The dress is beautiful and perfect and it's been waiting for Donna since the first Bartlett campaign, ever since she left Wisconsin the second time. The label reads MAB, an increasingly sought after designer, who didn't exist when it was made ten years ago, and no one believes her when she tells them she has no idea where it came from, or that she never had a fitting. It hits the cover of every fashion magazine she's ever read and a few she hasn't and she has to convince Josh that suing their photographer can wait until after the honeymoon.
To Donnatella, because some things are meant to be.
The box was the first thing Oliver Queen looked for when he stepped in to his old room in the Queen house for the first time in two years. It was long, thin, pale grey with a dark red ribbon, and having been delivered minutes before he left for the marina, imagining its contents had been a common past time on the island. He lifted the lid and shifted aside the layers of tissue paper. Oliver sat, staring, for almost fifteen minutes before taking it out of the box. A recurve bow. Matt black, more than a metre long, it was like a shadow given shape, given an edge. He pulled a quiver from the box, drew an arrow from it. The tip glimmered softly, dangerously, in the dim light. Green.
Oliver, for every target there is an Arrow.
Sixteen was a traditional birthday in the Plum house. When Stephanie turned 16, she got diamond earrings. Valarie received a string of pearls. Angie un-wrapped a gold charm bracelet. On the day of her 16th, Mary Alice was just sitting down to breakfast when a yellow Porsche was parked at the curb, and the keys handed over. The card read;
To my favouritest long-lost cousin, Because 500 horsepower is the only way to go.
Mary Alice Whitlock.
Patrick Jane isn't psychic. He doesn't read minds, or talk to dead people, or see the future. Few people had ever asked about seeing the past. The building's largely empty when the package arrives, most of the agents gone home for the night. It's bigger than a breadbox, a little taller than it is deep, with a dark red bow on top. Jane sees it when he turns the card over to read it. A pale, dark-haired woman, smiling as she rips someone's head off his shoulders. Blood, everywhere. Lisbon finds him ten minutes later, with his head between his knees.
Dear Patrick, To make up for not seeing.
There's a small crest hanging on a nail next to his door when Harry returns home after what had been a very long day. Silver on black, an open hand, over a guarding lion, with three clovers. For a moment, Harry wishes he'd actually paid attention in Bob's heraldry lessons. He checks the wards, but they haven't been touched. An envelope has been pushed under the door. Inside, there's a note and a smaller version on the crest outside, small enough to hang off his sheild bracelet. The note reads;
Not all your Talent comes from your mother's side.