Glass shattered and rained down throughout the library followed barely an instant later by the sound of wood splitting apart. A man in a grey suit with a red cravat looked up from his book to discover that another man in a sweater and corduroys had crashed through the skylight and lay upon the remains of what had once been a very lovely coffee table. He shook his head and resumed his reading.

Footsteps could be heard running up the stairs. A young woman dashed into the room, blaster drawn. The man did not look up from his book.

“Ah, Daisy,” he said, licking his thumb and turning a page. “Someone here to see you.”

Exasperated, Daisy placed her blaster back in its leather holster.

 “Basil,” she asked, “why is there a man on my coffee table?”

“He appears to have fallen through the skylight and landed there.”

“Why haven’t you done anything about it?”

“It’s my day off.”

“You don’t get days off.”

“I know,” Basil glanced up from his book and smirked. “That is why I had to take one.”

Daisy sighed.  Basil’s smug half-smiles were significantly more enjoyable when one was not the object of their derision.   Though they both knew she had every right to press her point, this was one battle Daisy Fitzgerald McNamara chose not to fight, at least not at this moment.  Ever the woman of action, she knelt beside the fallen man and checked for signs of life.

“He’s breathing,” she said with her ear above the man’s mouth, “and I don’t see much bleeding. Help me take him to Sick Bay.”

Having been Daisy’s First Officer far too many years to any longer be impressed by the graceful manner with which she flung herself into any given fray, Basil had already resumed his reading.

“As he’s likely suffered a head and possibly a neck injury,” he replied dryly, “do you really think it a good idea for us to band together for the purpose of jostling his spine?”

“Fine. Go get Melody and bring her here.”

“I’d love to, but the day off and all.”

Daisy drew her blaster. Basil put down his book.

“Alright. Alright. I’m going.”

As Basil retreated down the stairs and out the front door, Daisy examined their visitor more closely. She rummaged through his pockets and discovered several small metal discs with indentations around their circumference, a rectangular object that appeared to be made of some hard substance and glass, and a leather envelope. She opened the last item and pulled out green papers with pictures of men and bizarre icons. These she pocketed to see what Basil could make of them. The envelope also contained a calling card made out of the same strange material as the rectangular object. The calling card bore a picture; if it was the same man, the card indicated that Martin Hathaway now lay on her floor.

Daisy held it by the unconscious man’s face for comparison.  It was not particularly like. Perhaps the picture was taken when the man was under some duress.  Daisy waved her hand, physically dismissing the conjecture from her mind.  No.  Even with allowances made for the dilation of the pupils and the shocked expression, the man in the picture’s chin was a little too long and his nose was much too prominent for him to ever be described as attractive.  But the man on the coffee table...

Daisy palmed the calling card and turned her head to the side, considering the figure sprawled upon the wreckage.  Attractive was not the proper word, she concluded.  This man was...familiar.  Rapidly, she searched through her memory for some connection to her person.  The effort proved fruitless.  Perhaps one of Sophie’s sketch-books might shed some light on the mystery.   Daisy rose to consult the archives, but was stopped by one of the most pathetic sounds she had heard in over a twelvemonth.

Martin groaned and blinked his eyes. His entire body ached. For a moment, he thought he had gone blind, but he realized he was staring directly into a bright light.  Suddenly, a woman’s face appeared in the light.  No, not in the light. The light was radiating from her. It was woven in her auburn hair; it encircled her head like a halo. She was saying his name.

Oh, no.

“Am I dead?” Martin asked the vision.

She laughed; it was the sweetest sound Martin had ever heard. He was definitely dead, but he was not certain how he had merited a place in heaven.

The laughter subsided, and the woman’s expression sobered considerably.

“You’re not dead,” Daisy replied, pulling her blaster from its holster and pointing it at his face. “Would you like to be?”

“What?”  Martin gave a start and tried to push himself away from the intimidating brass gun that now filled the space where the beautiful woman had been.  “No! No, thank you.  Alive is fine.  Alive is good.”

“Excellent.” She withdrew the weapon and Martin breathed a sigh of relief. Gingerly moving to cause the least amount of pain and touch the fewest bits of broken glass and splintered wood, he sat up and looked about him. The walls of the room were lined with chestnut bookcases, all filled with leather-bound books with brilliant gold lettering on the spines. The intact furniture appeared beautiful but uncomfortable. Martin had seen pieces like them when Hailey had drug him out to antique stores in search of fabulous little items she could up-cycle and list for a fortune on the internet.

“You probably shouldn’t try to move yet,” Daisy advised. “Our CMO should be here soon and she can give you an all-clear.”

“Your what?”

“Our Chief Medical Officer.”

“Oh, right.” Martin rubbed the back of his head. He could feel a very nasty knot forming. “Actually, I think I’m okay. Just a little sore. But I don’t remember hitting a house.  I mean...I remember slipping...and the air was cold and I thought I was going to die...but now it’s warm and I’m on the floor.”

“You might have lost consciousness during the fall.”

Martin nodded. “I must have. How long have I been out?”

“Maybe five minutes.”

That couldn’t be right. It was night when he had...well, he was pretty sure that his condition required more than five minutes recovery time. Judging by the amount of sunlight pouring in through the hole in the ceiling, Martin guessed it was nearing noon now.

He tried to stand but could not find anywhere to put his hands for support that was not covered in broken glass. Daisy took his arm and put it around her shoulder. She wrapped one of her own around his waist and helped him to rise and slowly make his way over to the sofa. The sleeve of her dress was soft in Martin’s hand. He realized it was silk and wondered who on Earth wore silk in the middle of the day.

“Are you a reenactor?” He asked as she lowered him into repose and adjusted a pillow under his head.  She smiled, but she did not reply.   Martin did not mind.  It was a sweet smile.  He thought her mouth might have been a little too small for her face, but when she smiled she seemed...enchanting.   

“I didn’t realize they had a historical house at Eagle’s Peak,” he continued, trying his best to affect half the degree of charm this woman appeared to command.  “I took my students to a couple for field trips. They always try to get the actors to break character, but of course you all are smarter than a bunch of smart-alek kids. Not that that’s hard to be…”

 Martin knew he was babbling. He also knew he was blushing. He was quite certain the neckline on the woman’s dress was not period-accurate, whatever period she was going for.   The effect was enhanced by the woman’s hairstyle which was pinned high upon her head in soft curls, elongating the line of her white throat.  Hailey’s going to kill me if she has to pick me up and this lady is around, Martin thought between awkward stammers.

As the woman continued to smile at him and fuss over his comfort, he knew that if he were not stopped soon, he would continue saying things to her until he had thoroughly exhausted his vocabulary. Luckily, Martin was saved from further verbal embarrassment by the entrance of a man and another woman, this one with a much more acceptable collar.

“Look, Darling,” Basil said, ushering Melody into the library. “The fallen angel I promised you has risen.”

Daisy turned from Martin and held herself straight and tall as her petite frame would allow. “He’s conscious, but I’m afraid he might have some brain damage. He’s flushed and has been speaking nonsense.”

Martin protested that his brain was fine, but he was ignored. Setting her leather bag on the table beside the sofa, Melody pulled out what appeared to Martin to be a brass circle covered in tiny lights. She set it on his head and adjusted the circumference until it matched his own.

“You shouldn’t have moved, poor dear,” she admonished. “Something might have been knocked loose.”

“No really, I’m fine. If I could just use the phone, my friends can come and take me to the hospital. How is this crown supposed to help, by the way?”

“See?” Daisy shook her head. “Nonsense. Be sure you run a thorough scan of his temporal lobe.”

Soon more footsteps were heard on the stairs.  Martin turned his head in hopes that the footsteps might belong to someone, anyone, he recognized.  Melody chided in a soft, lyrical voice that such movement was not yet worth the risk, and she was right.  Two middle-aged men, neither of whom were the least bit familiar to Martin, stepped into the library.   They looked like reenactors as well, and Martin reasoned that they must be playing this bizarre family’s servants, as their costumes were not as fancy as the other three’s.

        Readers of a squeamish disposition are now warned that a lengthy description of appearance and finery is to follow.  If this is not your particular cup of tea, or if you are the sort given to writing strongly worded but little considered internet reviews pointing out minutia like that Martin had no time to make all of the observations that are to come between the appearance of the men in the library and the first man’s salutation, then you are most welcome to skim the text until dialogue and our adventure resumes.

        Martin noted as best he could from his position on the sofa that the two middle-aged men each sported a dark brown bowler hat, on which was a strange round insignia.  The insignia was divided into two hemispheres, the top blue and the bottom green.  Over this a large white daisy had been embroidered.  The insignia was framed once in a deep purple and then once more with gold.   This gave Martin the impression that the two men must be attired in some uniform.  He was almost correct, as the men were dressed nearly identically in buckskin breeches held in place by brown suspenders.  The sleeves of their cotton shirts were rolled up, a detail which, when coupled with the fact that both men were red of face and profusely sweating, indicated that they were until recently engaged in some sort of physical labor.

        The men certainly seemed well cast for their part.  Though they appeared to be at least twenty years his senior, there was no question that they were capable of more heavy lifting than Martin Hathaway had ever thought of doing in his life.  The man on the left’s bicep alone was the size of Martin’s whole face.  

        Though slimmer and taller than the two workingmen, the sandy-haired young man whom Martin would come to know as Basil Underwood was hardly less intimidating.   His grey jacket, waistcoat, and pants were all impeccably tailored, and as he stood leaning with one hand upon a dainty purple chair he looked like an action figure version of whatever historical figure he had been hired to portray.

        Actors, Martin snorted derisively before turning his gaze much more agreeably back to the two women at his side.  Taking them in as one unit, he nearly snorted again, though this time out of amusement.  They reminded him of the good and bad angels which come to sit on cartoon characters’ shoulders in times of moral crises.  

        Doctor Melody Underwood was undoubtedly the good angel, from her modestly coiffed golden hair down to her immaculately polished white boots.  She wore a high-waisted skirt of light green, and upon the lace collar of her blouse she had pinned a brooch of the same insignia as the one on the worker’s hats.  Everything about her dress, manner, and voice begged the word lovely, and Martin Hathaway sheepishly realized that Hailey would not likely appreciate this woman’s presence any more than the other’s, neckline or no neckline.

         As for the other woman, Martin concluded that, bad or good, an angel was still an angel.  Daisy’s blue silk gown had pick-ups of black lace sewn artfully around the ample skirt, raising the hemline to facilitate movement and highlight her black boots.  Martin wondered how one person could look so soft and yet so powerful at the same time.  The effect was mesmerizing, and Martin Hathaway would have found himself blushing and babbling again had not one of the new arrivals cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the room.

“Beg your pardon, Captain,” the man said removing his hat, “but there are Monitors in the Valley, and they say they have a message to deliver to you in person.”

Daisy was poised but puzzled. “You mean there are Monitors at Communication Point, surely, Gilly.”

“No, Miss. In the Valley.” Gilly looked worried, as well he should.

“Then I better see them.”  Efficiently, Daisy addressed her other two subordinates with a slight inclination of her head in each direction.  “Carry on, Melody.  Basil, see what you can do to find out who our visitor is, where he came from, and how he got into my house.”

Basil contemplated the cut of the fingernails on his right hand, his usual method of indicating the tediousness of the Captain’s order, sighing, “I suppose you would not accept his name, that he came from the sky, and that he got into your house via the skylight?”

Daisy flashed Basil a smile that Martin would have thought sinister had it been displayed on a less angelic face.

“Don’t think I won’t stun you in front of your wife, Basil.”

With that, Daisy exited the room followed by Gilly and his companion. Martin had listened carefully to this exchange and wondered if he did, in fact, have a little brain damage.

An astute reader, or even a very dull one who has scanned the book summary, will be aware at this point in our tale that Martin Hathaway is not having what could be described in any sense as a typical day. This was odd indeed, as Martin’s morning had given no indication that the events to follow would be anything other than mundane at best. Quite the reverse, Martin’s day had started in the clichéd manner in which most days on Earth begin: The alarm rang.

        Its shrill, electronic timbre jarred Martin out of what he vaguely remembered as a wonderful dream. He slammed his hand against the bedside table until he located the “off” button and wondered if falling back asleep would take him to wherever it was he had been. Even though he could recall nothing about it other than a general good feeling, Martin knew the dream-place had one distinct advantage over his current reality: there, it was not six in the morning.

 He felt Hailey stir next to him. Reality was not without its perks. Rolling onto his side, Martin cuddled against her and gently placed three kisses on the back of her neck. Hailey murmured something.

“What’s that?” Martin asked.

“I said, ‘You’re going to be late again.’”

With a sigh, Martin rolled away, sat up, and placed his bare feet on the floor. Excepting the bathroom and kitchen, every inch of floor space in his apartment was covered in a soft, white carpet, and yet his feet always felt as if they had turned to ice the second they were put into use. He scurried into the kitchen to prepare the coffee, relying on quick, rapid movements to keep himself warm.

Stepping into the shower, he rejoiced that it could be counted on to be hot, at least for the first five minutes. It could not be said that he enjoyed his ablution, however, as the following mishaps occurred: first, he stepped on Hailey’s razor, which always seemed to find new ways to attack him in the mornings; second, he was required to bend and contort his spine in directions humans were not built to reach as the shower head had been installed at exactly the right height for Hailey’s comfort and the wrong for his; and third, he remembered that today was a Staff Development day.

Someone was always trying to develop Martin Hathaway. His father thought he should man up and make an honest woman out of Hailey. Martin would not be reluctant to do so if Hailey were not so insistent on his raising his ambitions beyond being a mere teacher. His friends were constantly bombarding him with recommendations for how he should invest his money, free time, and immortal soul. Even the concessions man at the movie theater would not get off his case, persuading Martin every time that he really did want to upgrade to the Mega Size for only a quarter more. No one with any degree of acquaintance with Martin Hathaway would accept his assurances that he was quite happy with his life. This was very perceptive of them, since he was not.

Undaunted by the relentless barrage of petty annoyances that comprised his every morning, Martin stepped from the now freezing shower, dried himself, and dressed for the day. He pulled a sweater over his cotton button-down while walking into the kitchen and, consequently, nearly walked straight into Hailey.

“Sorry, Babe,” he said as he kissed her cheek. “How’s the coffee today?”

Hailey took another sip from her mug before answering. “Delicious. As always. I swear, Martin, if you have one talent it’s for coffee.”

Martin grinned. “It’s because I make it with love.”

She rolled her eyes. This exchange had been cute the first few times Hailey had slept over at Martin’s, but having lived with him for the better part of two years, it was starting to get on her nerves. She studied him as he made his daily PopTart and poured half of the remaining coffee into a travel mug. Earlier that month she had persuaded him to let his hair grow out a little. She had seen the cutest photos of his high school days at a visit to his mother’s, and she had been convinced that if he let his hair curl like that again he would be perfectly acceptable to be seen with her at dinners with clients. Now she wondered if it made him look a little too much absent-minded-professor and not enough up-and-coming-administrator.

“You know your principal would take you more seriously if you wore a blazer instead of a sweater every day.”

Martin laughed with the PopTart in his mouth, spraying crumbs across the counter. “I don’t want him to take me more seriously. Then he’d give me more to do.”

“But that’s just what you need. I know you, and you’re bored. You need a challenge. Iron sharpens iron, after all.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means what you choose it to mean. Words are merely an outward expression of our inner monologue. When I saw that phrase on Pinterest the other day I instantly knew it was speaking your voice. We both know you need more to do than lecture to snotty kids all day.”

“I like to think I do a little more than that,” Martin said as he slung his messenger bag full of graded papers over his shoulder. “Though, I won’t today. Today, I’ll have snotty kids for half, then mind-numbingly insipid PowerPoint presentations for the rest of it. Wish me luck.”

Hailey did, and then reminded him that, if nothing else, he had something to look forward to after work.

“You’re right,” he said cheerfully, pretending not to catch her meaning. “It’s Ryan’s bachelor party tonight.”

That was not what Hailey had in mind. Swallowing down her annoyance and speaking as one would to a child who refuses to put away his toys and come to the dinner table, she replied, “No, it’s Nadya’s opening at the gallery tonight, and then the after-party at The Garage. We talked about this all week.”

“Right again.”  Martin’s smile was fixed now in an expression of willful good humor. “And I told you all week that I’m not going, because I have plans with Ryan. He is my best friend. I am his best man. I planned this camping trip longer than Nadya’s been an artist, and I’m not missing it.”

“Ryan is a vulgar, classless loser. You haven’t spent time with him in two years.”

“All the more reason why I’m not letting him down tonight.”

If Hailey were to make a list of all the traits she admired in Martin, assertiveness would not have been on it. His pliability was the strongest factor keeping them together after the initial rush of attraction had gone. It infuriated her to see a defiant Martin, mainly because she did not know how to handle him.

“Listen,” she thrust a finger at his chest. “Tonight, I’m going to the gallery and drinking lots of wine. Then, I’m going out for dancing and cocktails. At 3, I’m going home with someone. You can be that someone, or you can snuggle in the dirt with Ryan.”

Martin was not practiced in holding his ground. He was also late for work. “We’ll talk about this when I get home,” he said and walked out the door.

Hailey was going to talk about this now. She flung herself onto the couch, opened her laptop, and left an angry post on the Young Feminist Professionals Forum. Having vented, she poured herself a second cup of coffee and waited for the first response.

Damn it, she thought. His coffee is delicious.

“Mr. Hathaway, are we boring you?”

        Martin gave a start and looked up. “No, Dr. Avery. Just concentrating on my notes.” He moved his arm to cover the elaborate sketch of a wide-mouthed Principal Avery swallowing him whole, just in case the copiousness of his note-taking would be called into question.

        “Excellent. Then can you remind us what the most important factor in classroom management is?”

        “Engaged time?”

        “Teacher presence, Mr. Hathaway. Teacher presence. Nothing is more important to the maintenance of order than teacher presence. And why is that?”

        “Because if you aren’t in the room the kids can run wild?”

        Dr. Avery shook his enormous head and sighed as if every ounce of his compassion was at this moment engaged in pitying Mr. Hathaway. Luckily, Mr. Rice, Martin’s Department Chair and mentor, came to his rescue.

“Teacher presence is who we are in the classroom. It’s the non-verbal expression of our expectations for student behavior.” Dr. Avery thanked him for his presence that day and began his summation of the importance of the preservation of order. When the principal had wandered sufficiently far as to be out of earshot, Mr. Rice leaned towards Martin and whispered, “It’s also all we’ve been talking about since 1:30.”

“Sorry.” Martin genuinely was. Earlier that morning he had chastised a freshman for doodling instead of filling out the note-taking guide Martin had painstakingly prepared the day before. “My mind’s not really been here today.”

“Big plans for the weekend?”

“Several, actually.”

Their conversation was interrupted when the principal strode back towards their table. He stopped close to Martin’s side and said to the room, “Now perhaps Mr. Hathaway can tell us what management technique I’m currently demonstrating.”

“Proximity control, Dr. Avery.”

“Very good, Mr. Hathaway. And I thought you had left for the weekend already.”

Martin climbed the stairs to his apartment two at a time. He had stopped by the florist’s on his way home from work and picked up a bouquet of gerbera daisies that he intended to have properly displayed in a vase on the table when Hailey returned. If that did not get him out of hot water for abandoning her for the next forty-eight hours, he would have to formulate an escape plan.

        Any hopes Martin still retained for reconciliation were dashed when he reached his door. There were two piles stacked in the hall. One was comprised of his overnight bag and camping gear. The other was the neatly folded clothes he typically wore when out with Hailey and her clients. An envelope bearing his name was taped to the door. Reluctantly, Martin opened it and took out the enclosed note. It read:

Dear Jerkface,

Guess who left his house keys in the apartment again today. Don’t worry; I have them. They are in the handbag I will be taking to Nadya’s opening tonight at 8:00. If you would like them back, I suggest you arrive suitably attired. If not, I hope you packed all your camping shit already, because you’re only getting what’s outside.

Hugs & Kisses,

Hailey

PS--If anything in the hall got stolen while we were at work, it’s not my problem.

“Oh, Martin, you shouldn’t have. These are so pretty. How did you know I love daisies?”

         “Lucky guess,” Martin smiled sheepishly.  Perking up, he asked, “Is our boy ready?”

“All set!” Ryan stepped out of the house and bid his fiancée adieu for the next two days.

She waved at them with one hand, the other clutching the bouquet. “Bring him back in one piece!” she called as they made their way to the car.

“Will do!” Martin promised.

He stuffed Ryan’s gear in the trunk of his car alongside his own and those of their friends Kyle and Zac. Food and booze, the other staples of any great male bonding trip, were in the second vehicle driven by the aforementioned friends. Martin got into the driver’s seat, backed out into the street, and set course for Eagle’s Peak State Park.

“Aren’t you a little overdressed for camping?” Ryan inquired of Martin’s apparel.

“It was this or a velvet blazer.”

“You own a velvet blazer?”

“Hailey found it at some vintage place. Apparently it looks cool because it’s ironic.” Martin explained the reason he had not changed out of his teacher clothes. Ryan rightly conjectured that his story also explained the presentation of flowers to his fiancée, though he was not one to look a gift-Martin in the mouth.

“Did you finally tell her about Tuesday Poker night?”

Martin reddened. “No, she still thinks I’m taking classes to add endorsements to my license.”

“Are you kidding me? You’ve been sneaking around for two years and she finally kicked you out just because of a camping trip?”

“I haven’t been sneaking around. I’m going out with the guys, not other girls. And she didn’t kick me out. We can get past this. She’ll cool off by Sunday.”

Ryan was not convinced. “Why do you even want her to cool off? Anyone who locks you out for having friends has to be bat-shit crazy.”

“Hailey’s the best thing that ever happened to me. We’ll work it out.”

 “Dude, maybe it’s time something else happened to you.”

Ryan was a man of honor and principle. Even though it was technically his big night to drink too much and get into stupid shenanigans, he made sure that, after establishing camp and building a fire, Martin consumed the right amount of alcohol to curse Hailey but not enough to cry about her. Unfortunately, it had been a long time since Martin Hathaway had gotten good and properly drunk, and he responded to the feeling and the freedom much like a collegiate attending his first party. Initially he was hilarious, but shortly his friends found themselves stumbling after and yelling for him to stop climbing on things.

        “Martin, you asshole,” Zac called as Martin scrambled up the side of the naturally sculpted rock that formed the eagle’s head of Eagle’s Peak, “if you die I’m taking Hailey out.”

“God, it’s brilliant up here.” Martin held his hands aloft and looked out over the great expanse of earth below him. “I’m going to fly.”

“Shit, he is going to die.” Ryan tried to climb up after him, but he was not nearly as fit and had never been as nimble as his friend.

“Effyou, Ryan,” he slurred. “I’m not going to die. I’m going to fly.”

“Dipshit, you can’t fly. Hell, you can’t even cuss right. How could you fly?”

“I can fly. You’re the one who can’t fly. You’re…” But his friends never found out what cutting epithet Martin had devised to apply to Ryan. Martin slipped, tumbled over the side of Eagle’s Peak, and disappeared with a scream. His friends scrambled to the edge in horror. It was a clear night and they could see all the way down to the river that rushed below, but they could find no sign of Martin.

 Suffice it to say, Martin Hathaway could not fly, and today really was not his day.