murder weapon huh?" Bronwen laughed under her breath, "Unique isn't it? It was found behind the bins, looks like the murderer panicked and threw it away." Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and tapped his foot, "So we've got the weapon, but who killed her? And why?" "That's what I hope Mrs Fisher will tell us," "Mrs Fisher?" "The Receptionist," Bronwen turned quickly on her heel and motioned for Jack to follow her, she headed quickly up the staircase, her painted nails tapping the banister unconsciously. "She was the last known person to see Mrs Grenada alive, obviously apart from the murderer himself, she's waiting in here," Jack pushed open the door to the Staffroom, a young, cheerful woman sat nervously in an armchair, her eyes widened as the two detectives entered, and she straightened up, swallowing. Jack noticed the nervous, jittering state of the receptionist, and he smiled to calm her, "Detective Inspector Ruben and this my colleague Miss Oswald, we just want to ask you a few questions." Mrs Fisher smiled and wiped her hands on her dress. Bronwen sat down, precariously balancing a stack of papers on her knee. "Mrs Fisher, what time did Mrs Grenada check in to the hotel?" The answer was immediate, "Why, around 12:30." "Was she alone?" The receptionist nodded, "Oh yes, she signed in under her own name and everything." "If you can, to the best of your ability," Jack tapped the edge of the coffee table with his pen, "describe to me, everything that happened when you first saw Mrs Grenada." The Receptionist hesitated, drifting off into thought, but then she nodded and twisted her fingers in her lap, "Mrs Grenada looked like any ordinary lodger, she was carrying a small suitcase in her hand and she was alone," Mrs Fisher swallowed, "She checked in, and then went upstairs, she was alone." "Did Mrs Grenada seem...uncomfortable? Or even on edge in any way?" "Oh no," the receptionist shook her head, "She was very cheerful, very relaxed, she was happy." Bronwen sighed and leant back in her chair, "I didn't see any suitcase in the room," she glanced over at Jack and raised an eyebrow, "Did anyone come up to see her after she'd gone upstairs?" "There was one man." Silence. Bronwen held her breath and waited. "Tell us," Jack said, and the receptionist slowly raised her eyes to them and said, "There was a man in a grey suit, he asked to see her, and I called her room and asked if it was okay..." "And was it?" "Oh yes, it was completely fine with her, he went up. But I didn't see him come down." Jack frowned, "Then where did he go?" Mrs Fisher shrugged her shoulders and gave a wry, wary smile. "I'm sorry detectives that's all I can help you with I'm afraid." "It's alright," Bronwen stood and smiled broadly, "Thank you for your time." She glanced across at Jack, and he looked back at her, how could someone just disappear? It wasn't possible. Jack took off his hat and scratched his head, "Miss Oswald," he said, "I think it's time we had another look at room 18." The room was the same. As they had left it the night before. Bronwen stood back and let Jack past, "Ladies first," she murmured, and Jack grunted, traipsing past. "How could a man just disappear?" He looked around, his eyes narrowed, "It doesn't make sense. There's no other way out." "There's always a way out," Bronwen replied. Her green eyes flickered breezily to the window. "And I think I've just found it." She crossed the room to the window, her fingers tugging at the wood. She grunted with effort and strained, "It's no use, I can't open it." "Here, let me," Jack approached her, easing the catch off the window. It slid open easily, the fresh air biting their cheeks. Bronwen blushed and looked down, "Aha," she exclaimed, "Look!" Jack moved past her, glancing down at the scene below them. A huddle of rusted, metal bins lined the wall, it would have been easy for the murderer to jump out. Jack's hand felt the solid jut of the bricks on the building, they were an easy foothold if you knew how to use them. "I see," he murmured, "but-" "Oh excuse me," The two detectives turned in surprise. A young maid with bright blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair stood in the doorway, clutching a cloth. She stammered when she spoke, her hands clenched tight. "I didn't know anyone was in here..." "Are you in charge of this room?" Bronwen asked, and the maid nodded, turning red. "I am Ma'am, I'm in charge of the entire floor." "Then surely," Jack challenged, "You knew this was a crime scene." He caught the sharp stare of Bronwen beside him but he ignored her and waited for the girl to answer. "Why of course I did, in fact I knew Isis growing up, we were good friends." The maid took a step back and Bronwen could see she was eager to leave. "I'm Imogen Schwarzkopf, the cleaner." Bronwen said nothing and raised an eyebrow. "If it helps," Imogen swallowed and twisted her cloth in her hands, "I can get you in touch with her husband Graham Grenada-" "Thank you," Bronwen interrupted, "But that won't be necessary. We've already got Mister Grenada's contacts." "Oh," the girl stammered and looked down, "Oh, right then." She stepped back, stumbling a little, "I'll just go then." The door shut quickly behind her, and Jack turned to Bronwen in surprise. "What are you doing?" He asked, but Bronwen silenced him, flapping her hands. "Ssh," she hissed, "I'm following her." "Why?" "She knew about the murder, come on, wake up," Bronwen reached the door and turned round to face him, "Why would she be in here? What other reason would she have?" Jack stared at her, and found he could not answer. Bronwen was sharp. Sharper than any other Private detective he'd worked with. His boss Nathan Malone had rung him up telling him of a new murder case, he told him of a new colleague he was to work with, a woman. He'd never worked with a woman before and he had to admit, it was different. He could tell that Bronwen didn't just 'see' things, but she also observed them. Katerina would have liked her. Bronwen was crouching down now, watching the maid walk down the corridor quickly. She pulled Jack down beside her and motioned for him to be quiet. Jack shifted his feet into a comfortable crouch and waited. Imogen was stood by the airing cupboard, a pile of fresh linen in her hands. In a moment, she was gone, moving back down the hallway into the other rooms. Bronwen stood quickly, and moved to the cupboard, she took hold of the handle carefully and turned, the door swinging open. "Oh my God," Jack whispered. He peered at the pile of linen in confusion, for there was no mistake about it. Hidden, folded into the white sheets was a towel. It was folded in half and could be seen vaguely between the layers of other sheets but there was no mistaking that the towel was soaked in dried blood. Chapter Three Bronwen turned her head slowly and looked at Jack. He stared back, but remained silent. They didn't need to speak to know what was going on in each other's heads. Imogen Schwarzkopf was now a suspect. "Listen here," Jack murmured, "You wait here and I'll go get the manager, he should be able to tell us everything he knows about this Imogen Schwarzkopf." Bronwen nodded and shut the laundry cupboard door quickly. She pressed her back against it and exhaled, blowing air into her face. "Alright," she said at last, "I'll go back to room 18, see if I can find anything else worth bringing in." Jack moved past her, nodding. "I'll be right back," he murmured. "I don't doubt it Inspector Ruben." Bronwen stood in the empty hallway, just listening. She could hear the soft murmur of voices from the guests in their rooms. The gurgle of water in the pipes. If she really concentrated she could picture Isis, high heels on, suitcase in hand, walking into the hotel room. Little did she know she'd be dead in the next half hour. Bronwen pressed her lips together determinedly and strode back onto the murder scene. The curtains flapped in the breeze, and she sighed, crossing the room to close it. "Shoot," she muttered, as her legs bumped against something hard. Bronwen looked down and gasped, the one time she hadn't been searching, she had found. The suitcase sat in the middle of the floor, it's handle up and a brown label attached with string. Her heart thumping loudly under her cardigan, Bronwen crouched down and examined the label. "It's Inspector Oswald isn't it?" Bronwen jumped, her shoulders jerking and she bit her lips, keeping herself from crying out. She turned angrily to see a young freckled Police Officer stood by the bathroom door. He grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Sorry Miss, didn't mean to startle you." "You didn't," Bronwen blushed, "I just got caught off guard." The man laughed, "Same thing isn't it?" "This suitcase," Bronwen read the label, "FORENSICS," she looked up, "I take it you put it there." "Yes Ma'am I did," the Officer bit down on a pencil and grinned, "We're handing it back to you Inspectors, word has that Mister Grenada wants Private Detectives only, doesn't want his wife's murder getting published in the news you see," he shrugged, "So, looks like us cops are out of a job for a while." "I'm sure one will crop up," Bronwen reassured him,"New York's a dangeous place. This suitcase," she bit her lip, "Where'd you get it?" "Found in an old barn nearby, looks like we've got a careless murderer." Bronwen sniffed and didn't answer. "So," the Officer dawdled, his tone languishing, "What's your name?" "Inspector Oswald," "Your real name," "Oh-" Bronwen coughed and pressed a hand to her lips, "Erm Bronwen." The Officer smirked, and said, "Bronwen, white breasts." Bronwen stepped back in alarm, "Excuse me?" The Officer laughed and looked down, "Don't worry sweet cheeks, that's what your name means." "Oh," Bronwen folded her arms and blushed furiously, "I see, and what does your name mean hmm?" "That's easy," the Officer grinned, "It means strength." Bronwen scoffed, "And your name is?" "Why, Arthur Hastings of course," the man winked and held out his hand, "My friends call me Artie." Bronwen sniffed uncomfortably and turned away, "I'm not your friend Mister Hastings." Arthur pulled a face and shrugged, "That's too bad, we could have had fun." "I like to stay professional," Bronwen snapped in reply, wishing that Jack would hurry up, "and besides," she added quickly, "I'm not interested." Arthur raised his hands in mock defence, "Okay, okay, I got it. Though technically I'm no longer working on this case." Bronwen arched an eyebrow, "Meaning?" "Meaning," Artie stepped closer, his stiff uniformed chest pressed against hers, "We're in a hotel room, there's a bed-" "And this is a crime scene," a voice interrupted. Bronwen turned quickly, Jack stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed, "What's going on Inspector?" He asked, "Is this man giving you any trouble?" "Oh, erm no," Bronwen moved away, forgetting about the suitcase behind her. She stumbled a little but managed to regain her balance. "Arthur, I mean, Mister Hastings was just leaving, the Police Force is no longer involved in this case anymore." Jack nodded, stepping further into the room. "Maybe," he said, with a quick glance at the red haired Officer in front of him,"that would be best." Bronwen felt stupid. She'd swore to be and remain professional, but she'd faltered. She herself had not actually made any false movements or said anything out of order,but Arthur had toyed with her, wound her up in his web, and she'd let him, she didn't know what she'd have said or done if Jack hadn't walked in. Bronwen swore silently inside her head and pressed her lips together in a tight line, this was becoming a habit of hers. She was and would never be a floozie, and she wanted Jack to know that. "I wouldn't have done anything," she told him as they walked the almost empty streets of New York, and Jack turned to her and squared his jaw. "I know," he said eventually, and then he paused and hesitated,almost as if he were doubting whether he should say what he said next. "But he would have," he said, and he caught Bronwen's eye and didn't pull away. Bronwen lived in. A small rented house she shared with her friend Annie. Annie had left last month to go care for her sick mother in Denver and Bronwen had enjoyed the quiet and the silent, empty rooms. Bronwen stood in the doorway and watched Jack walk away, it had begun to rain and he walked quickly, his head bent low, his collar pulled up against the wind and the rain. Bronwen slowly shut the door and made sure it was locked, then she dragged herself to the bed. She landed heavily on the mattress, and she realised how exhausted she was. Bronwen stood quickly and drew the curtains closed, grateful for the comforting darkness. This way she did not have to face looking at the thin, spidery scar that traced the skin of her left thigh. Bronwen undressed hurriedly and pulled the covers up to her chin, it was normally that she would fall asleep quite quickly, but tonight, Bronwen was disturbed, her mind wandering, her heart unable to slow down and rest, her body stayed alert. It wasn't until she reached down and pulled her small, hand held revolver under her pillow, did she finally, manage to drift off into a deep, but troubled sleep. The man stood in front of her, a sly grin on his face. He stared at her patiently and laughed. Bronwen swallowed, and fear washed over her body, wrenching at her shoulders, forcing her to stay still, paralysed, frozen and unmoving. The man laughed and walked towards her, his hands caressing her cheeks. "So soft," he murmured, "Very soft," he smiled again and winked, "You're always welcome back you know, you won't stay alive very long but I'll make sure we have some," he paused and caressed her lips, "fun," he added and Bronwen stared back, unable to move and wishing that she could. Then the man reached out and his hands passed over her eyes. When she opened them she was in a bed with another man. It was almost as if she weren't really there, as if she were watching herself from a distance. Bronwen's mirror image let the man beside her roll her over and kiss the arch of her throat, Bronwen moaned and outstretched her arms, feeling for the pistol beneath her pillow. Bronwen watched herself in horror as she pressed the barrel silently and quickly to the back of the man's head. There was a pause and then a bang. The trigger had been pulled. Bronwen watched as blood splattered her face, splashing in her hair and soaking into the bed sheets. Bronwen blinked in surprise, the man was still alive, he loomed over her, his eyes angry. "Bronwen," be said, just once and bent his head and kissed her lips forcibly, the blood staining her lips. Bronwen struggled and pushed him away, staring into the face of Jack Ruben. Bronwen awoke with a start, sweat drenched her face, hair and bed sheets, she kicked them away quickly, wallowing in the cool air and allowing the soft breeze that blew calmly through the crack in her bedroom window to cool her skin, calming her and allowing the fast rapid beats of her heart to slow, gradually becoming normal. "It was just a dream," she muttered to herself, feeling foolish for reacting like that, "It's just a dream," and then she rolled over, burying her face in her pillows, and for once in a long, long time she allowed herself to cry. Chapter Four The next morning was the last day of November and the weather was cold and drizzly, a grey sky cast overhead, framed ungraciously by a bundle of matching grey clouds and a sharp, bitter wind that tugged at ones clothing and tangled in ones hair. Bronwen herself saw herself facing a weather version of herself as she faced the window that morning, buttoning her trench coat to her chin and folding her hands into the soft, warm layers of her cardigan. She was haunted by her dream, it was awkward enough to dream of watching someone she knew die in a dream, but to be killing them herself and kissing them at the same time was drastically awkward and humiliating. Even though Jack would never know of her dream she could still see his face clearly in her mind's eye, feel his hard lips pressed against hers, feel his blood, warm and silky on her skin and in her hair. Facing him today was going to be difficult. Jack stared through the mirror, past himself, past the bed in the background, in his fantasy he could see Katerina, stood by the wall, combing through her long dark hair. She was an Italian beauty, blessed with dark, wild hair, dark curious eyes and olive skin. Her lips were full, her cheekbones sharp. Jack dared not blink for fear that his imagination would fail and Katerina would disappear from view. Today was the 31st November 1936, and today, just two years ago, Katerina had given birth to their still born son and died in the bed they slept in. Jack rubbed his chin dutifully and sighed, his heart ached for his wife with longing. Nathan Malone's office was made of dark Mahogany. A wooden desk sat comfortably by the window, two stiff backed chairs were in front, in a leather, spinning chair sat behind, this is where Nathan sat. He was a large man, with a receding hairline and big eyes like saucers. He looked more like a large baby than a grown man, but his strong broad shoulders and paws like a dog made him look fierce and roguish. Bronwen sat uncomfortably on one of the wooden chairs in front of him, her legs were crossed in a very unladylike manner and she caught Malone's disapproving stare and straightened up. From the corner of her eye she could see Jack sat beside her, he was sat bolt upright, his shoulders squared. His hands draped with little effort, resting solemnly on his knees and every so often his head would bend, but then he'd straighten up once more and face...