Two Years Later
The Wayne Manor playroom bore all the hallmarks of what Martha Wayne fondly referred to as "tactical parenting through strategic over-investment and the deliberate application of excessive resources." Every corner had been engineered by a team of child safety specialists who'd approached their task with the sort of methodical thoroughness usually reserved for designing nuclear facilities, while simultaneously ensuring that the space contained enough educational stimulation to qualify as a small but well-funded university's developmental psychology laboratory.
The morning light streamed through tall windows that had been fitted with specially designed safety glass—because apparently even the sunlight in Wayne Manor required security clearance—casting warm patterns across imported Italian marble floors that had been covered with the softest, most expensive play mats money could procure and engineering could devise.
Alfred Pennyworth stood with military precision near the window, his silver hair immaculately styled despite the early hour, reviewing what appeared to be the day's schedule on his tablet while actually maintaining the sort of vigilant surveillance that would have impressed MI6's finest operatives. His dark suit was pressed to perfection, his shoes polished to mirror brightness, and his bearing suggested a man who could transition seamlessly from serving afternoon tea to conducting advanced interrogations without so much as loosening his tie.
At two years old, both Wayne heirs had developed into precisely the sort of children who required constant professional supervision—not because they were particularly destructive, though they certainly possessed the Wayne family's genetic predisposition toward creative chaos, but because they demonstrated an alarming tendency to treat their carefully controlled environment as a series of fascinating puzzles that existed solely to be solved, circumvented, or completely reimagined.
Bruce Wayne sat cross-legged on the Persian carpet with the sort of focused intensity usually reserved for chess grandmasters contemplating their opponent's inevitable defeat. His dark hair fell across those startling blue eyes as he worked with building blocks, constructing what appeared to be less a child's tower and more an architectural blueprint rendered in primary colors. Every few minutes, he would pause, tilt his head with the calculation precision of an engineer evaluating structural integrity, then make minute adjustments with movements so deliberate they seemed choreographed.
"Master Bruce appears to be designing something that bears a disturbing resemblance to a fortified position," Alfred murmured to himself, making a mental note to perhaps introduce the boy to less militaristic building options. "Though I must admit, his understanding of defensive architecture is quite impressive for someone who's only recently mastered walking without assistance."
Hadrian Wayne, meanwhile, had abandoned his own construction project in favor of conducting what appeared to be an intense psychological warfare campaign against a toy train that had somehow migrated to the bookshelf during the night. The bright red locomotive sat approximately four feet above the carpet, well beyond the reach of small hands, perched on the mahogany shelf like an expensive ornament that had developed delusions of grandeur.
Alfred had begun documenting these sorts of incidents with increasing frequency. Objects appearing in impossible locations overnight, toys moving when no one was watching, lights flickering in response to what seemed to be Master Hadrian's emotional states. Nothing dramatically supernatural—no explosions of mystical energy or floating furniture that would have required calling in specialists—but a pattern of small impossibilities that accumulated like evidence in a particularly puzzling investigation.
The boy himself seemed either blissfully unaware that anything unusual was occurring, or perhaps he simply accepted these minor miracles as perfectly reasonable aspects of daily life, the way children accepted that adults made incomprehensible rules about bedtimes and insisted on vegetables as though they were somehow beneficial rather than clearly designed as punishment.
"Train," Hadrian announced with the sort of imperial authority that suggested he'd been born expecting immediate compliance with his clearly stated requirements and had yet to encounter evidence that the universe might disagree with this assessment.
The train, displaying either admirable independence or complete ignorance of proper social hierarchy, remained exactly where it was, looking smugly inanimate and thoroughly uncooperative.
Hadrian's expression shifted through several phases of emotion with the sort of dramatic flair that would have made West End actors weep with envy. Imperial expectation gave way to mild puzzlement, then to focused irritation, and finally to the sort of concentrated determination that Alfred had learned to recognize as a precursor to interesting developments.
Those remarkable green eyes—so like his mother's, but somehow carrying depths that seemed inappropriate for someone who'd only been breathing independently for two years—narrowed with laser-like focus. His small hands clenched into determined fists, and Alfred could practically feel the waves of willful intent radiating from the child like heat from a furnace.
"Oh dear," Alfred muttered under his breath, discretely adjusting his position to ensure he had an unobstructed view of whatever was about to unfold. "Master Hadrian appears to be marshaling his resources for what I suspect will be a rather unorthodox solution to his current logistical challenge."
"Train," Hadrian repeated, his voice carrying the sort of crisp command that generals used when ordering strategic advances and CEOs employed when announcing hostile takeovers. There was something in his tone that suggested he'd moved beyond mere requesting into the realm of cosmic imperative.
And then, with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever, the train began to move.
Not dramatically—there were no mystical sound effects, no shimmering lights or otherworldly music that might have accompanied such an event in a film about supernatural phenomena. The red locomotive simply began sliding across the polished mahogany surface with deliberate, purposeful motion, as though it had suddenly remembered an important appointment and was determined not to be late.
It reached the edge of the shelf, paused there for a moment like a diver contemplating the perfect entry, then gently lifted into the air with the sort of graceful buoyancy usually associated with soap bubbles or particularly well-trained birds. The train floated downward in a gentle arc, rotating slowly to present itself at the optimal angle, before settling into Hadrian's outstretched hands with the precision of a military airdrop conducted by the universe's most competent logistics team.
Hadrian's face lit up with pure satisfaction, the sort of radiant joy that suggested this outcome had been not only expected but inevitable. He immediately became absorbed in pushing the train around the carpet, making soft "choo-choo" noises with the sort of intense focus he brought to all activities that captured his interest.
Bruce, Alfred noted with the sort of professional detachment that came from years of observing Wayne family dynamics, had paused in his architectural endeavors to witness the entire supernatural logistics operation. Those sharp blue eyes tracked every moment with clinical precision, his expression thoughtful but notably unsurprised. After watching his brother's telekinetic success, Bruce simply nodded once—as though confirming a hypothesis about the nature of reality—and returned to his blocks with renewed concentration.
"Fascinating," Alfred murmured, maintaining his carefully neutral expression while his mind catalogued the implications with the sort of systematic thoroughness that had served him well in previous careers that officially didn't exist. "Master Bruce appears to have filed away his brother's demonstration of impossible physics as simply another interesting data point about their shared domestic environment. The Wayne family's capacity for adapting to unusual circumstances clearly manifests at a remarkably early age."
He glanced up at the discrete security camera mounted in the corner of the playroom—a small, professional-grade device that was part of the comprehensive surveillance system Thomas had insisted upon installing throughout Wayne Manor. Because apparently, Wayne family paranoia extended to maintaining detailed documentation of their own children's activities, either for security purposes or what Alfred suspected might be a growing archive of evidence for future blackmail opportunities.
The little red recording light glowed steadily, indicating that every moment of Master Hadrian's casual defiance of Newton's laws had been faithfully captured in high-definition for posterity and potential future bewilderment.
"Master Thomas is going to find this development absolutely riveting," Alfred reflected, already anticipating his employer's reaction to evidence that the universe was once again failing to conform to his carefully maintained rationalist worldview. "Though I suspect Madam Martha will find it considerably more amusing than alarming, knowing her particular appreciation for cosmic ironies and supernatural complications that confound conventional wisdom."
The remainder of the afternoon proceeded without further demonstrations of paranormal logistics, though Alfred observed that Master Hadrian had developed what appeared to be strategic interest in various objects positioned just beyond normal reach, while Master Bruce seemed to be conducting systematic observations of his brother's interactions with their environment, as though collecting data for a comprehensive report on household anomalies and their practical applications.
"The Wayne family," Alfred mused as he supervised their afternoon snack with military precision, ensuring optimal nutrition delivery while maintaining surveillance protocols, "continues to exceed even my most creative expectations. At two years of age, they're already demonstrating more complexity than most adults I've encountered in distinctly challenging professional circumstances."
---
Three hours later, Alfred approached the door of Martha's private sitting room with the sort of discrete precision that had served him well in various previous occupations that remained classified at the highest levels of government security. He knocked with exactly the right amount of professional courtesy mixed with subtle indication that this visit concerned matters of considerable import.
"Come in, Alfred," came Martha's voice, rich with the sort of anticipation that suggested she'd been expecting precisely this sort of interesting development and had been looking forward to whatever delightful complications were about to unfold in her perfectly ordered world.
Martha Wayne at twenty-eight was, Alfred had to admit, a woman who could have conquered small nations through sheer force of personality and strategic application of devastating charm. She was seated behind her antique French writing desk—a piece that had probably witnessed the planning of several historical conspiracies and at least one minor revolution—with the sort of perfect posture that suggested expensive finishing schools, professional training in psychological manipulation, and the quiet confidence that came from knowing she could reduce most world leaders to stammering confusion with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and strategic smile.
Her dark hair was swept back in a style that appeared effortlessly elegant but had probably required considerable professional assistance and at least forty-five minutes of strategic engineering. She wore what seemed to be a simple silk blouse in deep emerald—a color that perfectly complemented those extraordinary eyes—but Alfred's trained assessment suggested it had cost more than most people's monthly salary and had been tailored by someone who understood that true luxury lay in making the expensive look deceptively simple.
The fact that she'd chosen to marry Thomas Wayne said fascinating things about both of them, Alfred reflected. Neither was the sort of person who accepted anything less than exactly what they wanted from life, the universe, and their carefully selected romantic partnerships.
"Indeed, Madam," Alfred replied, stepping into the room with practiced grace while discretely ensuring the door closed with exactly the right amount of finality to suggest this conversation would remain confidential. "I believe you'll find this afternoon's surveillance footage both illuminating and... shall we say... cosmically relevant to certain ongoing discussions regarding the nature of reality and rational thinking."
Martha's eyes immediately lit up with the sort of predatory interest that had probably convinced Thomas Wayne to propose marriage within six months of meeting her, recognizing both a worthy intellectual opponent and a woman who could make his life significantly more interesting in ways that would either elevate him to greatness or drive him to fascinating forms of madness.
"Oh, Alfred," she purred, leaning back in her chair with the sort of languid grace that suggested she was settling in to savor whatever delicious complications were about to be revealed, "please tell me that one of my darling sons has done something wonderfully impossible that's going to give Thomas one of those adorable philosophical crises where he questions everything he believes about the fundamental nature of existence."
"I believe, Madam, that would be an exceptionally accurate assessment of the current situation," Alfred replied, producing his tablet with the sort of technological competence that would have surprised anyone who still thought of him as merely a traditional British manservant rather than a man whose skill set included advanced surveillance techniques, strategic information management, and the ability to document supernatural phenomena with professional thoroughness.
"Master Hadrian appears to have developed some rather... unconventional... approaches to problem-solving that may require us to reconsider certain assumptions about the laws of physics and their practical applications in our domestic environment."
Alfred navigated to the relevant footage with practiced efficiency, his fingers moving across the screen with the sort of precise competence that came from years of managing complex technological systems under pressure. The playroom's high-definition cameras had captured every detail with crystal clarity—the afternoon light streaming through the windows, the careful arrangement of toys and furniture, and most importantly, every moment of Master Hadrian's casual demonstration that the universe was apparently more flexible than most people assumed.
Martha watched with growing fascination as the scene unfolded—her son's imperial demand for his train, the focused concentration that seemed inappropriate for a two-year-old, and then the object's leisurely flight through the air in cheerful defiance of several fundamental principles of Newtonian mechanics.
"Oh my God," she breathed, then immediately began laughing with the sort of genuine delight that suggested she found the universe's various impossibilities not only thoroughly entertaining but personally amusing. It was the laugh of someone who'd always suspected that reality was far stranger than most people were prepared to admit, and was absolutely delighted to have her suspicions confirmed in such a dramatically entertaining fashion.
"Oh, this is perfect," she continued, replaying the footage with obvious glee. "This is absolutely bloody perfect. Alfred, this is the most wonderfully impossible thing I've ever seen, and I once watched Thomas convince a room full of international financiers to invest in a business plan he'd written on cocktail napkins during a three-martini lunch."
"I thought you might find it... noteworthy, Madam," Alfred replied with the sort of careful understatement that had served him well in various previous careers where describing situations as 'noteworthy' usually meant that something had exploded, someone had died, or the fundamental nature of reality had been called into question.
"Noteworthy? Alfred, this is hilarious." Martha replayed the footage again, her smile growing wider with each viewing as she absorbed the full implications of what she was witnessing. "Look at his face! He's so completely matter-of-fact about it, as though summoning objects through pure force of will is perfectly standard behavior for a Tuesday afternoon. There's no surprise, no confusion, no 'oh my goodness, how did that happen?' He just expects the universe to comply with his requirements, and apparently, the universe has decided to be accommodating."
"Indeed, Madam. Master Hadrian displayed no apparent surprise at the successful completion of his... request. One might almost think he's been conducting similar experiments for some time and has simply grown accustomed to positive results."
"And Bruce!" Martha exclaimed, pointing at her other son's reaction with obvious delight. "Look at Bruce's response—or rather, his complete and utter lack of surprise. He watches the whole thing like he's documenting a scientific experiment, files it away as another piece of interesting information about his brother's capabilities, and then goes back to his architectural projects as though telekinesis is simply another household skill, like walking or talking or knowing which spoon to use for dessert."
Her tone suggested she found this development not concerning but absolutely delightful, as though her sons' casual relationship with supernatural phenomena was exactly the sort of thing she'd been hoping they'd inherit along with the Wayne family fortune and predisposition toward attracting impossible complications.
"These children are going to be the absolute death of me," she continued, though her voice carried the sort of fond anticipation that suggested she was looking forward to whatever cosmic chaos they were going to generate over the coming years. "They're two years old, Alfred. Two. And they're already treating violations of basic physics like minor household inconveniences that can be resolved through proper application of willpower and strategic determination."
"Shall I inform Master Thomas about this afternoon's... developments... Madam?" Alfred inquired with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he had strong opinions about how Thomas Wayne might react to evidence that his carefully ordered rationalist worldview was about to encounter significant challenges.
Martha's expression shifted from delighted amusement to something that could only be described as magnificently predatory, taking on the sort of strategic gleam that had probably been responsible for several international incidents and at least one minor diplomatic crisis during her previous career in whatever shadowy organizations had trained her to be quite so devastatingly competent.
"Oh no, Alfred," she purred, rising from her chair with the sort of fluid grace that suggested expensive dance training, advanced martial arts instruction, and possibly professional experience in activities that required moving silently through dangerous environments. "Oh no, no, no. I have a much more entertaining idea."
"Indeed, Madam?" Alfred replied, recognizing the particular tone that preceded Martha's most creatively complex social maneuvers—the ones that invariably left their targets thoroughly outmaneuvered, somehow grateful for the privilege, and usually questioning several fundamental assumptions about their place in the universe.
Martha began pacing around her sitting room with the sort of restless energy that suggested she was formulating plans that would be both brilliant and potentially catastrophic for everyone involved, particularly her unsuspecting husband and his carefully maintained philosophical equilibrium.
"Thomas is always lecturing people about rational explanations for everything, isn't he?" she mused, her voice taking on the sort of thoughtful tone that usually preceded devastating strategic insights. "How there's no such thing as magic, how everything can be explained through proper application of science and logic and sufficiently advanced technology. Remember his charming little speech at the Founders' Day gala last month about 'primitive thinking' and 'superstitious nonsense' being the refuge of 'intellectually underdeveloped minds'?"
Alfred's expression suggested he remembered that particular evening quite clearly, along with its various implications about the mental capacity of anyone who believed in supernatural phenomena, unexplained mysteries, or anything that couldn't be reduced to mathematical equations and peer-reviewed scientific papers.
"I believe Master Thomas's exact words were 'Any sufficiently advanced technology will appear magical to those lacking proper scientific education and rational thinking capabilities,' Madam. He was quite... comprehensive... in his assessment of alternative worldviews."
"Exactly!" Martha's eyes sparkled with the sort of mischievous delight that suggested she was about to orchestrate something that would be remembered for years and discussed in hushed tones at dinner parties throughout Gotham's social elite. "And wasn't he just holding forth last week about how Giovanni takes all that stage magic nonsense far too seriously? How it's simply elaborate tricks and theatrical illusion designed to exploit people's natural tendency toward magical thinking and gullible acceptance of impossible explanations?"
"Master Thomas has indeed expressed considerable... skepticism... regarding Mr. Zatara's professional interests and public performances, yes. I believe he referred to stage magic as 'sophisticated psychological manipulation disguised as supernatural entertainment for people who prefer mystery to understanding.'"
Martha clapped her hands together with obvious delight, the sound sharp and decisive like a general calling troops to attention for an assault on enemy positions.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect." Her smile was developing dimensions that would have concerned anyone familiar with her capacity for elaborate social engineering and strategic psychological warfare disguised as dinner party entertainment. "Giovanni and little Zatanna are supposed to visit next Thursday, aren't they? For dinner?"
"Yes, Madam. Thursday evening at seven o'clock. I believe the menu has been planned to include Mr. Zatara's preferred wine selection and dietary accommodations."
"Wonderful. Alfred, I want you to ensure that this footage—" she gestured toward the tablet with the sort of theatrical flourish that suggested expensive drama training "—is available for convenient viewing during the evening's entertainment. Something discrete but easily accessible. Perhaps cued up on the television system in the study, ready to be displayed when we're having our after-dinner coffee and brandy."
"A multimedia presentation of this afternoon's supernatural logistics demonstration, Madam?"
"Exactly. A little show-and-tell session that's going to provide Thomas with exactly the sort of educational experience he's been claiming other people need." Martha's grin was taking on proportions that suggested she was contemplating not just a simple prank but a comprehensive philosophical intervention designed to fundamentally alter her husband's relationship with reality. "And absolutely do not mention anything to Thomas beforehand. Let it be a complete surprise—the sort that makes people reconsider their most basic assumptions about how the universe operates."
Alfred's expression suggested he was beginning to appreciate the full scope and potential consequences of Martha's intended operation, and found it both admirably creative and potentially devastating for Thomas Wayne's carefully constructed worldview and professional reputation as a rational skeptic.
"And Master Hadrian's developing... capabilities... Madam? Should we perhaps consider consulting someone with specialized expertise in unusual childhood development and supernatural phenomena? Someone who might provide guidance on nurturing such talents safely and appropriately?"
Martha paused in her strategic pacing, turning to face Alfred with the sort of thoughtful expression she brought to genuinely important decisions—the kind that affected not just immediate entertainment but long-term family welfare and cosmic implications.
"Well, Alfred, if I'm right about what this represents—and I strongly suspect I am, given Giovanni's tendency to drop hints about things that go considerably beyond traditional stage magic and theatrical illusion—then Thursday's dinner should provide us with exactly the sort of expert consultation and professional guidance we need."
"You believe Mr. Zatara will possess relevant insights into Master Hadrian's emerging talents, Madam?"
"Alfred," Martha said, settling back against her desk with the sort of confident relaxation that suggested she'd just solved several complex problems simultaneously, "I believe Giovanni Zatara is going to take one look at this footage and confirm every suspicion I've ever had about why Thomas's rationalist worldview keeps encountering inexplicable complications and impossible coincidences."
She paused, her smile taking on additional layers of anticipation and what could only be described as loving mischief.
"And I believe my dear, brilliant, thoroughly rational husband is going to experience exactly the sort of philosophical crisis that makes for excellent dinner party entertainment and long-term personal growth through strategic exposure to cosmic humility."
"And if Master Thomas doesn't respond well to these revelations, Madam? If he finds the adjustment... challenging?"
Martha's expression softened slightly, taking on the sort of fond exasperation mixed with absolute confidence that suggested she knew exactly how her husband would react and loved him enough to put him through it anyway.
"Alfred, Thomas Wayne has successfully navigated hostile corporate takeovers conducted by international criminal organizations, managed complex business negotiations with people who literally feed opponents to exotic animals, and survived Gotham's most dangerous social circles without losing either his fortune or his sanity." Her voice carried the sort of warm affection that came from years of watching someone face impossible challenges and emerge victorious through sheer bloody-minded determination. "I think he can manage learning that his son has inherited some rather unconventional family traits and that the universe is significantly stranger than his Harvard MBA program prepared him to understand."
She moved to the window, looking out at the perfectly manicured Wayne Manor grounds with obvious satisfaction.
"Besides, it's not as though this is the most unusual thing that's ever happened to a Wayne family member. We're remarkably adaptable people when circumstances require creative thinking and rapid adjustment to new paradigms. Thomas will be fine—better than fine, actually. He'll be fascinated once he gets past the initial shock of having his foundational beliefs about reality systematically demolished by his own child's casual magic tricks."
"Indeed, Madam. Shall I make any special arrangements for Thursday's dinner party?"
"Just ensure we have excellent brandy, Alfred. The very best we have—probably that bottle of Hennessy Paradis that Thomas has been saving for 'truly special occasions.' I suspect he's going to need it, and discovering that your son can manipulate matter through pure willpower definitely qualifies as sufficiently special to justify opening our most expensive alcohol."
"Very good, Madam. And if Master Hadrian demonstrates any additional... developments... between now and Thursday evening?"
Martha's grin returned to full magnificent intensity, suggesting she was hoping for exactly that sort of escalation.
"Document everything, of course. The more evidence we accumulate, the more comprehensive Thomas's education is going to be, and the more entertaining his reaction will become. I want a complete archive of impossible incidents to present to our guests."
As Alfred prepared to leave, arranging for what promised to be a dinner party that would be remembered for decades throughout Gotham's social circles, Martha returned to her desk with obvious satisfaction. She pulled out her personal correspondence materials—heavy cream paper with the Wayne family crest embossed in gold, the sort of stationery that announced its sender's importance before a single word was read—and began composing what appeared to be a carefully crafted dinner invitation.
*My dearest Giovanni,* she wrote in her elegant script, each word chosen with the precision of a diplomat drafting peace treaties or a general planning strategic campaigns, *I do hope you and darling Zatanna can join us for dinner this Thursday evening. I have something absolutely fascinating to share with you—something I believe you'll find professionally relevant to your particular areas of expertise and supernatural specialization.*
*Thomas is especially looking forward to your insights on a matter of some... mystery... that has recently come to our attention and requires the sort of consultation that only someone with your unique qualifications could provide.*
*I have a feeling it's going to be absolutely magical.*
She signed it with a flourish that would have impressed Renaissance courtiers, then sealed the envelope with wax and the Wayne family seal, already anticipating Giovanni's reaction to her carefully chosen words and deliberately intriguing implications.
"Oh, Thomas," she murmured to herself with the sort of fond anticipation usually reserved for Christmas morning or election night victories, "you have absolutely no idea what you're in for. But you're going to love it—eventually. After the screaming and existential questioning and possibly some therapeutic drinking. But definitely eventually."
She placed the letter in her outgoing correspondence tray, then returned to watching the grounds where her sons were undoubtedly continuing their systematic exploration of reality's more flexible boundaries, already planning her next strategic move in what promised to be the most entertaining domestic campaign she'd ever orchestrated.
*This,* she thought with deep satisfaction, *is going to be absolutely wonderful.*
—
**The Luxor Hotel & Casino, Las Vegas**
**Backstage at the Theatre of Wonders**
Giovanni Zatara stood before his dressing room mirror, methodically removing the elaborate costume that had just helped him mystify an audience of three thousand people with what they believed to be impossible feats of theatrical illusion. The sequined jacket hung perfectly on its custom stand, every crystal and thread precisely where it belonged—because Giovanni Zatara never did anything without precision, whether he was performing for crowds or practicing the far more dangerous arts that most of his audience would never imagine were real.
At forty-two, Giovanni cut an impressive figure even in his shirtsleeves—tall, dark, and possessed of the sort of magnetic presence that would have made him successful in any profession requiring the ability to command attention and inspire confidence. His accent carried traces of his Italian heritage, mellowed by years of international performance but never entirely suppressed, because Giovanni understood that mystery was as much about what you revealed as what you concealed.
The real magic, of course, happened when the crowds went home and the lights went down—but that was a secret he shared with very few people, and never with anyone who wouldn't understand the weight of such knowledge.
"Papá, papá!" came a delighted voice from the corner of the dressing room, where his daughter Zatanna was attempting to make her stuffed rabbit disappear using a combination of intense concentration and what appeared to be a silk scarf stolen from his prop collection.
At two years old, Zatanna Zatara was already showing unmistakable signs of having inherited both her father's dramatic flair and something considerably more substantial than mere theatrical talent. Her dark hair curled in perfect spirals around a face that promised to break hearts in about sixteen years, and her eyes held the sort of bright intelligence that suggested she was absorbing far more about the world than most adults realized.
"Sí, mi pequeña maga," Giovanni replied, settling into the chair beside her with the sort of fluid grace that came from years of stage performance. "And how is the great Zatanna's magic progressing this evening?"
"Rabbit won't disappear," Zatanna announced with obvious frustration, holding up the stuffed animal as evidence of her failure to bend reality to her will. "Papá's magic works. Zatanna's magic doesn't work."
Giovanni smiled with the sort of patient affection reserved for explaining complex concepts to very small people who possessed potentially dangerous abilities they didn't yet understand.
"Ah, but mi amor, magic is not about making things disappear because you want them to. Magic is about..." He paused, considering how to explain fundamental principles of supernatural manipulation to a toddler whose vocabulary was still developing. "Magic is about asking nicely. Everything has feelings, sí? Even stuffed rabbits. You must ask the rabbit if it wants to play hide and seek."
Zatanna's expression suggested she was giving this advice serious consideration, then she leaned closer to her rabbit and whispered something in what sounded like a combination of English, Italian, and possibly ancient Aramaic—though Giovanni hoped his daughter wasn't already experimenting with languages that predated recorded history.
The rabbit, naturally, remained exactly where it was, being an inanimate object with no capacity for magical transformation regardless of how politely it was addressed.
"Still not working," Zatanna concluded with obvious disappointment.
"Perhaps," Giovanni suggested diplomatically, "the rabbit is tired tonight. Tomorrow, when you have practiced your asking-nicely voice, maybe the rabbit will feel more like playing games."
This seemed to satisfy Zatanna's two-year-old logic, and she carefully tucked the rabbit into her small traveling bag with the sort of ceremonial attention that suggested she took the concept of magical partnership very seriously.
Giovanni was just beginning to change into civilian clothes when there was a discrete knock at his dressing room door.
"Mr. Zatara?" came the voice of his personal assistant, Marcus—a competent young man who handled Giovanni's correspondence and scheduling with military efficiency and never asked questions about why certain items in Giovanni's luggage were wrapped in silk and locked in cases that required both keys and specific incantations to open. "There's a priority delivery for you. From Gotham City."
"Gotham?" Giovanni frowned, accepting the elegant envelope that Marcus offered. The return address was embossed with a family crest he recognized—the Wayne family seal, which meant this letter came from one of the most influential families on the East Coast and should be treated with appropriate attention.
The handwriting was unmistakably feminine, elegant and confident, and the paper itself was the sort of expensive stationary that suggested serious money and impeccable taste. Giovanni opened it carefully, scanning the contents with increasing interest.
Giovanni read the letter twice, his performer's instincts immediately picking up on the carefully chosen words and deliberate implications. Martha Wayne was not the sort of woman who used terms like "professionally relevant" and "areas of expertise" casually, and the word "magical" in that final line carried far too much emphasis to be mere social pleasantry.
"Marcus," he called, his tone shifting to the sort of focused attention he brought to genuinely important matters. "Cancel everything for Thursday. We're going to Gotham."
"Certainly, Mr. Zatara. Should I arrange the usual travel accommodations?"
"Yes, and..." Giovanni paused, considering. If Martha Wayne was reaching out to him specifically about something mysterious, something she thought required his particular talents, then this was either a very sophisticated joke or something genuinely significant. Given the Wayne family's reputation for being entirely too serious about everything, Giovanni doubted they went in for elaborate pranks.
"Pack the consultation kit," he decided. "The full one."
Marcus nodded without question, though Giovanni caught the slight widening of his eyes. The consultation kit contained items that most people would consider either priceless historical artifacts or evidence of severe mental instability, depending on their beliefs about the supernatural. Giovanni only brought it when he expected to encounter something genuinely unusual.
"Papá?" Zatanna looked up from where she was arranging her stuffed animals in what appeared to be a mystical circle. "We going somewhere?"
"Sí, mi pequeña. We're going to visit some friends in Gotham City. Very interesting friends who may have a mystery that needs solving."
"Mystery!" Zatanna clapped her hands with obvious delight. "Zatanna likes mysteries!"
"I suspect," Giovanni murmured, rereading Martha's letter with growing curiosity, "that this mystery is going to like you too, mi amor."
He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his jacket pocket, his performer's mind already running through possibilities. The Waynes moved in circles that included everyone from international business leaders to political figures to old families with roots going back centuries—exactly the sort of people who might encounter phenomena that couldn't be explained by conventional means.
And if Martha Wayne was reaching out to him specifically, rather than to a dozen other stage magicians who could provide entertaining dinner party conversation, then she either knew more about his real capabilities than she should, or something genuinely supernatural was happening in Wayne Manor.
"Marcus, also send our acceptance immediately. Tell Mrs. Wayne we're delighted to accept her invitation and very much looking forward to discussing her... mystery."
As he finished changing clothes, Giovanni found himself anticipating Thursday evening with the sort of professional curiosity he brought to genuinely interesting challenges. The Wayne family had always struck him as refreshingly rational people—exactly the sort who would be thoroughly disturbed by encountering something that couldn't be explained by logic and proper scientific method.
*If Martha Wayne thinks she has something magical,* Giovanni thought with amused anticipation, *then whatever is happening in Wayne Manor is going to be very entertaining indeed.*
"Come, Zatanna," he said, offering his daughter his hand. "Let's go pack for a trip. I have a feeling we're going to meet some very interesting people."
"Will there be other children?" Zatanna asked as they gathered her traveling collection of stuffed animals and picture books.
"I believe so, mi amor. Mrs. Wayne mentioned that she has children about your age. Twin boys, if I remember correctly."
"Twins!" Zatanna's eyes lit up with immediate interest. "Zatanna has never met twins before. Do they do twin magic?"
Giovanni paused in his packing, struck by an sudden intuitive certainty that made his performer's instincts go on high alert.
*Twin boys,* he thought. *Living in a family wealthy enough and well-connected enough to know exactly who to contact when something unusual happens. And Martha Wayne specifically requested my expertise in matters of mystery.*
"You know what, mi pequeña?" he said thoughtfully. "I suspect we're about to find out exactly what kind of magic the Wayne twins can do."
And judging by Martha's carefully worded invitation, Giovanni had a feeling it was going to be the sort of magic that would give Thomas Wayne's rational worldview a very interesting challenge indeed.
---
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