I - Ubu

Every year, Miranda Tate goes on a week-long holiday. Ubu organizes all her vacations. Last year it was in June, in a little countryside retreat in Ireland. The year before that, it was in October, in a rented house in rural Turkey. This year it's an August holiday, in a tiny island off the coast of Bora Bora.

"No interruptions," Miranda was telling her secretary over her private jet's phone. It was the last call she was going to receive before the plane landed. "I will not respond to calls, text messages, e-mails, cries for help, or terrorist demands."

Beside her, Ubu was busying himself with documents – permits, maps, photocopies of materials that were too sensitive to bring original copies of. It was going to be a working vacation.

"If Daggett wants a meeting, tell him I'll see him when I get back," Talia was saying. "Other than that? Nothing. I trust you to hold the fort while I'm gone."

She laughed, the light, infectious laugh that had made Miranda a hit at Gotham's society events. "Don't do anything I wouldn't. Good-bye."

The moment she hung up, her smile disappeared.

"That takes care of that," she said, turning to Ubu. "Now why don't you tell me about where we're going?"

Ubu passed her a sheaf of print-outs. "The island is about an hour from the mainland by boat. It was last rented out by Princess Audrey of Kaznia, for her second marriage."

On the first page was a photo of a tall white house against a backdrop of coconut trees and blue sky. The second page showed the entrance in detail – a stately wooden door flanked by white colonnade.

"Quaint," Miranda said dryly.

"The house is the only building on the island," Ubu said. "And its only resident is a full-time caretaker."

"Caretaker?"

"I've told the management that you required the utmost privacy. They were happy to give the caretaker the week off, for an extra fee."

Ubu produced a ring of keys from his satchel. "This will get us in. I told the management you wanted the larder stocked, the sheets pressed, and a fine selection for the wine vault."

"And the rest of my things?"

"I personally saw to their transport last week."

She gave him an appreciative smile.

"They were concerned when I mentioned you were expecting guests," he added. "Normally they'd have a security detail making rounds every day the house is occupied."

"I'm sure you dissuaded them from this."

"I did. For a fee."

"What did you tell them about my guests?"

"That they were associates of yours. Other people of class, who guard their privacy very closely. He stopped inquiring entirely after I—"

"Offered him another fee?"

"Yes."

"Very good then."

By then the plane had begun to dip. The pilot's voice came up over the speakers, telling Miss Tate and her companion that they were ten minutes away from landing.

"And what did you tell my guests?" she asked, as the plane began descending in earnest.

"I gave them the coordinates of the place. I'm sure they'll find it without trouble."

She remained quiet then. Ubu had known Miranda long enough to know that she was using the time to remember, and to plan for the upcoming week.

People usually approached Ubu when they had questions about her (anything ranging from 'what's her favourite brand of perfume' to 'who is she sleeping with?'), but the only thing he ever conceded to was that he had known her since she was a young lady. That part, at least was true. Everything else was a sham – his real name wasn't 'Ubu' any more than hers was 'Miranda Tate'.

They had first met years ago, in a very different place. He had been introduced by a different name to a wiry-limbed girl, barely out of her teens. She was bent over a sword, polishing the steel with a rag.

"Daughter," her father had said, "this man is to be your protector."

"I already have a protector," she replied.

"That one is no longer with us."

"I have need of no other."

Her father had sighed. "You must to temper your anger," he said.

"I don't need another protector."

The man who would later inherit the title 'Ubu' had spoken up. "If I can't be your protector, let me be your servant."

Both had looked at him – the father with a look of surprise, and the daughter, with curiosity.

"I am indebted to the League of Shadows," he had said, with a bow. That had been true too. "And so I will serve its heir faithfully."

The father had smiled then, and she had asked, 'what is your name?'

"Ubu."

She had shaken him by the shoulder, as though to wake him up from a dream.

"I apologize—what is it?"

"When we land, tell the pilot he can return to the States at his convenience. We will not be needing him until next week."

"Of course."

"I'll see to our transport to the dock. We already have a boat to the island, yes?"

"We do."

"Good, we'll just tell them to come back for us once the week is done. I don't foresee any problems in the meantime."

They were on the ground now, and he could tell she was fidgety. Already, she was easing out of the mannerisms of Miranda Tate, as though what she was underneath couldn't wait to claw itself out.

Ubu gently laid a hand over hers. "Calm yourself, Talia," he said, in as low a voice as he could manage. "We'll be seeing them soon."

He expected her to reprimand him, and for a moment he thought she would – something dangerous flashed in her eyes. But then she did relax. She smiled.

"I'm looking forward to this holiday," she said.