The dream had been vivid. So vivid, in fact, that it had felt like real life. A truly transformative journey into the underworld. He had never experienced anything quite like it since, and he had alluded to its ongoing influence in his life during several of his interviews now. Before the dream, he had not quite appreciated life in all its glory; before the dream he had been unable to focus his will on a singular goal the way he could now; before the dream, the treasures, gifts, and flattery of others had been able to sway him.

Before the dream he had only dabbled in politics. It had not become his vocation.

Now he stood on the precipice before the final plunge summit. He glanced over his speaking points, fiddled with the cheap card stock in an attempt to burn off nervous energy. A cool hand startled him, bought him back from his looping thoughts. She smiled, whispered comforting words and gently prized the cards from his hands.

"Be yourself. You've been planning this in your head for years. You don't need other people to tell you what to say."

Trixie Bell Rosemary Carter. The media circus who thought she was a trophy wife and the product of a mid-life crisis missed the point. Trixie was more than born and bred Hollywood royalty. She was more than a child star who had survived and prospered into adulthood. Trixie was the social activist yang to his bloodless Washington yin. A good deal of his social justice platform owed its existence to her example.

Trixie adjusted his tie one last time as the chanting started up beyond the walls, in the function room next door. When it reached fever pitch she pressed her hand into his.

Together they marched into the function room, crowded with dignitaries, donors, media personalities, party faithful and well wishers. The fanfare blazed and the balloons spilled around them.

"...May I present Frederick Bartram, the President of these here, United States!"

He wasn't sure who said it. Coleman, maybe? Munce? No, Atticus Norman with his resonant voice. Truth be told, Frederick Bartram was too busy focussing on the podium and Trixie's scented presence to bother with much else.

So why did he hear a ghostly echo of another Name, faint and far off and loosing vitality with each step?

"Campanella. Campanella. Campanella."