He would have taken up the challenge and countered with names of authors he thought worthy, but as soon as he felt her fingers wriggling at his sides, he lost all his composure, batting her hands away and curling up on the couch to try and protect himself from any more torture while he broke into a fit of very un-masculine giggles. "Kit, s-stop!" he stammered amidst the fit of laughter. "I'm ticklish!" Well, that much at least was obvious.

"Excellent!" As soon as he confessed that weakness, she was relentless, cackling happily while virtually crawling on top of him for the best angle to get to the places that made him squirm. He should laugh more often, and if this was the way to do it, Randal was doomed.

"Kit, stop!" he exclaimed, still laughing. He made several unsuccessful attempts to grab her hands, all the while wriggling in an attempt to escape her relentless torture, until at least, he slid down the couch and rolled off, spilling them both onto the floor, where the struggle continued. It was a long time since the house had witnessed such laughter, such happiness as this. It was more accustomed to tears of grief and rage. Even as the sun sank lower in the sky, the happiness inside the house was almost infectious. Randal suddenly found himself on top of Kit, in a rather compromising position and, for the first time since she'd met him, she was accorded the privilege of seeing him blush for the very first time.

She let out a loud shriek of laughter at their tumble, flailing ineffectively when she realized that she was definitely on the losing side of this battle. Pinned to the floor beneath him, she giggled, breathless and affectionate, truly enthralled by his blush. "So you do go pink," she teased gently, wriggling one hand free to trail her fingertips over his burning cheek. "It's very becoming."

"I certainly do not!" he argued, though the lie only made his face flush brighter and hotter. He rolled off her suddenly and sprang to his feet, bare toes wiggling against the carpet and made an attempt to straighten his shirt, as though he was embarrassed or insulted. "It's too warm in here, that is all. And you are a tease!" he added, wiggling an accusatory finger at her, though from the gleam in his eyes, it was clear he wasn't angry.

She giggled, lying back against the carpet as he leaped to his feet as though she'd burned him, suppressing the mild sense of hurt that came with his motion. He was of a different era; she highly doubted he was going to do more than kiss her until they were married, no matter what she did to entice him. "Yes, I am a tease," she agreed cheerfully from where she lay. "And you are a terrible liar, love. Quite charming at it, but also terrible."

He frowned down at her thoughtfully, wondering why he was being so careful. They were going to be married, after all, and the sooner the better, but he was afraid if he got too far ahead of himself, he'd jinx it all somehow, no matter what Isabelle had promised. "You know, I think there's something I need to do," he said abruptly and started toward the dining room.

She blinked, surprised by his sudden retreat. Sitting up, she watched him go, chewing on her lower lip for a moment. Did I do something wrong" "Is everything okay?" she called after him, concern coloring her tone.

"Yes, of course," he replied in his very reserved English voice. "Everything is fine," he called back, his voice fading as his footsteps - even that was a novelty - took him to the dining room and that bloody portrait of Isabelle that no one seemed able to get rid of. He glared up at her, almost as if in defiance of the woman whose likeness was staring back at him. He crossed his arms against his chest as he looked up at her, considering quietly.

Left alone on the living room floor, she argued with herself for a moment. Should she follow him, or should she let him have a few moments to himself" After a long internal battle, concern won out over allowing him privacy, and she pushed herself to her feet, padding quietly in his wake to lean in the doorway. Her eyes switched from Randal to the portrait of Isabelle that no one had been able to take down for almost a hundred years. "Randal?"

"Hmm?" he murmured, distracted from his ruminations by her voice to glance over his shoulder at her. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking about that bloody portrait," he started, turning back to the subject of conversation. "You know, she always hated that portrait. She thought it made her look plain and rather dour."

Tucking her arms about herself, Kit bit down what she might have said, pausing a moment to offer something a little more polite than passing comment on Isabelle's apparent conceit. "It is horrible painting," she agreed quietly. "It doesn't do her justice. Why on earth did she hang it?"

"She didn't. I did," he explained, at least in part. "That face has haunted me for nearly a century, day in and day out, always there, as if she was mocking me with her presence." His back was turned slightly so that she couldn't quite see the expression on his face. His anger toward Isabelle had fractionally cooled, but it still hurt a little to look at that portrait and be reminded of all that had passed between them, good and bad alike. "I should like to take it down, if you don't mind."

"Of course," she nodded, saddened that Isabelle had found some way to come between them on this day, of all days. She deeply despised Randal's former wife, believing her to have been weak and stupid, though she would never express that opinion openly. "I only left it there because you told me to."

"No one has ever been able to take it down," he said, moving closer. He seemed to contemplate the painting another moment, wondering if taking it down would somehow affect the breaking of the curse upon his soul. Perhaps it was better to leave well enough alone for just a little while longer.

She watched him for a moment longer, keeping her eyes averted from the painting for the sake of her temper. "I should make a start on dinner," she offered quietly, pushing out of her lean with a barely perceptible sigh. She wasn't sure how they had gone from relaxed and laughing together, to this.

"Eight hours!" he exclaimed, shocked. What kind of film was eight hours long" It was an almost unbelievable. He found himself wondering how many reels of film it made up an eight hour movie. "Swashbucklers. You mean like The Three Musketeers?" he asked. Was it any surprise that a man so fond of classic literature was familiar with Dumas" He moved along to the couch, making slow but steady progress.

"Sort of," she chuckled. "I'll have to find the Oliver Reed version of that for you. But no, I was thinking more along the lines of The Princess Bride. And before you say it, yes, it is an adaptation of the book."

"The Princess Bride?" he echoed. No, that was not familiar to him. The book had been written too late for him to have ever heard of it. "Is it a chick flick?" he asked, chancing overusing the term a little too much.

She laughed at his continual use of that particular phrase. "Not quite," she told him. "It's more like an adventure story. It should certainly appeal more to you than any Austen I might drag out of my cupboard to torture you with." She kissed his hand, moving to ease him down onto the couch once again with a rueful glimmer in her eyes.

He winced a little as she eased him down on the couch, but made no complaints. He'd suffered far worse than a little bump on the head. "I'm sorry, Kit," he murmured again with a small, sad frown, looking a little too much like a wounded puppy. "I didn't mean to ruin the day. It's just that bloody portrait."

"The day is hardly ruined," she assured him, setting aside her own sense of injustice in favor of making him feel better about his tumble. Perching on the couch beside him, she leaned in, brushing her lips fondly over the little goose-egg on his temple. "It's only ruined if you let yourself get angsty over it. And since you're with me, you just won't be able to do that. You never know when I might get flouncy to raise your mood again." She winked teasingly at him, fairly sure this one was due another blush.

He couldn't help but smile in the wake of such a threat, which didn't sound very unpleasant anyway, except that it could cause them both all kind of awkwardness. He'd never been given much to blushing before, but then, he'd never been with anyone like Kit before either. "I'm all right. This had been the happiest day of my life," he told her, touching his fingers to her cheek, hardly realizing his own mistake in his choice of words.

She smiled tenderly, the tip of her nose brushing against his affectionately. "I love you," she promised him softly. "Now ....do you think you can avoid getting into any fights with the furniture while I put the dinner on?" Her brows rose with comical teasing as she held his gaze.

"I think I can manage," he promised, his fingers tracing her cheek and wandering through her hair. He wanted very badly to kiss her and perhaps do more than that, but for the moment, it hurt too much to move. "I love you, Kit," he told her quietly, turning serious, voice and eyes soft with affection. Who needed food when they had each other"

Her pretty face softened as she kissed him, not needing much more than to be close to him to know that she was happy. One day of him a year, or a lifetime of him, she knew she wouldn't argue with either option, though the latter was infinitely preferable. Her fingers skimmed against his cheek. "I won't be long," she promised him affectionately. "Try not to let the couch tip you off while I'm gone." Giggling, she touched another kiss to the end of his nose, moving to rise from her lean over him.

He lost himself in the kiss a moment, wishing it could go on forever. All too soon, she pulled away, and he reached for her hand, fingers tangling with hers as if he needed to touch her on more time, reluctant to see her go. Was this what it felt like every time he disappeared" It was agony, and yet, she was only going into the kitchen to make them something to eat. He frowned up at her a little, knowing nothing was certain, nothing was permanent. Somehow Isabelle had even managed to ruin the one day a year when he was able to enjoy being alive. "I'll try," he said, for lack of anything else to say.

Kit paused, her hand in his, holding on gently for as long as he needed her to. "I won't be long," she promised him once again, smoothing her fingers through his hair. Gently untangling herself from him, she smiled, easing up from where she sat to go and wrestle with the contents of the kitchen, and though he might have regretted being parted, it wasn't more than a half hour later that they were curled up together once again with bowls of homemade chicken and vegetable soup and a crusty loaf to share. And painkillers, for the bump on his head.

Though she wasn't gone long, it had seemed like hours. Leaving him alone to think was a little dangerous, as he tended to think too much sometimes. At the moment, he was thinking about Isabelle and hoping she had not been lying about the promise she'd made to him and Kit only a few months before. They had heard nothing from her since, and he didn't think the incident with the portrait was a very good sign, but he said nothing to Kit about it, not wanting to worry her.

As to Kit, she had been worrying the same thing, and more. If Isabelle had lied, Kit was going to defile the woman's grave in revenge, having a pretty nasty streak hidden inside her for anyone who was cruel for cruelty's sake. If Isabelle was telling the truth ....that was the more worrying scenario. Because if she was telling the truth, then either the portrait was never coming down, or Randal didn't trust Kit the way he seemed to. She wasn't sure which one of those thoughts was the more painful. She said nothing of it, however, as they ate together, curled up against his side as Westley and Buttercup defied the odds on the screen in front of them.

By the time the movie was over, they were snuggled together on the couch again, safe in each other's arms. With his stomach full and the ache in his head merely dull and annoying, Randal was feeling content once again. He had laughed at the movie, touched by the romance and amused by the humor. They'd never had films like these when he was alive, and he was obviously enjoying the choices she'd made for him. It was true that sometimes he was too serious, and it did him a world of good to laugh for a change. "Do you think they lived happily ever after?" he asked, tangling his fingers in hers for the umpteenth time that day, never seeming to tire of it.

She laughed, shaking her head. "No, not singing and dancing Martians," she assured him. "You never see the Martians at all, you just hear them. It's more along the lines of the story being told by the protagonist in front of the orchestra as it plays the themes that were written. It's difficult to explain -" She broke off at his addendum, dissolving into snickering laughter. "All right, I won't tell you, then!"

"Oh, come now," he said, narrowing his eyes doubtfully at her. "You must be joking! A musical Wizard of Oz is one thing, Jekyll and Hyde is quite another!" It wasn't that he thought she was deliberately lying to him so much as just teasing him. She was laughing, after all.

"No, it really exists," she laughed, shaking her head as she snickered. "I'll find you an old copy of the music sometime. There's a couple of good ballads, I think." Not that the music for Jekyll and Hyde could possibly be considered excellent, by any means.

What next" he thought. Phantom of the Opera" "I should like to hear it," he said, if only to prove that it truly existed. It seemed that his interest in the arts was not confined only to music, but extended to literature and the theater, as well. He glanced at the clock before looking back at her thoughtfully a moment. His allotted twenty-four hours of life were ticking away quickly. Despite the bump on his head, he untangled himself from her embrace to move to his feet, tugging her up with him. "Come with me."

She yelped softly as he rearranged himself, having little option but to find her feet or be dumped on the floor as he pulled her up with him. "I can definitely find you a copy, then," she assured him, dropping the blanket onto the couch as she looked up at her captain, flesh and blood for now and hopefully always. "Where are we going?"

"I want to dance with you," he said, freezing in place. He'd thought to take her to the music room, but he couldn't very well play for her and dance at the same time. "Your grandmother had something like a gramophone that played recorded music," he said, though he wasn't quite sure how it worked.

"And I have a CD player," she told him gently, pointing over his shoulder. "Just over there, in fact." Her smile warmed as she looked up at him. "What did you want to dance to?"

He glanced over his shoulder to where she was pointing, but saw nothing that looked familiar to him that might be used for playing music. He wasn't sure what a CD player was, and even if she'd explained it to him, he wouldn't have understood. "It doesn't much matter," he said, unaware of the kind of thing that passed for music these days.

Kit giggled softly, shaking her head. "Randal ....what would you like to dance to?" she asked him again, stepping around him to open a cupboard and reveal a very impressive CD collection. "Classical, swing, modern pop, jazz, big band ....anything striking your fancy yet?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what that means," he said, turning to follow her movement, feeling rather lonely already without her hand in his. His head throbbed dully, but it wasn't enough to keep him on the couch, it seemed. "I will trust you to choose something appropriate."

"Something appropriate, hmm ..." Her finger trailed the selection, drawing out a Glenn Miller CD that had belonged to her mother until Kit conveniently forgot to give it back. "This is a little after your time, but I think you'll like it," she told him, pressing a button to bring the CD tray out.

He had not been particularly fond of the popular music of his own time, especially that which was produced during the war. Most of it wasn't pretty or romantic or easy to dance to. To his ear, it was shrill and tinny and annoying. He was doubtful he'd like this Glenn Miller person, but he was willing to give it a try. He watched as she pressed a finger to a button, a small black disk in her hand. Was that what passed for recordings these days"

Setting the CD onto the tray, she closed it up again, fiddling for a moment with the settings. If Randal hadn't been paying attention when she set this up, he was going to get a surprise when the music began, seeming to be all around him thanks to the position of the speakers in the room. She straightened up, watching his face as the smooth sound made itself known.

Katherine had played music for him sometimes, but nothing quite like this. He turned, surprised to hear the music coming at him from all directions, almost as if the band was right there in the room with them. Once he was over the initial shock, he let himself appreciate the sound of the music, much different from that of his own era in a good way. "That's lovely," he said, as the first strains of Moonlight Serenade floated through the speakers.

It was a gentle piece of music, easy to listen to and to dance to. "I thought you might like it," Kit offered through her smile, enjoying his reaction from where she stood. "It isn't quite what you're used to, but it isn't that far away from it, either."

"Yes, well, I've never been very fond of the popular music of my own era, I'm afraid," he confessed, looking a little nervous now that the music was playing, though all of this had been his idea. "Shall we, Miss Clarke?" he asked, offering her a hand.

"Well, I'm not dressed for dancing, but all right," she teased, twirling to show off her combat pants before sliding her hand into his. "At least this time I'm not flashing everything in a ridiculously short dress." She laughed at that memory, easing close into him the way she'd wanted to for a very long time.

"Have I ever told you, I rather liked that dress, as scandalous as it was," he admitted, taking her into his arms, one hand at her waist and the other holding her hand, very proper but daringly close. It was strange to feel his heart beating so hard in his chest when he wasn't used to needing a heart at all. He wasn't quite sure what sort of steps went along with the dance. It wasn't quite a waltz, nor was it a foxtrot, but he let the music lead the way and the pace of the steps, all the while holding her close enough that he thought she must feel his heart thumping inside his chest.

Kit giggled quietly as he drew her into a dance she didn't quite know the steps for, following his lead with little difficulty as she leaned into him. "No, I don't think you ever mentioned it," she told him in a musing tone. "Maybe I should I dig it out of my closet some time. It doesn't have to be a witch's costume, after all. And the girls always look good with a corsety kind of boost, I have to admit."

Randal frowned sadly, feeling a mix of disappointment and relief. He wasn't going to lie to her. He wanted her more than anything, needed her, craved her like a drug, but he wasn't about to force the issue. "You don't trust Isabelle either, do you?" he asked, voicing the doubts they both were feeling and fearing. While he was there, made of flesh and blood, it seemed almost unbelievable that he might change back into a ghost at the stroke of midnight, rather like Cinderella fleeing the ball.

Tears rose in her eyes as she shook her head, looking away before he could see just how little trust she had for the woman who had shattered him so completely. "I have no reason to trust her," she admitted reluctantly, biting her lips unhappily. "I'm sorry."

He sighed softly, the moment of passion faded slowly away, though the desire was still there, just beneath the surface. He sensed sadness in her, regret, but if Isabelle had been telling the truth, then they wouldn't just have this one night - they'd have the rest of their lives ahead of them. He touched her cheek to turn her face back toward, remembering how badly he'd wanted to touch her, how hard it had been to wait. If midnight came and he was once again a ghost, it would be very hard to wait another year to touch her again. "This could be our only night together for another year," he reminded her, not wanting to sway her either way, but just wanting to remind her.

"I know." Her voice broke as she spoke, and for a long moment she held her eyes closed, swallowing hard against the urge to cry. "I know," she said finally, easing herself into his arms, pressing her cheek against his chest. "But I know myself, love. I'm very weak, deep down. I wouldn't be able to bear another year without your touch if we do this tonight, and nothing comes of it. I'm so sorry, Randal, I don't mean to be such a ninny."

But he wasn't going to let her off that easily. He needed her to understand something before they decided completely, before they wasted the only possible chance they might have for another twelve months. His fingers brushed her cheek, sensing that she was close to tears, his own heart heavy with worry. Would one night together be better or worse, if Isabelle proved untrue to her word" "I need you to know that no matter what happens, I will always love you. Always. They are not just words, Kit." He reached for a hand and took it between his own, rubbing a thumb against the back of her hand. "My heart belongs to you, forever and always. I shall never love another. Only you."

Guilt spread through her like ice, chilling every part of her but the heart that beat for him, and him alone, hating herself for being too weak to go through with what they both wanted so very badly. "I do believe you," she promised him, each word resonant with fierce fervor. "I do trust you. I love you, Randal. And I don't mean to be cruel, or selfish, or unkind. But I can't do this. Not tonight. Not until I know that you won't be taken away from me."

"Yes," he said, very calmly, almost too calmly, a soft, sad smile on his face. "I just need you to know that I love you, that I will always love you," he repeated, as if it was very important, almost as if everything depended on it. He drew her close then, wrapped up in his arms once more. His gaze darted to the clock again, seeing it was nearly nine. Three more hours until his coach turned into a pumpkin and the horses into mice, so to speak. "What shall we do, my darling?" he asked, softly, letting her decide how they would spend the last three hours of this day.

His calm acceptance of her weakness was almost more than she could take. Why couldn't he get angry with her, scold her, fight for what he wanted over her own desires" Drawn into his arms, she held onto him tightly, never wanting to let him go, too afraid to hope that she might not have to. "I don't know," she whispered to him, feeling very small in the stillness. "I don't want to let go."

"Then don't," he said simply, so close she could feel his breath against her neck as he buried his face in her hair. He was taller than her, much taller, and though he was on the lanky side, he was perfectly solid, made of flesh and blood, muscle and bone - as real and alive as she was. The music had stopped, all on its own, and the room was quiet, the only sound that of their breathing. The moon was starting to rise in the sky, silvery light streaming through the window to illuminate the night. "Perhaps we should just sit together," he suggested. Just sit together, alone in the moonlight, wrapped in each other's embrace. He didn't dare suggest the bedroom, though he would have preferred to lie there in her arms until midnight decided their fate.

She nodded, her eyes closed as she leaned into him, not wanting the embrace to end, even for a moment. With him there in her arms, she could pretend to believe that he would be there in the morning just as he was now - that there was no reason for that strange sense of foreboding that had been trying to settle over her all day. She felt as though the other shoe had yet to drop, every atom tensed for when it finally did. "Just don't let go of me," she whispered longingly.

"I shall never let go of you," he told her quietly, almost afraid to talk, lest he break the spell too soon. "No matter what happens, I will always hold you safe within my heart," he said, his arms folded around her, like the wings of an angel keeping her safe and warm in his embrace.

A clattering thump from the dining room made her stiffen, her head turning toward the doorway with a soft gasp. "What was that?" she asked quietly, raising her eyes toward Randal in concern.

He jerked at the unexpected racket from the next room, shattering the silence, startling him out of his quiet reverie. "I don't know," he replied, with a worried frown on his face. Could it be that ninny Noah trying to find a way into the house to further assault Kit, or was it something else? He wasn't sure, but for some reason, he felt a chill send a shiver up his spine and he found himself shudder with cold.

"I'll check." Her hand stroked down his spine affectionately as she stepped away, reluctant to release him, but needing to make sure there was no unexpected visitor in the house. Barefoot, she moved to the door of the dining room, stepping inside only to stop with a shocked gasp. Isabelle's portrait lay on the floor, propped askew against the wall, with no sign that anything had pulled it free. It had simply ....fallen. And yet, for nearly a hundred years, no one had been able to remove it from the wall.

Confused, Kit returned to the living room. "Randal, the portrait ....Randal?"

Perhaps that chill had been a warning of something to come, but when Kit returned to the living room, she found it strangely empty. The man she had fallen in love with, the man she had promised to spend the rest of her days with - whether they were lived everyday or only one day a year - was nowhere to be seen. Calling for him, searching for him turned up nothing. It was almost as if he had never been there at all.

It didn't stop her from calling, or searching. She went into every room in the house, calling his name, each time a little more panicked, a little more frantic to find him. Not even the music room brought him back, not even playing his favorite tune on the piano. By the time she reached the living room once again, she was in tears, certain that her refusal to make love had somehow destroyed him. In her panic, she ran out to the summer house, heedless of thorns and stones against her bare feet, yelling for him, needing him to give her some sign that he was still there. Always before, though she couldn't see him, she had known he was there, watching over her. But not now. The house, the summer house, all of it ....empty.

For the first time in her life, Kit was truly alone. And the only witness to her heartbroken tears was a fallen portrait, smiling into the night.

((Oh noes! What happened to their happily ever after" How evil are we, huh?))