Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/688586.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      Cloud_Atlas_-_All_Media_Types, Cloud_Atlas_(2012), Cloud_Atlas_-_David
      Mitchell
  Relationship:
      Robert_Frobisher/Rufus_Sixsmith, Nurse_James/_Georgette_Cavendish, Rufus
      Sixsmith/_Record_Shop_Owner, Rafael/_OMC
  Character:
      Robert_Frobisher, Rufus_Sixsmith, Georgette_Cavendish, Record_Shop_Owner,
      Rafael, OMC
  Additional Tags:
      Multi-Era, Rebirth, Age_of_Sail, 70's, present_day, Fluff_and_Angst,
      Angst_and_Humor, Suicidal_Thoughts, Suicide, Eating_Disorders, Hazing,
      Hurt/Comfort, elderly_abuse/_neglect, Homophobia, Internalized_Homophobia
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-17 Completed: 2013-02-28 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 39120
****** Our Love is an Old Love ******
by MostFacinorous
Summary
     Following the soul arc of Frobisher and Sixsmith through more of the
     story lines, bringing them into the foreground in each era.
     "Canon" is a slanted justification between book and film.
Notes
     "Our Love is an Old Love" encompasses 1849 (where most of the
     warnings apply), 1975, and 2012. Each era is told from both points of
     view, and has two parts. Part one of each story is up now, and the
     second half is coming soon.
     I'll put up a sequel to this story with 1936, 2144, and 2321 once
     it's done.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Missed Connections- Rufus *****
Chapter Summary
     This fic, in six chapters, represents half of the total story, with
     the other half to come at a time tba. The layout is set up to mimic
     that of the novel, in a palindrome format (A-B-C-C-B-A) , and the
     chapter titles are labelled appropriately so that if you want to skip
     straight from the start of one story line to the end of it, you can.
     The time lines here are those of Adam Ewing's era, Luisa Rey's era,
     and Timothy Cavendish's era. Frobisher's, Sonmi's, and Zachry's will
     be in the second fic in the series.
     Also, there is a good deal of victorian slang employed along with the
     stylization that was prominent in Ewing's section of the book. If you
     have any questions or would like a definition for anything, drop me a
     comment, and I'll respond ASAP!
No one would accuse him of having lived an uneventful life, or even a dull one,
to be fair. He’d been at the head of several discoveries, been there for the
emergence and foundation of an entirely new field of study. He’d written
articles and given lectures and touched countless hundreds of lives...
but it was a quiet life.

There were the usual sounds, of course, one could hardly escape them-- traffic
and voices and laboratory equipment. Human sounds, street sounds, life sounds-
- even music, though he always felt that he needed a guide to properly
appreciate it.

He knew the guide he wanted, and he knew... well, he knew better than to think
he’d have another chance. And with that lost chance was lost the explanations
of the music in a kiss, the sound in a smile, the melody in a touch of the
wrist, the notes in a hand on a cheek, the composition in a tear shed onto warm
skin.
So life was quiet, and too much so, for his liking.
He had echoes, though, echoes of music and times when he’d heard it. Echoes of
words, traced with careful fingers on letters that had been folded and
unfolded. He’d long since memorized them all, of course, didn’t really need to
hold them, but just the same, the weight of the paper in his hands, the visual
confrontation of the ink on the parchment, one growing darker with time, the
other lighter, the ever so careful hold he kept, afraid that any day now, these
treasures might turn to dust and crumble away-- all of this made him feel...
closer to whole.

And he’d taken those prep sports, the ones he’d always teased him about, and
made a real hobby out of them, something Robert had sworn Rufus would never
have.
Rowing had become kayaking, and then sailing. It wasn’t until he was older,
already an old man, when he bought his yacht. The Starfish, the name painted on
her in navy blue and gold, the colors of a long lost waistcoat, and underscored
with a comet with the shape of a star at the head.

He didn’t always take her out of the marina-- in fact, the older he got, the
less he did-- but he still felt happiest on her, with the gentle rock of the
water, like sitting on your heels and cradling something precious, something
lost, to your chest. That same sort of motion. Comforting, no matter what
you’re faced with.

The Starfish was his safe place, and when he first got her, he’d sailed to
Corsica, retracing the voyage they’d made together, forever ago. But then it
had been warm, a summertime voyage with the first person he could honestly
imagine having told he’d loved, full of laughter and joy, soft touches and
softer kisses. But the return voyage was in the fall, with a bitter chill wind
cutting through his clothing and stinging at his eyes, so that he could tell
himself it was only the elements affecting him, making him tear up. It didn’t
matter though. Alone like that, out at sea, there’s no reason to lie. Love was
never more real. Neither was grief. And the stars were there, but they were
distant and cold.

He penned part of his report there, safe in the cabin, listening to the slap of
water against wood and trying to think if he could translate it into math and
patterns, to wonder if there was a way of turning that math into music,
attaining the sound he missed via an artificial means, but it would never
replace Robert.

Nothing-- no one-- could.

The Starfish, though, she helped. He enjoyed looking out the window and down
the row of tethered boats, to where the Prophetess sat, bobbing just as safe on
the waves.

It was a romantic old boat, older than him or any of his memories, beautiful
and carefully maintained, and he liked to look at it and think how wonderful it
must have been, sailing the world, free from worries and stress, back before
man harnessed more power than he should, back before corporate greed had the
ability to end hundreds of thousands of lives in a single decision, a single
swoop of ignoring safety protocols that he, himself, had helped to pen.
He liked to think that nothing terrible ever would happen on a ship like that.
It was a lovely thought, and one he wished he could share. He composed one of
his hundreds of unwritten letters in his head, the next day, about it.

But part way there, he lost it. He thought-- he thought-- maybe-- but it was
the stress, of course it was. He’d been in a cab on the way out to Swanekke,
and he had every reason to be worried, to be tense, stressed-- today he’d
present his findings, and they would either choose to spend the huge, vast
amounts it would cost to get everything up to snuff, or he would lose his job.

And so maybe he hallucinated a familiar face, unaged, untouched, unchanged,
lips pursed just as they always had, blowing out the smoke of a cigarette.
Dressed in the clothing of the times-- of course he would be, no matter how
gauche, how unrefined and undignified he might find them, how distasteful-- it
had seemed, for a moment, that he was there. They’d stared at one another, one
long, silent moment. And Rufus thought he knew what it meant.

“There is another world, Sixsmith. A better world. And I’ll be waiting for you
there.”

Perhaps the wait was nearly over, now.

The next day, he was caught in an elevator during a rolling brownout, along
with a young reporter. And he saw the second sign of Robert, that he was here,
and watching over him. He’d always known it was so.

And so, later, on a whim, he dialed the number of Ms. Luisa Rey.
***** I'm bound to leave you- Rafael *****
They’d put into port at Raiatea for restocks on their fresh water supply & to
take on greens & vegetables, & if he was particularly lucky (which he knew
wasn’t the case & never had been in his life) they wouldn’t bring too much
arrak onboard. To be sure, he drank his own ration of the stuff, but when the
others had theirs, they got meaner. More brutal. & he didn’t know how much
longer he could manage that. Let them have their fun with the sluicery on land,
just so long as he didn’t feel the burden of it.

Shore leave was something granted only to those most deserving of it, & despite
his performances of duties below & beyond his place on the ship, he wasn’t on
the list of those permitted ashore.

He’d slipped away, off to find his own way for the night, as those who could
get away with such actions did. It was a time honored tradition of not getting
caught, or of spending a day worth being caught for, just in case you were. &
he supposed that with his tormentors ranging the isle, it was unlikely he’d be
missed.

It was a bit of a swim, fagged him out something terrible, but it was worth it,
he thought. He hoped, leastwise. Though he had no idea what to make of it.

He wondered what it was they did-- why pay coin for what you could have on the
free onboard, kicking, screaming, tears & all? But, he supposed they paid for
the softness. For the warmth-- he had neither, perpetually angular & lean, &
forever shaking with cold & hurts-- he also had no real interest in seeking
companionship between the legs of a tropical sallie.

So let them have their nights out. He shuddered to think what they might be
contracting, what they might spill themselves into, & what they might bring
back to him as souvenirs.
It was no comfort to him, knowing that they would be coming back.
How he wished he didn’t have to.

& thus germinated the idea that perhaps he didn’t. How wonderful it would be to
live a life that was his alone, where the water wasn’t brackish & prone to
upsetting one’s stomach if imbibed without a tot of alcohol mixed in! Nights
warm from something other than the press of skin against his own in an invasive
manner, & days with shade to cool in. Rations that had fresh to them as often
as he pleased... it was all appealing.

He made quiet inquiries about job openings, only to find that he felt like he
was being watched everywhere. There was a constant fear that one of the men
would hear, would see, would guess what he was doing, would tell the captain, &
then what?

He’d be labelled as a deserter or a contract breaker, flogged, brought to
trial, & likely flogged some more. & then he would be back exactly where he was
now, but with more painful gashes across his back to show for his troubles.

He gave up.

& right around the time that he collapsed onto a barstool, head in hands &
fingers buried in the curls at the back of his head, is around the time he was
saved.

Not by dear Mister Ewing & his Christian goodness, but by a man who, upon first
impression, he worried may have no goodness at all.

A hand fell, warm & heavy on his shoulder, & rough from working the ropes &
wood of a life at sea. He jerked out of contact, upsetting his stool in the
process, his hands coming up to begin his usual routine of scrapping before
being bested & pinned by two, maybe three--
he paused in those thoughts to focus on the immediate, his eyes blurred with
tears & his throat seizing from the effort of being quiet.

He figured he knew what this sailor was after-- he wasn’t one of the men from
the Prophetess, but they all wanted the same thing from him, didn’t they?

“You look like you could use a drink, lad.” He said softly, his accent clean &
clear. His eyes darted over his face & then looked away, uncomfortable. He
looked to be in his early thirties, far cleaner than the crew Rafael knew.

“Are you a constable? I’m on leave, I’ve every right to be here & I ain’t up to
nothin’ shady.” His words were soggy with tears though, & the man just stared
with those bright blue eyes what made the sea look poorly hued.

“I am no such thing.” He replied, & Rafael scowled.

“I’ll thank you not t’ touch j’stha same, sir.”
He knew he’d been something of a pretty lad when he first came aboard The
Prophetess, & though he had used it to win himself a benefactor back in
Australia, in a poor bid for education, he was glad that much of his ‘beauty’
had been lost to the sea. His arms grew thick with ropes of strength & his
hands grew wide & calloused, no longer the soft things that had so delighted
Mrs. Fry by plucking at a harp. He made his words nearly as rough as the skin
of his face, salt scrubbed & wind stricken.

“& just the same, I’d like to buy you a drink. Even a wild little beast like
yourself doesn’t deserve to be miserable all alone & dry. What do you say?”

“I say wetting me up does make the misery a shake more bearable.” He said,
flippant. It was true-- oils stopped the friction, the drag, & that was what
he’d been referring to. But he was half out of his mind to suppose this
stranger’s thoughts went immediately to his physical rough treatment on board
his ship-- he just took it as acceptance of his offer for a cheap beer.

That was something calming, though-- the man didn’t immediately think of that
violent sin, perhaps because he had never seen it, or at least hadn’t
participated in it. There was no leer, no attempt at talking him to a private
place, at least not yet. Perhaps the man was married.

He found his eyes drifting down to the naked ring finger of his hand.

The man noticed & turned from the barman to offer that hand to Rafael.

“Sebastian.” He said, clearly by way of introduction.

“Rafael.” He returned, some of the suspicion coming out in the word. He glanced
at the hand, but didn’t take it, waiting for Sebastian to pull it back & drag
it through his hair. He was embarrassed, Rafael knew, but he didn’t know why.

“I’m sorry-- this must seem quite unusual, & you really don’t seem to want the
company. I just-- you looked terribly familiar, & I’ve been trying to place why
all evening.” Sebastian sounded apologetic, & genuinely so.

“So ‘t were you following me ‘bout all evening. Thought I felt eyes crawling on
my back. Have you placed it, yet?” He leaned forward, & Sebastian tracked the
movement, unsure of his response now that it was his turn to be on the
defensive.

“Beg pardon?”

“M’face. You placed it yet?” He gave him a grin. “Wanted posters, the gallows
p’rhaps?”

“Your accent’s wrong.” Sebastian said flatly, his hand closing around both cups
of beer that the barman delivered, clearly holding Rafael’s hostage while he
scrutinized him.

“Wrong f’r what?” He goaded, rocking back in his seat. This was... actually
more fun than he’d had in a while. Strangers could be amusing when they weren’t
trying to harm him somehow. At least so near as he could tell.

“You slip in & out of it, different stresses in different places.” Sebastian
pursed his lips, then, apparently having decided something, passed Rafael his
cup. “So either you aren’t Australian at all, or you’re intentionally lowering
yourself. Why?”

Rafael took a long pull of far less stale ale than he’d had of late,& cocked
his head, considering.

“You don’t work a merchant vessel, do you?”

“I did ask first. But, no. I’m a midshipman in the Royal Navy, the British
Royal Navy. We’re off to see to it that the slave trade is well & truly ended,
at least on her Majesty’s vessels. There’s little we can do about the colonies
just yet, but.” He shrugged eloquently & took his own drink, punctuating the
statement with it.  “Now you, lad. Where are you from, truly?”

“Australia. Brisbane. On my honor, what I have left of it.” He raised his free
hand as though in oath, & Sebastian shook his head, but he smiled, too.

“There’s your proper speaking-- why roughen it up, Rafael? Do you not take
pride in your learnedness?”

“A fine thing learning is, when your arms are small & your place low. Mum
taught me to keep m’head down, keep m’powder dry, & do my duties as they’re
told me sir.” He knuckled his brow in a sarcastic little salute, & Sebastian
shook his head again.

“What are your duties, then, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“‘M just a cabin boy. I clean, I take my turns on watches & up & down lines. I
hop to & learn & lug & load. I do whatever’s asked of me. Everything what’s
asked of me.” He winced, though, at the last.

It didn’t go unnoticed, & Sebastian frowned.
“Some sort of unpleasantries? You aren’t-- you aren’t working aboard a slaver,
are you?”
Rafael could see Sebastian go alert, at once dreading the answer & excited for
it. He imagined if he so much as shook his head in the affirmative, Sebastian
might go charging out the door to set the injustice to rights.

“Not at all. Just a merchant vessel-- we carry hawser & sailcloth, some
furniture, & just what provisions feed our men-- & not one among us be press
ganged into service or denied the commons of food, drink, & sleeping quarter.”
He didn’t bring up Mr. Ewing’s nigger friend, but that, he felt, was another
matter entirely, & not one he could say he’d dedicated any amount of time to
wrapping his head around. He shrugged, wishing they could steer from the
subject.

“& do you not enjoy the work, lad?” Sebastian continued, obviously attempting
to suss out the unspoken issue.

“You’ve my name. I’m not so very much younger than yourself. Don’t call me
lad.” He felt himself growing cross, & tried not to show it. After all, who
knew the next time he’d be ashore, or be treated kindly, for that matter.

“I’ve offended. I am sorry.”
Rafael waved it off, peering forlornly at the bottom of his mug.

“Y’kin reverse the offense with another of these, if it suits you & the company
isn’t too tiresome. How long are you folk ashore for?”

“Three days. We need to make minor repairs & restock basic foodstuffs. &
yours?” He signaled the barkeep & shoved the two mugs toward him, plunking
another coin on the counter for it.

“Just the night, I’m afraid, & hardly that. I’m not meant to be ashore.” He
admitted it bashfully. Sebastian snorted into his drink.

“You know, I haven’t known you long Mister Rafael, & already I am unsurprised.
What do you intend to do while you’re here? It must be worthwhile, whatever it
is--I’m not keeping you from it am I?”

“Not a’all. My plans involve not being on board, & not seeing any of the men
who know ‘m not supposed to be off board. Other than that?” It was his turn to
shrug. “Seems to me here’s as good a place to be as any.”

“I can drink to that.” Sebastian responded, & raised his glass.

Another glass later, & they were laughing & sitting shoulder to shoulder, as
the bar filled.

“Do you know, ‘s the strangest thing, but I feel as though I’ve known you
m’whole life.” He wasn’t bung-eyed just yet, but they’d progressed beyond
simple ale, & whatever that last one had been had burned all the way into him.
Warmed him, so he wasn’t shaking & shivering the way he did most nights now.

“I know exactly how you mean.” Sebastian said, his brows knitting together, but
an easy smile sliding onto his face. Rafael decided he liked it. It made him
feel peaceful, calm, like he had no worries.

At least, not until he heard an all too familiar voice.

He stiffened.

“What is it?” Sebastian asked, immediately on the alert. He turned to look
around them.

“Mr. Boerhaave, ship’s mate. He-- we aren’t on the best of terms.”

“& you aren’t supposed to be here.” His voice was hard, judgmental, Rafael
thought, & he flinched.

“Y’ain’t turning me in.” He told Sebastian flatly, which made the other man
turn & look at him in surprise. He stared back, mouth firmed resolutely.

“No, I’m not. Never intended to.” He cast his eyes down Rafael’s slender frame.
“You’re damn near small enough to smuggle out in my coat. Would you consider
rethinking your no touching rules if it would help you to not be caught?”

His eyes darted again to Sebastian’s hands, then back up to meet his eyes.
“Damn me f’r it, but I trust you.” He said on a sigh, & a smile twitched the
corners of Sebastian’s mouth.

Sebastian stood first, nodded his thanks to the barkeep, & perched his hat atop
Rafael’s head.
He held out an arm, & Rafael stood & snuggled in close, one arm going around
Sebastian’s back, the other curling against his chest. It turned his face
inwards & upwards, & Sebastian’s hand came around to clasp on his shoulder,
helping to partially obscure his face, & helping to hold his hat on.

Walking that way was difficult & a little slow, clumsy to be certain, & he
thought it might seem obvious what they were doing, but none paid them any
mind. He must simply have looked like a queer doxy, having imbibed heavily &
being helped back home by her beau.

They made it out the door unchallenged.

“Seems to me that you’re free now. Shouldn’t you be headed back to the ship?”

“Should be, but won’t. I’ve been here all of a few hours & done next to
nothing, & there’s still chance of getting caught-- I want it to be worth it if
I do.” He realized he still stood close, though they were outside & out from
under Boerhaave’s watch.

He stepped away, though if he stood there a moment longer first, he could say
it was for the warmth.

Sebastian seemed unsure where he stood now & just nodded, busying himself with
straightening his paletot while he thought.

“What is it you were of a mind to do, then?” He looked back at Rafael & his
throat seemed dry.

“Dunno? What’s ‘round here for the doing?” He asked. Sebastian shrugged.

“Food to be eaten, shops to be pursued if you’ve a mind & the coin to go with
it-- though those will be closing soon. Ah--  maybe a room to rent? They charge
a mite more for a tub, but I find it more than worth it, to scrub the salt
off.”

“Doubt I kin afford a room-- they don’t pay me til we hit dock back home.” He
gave a rueful little grin. “Sounds heavenly, though. What else is ‘round?”
Sebastian pursed his lips, considering.
“Do you have half a shilling? I have a room, & for that you can hire a tub &
enough hot water to at least see yourself back to your natural tone, whatever
it might be under all the grime.”

Rafael stared, his heart thumping & his mind churning quickly, trying to judge
the danger here. The promise of a hot water bath overcame the fear of what he
was bound to have more of the moment he re-boarded the ship, at any rate, &
should it turn out that Sebastian was actually a murderer, at the very least he
shouldn’t have to endure any further attacks from his tormentors & shipmates.
Besides, who would bother with the time to rough someone as out mucked as he? &
with as long as he’d been ashore, & the availability of womenfolk here, it
seemed unlikely he’d resort to the same level of desperation as Boerhaave & his
chums.

“That I do have. But why are you being so kind, & to me specifically?” His
caution & suspicion mingled in his person until he all but stopped dead in
their wanderings.

“I told you-- you remind me of someone. I still don’t know who, but I have come
to appreciate your company & wit, & moreover it’s my honor to show you around.
You’re raw yet, & no need to see yourself clerked by some unsavory sort because
of it.”

“Right.” He said, still not completely convinced, but he was willing to give it
a go, & reasonably sure of his safety with Sebastian. After all, he was here to
keep justice with the slavers, wasn’t he? & England’s navy was supposedly one
of the stiffer rule makers & keepers of the various fleets out there. He’d
heard stories of sailors being pattered for committing what they termed
‘unnatural offences’ with one another below decks. Not that it would
necessarily stop a midshipman with some tonic in his wallets-- but it was sure
enough a deterrant. & being a relatively good judge of personage, he was
comfortable enough to follow Sebastian up the street & back to the room he’d
rented for his stay.

The commons were rum glim & no rookery, like to costing Sebastian a pretty
penny. Rafael wondered, not for the first time what with Sebastian paying for
the mugs, exactly what his companion was worth. But he didn’t complain & bought
his own tub & wood for the fire, as well as making arrangements for the boys of
the house to bring the buckets for filling.

The room itself was well furnished, up a flight of stairs & quiet for all that
it was above the kitchen-- & warmer for it.

They sat & whiddled while the bath was drawn, gabbing as if they were old nabs,
but fell into a somewhat strained silence when the boys had gone.

Steam rose invitingly from the copper bath, & Rafael licked his lips. Sebastian
cleared his throat & stood.

“You can cast your skin on the tile-- the fire will dry it out in short enough
order.” He grabbed his coat from where he’d draped it ‘cross the foot of the
bed & made for the door.

“Wait.” The word was out almost before he knew, but that was alright. The
sentiment remained. “I’m not going to oust you from your room just for a
moment’s privacy. I may be a raw townee, but I’ve been ship logged for months
now, & I’m used to having little personal space. It isn’t even the first time
another man’s seen me of late. So sit. Keep me company. No harm done.”

Sebastian stared at him, poised still to leave, then heaved a deep sigh.
“In the interest of propriety, I will tell you, & I hope you don’t think I have
or had any designs in bringing you here, or that my friendship has been because
of this at all, but I’m something of a bedroom ambidexter. I tell you this only
to keep you from being uncomfortable should it become known later, & I give you
full permission to turn me out while you bathe if you so desire.”

“I had thought you to be a Christian man.” He paused in cracking his buttons &
peered at Sebastian, not disgusted or judging him, but confused. He seemed so
good & yet he had just admitted to willingly committing sins that would set him
hellbound. Rafael cleared his throat, realizing he’d been staring & returned to
shucking the togs he hadn’t realized were wet, still.

“I am! I see no harm to it-- it isn’t as though I--” Sebastian’s voice died in
his throat as Rafael pulled his shirt off over his head, & when Rafael turned
to find the cause of his silence, his eyes were full of pity & disgust.
He hadn’t thought about how he must look, & hurried to turn & cover himself
with the shirt.

“Sorry.” He muttered, unsure what he was apologizing for exactly. For
questioning, perhaps, for thinking that Sebastian would be capable of hurting
him the way his shipmates did. (It was apparent from his horrified expression
that it was an action far beyond his comprehension or ability.) For exposing
him to it, maybe.

He felt a cold flush of shame travel up him, & felt as though he couldn’t
swallow properly.

“No-- who did this?” Sebastian was fierce with his fury, & between the heat of
his words & the heat of his fingers against the spoiled bits of skin on
Rafael’s back, he could hardly help but to flinch.
“It’s nothing!” He snapped, & pulled away from the unbearably gentle touch.

The pity on Sebastian’s face turned to horror when he fully understood, & he
held his hands up & stepped back, nearly tripping on his bed’s covers in the
process. Rafael crossed his arms over his chest & hunched forward, making
himself as small as possible. His eyes darted toward the door, wishing
fervently for escape but well aware that Sebastian stood between him & the
night outside.

“I meant nothing by it. I apologize-- I only... it’s obvious you’ve been hurt.
Who-- that man from the pub? Boerhaave, was it?” The tone may have been gentle,
but he was prying.

“I’m a ship’s boy. It happens when you do your work poorly.” His words were
clipped & sharp, his eyes wet & begging that Sebastian drop the subject & take
the weak excuse for what it was.

“& the fingerprints around your hips, I suppose those are a side effect of your
labors as well?” He snapped, concern sounding more like anger. Rafael collapsed
into himself.

“P’raps I should just go. Shouldn’t ha’ come.” He mumbled.

Sebastian rubbed his hands over his face.
“No. No, I’m sorry. Of course-- whatever you please, but you’ve already paid
for the bath, you may as well enjoy it. Do you want me to leave?”

“Just… turn away for a moment. Keep talking to me, though.” He felt like he was
commanding now, in charge & all the more comfortable for it. At least he didn’t
feel so damnably small.

He waited til he saw Sebastian’s back, then shucked his trou, & stepped into
the tub. He lowered himself, hissing as the hot water stung & turned the salt
on his skin to liquid, washing it into the scrapes & cuts the men had given
him, as well as the stretched & torn skin. The warmth, though, was welcome, &
he sighed at the glory of the feeling of being warm.

“What shall I talk to you about? I’m sorry-- I’ve forgotten what I was saying
before...” Sebastian trailed off uncertainly. Rafael froze, then began sluicing
down, rolling the water across his arm & scrubbing with the bar of dark lye
soap he’d gotten off the desk clerk.

“Tell me of your ship. What’s she like?” He prompted, dropping his arm into the
water to see the clean skin beneath the suds he’d made. It seemed he was not
nearly so tan as he thought, merely dirty.

“She’s a fine seabird-- weatherly, stiff, & fast. Very fast, if you know how to
handle her, & our Captain is a damn sight better than most, forgive my
language.” The pride was evident in the way the words came out, part brag &
part challenge

“You respect him, this Captain of yours?” The crook of his elbow was
particularly stubborn, the grime of sea ground so fully into his skin that he’d
have sworn it were a tattoo had he not known better.

“I do. He is a good man & a great tactician, as well as a good friend.” Again;
pride.

“& does your Captain know of your leanings come nightfall?” He asked, feeling
cruel for bringing it up, but curious all the same.

“I’m not sure this is an appropriate topic, considering--” Sebastian bit off
the sentence again, & Rafael had had enough.

“Look at me! Now. If I want to talk to you about the state of your (& by
extension my own) immortal soul, I don’t doubt that you might find it
inappropriate, but more pressingly, uncomfortable. But if you want to help me-
- as you seemed to, tell me how you make peace with who you are & what you do.
For I am much afeared for eternity, Sebastian, & ain’t a soul aboard the
Prophetess what can tell me how to save myself who won’t make more trouble for
my askin’.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Rafael. I’m no priest. I pray & do my best to
be charitable &  kind & good, harm none, & ask forgiveness for those I harm
unintentionally. It’s all anyone can do I suppose.” He could hear the shrug
that followed, & he began to drag the soap through the thick fur atop his
cranium.

He let out a bit of a disgruntled noise-- he hadn’t truly been expecting a
revelation, but it would have been nice just the same.

He scrubbed until the threads on his cannister had all unknotted. They flopped
like a wild thing, to be sure, but no longer lay heavy in patches. He hadn’t
truly realized what a fright he must have looked, & wondered again why
Sebastian should have stopped to tip the velvet with him.

“How d’you find partners, then?” He asked, his voice striking him as sudden
when he registered that he’d heard nothing beyond water & fire for a few
moments. “If you approached me without designs, how d’you approach them who you
think may swerve a little towards their own gender?”

“I uh-- I hardly think the most fascinating thing about me is how I
occasionally bugger men, really-- D’you know, I was schooled at Eton?” He was
being a bit obvious, trying too hard so be deversive.

“You did have designs, didn’t you?” He pressed on, turning to find Sebastian
staring at him, &, promptly after being caught, blushing.

“Alright-- I did. Earlier on when you were asking around, but then you were
crying & then when I saw-- well, I’m not a monster. Besides, you’re so
young...” A touch of horror seeped back into his voice, & Rafael pursed his
lips.

“Not too young to be attractive, though.” He pointed out calmly & stood.

“Rafael...” There was warning there, & something else, something defeated as
well. Like he knew what was coming & had already given in to it.

“Just wash my back.” He instructed as a compromise, holding out the already
smaller bar of soap in a fairly steady hand.

Sebastian stared so long at the outstretched offering that Rafael began to
doubt himself... & he began to shiver. The tremor started at his shoulders &
moved to fingertips, & when he spoke, he found it in his voice as well.

“Unless the state of me is so repulsive...” he remembered keenly the look of
disgust on Sebastian’s face, & worried that he’d completely put him off. “I
can’t very well see back there. I’m sorry if it’s--” He had begun lowering his
fist to his side, but Sebastian’s grip on it stopped both his motion & his
words.

“Turn around.” His words were gruff, & Rafael saw nothing for it but to oblige,
though the shudders were now wracking his frame. Sebastian lifted the finger
bowl from his dressing table & used it to scoop some of the lukewarm water up &
tip it to dance down Rafael’s shoulderblades & down his arse & thighs.

The shaking didn’t abate, but it did lessen, & Sebastian’s warm hands smoothing
away rivulets, followed by the harsh rub of stinging soap, were grounding.

“There is nothing repulsive about you. It’s what’s been done to you that I find
so disgusting.”
He wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard it at first, & then he wasn’t entirely sure
he’d heard it correctly.
He said nothing, & Sebastian didn’t stop in his ministrations, scrubbing down
to the small of his back &  then pulling up short.

Rafael turned around slowly & faced him.

“Do you mean that?” He asked, eyes searching Sebastian’s face from far closer a
distance than he’d intended. He didn’t pull away, though. He saw the moment
that Sebastian’s gaze flicked downwards to his lips & paused there, had more
than enough time to pull back & stop this.

“Anyone who tells you differently deserves several dozen lashes at the very
least.” He assured him. His breath tickled at the sensitive skin under Rafael’s
nose, & he fought the urge to twitch, to rub at the unfamiliar sensation.

It was hardly the pillowtalk Rafael had imagined himself one day using, (on
some unknown maiden fair) but much had changed since those lazy daydreams from
so many months ago. He took the soap from Sebastian’s unresisting fingers &
clutched it lest it be lost to the now murky water he stood in,.
He closed the distance & pressed their lips together, the pressure too fast &
the angle all wrong.
Sebastian slowed him, guided him with delicate touches-- feathery brushes of
fingertips & undemanding strokes of rough knuckles against skin suddenly
sensitive to the slightest movement of air. His fingers slipped through the
soap on Rafael’s back, & the odd lack of friction felt glorious when coupled
with the pressure of strong fingers & the warmth of Sebastian’s skin.

Their kiss grew slower, deeper-- indulgent on Sebastian’s side, & sweet. When
they finally parted, Rafael dropped the soap into the tub, uncaring, & brought
his fingers up to his lips.
His eyes felt wide & round & huge, & he felt a smile tugging his mouth upwards
beneath his touch.
“That was...” He muttered, his eyes sliding to admire Sebastian’s lips, so much
redder now. Even more appealing, for it.

“The first time you’ve been kissed?” Sebastian nearly flinched at Rafael’s nod,
& the small smile slipped off his face, but Sebastian leaned in again, thumb
brushing the soap (which had transferred from Rafael’s fingers to his lips)
away. “Their loss, nothing you’ve done wrong.” He assured him, & punctuated it
with another small kiss, this one nearly chaste.

Rafael chased after his lips, though, pursued his breath & tongue. He got the
angle right this time, & when Sebastian’s mouth opened under his onslaught, he
made a small noise of victory.
The kiss was ruined, though, by the return of Rafael’s shivering. The water had
gotten cold.

Sebastian lifted him out of the tub, slinging his legs into the crook of his
arm & cradling his other arm behind his shoulderblades.

Rafael wasn’t afraid. Not really. He knew broadly what was coming. Sebastian
lay him (wet, naked & all) on his bed, pausing only to knock aside his coat.
He climbed over him, one leg sliding between his, & Rafael went still, refusing
to fight him but unsure what to do instead. He raised a slow hand & brought it
up to rest on the back of Sebastian’s neck.

“It’s all right. Just tell me to stop & I will.” He brushed the damp hair from
Rafael’s forehead, & Rafael shivered again, but he nodded too.

Sebastian backed off & knelt on the bed, reaching for something on the floor.
Rafael opened his mouth to object (to say that he hadn’t meant that he should
stop, only that he understood) when Sebastian returned with his coat.

“Slide under the covers. Wool against wet skin feels exactly as appealing as it
sounds.”

Rafael followed the directions, confused by this turn of events, & Sebastian
tucked him until he was warm, covered, & no longer shivering. Then Sebastian
lay himself out beside him & set to stroking him through the covers, an odd
mixture of calming & helping to dry him.

“I thought--” Rafael began, but a rush of fear, worried that he’d be found
ungrateful, stopped his words.

“And you’re likely right. But I told you-- I’m no monster. If we don’t see you
warmed first you’ll be sick later, & you won’t want to do this with me again.”

“Again?” He asked, shifting to face him.

“Was that presumptuous? I apologize.” It was so damned smooth that Rafael
couldn’t help but to laugh. He capped the chuckle with a kiss, something he
enjoyed more the more he did it.

“Feeling any better?” it was hardly more than a croon, gentle & meant to relax
him further.

“Much. Thank you.” It wasn’t flippant at all, the way he would be most of the
time in responding to such things, but absolutely sincere. Rafael snuggled into
his blankets, though, & frowned. “The only problem with blankets...” he spoke
slowly, as though only just discovering as much, “Is that once you grow used to
them, they no longer seem quite so warm.”

Sebastian looked concerned.

“Well, do you want to move in front of the fire, then? At least you’ll be
warmer-- & you can bring the covers with you if you like.”

“Or you can shed your skins & join me. I’m sure you’re warm enough for the both
of us.”

“Speak straightly to me-- am I just shedding my skins to hold you-- which I
have no objection to, I might add-- or do you now have designs on my person as
well? I don’t want to... well it is increasingly easy to have the wrong idea.
Or the right one, as the case may well be.”

Rafael rolled his eyes & tossed open the covers, stretching leisurely & rolling
out from beneath them.

“You aren’t a monster, as you’ve said-- & if you’re willing, I would like, just
once, to know what it’s like when it isn’t... monstrous.” His eyes slid
downwards, focusing on the wrinkles in the bedding & he held his breath,
waiting for an answer. Half-certain he’d be refused, for being too young or too
damaged or too forward. He hadn’t any experience at all before the Prophetess,
& none aboard ship had prepared him for propositioning anyone for sexual
intercourse.

It came in the form of a careful hand beneath his chin, tilting his face
upwards. Sebastian kissed him, slow & thorough.

His hands began dancing down the row of buttons on his chest, & Rafael reached
up to help tug the fabric from his shoulders.
There was a fumble between them as they both began working on the many buttons
of the front flap of Sebastian’s breeches, until Sebastian pulled away,
laughing, & made a dance of shucking them, along with his socks & boots.

“You know, there are places in the world where such lobstromonous dances would
be worth a pretty penny.” Sebastian teased as he slid back into the bed.

“& to think, here you’ve been plying me with food & drink all evening. How
shall I ever make it up to you?” Rafael returned, matching Sebastian’s playful
tone.
He put his hand on Sebastian’s chest & began sliding his way downwards, but
Sebastian grabbed hold of his shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh a bit
hard.
Rafael looked up, half expecting some change in his face, some sign that this
would be exactly as he’d come to expect such couplings were-- fierce & fast &
unpleasant.

“You owe me nothing. You do know that, don’t you?” There was desperation there,
worry & a little bit of fear.

“I owe you my thanks for the evening, but I assure you this is hardly how I
show gratitude.” Rafael informed him stiffly. The grasp relaxed slowly & he
winced as blood resumed its course to the skin.

“I am so sorry.” It came out on a gasp, & Rafael could actually hear the
sincerity in Sebastian’s distress.

“I’m used to much worse, I promise.” He gave Sebastian a tight little smile, &
Sebastian looked much abashed. “Hey. Don’t pity me or I am walking out of here.
I owe you nothing & you don’t treat me as though I’m going to shatter, these
seem simple enough guidelines, yes?”

“Fair enough to be going on with. One thing though--” Sebastian responded, &
the next thing Rafael knew, their positions had been reversed.
He was not proud to say that he squeaked, but that was the only way he could
describe the noise that emerged from him. He scowled though, & batted at
Sebastian’s mouth, intending to wipe the smug look from his face. Instead, he
found his hand caught around the wrist & his fingers being laved by an
unexpected warmth & wetness.

The next noise that came out of him was a gasp, & it struck him as almost
musical, the way Sebastian was playing his body. He arched as that same warmth
& moisture closed around one of his nipples, & teeth closed tenderly around the
quickly stiffening skin. Fingers, rough from the sea but long & lean from
birth, traveled along his sides sending him squirming & his skin crawling with
a gooseflesh very different from that developed by standing in a tub.

He moved his hands to card through Sebastian’s hair, but the brush became a
pull when Sebastian lowered himself down & took Rafael in. The sounds that
followed were breathless & desperate, surprised & hungry for more. His hips
twitched & he bucked into Sebastian’s mouth, sending him pulling back &
coughing.

Rafael cringed.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. He wasn’t able to keep his heart & lungs full
enough, the pounding & wheezing a striking counterpoint, his heart beat in
frantic legatoed pairs, one pulse blending into the next, his breathing
staccato & shaky.  

“No harm done.” He returned amicably, & Rafael found himself beaming like a
loon & pulling Sebastian up, that he might kiss him again.
Sebastian came upwards in a slow undulation, his back arching to slide up the
length of Rafael’s frame & making him moan at the sensation of skin on skin &
hard muscles coming into contact with softer ones.

“You taste of me.” He mumbled against Sebastian’s lips, unable to keep from
topping the statement with a lick to the inside of Sebastian’s mouth. It was
apparently something thoroughly right to say, because Sebastian groaned into
Rafael’s mouth, a sound like preparing to bring about the trysail, something
slow & then sudden, & building towards more.

It was Sebastian now who bucked his hips, rubbing down & against Rafael,
burying him in friction & sharp, hot sparks of aching desire. He felt his eyes
sliding closed & let them , just riding the sensation & trying to keep up. He
jerked them open as the first drip of Sebastian’s sweat fell onto him.

The sight that met his eyes would be breathtaking had he breath to spare. His
lover had developed a patina of shimmering perspiration which, aided by the
light of the fire, shone on his skin like burnished gold-- not softening his
lines in the least, but calling them into sharp contrast, until he seemed more
the stuff of legends than real man.

The cynical seaman he’d been growing into chastised him for such romanticisms,
& yet the part of him who saw Sebastian as the first signs of land after months
adrift & lost couldn’t help but try to capture the potence of the moment. Not
for the first time (but for the first time without feeling somehow wrong &
broken for it) he was enjoying himself. What made this different, though, was
being able to see him, to see what he felt reflected back at him in the bright
blue eyes of this something-more-than-a-stranger.

& when Sebastian saw his staring & smiled, he thought that might be enough to
finish him right then. But then Sebastian spoke, voice gone rough & smoky.
“I’d like to-”

“Yes.” He interrupted immediately. “Please.”

The surprise registered on Sebastian’s features, & he stood and moved away.
Rafael sat up, confused.
“What are you-- I thought--” He felt a cold wash go through him, afraid he’d
ruined it before it had even really begun...

“Relax. I have some oil-- it will make things easier. Lay back, it’s fine.” The
easy mirth in his voice allayed Rafael’s concerns, & he collapsed obediently
back onto the bed. He crossed his arms under the wet mass that was his hair &
spoke to the ceiling.

“Is there a place here that will sell me that oil before I have to leave?” His
speaking didn’t quite cover the sounds of a hand slicking skin with the
aforementioned oil.

“You can have this, if you’d like. There will be plenty left.”

He hummed his assent as Sebastian returned to bed, still wearing naught but a
playful grin. He straddled Rafael’s hips & leaned in, kissing him while taking
firm grasp of his shaft.

Rafael gasped in surprise when Sebastian began easing himself down onto Rafael,
confusion warring with elation & pleasure. His breath came out in a shaking
moan.

He’d expected Sebastian to return to bed with himself oiled for pressing into
Rafael, not the other way around. He’d never-- he hadn’t ever had anyone, let
alone another man. Let alone anyone near so overwhelming as Sebastian.

“You-- ah!” He had no idea what to say now, unwilling-- unable-- to spew forth
the litany of abusive, debasing compliments he was showered with in his
experiences.

“For all your shivering--” he breathed, words gusts that dances through
Rafael’s perspiration as Sebastian bent low & close to him, “You’re so warm
inside me.”

It was quite honestly the most erotic thing Rafael thought he had ever heard.
He closed the gap between their lips & rolled his hips up, stopping abruptly
when Sebastian gasped.

“Slowly. Slowly. I didn’t-- more fool, I-- I didn’t spend much time... opening
myself up.” He admitted, sounding incredibly sheepish about the whole thing.
Rafael smoothed his hand across the side of his face, & then down his back & to
the base of his spine, finding the warmest spot in a sea of feverish skin to
rest his hand upon.

“At your pace then. I can’t-- I may not last long.” He warned. Sebastian
smiled.

“Good. I don’t think I will either. God, Rafael-- I hope they have at least
told you how beautiful you are like this.”

Rafael sucked in a sharp breath as Sebastian began to move, hips dipping &
rolling, his fingers holding against Rafael’s shoulders, until all that he
could do was to grasp Sebastian’s arms, barely above his elbows, & stare
upwards, into his too open face, into his too expressive eyes.

He felt like he was a rope, being coiled round & round in circles over a
belaying pin. It was so good, he wanted to cry. He felt pressure building
simultaneously in his bollocks & in his chest, & he knew he would burst soon,
one way or another.

“Sebas-” his words stopped for a moment & he shuddered, coming apart. “-tain, I
can’t--”

Sebastian just smiled & shushed him, leaning in for a kiss (miraculously
without ceasing his movements). It was like sailing directly into the sun, the
light blinding you & popping up off the water to make it even stronger. It took
over everything, the brightness. The heat. He never wanted to know anything
after it, nor to remember anything that had come before.

He couldn’t be sure if his eyes slipped closed & he fell asleep, or if he
simply lost consciousness for a moment. It had happened before, of course,
usually from a combination of pain & drink, but it wouldn’t surprise him to
find that feeling this good had a similar effect.

When he opened his eyes again, his whole body had relaxed. He found himself
curled around Sebastian, draped over him, & being gently wiped clean by a damp
cloth.
He startled at first, then calmed, blinking groggily.

“You haven’t been out long. Sorry for waking you-- unpleasant when you’ve gone
dry.” He gestured at the hand with the rag resting on Rafael’s thigh, & he
looked down lazily to see his own seed, mostly wiped off.

“You didn’t--” Raphael started, looking down, expecting to see Sebastian’s own
erection, but he’d replaced his pants, & Raphael’s heart sank a little. “I’m
sorry.” he breathed.
“Shh, no, I’m fine. How are you feeling?” Sebastian’s smile was kind, just as
he had been all evening.

“Not-- not great.” he admitted. Sebastian’s smile fell, & he stood carefully &
stiffly, his expression frozen in a frown made all the more intense by the
smile lines beside his face stretching in ways that he immediately &
irrefutably knew they shouldn’t, ways that made Rafael’s heart ache.

“I... really don’t know how to apologize.” He started, & Rafael sat up quickly,
one arm thrown outwards in supplication.

“Not because of you! Or, no-- not because you did something wrong, I mean, if
anything, it was me what was lacking but. I... I have to go back to the ship
soon. & this will all...” He got choked up, & had to stop.

Moving slowly, in case he was unwelcome, Sebastian returned to the bedside,
slowly easing himself onto it, until he perched on the thin sliver beside
Rafael’s bare legs.
“Every ship has to put into this harbor sometime, just as every ship must leave
again. We sail this corridor until we are recalled home, a tour of three years.
This is our third.” He pressed his hand to the side of Rafael’s face, thumb
sweeping a gentle line across the highest point of his cheekbone.
“You can write, can’t you?” He waited for Rafael’s nod. “Write to me. Tell me
everything. When you put in to port, leave the letters with the innkeep here.
We’ll make a game of it, learning when those letters will be waiting. Address
them to Sebastian Browning of the Stalwart. Likewise, you’ll find some here for
you... & when your tour ends, I will come find you.” There was a heavy promise
to that-- it meant not dying in the process of ending the slavers. It meant
dedicating however long it took to finding a single man from the countless many
who would be on the sea & then in town. In every town in Australia, he
realized, because he hadn’t told Sebastian where to look.

“In Brisbane.” He replied, & it came out breathy & hopeful.

“In Brisbane.” Sebastian affirmed, & Rafael felt again as though he may burst,
though this time it was only from his chest.
He surged forward & drank in Sebastian’s mouth like he had been too long adrift
at sea without potable liquid. He held him, clung as though afraid to let go. &
oddly enough he was. He knew what he was going back to, they both did, of
course-- but it wouldn’t last.
They would be together soon enough. Once he was home he could collect his pay &
find dockward work, & wait to see Sebastian there.

When he couldn’t wait any longer, they returned to the harbor, where the
Prophetess drifted.

Beside the dock, Sebastian presented Rafael with the small bottle of oil,
corked tightly.

“Just a bit on your fingers will go a long way. Working yourself open will
last, & make it less horrible physically. I regret that I cannot do more.”
Sebastian looked nearly ill just speaking of the knowledge that Rafael’s
suffering wasn’t ended yet.

“I shall think of you each time I do it.” Rafael promised, unsure if the words
were as romantic as intended, but beyond caring, as his shakes resumed at the
notion that he might be caught.

They kissed once more, then Rafael stripped down again, wadding his clothing &
using his belt to secure the bundle to his head, in the hopes of keeping it as
dry as possible.

The swim was cold & his mind heavy with dread, but his chest was light,
buoyant, so much so that he doubted, even should he stop moving, that the waves
could pull him under now.
He reclaimed the deck silently, & unmarked, & was only spotted just as he was
climbing back towards his hammock.

“Ye missed yer watch.” It was Davies, one of the old saltmen. “I covered-- ye
get first morn as we break port.” He was gruff, but not unkind.

“Thank ye.” Rafael returned. He lay down for the three hours he’d be able to
grab afore his turn came about. They were gone in the blink of an eye,
o’course, but then so was breaking their mooring & setting off to sea once
more.

With his feet on the line, he rested his weight & his chest over the arm of the
fore topgallant sail. He was meant to be on watch, of course, but he found his
eyes drawn backwards towards land. Towards Sebastian, & his ship shrinking into
the distance in the harbor. In the morning mists above the island, he could see
the faintest arch of a rainbow, & it made a small smile form on his lips. It
was glorious, truly, but more importantly, it seemed a sign.

The floodwaters receding, God’s promise of an end to the rain. Perhaps
Sebastian had been right after all, perhaps there was nothing really so wrong
about loving whom you would, provided none were harmed by it. He worked all
through the day, & that evening begged a quill & parchment from his friend
Mister Ewing to pen his first letter to Sebastian.

He only managed a handful of letters before the men took note. Once he was off
duty, he retreated to write-- so naturally that was what he would be doing when
they came for him.

The first time or two, they paid it no heed. But the first time Boerhaave came
to see him scratching away with a quill, he pulled the paper out from under the
pen & read, aloud, his words of longing & hope.
He ended it on a guffaw.

“I always knew y’loved this, boy.” He said, reaching for his belt & shaking his
head, the most unpleasant smile on his face. His usual compliments of tightness
& deserving this were gone now, replaced with ‘nancy’, ‘invert’, ‘sodding
molly’ & every other variation of derisiveness involving the sin of the Greeks
that welled to mind while he was bollocks deep in Rafael.

The oil helped with the physical, but without that added pain it made his mind
freer to concentrate, to think, to listen & absorb, until the jeering & the
insults became more about him than about his being light in his pants.

Having perhaps thought the letter was an isolated incident, the day that
Boerhaave found the small wooden box full of them, he exploded in a furious
rage.
Nevermind that, if Rafael was the catamite that Boerhaave named him, it had
come about by Boerhaave’s hand. Nevermind that for near on a month now, the men
had delighted at finding him open & waiting for them. He was always so careful,
had found the perfect amount of oil to be just enough without giving away the
game or allowing him to be hurt by their friction. (At least not at first-
- sometimes they took longer, & then he was out of luck, but that was hardly
the norm & over all his position had eased a bit for it.) The oil didn’t help
his throat, though, & if any had noticed an increase in the roughness of his
voice, perhaps they wrote it off to illness, or drink, or smoke, or some sort
of late growth spurt. But it wasn’t so, no matter how he wished that he might
grow, grow muscular enough to fight them off or at least enough not to look so
feminine from behind.

“You’ll be hell bound for your perversions, boy-- & naught for me to fear, what
with your soul as dark & bruised as it is, none’ll punish me for having a firm
hand with you!” That firm hand was applied over his body liberally, leaving
bruises on more than just his immortal soul.

But the words took hold. It was a dark time for him. Was he so damaged that
he’d risk tainting Sebastian’s goodness? Because he’d been made this from rape,
he had found such violences enjoyable, somehow, & that was wrong, disgusting-
- he spent an entire night shooting the cat over the side of the ship, sick
from that realization.

& now there was the worry that Boerhaave would let the captain know-- the
captain had spoken out before about ways he dealt with buggery on his ship in
the past-- with a long walk down a short board-- & the letter Boerhaave had
seized were proof of his leanings.

That selfsame letter (half finished as it was) made it easier for Boerhaave to
convince more men that he was fair game. Again, if he enjoyed it so, if he was
twisted enough for it, why shouldn’t they make the best of a bad situation? His
own words, his own heart, were held over his head, as though they needed
anything more, & he found himself becoming compliant for fear of his life.
Which, of course, only spurred them into thinking he was enjoying their
attentions, & made them all the rougher for it.

Christmas was coming, & he had never felt less joy in his life. Mister Ewing
was ill more often than not now, much to the amusement of the sailors. Landmen
had no place on the sea, according to them. He worried for his friend, for
himself. He worried about Sebastian, & their future. He ached & felt sore all
over, felt feverish & thirsty all the time. He was worried he’d caught
something off one of the men-- there was an odd sore on his inner thigh, &
though Doctor Goose assured him it was nothing but the bite of some godforsaken
insect, it neither went away nor ceased to agonize, growing increasingly
discolored & larger as it progressed. It didn’t stop them using him, & didn’t
seem to be catching (at least he never heard anyone else complaining of it),
but even if he did manage to get clear of whatever it was, he knew that
wouldn’t even be the least of it. His mouth now was often dotted with blood,
lips cracking for next to no reason & the insides of his mouth becoming raw &
tender. If he’d thought he looked a fright before while being merely dirty, he
could only imagine how truly ghoulish he must appear now. Sadly, the men seemed
to take it as a sign that God, or the sea (or both) felt the same way they did
about his poor arse, & so they redoubled their efforts in punishing him. It
didn’t end, & he began to fear it never would. He became as drunk as possible,
& stayed that way as best as he was able.

Men such as he were not accepted anywhere-- the sea was no different than it
would be on land. Confirmed bachelors existed, of course they did, but feelings
were turning uglier & uglier against them. He knew that; he’d seen a pair of
them expelled from their flat across the street from Mrs. Fry’s, beaten as they
hurried down the lane, half clothed & clinging to one another. He’d averted his
eyes & put it from his mind then, but he wondered now what he could have done.
If perhaps this was punishment for his inaction before. Guilt rose in him,
guilt & loathing for all that he was.

He didn’t deserve someone so good as Sebastian, so kind & lovely as he. His
knees had begun swelling, from being on them so often as he was, he was sure, &
it made every movement just that much worse, that much harder.

He entrusted his letters to his sympathetic companion, Bentnail, & climbed up
for his watch on Christmas, resolving never to come down from it.

The night was bitterly chill & he could not keep the moisture from his skin,
but at some point he simply stopped trying. It was no use; it would hardly
matter in a few hours’ time. He wouldn’t abandon his post, nor would he be able
to do it if he waited for his replacement. Instead, he kept careful watch,
knotting & unknotting his rope, composing letters in his mind, though his last
one had already been finished, folded, sealed, & handed off to Bentnail, who
had promised to tell none of their existence.

He would see to it that they got to Sebastian.
Sebastian deserved that, at least. Deserved so much more, so much that Rafael
couldn’t give him, but closure he could provide, & did.

His last thought, as he slid his feet from the ropes that held him to this
earth, was of Sebastian’s face, his eyes, his smile & his gentle hands.

& then nothing more.
***** Will you still need me, Will you still feed me- James *****
He knocked, more as a habit and out of politeness than because he had to. He
tried to treat them as much like people as he could, though under the rule of
his bosses, they seemed to have accepted, for the most part, that they no
longer counted as true human beings.

It was only almost true of some of them, those who truly were capable of little
more than a day to day existence.

He cared for them with the same compassion and kindness that he did those who
would answer when he spoke to them, carrying on conversations with them,
careful to watch for any small sign that they agreed or didn’t, hoping to stir
some spark of brightness, rekindle some feeling of life.

No one wanted to forever be locked in a cage-- a pretty, comfortable cage,
sure, but one just the same, and separated from everything they had come to
know and love for the remainder of their days.

It made him sad, of course. But it made him glad, too, that he could be there
to help, could spread some cheer and kindness, could see the reaction from
those he could affect. He couldn’t change his employers’ views on the
inhabitants of their nursing home, but he could do his best for them. And so he
did.

They seemed to appreciate it, and if nothing else, he felt well liked, even if
the rest of the staff did consider him ‘too soft’.

He bore the tray of food into the new woman’s room.

“Good morning!” He offered cheerfully, and her  eyes barely flicked towards
him, and then back out the window she was facing. His heart sank, and ached a
little at the thought of this poor dear living alone until now, barely
responding to the world around her.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d worked with that sort of elderly person,
plagued by any number of weaknesses of the mind. But she didn’t seem all that
old. Genetics could be so cruel.

He came closer, maintaining his smile, though he felt badly for her.

“I know it’s your first day, so you haven’t had a chance to learn the schedule
yet. You missed breakfast, though, so I thought I’d bring it to you, as well as
the medication that we have listed for you.” He spoke slowly and kindly,
wondering just how much she might understand.

“You can leave it on the bed if you must, but I’d really rather you took it
away. I won’t eat it.” She was sharp as a tack, though bored sounding. He stood
a little straighter, a surprised reaction that dated back to his grammar school
days.

“I’m sorry, I thought--” He paused, not really sure how to finish the sentence.
She, fortunately, didn’t give him a chance.

“You assumed that I’m useless and in here because I’m a doddering idiot. I’m
not. You may take your pills and oatmeal with you, and don’t let the door hit
you on the way out.”
She turned back to the window and ignored him, leaving him standing there,
feeling like a fool.
“You have to at least take your medicine, Ma’am. If you don’t, I’m afraid the
higher ups will take to injecting you with it.”
“I don’t have to do anything, and don’t think I will just lay back and let
them.”

Unfortunately for them both, Nurse Noakes wasn’t quite so easily flummoxed as
he, and had apparently been listening in.

“You may have your medication by mouth or by injection, and if you won’t be
still enough for either of those, I do have permission to have you tied down
and have it inserted where the sun doesn’t shine, Mrs. Cavendish. Nurse James,
I want you to help Mr. Brigby into a bath-- not a shower, do you understand?
He’s been smelling rank, and his family will be here this evening.”

He nodded, intimidated enough by Noakes’ shrill firmness not to argue back,
though they both knew that Mr. Brigby was terrified of pools of water and would
resist and likely injure them both in some minor way before the bath was
through. Knowing her, though, she would probably be listening in with a nasty
smile in place.

She was good at keeping peace, but seemed better suited for the role of a
jailer than a caretaker.

She took the tray from him as he went to move past her, and he gave Mrs.
Cavendish an apologetic glance on his way out. She was looking at him, at
least, but her face was set in a glare.

He sighed, feeling less than his usual, chipper self about the whole thing.
Perhaps that contributed to his greater than usual failure to gentle Mr.
Brigby-- generally he could calm him at least enough to make his panic stay to
mild flailing and wide eyes.

It wasn’t until just after Mr. Brigby had landed a good smack to his nose,
sending his eyes watering and his blood pressure rising, that he recalled that
Noakes’s least favorite patient, the instigator of the great Aurora House
Breakout, was also a Cavendish. He wondered if there was some relation, and
felt duly bad for having abandoned Mrs. Cavendish to Noakes’ temper, earlier.
He resolved to check in on her again before he left for the night.

Of course, before he got the chance came the usual troubles of a day on the
job-- carrying Ms. Evans to the restroom and changing her sheets while she was
in there, the race to finish the chore before she got out, because her
embarrassment led to hours of sobbing that he would feel personally responsible
for.

He was so distracted by the icy encounter that morning, that he didn’t make it.

By the time he got back to Mrs. Cavendish’s door, he was exhausted, and felt
worse for the wear. But what could he do? He could hardly just leave without
even so much as attempting an apology, despite his dishevelled state.

He knocked.
When no response came, he turned, afraid that he may be interrupting her sleep,
but just as he turned his back on her, the door clicked and opened behind him.
He turned, surprised.

She seemed much smaller out of her thick blankets and no longer surrounded by
the plushness of her chair. He’d thought her slightly on the obese side,
before-- now he saw he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Her hair was down and her light colored gown was thin-- not so thin as to be
revealing, but thin enough not to hide how petite her figure was, how trim and
cared for-- it was easy to see how she must have been a real beauty in her
youth, and how even now she was not far from it, though age had brought
wrinkles and a certain dullness to her skin, as it did to everyone.  But her
faculties were all there, and her back was straight and proud.

“What do you want?” She asked, quiet so as not to rouse her fellow tenants, or
maybe just so as not to call Noakes down on them.

“I wanted to apologise for making poor assumptions, earlier... and for leaving
you alone. I realised afterwards that you share the last name of a man who
caused Nurse Noakes a lot of grief not so long ago.”

“My brother in law.” She sighed, popping her head out like a meerkat on alert,
and pulled him into her room. She shut the door behind them and he swallowed,
well aware the trouble he would be in if he stayed too long.

He hovered around the door nervously while she swished and swayed her way back
to her bed, where she had obviously been reading.

“Why are you here?” He blurted, and she sighed and settled back against her
pillows.

“Why is any one of them here? We’ve been judged useless and worthless and sent
into storage until we die.”

“But who had that kind of power over you, and why?” He asked, aghast at hearing
her put it so bluntly, that she grasped so simply what so many of the people
here shied away from understanding, what he tried to make them forget.

“My husband invested here. When he died, I... I didn’t know what to do. I
went... mad, I suppose. They sent me to my sister, to calm down, and I did, but
when I came out of the craziness, she refused to be saddled with me. Which was
fine. I thought I might finally return to my house. But Denny’s will had it
sold. His lawyers had all of our money locked off-- I couldn’t touch it.
Wouldn’t know how to care for our accounts even if I could. The only provision
it made for me was sending me here, or cutting me off without a cent. And so
here I am.”

“But surely you-- well you were married, weren’t you? Don’t you have a right to
your husband’s estate?”

“There was a rather binding prenup. I-- I shouldn’t have... but I was so young,
so stupid.” She all but spat the last word, and he grimaced.

“Isn’t there anywhere else you could go?” He felt as helpless as she must,
wanting to help her. No one as prideful and keen as she was deserved to be in
here. She shouldn’t even be seeing the inside of this place for another twenty
years yet, if she was lucky.

She turned her face away from him, looking weak, but her voice was firm, if a
little high pitched, when she answered.
“Goodnight, Nurse.”

He turned and left, closing the door behind him, feeling both reproached and
somehow filled with dread.
What kind of man condemned his bride-- his wife of many years, from the sounds
of it-- to be put out to an early pasture?
And what sort of family would rather lock their sister away than see her happy
in a guest room in their home?

He went back to his flat, neat and orderly and nearly as sterile as his work
was, though he had taken the time to paint it a cheerful pastel green, to have
some break from the greys of Aurora House.

And though he had learned, over time, not to take his work home with him if he
didn’t want to suffer quarterly breakdowns of guilt and emotional turmoil, he
couldn’t help but think about her.

That poor woman, and so alone-- even the residents who could no longer do more
than spout gibberish at high volumes tended to seek out one another. But she
was so biting and bitter-- and who could really blame her?

He microwaved himself a dinner for one and ate in front of the telly, the end
of the year quiz show on to distract him.

He showered, making a list of things he needed to shop for over the coming
weekend, and crawled into bed for the night.

His last thought, before surrendering to the insides of his eyelids, was ‘I
hope she opens up as she settles in.’ But even his optimistic, half asleep self
made a mental farting noise at the notion.

The next day came just as early as it ever did, and with it the pull back to
that odd gut wrenching and busy monotony that was his work day.
Alan-- Mr. Davis-- had regurgitated half of his food at the breakfast table,
and so that needed to be cleaned, the table cloth and his clothing put in the
laundry, and apologies made to the other residents who had been sharing the
table with him.

Ms. Cynthia had contracted a UTI from her inability to get up and go to the
bathroom on her own, and their being understaffed or inattentive. He leaned
towards the latter-- they were actually adequately staffed, running about
fifteen residents a piece on a day when everyone was there, but he’d been told
to mind his own patients, when he tried to say anything, which just meant that
he ended up checking on those who required the most help, whether they were his
that day or not. Noakes liked to keep them rotating between residents,
ostensibly to keep them from growing too attached or showing favoritism, so on
the occasions when he was caught in rooms that didn’t fall on his schedule,
he’d just played dumb and confused, resulting in her being quite sure that he
was little better than a more able bodied resident, himself.

He didn’t mind, so long as he got to keep helping them, and kept being paid for
his troubles. It wasn’t really about the money, but everyone had to eat and pay
rent, and he wasn’t exempt just because he kept Mr. Barryman from sitting in
his poo for an extra twenty minutes.

At lunchtime, he was glad to see that Mrs. Cavendish had come out of her room,
but less glad to see that she was attempting to silence her table mates’ polite
attempts at conversation with sullen glares.

“Frigid bitch, innit she?” Nurse Judd asked, her voice sudden and making him
nearly jump. His brows drew in towards the center of his forehead, and he
turned to look at her as though confused. Nurse Judd nodded at Cavendish’s
table. “Her poor husband. Can’t imagine how that must’ve been like to live
with-- and he was such a jovial man.” She shrugged, obviously dismissing the
woman as she looked around the room. “Quietest meal we’ve had all week, I
figure.” She mentioned conversationally.

He followed suit, his gaze drifting over the tables.

The amount of quiet, dignified misery he could see on their faces was heart
wrenching, but the wrench was a small one, dulled by overexposure. He still
felt bad, but he helpless, too. Time for another break, another weekend walking
the seashore.

“Yeah, nice change of pace.” He kept it neutral, not wanting to be accused of
being emotional. Judd was as far up Noakes’s bum as it was possible to be
without having been lubed up first.

“You know, I was thinking--” The word trailed off on a high note, and he turned
to look at her sharply, unaccustomed to that tone in her voice.
“I think I’m off to see that new play in town this weekend... A Suitable
Briefcase, it’s called. And my date for the evening has called off. You
wouldn’t be interested in joining me, would you?” Her hand had come up to rest
on her collarbone, and her fingers were twitching with her necklace in a way
that made him wonder if she was trying to use it’s shine to hypnotize him into
coming on a date with her. Which was, he mused, the only way she had even the
slightest chance of succeeding.

“Actually I’m going out of town for the weekend. Perhaps another time.” He gave
her a bland little smile, attempting not to seem as insincere as he really was.


She looked about ready to say something else stomach churningly flirtatious,
when a ruckus called their attentions back to their charges.

“This my!” Mr. Ogden, one of their special needs patients-- dementia, poor
soul-- had taken hold of Mrs. Cavendish’s lunch tray and was trying to pull it
to him.
“I beg your pardon?” She shot back, scorn written all over her as her thin
fingers held her tray in place.
“My! My food, my!” Mr. Ogden was smiling, as though the statement were the most
agreeable thing in the world, and James saw Mrs. Cavendish’s eyes narrow. He
stepped in, not bothering to excuse himself from Nurse Judd’s company. He
couldn’t say he was glad for the excuse to be away from her, but he was
grateful for it.

“Mr. Ogden, are you ready for some lunch?” He placed a calming hand between Mr.
Ogden’s shoulderblades.

“My!” Mr. Ogden agreed enthusiastically with a sharp tug at the tray.

“Mrs. Cavendish, would you mind--” He started, but was cut off by the shriek of
her chair scraping the floor as she stood.

“Not as though I was going to eat it anyway.” She announced loudly, and
gathered her skirts up, walking quickly out of the dining hall. He frowned, but
Mr. Ogden clapped happily and slid into her vacated seat.

“Lunch!” He informed his table mates, and Nurse James turned to see them all
looking up, wondering what he might do.

“Ah-- excuse me... Nurse Judd, would you mind helping Mr. Ogden? I just have to
um--” he pointed off in the direction Mrs. Cavendish had taken, and Nurse Judd
shrugged one shoulder.

“Leave her. The less eating she does, the less time she’ll spend in Aurora
house.”

His eyes narrowed, and he paused on his way past her, not turning his head or
directing his voice, but sure she could hear it.
“We are supposed to be caring for these people, not encouraging them to die.
Couldn’t you show some modicum of respect?” He was quiet, well aware of the
unprofessional aspect of challenging one of his colleagues, especially one who
was technically above him in rank.

“Do you know what the hardest part of a vegetable to eat is, Nurse James?”
Noakes had snuck up on him while he was being so careful not to look at Judd.
He looked at her now, the smug little leg humper, and then up at the looming
mountain of a woman that was Noakes.

“I suppose it depends on the vegetable, Ma’am.” He responded politely.

She grinned and leaned in, until her face took up his entire field of vision.
“Wrong. It’s the wheelchair.”

He spluttered indignantly, and squeezed himself out from between the two of
them.
“Excuse me.” He ground out, and took off down the hallway, his steps quick with
anger and purpose.

He turned off into the kitchen and put together another tray-- no different
from any other that had been made that day, just to replace the lunch that Mr.
Owen had commandeered from Mrs. Cavendish.

Then he found himself, once again, knocking at the door of her room. The only
difference was, this time it was already open.

“I’m not hungry.” She told him, sounding tired and sad more than the snapping
anger he’d expected. “You can turn around and give that back to the old man if
he wants it so badly.”

“This is a new tray. I wasn’t trying to steal your lunch from you.” He
explained, completely apologetic. “Mr. Owen gets disoriented easily. He has
routines that are important to him. You were in his seat. I was only going to
ask you if you’d mind trading spots. I’m sorry the situation got out of hand.”

“You know, I am fully capable of understanding sentences more complex than ‘see
spot run’.” She informed him, but she reached up to the tray and took the fruit
cup as if offering peace with the action-- or at least showing she wasn’t angry
at him. Maybe he was reading into it, and she just wanted the fruit cup. Who
could say?

He watched her eat it silently, then offered the tray again. She gave him a
look that clearly said he was lucky she’d eaten that much.

“Do you have some special diet we should know about?” He looked down at the
plate, concerned. “Are you a vegetarian?”

She snorted. “Hardly. But I am accustomed to much finer fare than soggy
macaroni and cheese and dried out beefsteaks. If my husband did nothing else,
at least he provided for me monetarily.” She sniffed, clearly finished with the
conversation.

“Please, Mrs. Cavendish, if you don’t eat, if you continue not eating, not only
will your health deteriorate, but we’ll be forced to feed you through a tube.
Now I know you don’t want that. And if you get weak, you really will have no
hope of getting out of here.”
Her head snapped up, her eyes boring into his, mistrustful but hopeful too.

He looked behind him, checking for anyone who might overhear.

“Now look, your brother in law...”

“Are you suggesting I steal a car? I hate to say it, Jimmy son, but I cannot
drive.” Her disdain for him had overwhelmed every other emotion, and he began
to wonder if perhaps that level of disappointment with the world around her was
her default setting in life.

“No...” He drew the word out, showering her with a volley of her own contempt.
“I’m suggesting you call him. He, at least, should be sympathetic to your
plight. And I understand he’s written a fairly successful novel about our
facility. It sent all sorts of inspectors through here a few months back.”

She laughed outright at that, the sound clear and melodic, but sour. Like a bad
note in a pretty song.

“I doubt Timothy would get me out of here even if I did know the first thing
about how to get hold of him. After all, what did I do to help him, in his time
of need?”

“But if you had known--” He started, but she shook her head.

“I knew, well enough. I’m the reason he was here in the first place.” She
didn’t sound smug about it though, didn’t sound proud, the way he might have
expected, considering her laughter.
She sounded guilty.

“You? But-- Why would you send him here? How?” All pretense of haughtiness was
gone. He didn’t understand, and he knew his face showed it. He’d never been
good at hiding his emotions.

“I will make you a deal, James. Come here before bed call. Thirty minutes. Sit
with me, talk to me-- I will trade you, information for your help. I’m sorry I
don’t have anything more valuable to give you, but I’m afraid that’s all I
have, in this place.”

“I’m supposed to be locking up before bed call.” He sounded less sure, less
firm than he’d like, and she seized his weakness.

“Do it early.”
“If I get caught, I could be suspended... at the very least I’ll be
reprimanded.” He worried, thinking ahead to when his luck ran out, as it
usually did.

“Yes and if you’re caught it will likely mean that I won’t be leaving here
alive. So you’d best not be caught, mm?” She returned, and all he could do was
swallow and nod his agreement, curiosity and his need to help people winning
out over his better judgement. He stood awkwardly for a moment, then turned to
sit her lunch on the table next to her bed.

“Take your tray with you. I’m done with it.”

He straightened in a lurch, knocking the macaroni to the floor, and apologized,
embarrassed.

He fetched a hand towel from the bathroom and proceeded to clean up the mess,
while Mrs. Cavendish stood by and watched, amused.

“You know, if you were anyone else in here, you would probably be worrying
about the stain or the smell or something.” He commented, trying to break up
the silence.

She laughed again, but otherwise didn’t answer. Fortunately, it didn’t take him
long.

Once it was cleaned, he piled everything on the tray and stood to leave.

“You know, if you wanted to spend more time with me, you didn’t have to drop
the food to do so. I’ve already invited you back tonight.” The humor in her
voice was sharp, and he fled the room with a hot blush rising in his cheeks.

He didn’t see her again for another three hours, during which time he cleaned
the card room and helped his bed ridden residents to roll over, as well as a
couple of those who he knew could use an extra bit of care. He sometimes
wondered how he kept track of everyone, but he couldn’t imagine the guilt if he
forgot someone.
Today, it was his turn to help those residents who still smoked out onto the
smoking porch.

All of their cigarettes and lighters were kept in a box, each person’s supplies
carefully labelled and kept apart. As per Noakes’ orders, each of the smokers
was given a schedule of times that they could come to the door and wait to be
helped out, so that the entire house didn’t smell of it.

He made sure to move the four wheel chairs out first, Miss Emma’s being pushed
by her friend Shirley Lowell.  Then followed the rest, with Mrs. Cavendish
taking up the rear.

He called their names out as he handed them their cigarette and lit each one,
though it was unnecessary-- he’d been with Aurora house for years now. He knew
who they were.

“Georgette Cavend- Mrs. Cavendish.” He read off, falling back on the formality
once he realized he’d never been permission to call her by her first name. She
took her cigarette from him with a single graceful motion, and leaned in for
the light.

She coughed a tiny bit, then seemed to settle into it. But he paid attention to
such things.

“Is it the wrong brand for you? I can make note...” He offered.

“Not at all. I’m still new. To smoking, at least. I didn’t pick it up until my
husband died.” She frowned and looked down at the cigarette in her fingers,
then used her other hand to pull her cardigan tighter around her.

“Of course. I’m sorry for your loss.” He told her, backing off from what he
imagined was a sensitive subject.

“Well, that makes one of us.” She muttered under her breath, probably thinking
he was out of earshot.  He bit his lower lip, curiosity gnawing at him, but
didn’t say anything.

After the smoke break, he managed not to think about her until the end of his
shift.
He was running a few minutes late, and just had to clean off the tray that Mr.
Owen had taken back to his room after supper.

Naomi Smith caught him when he was cleaning off the tray, cornering him in the
kitchen by blocking the door with her wheelchair.
“Did you do it?” She demanded. He wasn’t sure what the was talking about, but
he knew she was another of their special needs residents-- what Noakes called
her ‘newest problem child’.
“Your homework. I didn’t see you turn it in today.”

He set the tray down and turned to face her fully, aware how much difference
attentiveness could make in these situations.
“I meant to ask you for your help with it, actually. I’m afraid I couldn’t
understand the instructions on my own.” He offered. “Do you think I might meet
you in the card room once I finish with this?”

“I’ll wait and walk you there. Dean Campbell is on the lookout today!” She was
so earnest, his heart ached.
He glanced at his wrist watch. Nearly ten minutes late now.
He sighed.

“Yes Ms. Smith. May I push your chair?” She nodded and he maneuvered her around
in the small space, then pushed her out into the hall, nearly bowling over Mrs.
Cavendish in the process.

“Did you do your homework?” Ms. Smith asked Mrs. Cavendish, a cynical tone to
her voice. Mrs. Cavendish’s eyes went wide and she looked up at James who
nodded his head. Her eyes narrowed, considering.

“Not for several years, I have to confess.” She said, the edge of cold
amusement in her voice again.
He could see the muscles in Ms. Smith’s back tensing as she grew agitated.

“Mrs. Cavendish graduated some time ago, Ms. Smith.” He glared over her head at
the woman in question, willing her to go along with it, while keeping his voice
as soothing as possible.

She leaned in, putting a gentle hand over Mrs. Smith’s on her wheelchair arm,
and in the kindest voice he’d heard come from her-- sweeter than he had
imagined her capable of, she informed her, “Ms. Smith, I am 63 years old. And
you and I are in Aurora House-- an assisted living home.”

It was James’s turn to go stiff and get agitated-- he knew what attempting to
reorient a patient could do, though clearly Mrs. Cavendish didn’t.

“No we aren’t! This is Wembley Elementary! James? James! Your homework.”

“What about it Ms. Smith?” He asked, waving Mrs. Cavendish away. He came around
and knelt in front of Ms. Smith’s chair, bringing them at eye level with one
another, employing Noakes’s trick of taking up one’s entire field of vision. He
could see the whites around Ms. Smith’s eyes.

“Did you do your homework, James?”

“You were just going to help me with it, do you remember?”

“I want to call my daughter, James. James, let me call my daughter won’t you?”
He eyed his watch again.

“I think your daughter is asleep. She’s going to have her baby soon-- we don’t
want to wake her up, do we?”

“The baby’s coming soon?” She asked, her demeanor changed completely as this
new information distracted her, and he relaxed.

“Oh yes. Would you like to look at the sonograms? They’re in your room. Would
you like me to take you to them?”

“Yes, yes please, I want to look at the sonograms. The baby!” She was tickled
pink now, and her attention focused upwards over his shoulder to where Mrs.
Cavendish had apparently not moved. “My daughter is having a baby.” She
informed her smugly.

James stood.
“Mrs. Cavendish, if you could wait for me in the card room? I won’t be long.”
He promised. Though he was polite, the look on his face must have been stormy,
because she flinched, then nodded.
“Right.” He muttered, immediately apologetic, but unwilling to discuss it with
Ms. Smith present. He wanted to take her back to her room before something else
triggered her and sent her back to her days of teaching at Wembley elementary.

He pushed her down the hall, opened her door, and turned on her light,
situating her next to her bed. Then he pulled out the drawer and handed her the
sonograms from inside of it.
“Here you go Ms. Smith. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, James, that’s all. You can go on out to recess now.” She told him, then
turned her attention back to the picture cradled in her shaking, wrinkled
hands.
“He’s such a good boy,” she informed it seriously. “Top of his class.”

He grimaced and shut her door behind him.

By the time he reached the card room, he’d composed himself a little better.
But he found himself frowning into the darkness, the light from the hallway
behind him making it hard for his eyes to adjust.

“Hello?” He asked, feeling a bit like he was trapped in one of the dreadful
jump scare movies he’d been fond of as a younger man. But there was no answer.
He blew out a breath, frustrated, and ran his hand up his forehead, pushing his
short hair back with it.

He took one last look, as though he expected her to jump out and shout
surprise, and then headed back towards her room.

He knocked.

“Go away.” She commanded, and he paused. She was first and foremost a resident.
She was not in immediate danger, nor being neglected, and she had requested
privacy. Policy said that he was to let her have it.

Feeling more frustrated than ever, he gritted his teeth and let his hand rest
flat against the door.

“Good night, then, Mrs. Cavendish.” He said, quiet enough not to disturb
someone else, but not so quiet, he hoped, that she wouldn’t hear him.

There was no response, so he collected his coat and left, bidding good night to
the evening shift nurses on his way out, hardly caring if some of his
frustration showed in his haste to leave.

He got there early the next morning, hoping he would be able to talk to her
before he had to begin waking all of the residents, but it was so early that
the sun had yet to rise, and what had seemed like a wonderful idea at home
seemed unnecessarily rude now-- 5 was early enough for most of them, she
probably wouldn’t thank him for making her day even longer.

But when he made it to the kitchenette to pick up trays for those few who had
permission to eat breakfast in their rooms, she was already up and helping to
spoon scrambled eggs onto a plate from the pan she had been handling.

He stared for a spare second, surprised to see her volunteering in the kitchen.
She turned, laughing with the other cook, a young woman named Rosa, but when
she saw him, the laugh-smile dropped off her face, and she crooked an eyebrow.
“You’re holding up serving.” She told him, and he stammered out half an apology
before turning with the trays in his hands and nearly running into Nurse Judd
on the way out.

“That man, I swear--” he heard her pitchy voice as he moved back down the hall
to the residents rooms, “I think he’s afraid of women. I reckon he’s a little
light in the shorts. If you get my meaning...” The high pitched giggles that
followed made his face warm with shame.

He should have known that, or something like it, would follow his polite
demurral.

He was... monumentally bad with women, actually, so it wasn’t a particularly
large surprise. He used to think he was quite good with them, back in his prime
as a young man-- but several poor choices later, and he’d learned his lesson,
thank you very much!

Still, gossiping at work-- in front of and with the residents, no less!-- was
just one more thing to add to the list of complaints of unprofessionality that
ought to be levelled against the place... if he thought he could find another
job.

He was glad that Mrs. Cavendish seemed to have found some companionship,
though. At least he wouldn’t feel as bad, now, about avoiding her. Which seemed
to be the smart course of action; he got the feeling she didn’t much like him.

And it was easy enough-- she wasn’t on his care chart for the day, and the only
time he was supposed to be keeping an eye on the group was for meals and music
time.

Mr. Owen managed to get lost and walked into Mr. Brigby’s room, waking him up
from his afternoon nap and sending him into a panic as they tussled very
briefly over the bed. Fortunately he had been due to get Mr. Brigby up and help
him have a restroom break, so he managed to break them up before anything
really bad could happen-- no real harm done. And Mr. Owen was more than happy
to be back in his room. So happy, in fact, that he immediately fell into bed,
and refused to be moved for several hours.

It proceeded with work as usual, and with things calmer than they had been, he
was able to sit down with one of the residents that he hadn’t spent as much
time with, and talk to him about his life.

He kept, at home, a small book of abridged biographies of each of Aurora
house’s residents-- bits of stories of their lives, or what they could remember
of them.

Dan Jeffries had been an engineer, had been part of a team of them in San
Francisco-- had moved to the UK after being paid off so that he wouldn’t reveal
the flaws in the nuclear power plant he worked for... and subsequently been
disgraced when the flaws came out anyway.

His hands shook and his jaw was sunken, his lips curling inwards, his dark
brown eyes unfocused. He didn’t see well any more. He had a lot of regrets, and
a lot of proud moments too-- his daughter, his wife, his grandchildren.

James developed a yearning throughout the story, an earnest sort of tug to his
heart. But he’d come to terms with the thought of never having those things, a
wife, children of his own, so he brushed it off. No sense in letting himself
get blue.

But he did need one of his seaside retreats, and sooner than later preferably.

Music time came close to the end of the day, after their dinner meal but before
the residents would drift off to their books or to their rooms to sleep.

Music time always saw Nurse Judd and Nurse Noakes elsewhere, far from the
racket that ensued. He set the instruments out on the table, something for
everyone and pieces to spare, each the cheap toy sort of instrument that you
might find in any children’s department.

Gnarled fingers grasped maracas, tambourines, hand drums, wrinkled lips folded
around penny whistles and xylophones in bright primary colors rested on the
bony knees, tucked between the arm rests of a wheel chair.

Mr. Boyd had a harmonica that he kept with his socks, and he brought it out for
these days. Ms. Isabelle had assured him if he could get her a harp, she would
bring tears to the eyes of anyone within hearing, and he’d managed a lap harp,
but that was as close as he could get. She seemed genuinely grateful, though,
and the two of them were talented. But he always felt badly for them, because
while they enjoyed and looked forward to music time, their moods when it was
over seemed bittersweet at best.

He was busy seeing to those who needed help arranging the instruments in their
hands, no longer as nimble or capable as they once were, and he didn’t at first
notice that the noise was pierced by a third bit of talent-- harmonica and harp
joined by the tinny sound of a child’s twelve key keyboard.

But when he did register the sound, he straightened and turned, delighted to
see Mrs. Cavendish with her long fingers splayed across her tiny instrument.
Her eyes were downturned, watching her own progress, lower lashes brushing her
cheeks, but her lips turned up in a smile.

He caught himself staring and moved to help Ms. Cynthia with her shekere, the
poor thing having tangled a button from her shirt in with the string holding
the beads in place.

The semi-musical cacophony slowly died out, until it was just the occasional
rattle or toot, and then finally all that was left was Mrs. Cavendish... her
fingers tracing and retracing seven notes again and again, something
bittersweet and very pretty-- a tune that he knew, but couldn’t place.

Amanda, another of the caretakers at Aurora house, came to help return the
residents to their rooms, and he placed a gentle hand on Mrs. Cavendish’s
shoulder, smiling apologetically.

“It’s time to put the instruments back.” He told her, eyes not missing the way
her fingers tightened over the keys with a desperation that squeezed at his
heart.

“Oh...” She blinked and looked around, her voice gone soft again, and possibly
a little embarrassed, upon noting that she was the last person there who didn’t
need assistance in getting back to her room.

“You play beautifully.” He told her frankly. “If you don’t mind me asking, what
was the tune?” She blinked again, seemingly disoriented, the first sign he’d
seen of her not being completely sure of her mind or surroundings.

Her voice drifted, like she was sleepy or drugged. “I don’t... know...”

Amanda had returned to retrieve Mrs. Abrams, and he nodded at her in thanks.

“Can I help you back to you room?” he asked, distracting her with his words
while he gently took the keyboard from her. He was surprised when she didn’t
try to fight him. He turned his back on her to place it in the bin on the
table. When he turned back, she was shaking herself.

“If you must.” She replied, more snap in her words than usual. But her voice
wavered, ruining the effect, and when he offered her his hand to help her
stand, she took it. She held onto his arm on the walk down the hall, and when
they reached her door, he paused.

“May I-- that is, I’d like to talk to you about last night, if you don’t mind.”
He kept it a suggestion, unwilling to push her for this when she seemed so
lost.

She stared at him for a long, tense, silent moment, then nodded.
“Come in, then.” She decided. He followed her, leaving the door open to
maintain some feeling of propriety and escape, in case she wanted it.

She sat on her bed, heels and knees touching, back straight, head down, hands
cradled together in her lap. Her hair fell in front of her face, and she looked
like nothing so much as a child waiting to be berated.

It made him feel guilty, made him wonder who had taught her that this was the
proper reaction to being asked to talk.

So he kept his voice low and calm, like he was talking to a spookable animal.

“I wanted to explain to you, about the older people here, whose minds aren’t-
- well they aren’t as sharp as you or I any longer. And they probably won’t
ever be again. Trying to reorient them, pull them free from their confused
perceptions, can be terrifying for them.”

She looked up at him, startled. “So if she says you’re a school boy, that’s
what you are?”

“Understand that her mind has told her she is a school teacher. She’s reliving
a fixed point in her life. And to her, that is very real, as real as the world
you see now. But what if I were to tell you, in all earnestness, that you’re
actually on a spaceship?”

She laughed. He shook his head.

“Outlandish, maybe, and funny-- but when you break someone’s perception, and
offer them a nursing home, it isn’t. And they get agitated, like Ms. Smith,
last night. It isn’t a learning thing-- they’ve spent their whole lives
learning. It’s a retention thing, if you see.” He paused, unsure how to
delicately frame the next. “We can’t make them better, Mrs. Cavendish. We can
only make them comfortable.”

“Is that what-- I’ll be like that before long, too, I suppose.” It was a
statement, one shrouded in horror, but he shook his head.

“No, you’re sharp as a tack, and it’s not something communicable-- you have
time yet before it hits, if it even does. Not everyone experiences it.”

“I hate this.” She said simply, and he twisted his face up, unsure how to
react, then slowly put his hand over hers.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could do something to fix it for you... But, you did offer
me an exchange-- my help for information about you. What help did you have in
mind?”

She sighed. “I had hoped that... it’s silly and a small chance, but without
access of any sort to the outside world, it’s impossible from in here. I was
hoping you might track down Timothy, my brother in law. As you said, he may be
sympathetic-- or, honestly, he may condemn me to my fate, but that is the only
chance I have, now.”

“I... can try.” He told her, honest and uncertain of his ability to actually
get hold of anyone. “I’m... not bad at research.”

“No, I’d imagine not, being a nurse.” A tiny bit of her usual sharp amusement
had returned.

“I’ll see what I can do. I promise.”

“You stay so positive about everything else. Can’t spare any for me, can you.”
She said, again, neither a question or a request.

“Tell me why you think he won’t help get you out of here, Mrs. Cavendish.” That
was a request, but he wanted to know what he was dealing with, before he talked
to the man on the other side of the story.

“Georgette. My name is Georgette.”

“What did you do to make you so afraid he won’t help, Georgette?” He tried not
to show how pleased he was to have been given permission to use her first name.
It made him feel less like he was the help, and more like they were equals.

“Well, to start, I slept with him.” She said it so frankly and so... guiltily?
That he was taken a bit aback.

“That... usually doesn’t lessen someone’s attachment or empathy... unless you
blackmailed him or something.” He was teasing, but then he remembered just how
little he knew of her. “You... didn’t blackmail him, did you?”

“No! God, no, what you must think of me.” She pressed a hand to her breastbone,
fingers splayed and face betraying how unsurprised she actually was by the
accusation. “But he is my brother-in-law. And he was placed in the care of
Aurora house because my husband found out, and pulled the necessary strings.”

“Your husband was... well, I understand being upset but that seems a bit
drastic.” James thought that was maybe an understatement, but he didn’t want to
alienate himself from her if she felt otherwise.
“My husband was a tyrant.” She told him bluntly, and he felt relieved that she
wasn’t completely stockholmey.

“So why risk it?” He asked, as though speaking quietly would make the question
less invasive. “Did you-- were you in love with Timothy?” Asking made his heart
twinge, and he felt for a moment, almost jealous-- this voyeuristic approach to
emotions probably wasn’t good for him.

She gave him a hard look that said quite clearly how big of an idiot she
thought he was.
“Sex and love are not the same, James. Timmy was kind to me, gentle--warm and
caring in ways my husband was not. I think I did love him, in a way. But it
wasn’t the love of fairytales. It was gratefulness for his reminding me that it
wasn’t always... wasn’t always Denholme.” She lifted one shoulder in a delicate
shrug.

“So you think he’ll hold your husband’s actions against you?”

“I knew he was here. I knew it was wrong, but I was powerless to help. I can’t
drive, had no bank account of my own-- had I even tried to get up here, he’d
have had my funds frozen before I made it to the station. But Timmy... Timmy
stopped visiting so much, some years ago. I don’t think he knows, or knew,
even, what sort of a hold Denny kept on the accounts, on the house-- on me.
And... I didn’t even try. I was scared, and so I did nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have had to be afraid.” He told her firmly, voice almost
overflowing with emotion. “And no one should hold that fear against you.”

She stared at him, seemingly startled by his passion and conviction.

“You’re a man. You’re a strong man who has his life well in hand. Not all of us
are so lucky. Anyway, I’m tired. Goodnight, Nurse James.” She turned her face
away, a clear dismissal if he ever saw one, and he’d seen many.

“Just James is fine. I’ll see what I can do for you. See you Monday?” She
turned to look at him, surprised. “It’s my days off. Don’t worry-- I’ll be
back.” He offered her a smile, which faded quickly as he saw her eyes go hooded
and her face go distant.

“Monday, then,” she muttered, and he had never felt so guilty to go home.


He didn’t go to the shore that weekend, though he had planned it. The point of
it was to get away, and he knew very well that he wouldn’t be able to let this
go, wouldn’t be able to put it behind him until he’d seen it through as far as
he could.

He slept uneasily Friday night, and dreamed of stairs and coming back to Aurora
house to find Georgette dead in her tub, and woke with a start, in tears and
with an aching coldness in his chest that put his centralized AC to shame.

He gave up the pretense of sleep and opened his laptop at around three AM. He
googled Timothy Cavendish’s name, and found his official website. At the
bottom, in tiny print far beneath the advertisements for the book tour (now
ended) and the glowing reviews for his novel, The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy
Cavendish, was a single sentence.
“For media inquiries about Timothy Cavendish’s books, please contact Mrs.
Latham.” and the name was highlighted in a smart blue, which stood out from the
digital parchment that made up the site’s background image.
He carefully copy the destination address and opened Yahoo, since he wasn’t
entirely sure how to set up Outlook, nor use it if it were.

He pasted her email address into his To: field and wrote as the topic in the
subject heading the words, “A message from Mrs. Georgette Cavendish”, which, he
hoped, would mark the letter as important.
He knew he’d have a better chance of getting through if he used his registered
Aurora House email, but he also knew that there was every chance that account
was being monitored, and he may lose his job over it.

In as few words as possible, he described Georgette’s plight, detailing her
blamelessness in both her inability to free Tim and for her own situation, as
well as her helplessness and the unnecessariness of her remaining there. He
then read, reread, and double checked the letter before pressing send.

A message came back almost immediately explaining that the entire office was
celebrating the ending of the book tour with a week long trip to Raiatea, and
that he should expect their return, and subsequently the answering of any
messages sent, after the nineteenth. He checked the calendar on his computer-
- next Thursday. That wasn’t so bad, he supposed. At least he would have some
good news for her when he got back.

Since he didn’t have the time for a leisurely trip out to the sea, he put it
off, deciding that it would be his reward for having safely seen Georgette out
of her situation with his job, hopefully, intact.
Instead he went to a bookstore, intent on finding a few good reads. He found a
copy of Tim Cavendish’s book, and thumbed through it for references to
Georgette, but that felt too invasive.

He wandered the dusty shelves, paying more attention to his thoughts-- which
were a whirlwind of what if I get caught, where will I go what will I do, who
will hire me-- than to what he was flipping through. He did it on autopilot,
not actually interested in rag tag little novels about mysteries from the
seventies. His eyes skirted over the page, sticking now and then on a name. He
wondered if he’d maybe seen a movie version of this, some of it sounded
familiar. But still, not really his kind of story. He returned it to the shelf
and continued his wanderings, soaking in the smell of the bookshop more than
anything else.
He went home, cleaned, and settled in with his most recent purchase, laying
back on the soft brown suede of his recliner, some show on the telly about
influential composers of the 1940’s, while he read about a young girl named
Ayla, and the cavemen that raised her.

When he returned to work, it was hair service day.

They brought in hair dressers to help keep the residents looking and feeling
human, though as Noakes was fond of reminding them, if it didn’t keep the lice
down, she’d be more than happy to be rid of it, and apply the money towards
creating isolation rooms for the really troublesome ones.

He’d never seen Georgette with her hair done-- it wasn’t unkempt the way some
of their residents got, those who couldn’t brush their own hair, but seeing her
fresh out from the stylist’s hands was something utterly different. It always
was, with every resident. He tried, but he was just one person, and there were
so many of them, and he couldn’t help them all. But once she came out of her
room, he had to admit that she was beautiful, age and wrinkles and coldness
all.

She seemed twice as beautiful, though, when he told her the news about having
sent out a letter to the secretary-- her smile parted her face like a sunbeam,
and her eyes, which had been moody and distant, wrinkled at the corners.

“Thank god.” She muttered, and he helped her back into her chair, suddenly
tired as she was. And he could see it-- see the toll that being here was taking
on her. Despite her fancy finger waves and banana curls, her eyes seemed a
little less bright, her skin more sallow, her face more drawn, the circles
beneath her lashes darker and more pronounced-- the looked as though she’d aged
just over the weekend.

Or perhaps he’d just not looked at her as closely, or in this light. Who was he
to say? But, he did remember her protesting the meals, and a thought occurred.

“Have you been eating enough? Are you-- is there something special you’d like?”
He’d bring it from home if he had to.

But before she had a chance to answer, there came a small uproar, in as much as
age enfeebled voices could create an uproar, over Mr. Barryman choosing to
strip in the center of the dining room.

He flashed Georgette an apologetic look, and she waved him off, amused
dismissal that he saw Nurse Judd crooking an eyebrow at, and then he was too
busy offering to help Mr. Barryman change his clothes in his room, if he’d
like.

And before he knew it he’d spent two hours placating the man and seeing to his
personal hygiene, which really wasn’t fair to the rest of the folks at Aurora
House, but at least he felt a bit better that he hadn’t spent all that time
just on Georgette-- which was quickly becoming an urge.

He didn’t know why-- she wasn’t even the most helpless person here by far, but
something in him felt the need to care for her. And he was quite sure that he
wasn’t attracted to her that way, thank god, because working at a nursing home
would be terrible for him if that were the case, but he did feel the perhaps
chauvinistic need to protect her and care for her... so much so, in fact, that
he found himself dropping by her room again once his shift had ended.

“Sorry about that. I needed to...” He shrugged because actually it was fairly
obvious why he’d had to run off. “You were just going to tell me if there was
anything I could bring you to eat, tomorrow.”

“I don’t know about all that.” She said, a half smile on her lips, pulled thin
on one side.

“Well... is there anything I can do for you, anything at all?” He didn’t want
to bring up how she looked, how she seemed more tired, moving slower and less
sharp with her tongue, though some part of him wanted to believe the last was
because she’d actually decided to like him since he’d been helpful to her.

“I do like shortbreads, if you could see your way to a pack of them. And almond
roca.” She shrugged and he sighed.

“You’re no better than a small child-- skipping your supper and wanting
sweets.” He immediately was afraid she’d find offense in it.

But she just smiled serenely.
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to do something no small child ever
would.” She told him, and she sounded quite serious. He swallowed, afraid he
was about to be propositioned by someone he was beginning to think of as a
friend.

“Alright...” he said, trailing off and letting the dread slip into his words.

“Well don’t sound so keen. I was going to ask if you might help me brush out my
hair... I always miss some of the pins after getting it done, and they’re a
real pain for sleeping on.”

He couldn’t help but feel relieved, but offered a hesitant, “Did your husband
used to help you with your hair?” He’d fallen into that trap before, taking
over responsibilities of a loved one and becoming something of a safety blanket
replacement for a resident or three.

“Denny? Please. The second I hit forty he’d rather gnaw his own arm off than
touch me.” there was the sharp bite of bitterness, and he felt immediately
guilty when the next words out of her mouth were, “Oh, leave it. It doesn’t
matter.”

But he’d already taken up the brush and come around behind her.

“You have beautiful hair--nowhere near so brittle as most everyone else here.”
He marvelled, and she laughed.

“Lucky me.” her words were drier than a good wine, and he tsked.

“I’m already graying, and I’m just nearly forty-five.”

He dropped a palmful of hairpins on the dresser, and began running his fingers
through the loosening curls, in search of more.
His fingers skirted up her scalp, and she sighed and leaned back into the
touch, a little at first, and then more firmly.

“Yes, well... it must be contagious then.” She half-muttered. He smiled and
didn’t say anything, turning the hunt for pins into a scalp massage once he was
sure he’d gotten them all out.

She let her head tilt forward until her chin was resting against her chest, but
she still tried to speak after a few minutes.

“Our maid, Sonya, used to help with my hair sometimes. She’s wonderful, I think
you would like her. You have the same sort of naive lack of disrespect towards
the world.” He hummed, and let her roll her head a little.

“When was the last time someone even touched you?” He asked, suddenly curious
and sad for her again.

“Aside from here, all the pulling and the prodding from the other nurses? Denny
fired Sonya shortly before Tim came to ask us for more money.”

He swallowed, refusing to speak ill of his coworkers.

He pulled his hands away, and came around to kneel in front of her chair.
Wordlessly, he reached up a single hand, and cupped her cheek with it, not
moving or intending any further contact than that.

She brought her hand up to cover his, and he rubbed away her stray tear with
his thumb.

After a moment, she squeezed his hand once and then let him go, and he stood.

“I made a rat’s nest of your hair, I’m afraid. Let me just straighten it out
for you.”

He ran the brush through her hair, careful not to pull, using the technique
he’d learned from brushing his sister’s hair, long long ago. She let her chin
fall again, and this time, by the time he was done, she was asleep.

He lifted her gently into her bed, afraid to rouse her fully, and tucked her
in, unable to keep from pressing a chaste kiss to her temple.

“Goodnight, Georgette.” he muttered, smoothing her blankets, and she made a
small noise and rolled over in her sleep.

Tuesday brought trouble, in the form of Nurse Judd cornering James in a
hallway.

“You’re spending a lot of time with the Cavendish woman, Jimmy.” She told him,
her words sliding together with the lubrication of snideness that she produced
as a natural form of refuse.

“No more than anyone else, while they were settling in.” He told her, and
though the words were firm and sure, he was anything but. He felt that perhaps
she could smell it on him.

“Oh no, but for them you stayed on the clock for it. The cameras’ve picked up
your night time forays into her room after you sign off for the evening.” The
implication and the disgust were heavy in her voice.  

“She’s a friend. It seemed unprofessional to focus all of my attention on one
person, on the clock, when they weren’t in need of specialized help... and it
seemed unfriendly to not be able to focus on her. Thus if I stick around for a
few minutes after signing out, no one is cheated.”

“You know who’s cheated though, is healthy human beings who thought you might
contribute to the genepool, instead of sticking the first granny through the
door without family to take you to court for it!” She delivered the judgement
so venomously, he was frozen.

He wanted to stand up for himself, logically face down her allegations, but his
face burned hot and cold and his throat closed up, so that instead of an
intelligent reply, all that came out was  a higher than usual version of his
voice protesting, “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Well, we’ll let Nurse Noakes decide that, won’t we?” She flashed him a nasty
little sneer, and he watched her walk away, his fists clenching and unclenching
in impotent fury and fear.
But he still had people to see to, people who didn’t deserve his being angry
and scared, people who counted on him to take care of them, not scare them off.

He avoided Georgette, and felt terrible when he saw her notice him taking the
long way around the table so as not to pass by her. She looked startled, then
seemed to shrug it off, but kept watching him. And he had to do it several more
times, to which she responded by withdrawing into herself, her shoulders
curling in, her head coming down. Eventually, she gave up and just returned to
her room without saying anything.
He felt so guilty, and disgusted with himself. He hadn’t done anything wrong,
and she certainly hadn’t, and now... she must be so confused, not to mention
betrayed and sad.

He had to talk to her, but he knew it would be wiser to wait for Noakes to call
him in to the office.

He didn’t have long to wait.

He caught a second’s worth of a glimpse of Georgette coming down the hall
before he stepped inside, careful to leave the door open behind him, sure-- or
at least hoping--that there would be less yelling this way.

“Mr. Simon, please, have a seat.”

Nurse Noakes’ tone was mild-- which was, of course, when she was at her worst.
He already knew, based on Judd’s smiling face, that the judgement was made, and
it was not in his favor.

“It has been brought to my attention that you’ve been slipping into one of our
female residents’ rooms after signing out and before going home, Nurse Judd
says you told her it was for a social call. Explain yourself, if you would be
so kind.”

“It’s just that-- a social call, so as not to cheat my employers out of my work
time with idle chatter. But that’s all it was was --chat. Nothing
inappropriate, as I believe you are accusing me of.”

“When you began here, you signed an agreement stating that you would never use
your position here to attempt to maneuver advancements, gain, or favors out of
one of our residents-- now, it’s generally material wealth that we speak of,
but in this case ‘favors’ may be better suited for describing the charge. Do
you acknowledge that this is your signature?”

“I haven’t taken anything from her, and there have been no favors. I-- she
isn’t even nice to me half the time!”

“So you forced yourself on her?” Noakes’s beady eyes were glittering
maliciously. He gaped. How had it gotten worse?

“I haven’t had sex in over twenty years, and you oughtn’t sack your best nurse
now over a non-issue.” Georgette spoke primly from her position in the doorway,
and James felt his mouth draw up in stunned pleasure.

For someone who claimed to be too afraid to act to save anyone but herself,
here she was defending him. He experienced such pride...

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cavendish, but your presence in this house denotes your status
as someone incapable of making her own decisions-- and you signed that
paperwork when you were admitted.”

Georgette seemed to shrink, but she stood her ground. “This is rubbish.” She
announced.
Noakes pointed at Georgette, and Judd stepped forwards menacingly, making
Georgette shrink further into herself, but not budge. It seemed she was
resolved.

“James Simon, you acknowledge your signature?”

“Yes.” He choked out. Noakes just grinned and pressed a button on an ugly brown
speaker box on her desk.

“Withers, if you would be so kind?”

Withers had apparently been waiting for the summons, and he pulled Georgette
out of the way and planted heavy hands on James’s shoulders.

“Hey, no need for all this!” he protested, but Noakes was already speaking over
him.

“Mr. Simon, you are being terminated. Your final check will arrive in the mail,
along with pending charges if Mrs. Cavendish’s family decides to press them.”

“Ow!” He growled, as the hands on his shoulders lifted him bodily from the
chair.

“Let him go!” Georgette cried, pulling at the large man. He shrugged her off as
if she were nothing but an afterthought, and sent her sprawling into the
doorframe.

James heard the sickening crack and the following cry of pain and dismay when
she fell.  He brought his face back into Withers’s, smashing his nose and
prying free to run to Georgette’s side.

He touched her broken arm with gentle hands, unwilling to jar her further than
necessary.

“He’s broken it. She’s going to need a doctor!” He told them, and Noakes’
shrill voice broke through Georgette’s answering whimpering.

“Withers, have him removed from the property. Judd, secure our wounded
resident. I’ll make the necessary calls.”

“With all due respect, Noakes, I’d like to sta--” James began, and Georgette
was looking up at him as though he were her savior, when Noakes bellowed,

“OUT!”

He was hauled to his feet and dragged down the driveway. Behind them, he could
see some of the residents becoming very upset about it, and he felt worse for
them than he did for himself.

But most of all, he felt awful for poor Georgette. She must be in so much pain,
and who knew what sorts of threats were being levelled at her by the nurses.

He straightened his jacket as the gate closed behind him, peering back for any
sign of Georgette trying to follow, but when she didn’t appear-- not that he
would know what to do if she had-- he let his shoulders slump.

She would be cared for. He knew that much-- When Judge Alman had broken his
hip, they’d had a doctor there fast as can be-- she would be seen to.
And he, at least, could go home, and wait for the email which would, hopefully,
change her life.

Not that he would know. Two weeks later, he had taken a job at a chiropractic
office-- because rent didn’t wait for you to feel better. No charges were
levelled at him, and life went on.

He thought about mailing Tim Cavendish again, trying to find her or find out
what had happened to her, but he decided that if she’d been interested in
talking to him, they had his email, which had included his phone number. And
doubtless the case files at Aurora House would have furnished any further
contact information they may have needed.

So he sank into another monotonous job, and tried not to think about how the
residents must be living now that he wasn’t there. Tried not to think about
her, and how even the short time they’d spent together had made him want to
think about her. It made no sense. And clearly she wasn’t similarly afflicted,
or she would have called. Wouldn’t she?
***** Will you still need me, Will you still feed me- Georgette *****
She’d been medicated to help with the pain, and it made her unfocused and
tired. Her entire body felt heavy, but most of all that right arm.

Both of the bones in her wrist had broken, a side effect of age, she was told,
but at least the break was clean and the cast had gone on quickly.

She spent the next day sleeping it off, and when she woke, there were people
arguing over her. Tim was there, and his secretary, who had faced off with
Nurse Noakes. Some woman she hadn’t seen before was talking calmly to Nurse
Judd.

She groaned.

“There, you see? No problem!” Tim’s overly cheerful voice made her work one eye
open.

He moved to her bedside, all excitement and nervous energy and she winced.

A hand appeared at his elbow and pulled him away.

“Hello Georgette. My name is Ursula.” The woman had the sort of calming voice
that came from having children, or working with them. “We’ve come to take you
home with us. Since you signed yourself in here, we need you to sign yourself
out, before they’ll let you. Can you do that?”

If she had been in any other state she might have felt cross, being spoken to
like an idiot, but between the days she’d just had, the drugs in her system,
the relief she felt, the gratefulness, and the buzzing behind her eyes from not
eating nearly enough, all she could do was nod as tears worked themselves out
from under her eyelids.

Ursula leaned in and made a little cooing noise before hugging her, and she
couldn’t help but hug back, though she let go to apologize for the thump of the
cast against Ursula’s back.
Behind them, Noakes cleared her throat.

“There is also.” She said, her tone of barely restrained malicious glee lending
the statement more gravity than necessary, “the matter of whether or not you’d
like to press charges against the man who took advantage of your sister in law
while she was in Aurora House’s care.”

Tim spun round to look at her, his eyes wide and teeth hitting his lower lip in
that terrified goat look he used to level at them when he came round to beg
money off of them.

“There was no taking advantage.” She managed to say, though even to her, she
sounded dreamy, vague and drugged.

“He was fired the night that Mrs. Cavendish’s accident occurred, and to be
frank, he was very much the cause of said accident.”

“No.” She had managed to get herself upright, and was leaning on Ursula for
support, though keeping her eyes open seemed like a fight she might lose quite
soon.

“Right, I think we’ll wait until she feels a little more herself before we
worry about making any sort of legal decisions... the paperwork, please, Ms.
Judd?” Mrs. Latham was exactly the sort of no nonsense, prioritizing woman that
could make even an old woman feel underqualified to deal with life in general.

She took the pen and paper they handed her, and managed a good shaped scribble
on the necessary line, then she fell back onto her pillows and closed her eyes,
trying to get the buzzing and the brightness to stop.

She let them load her from bed to wheelchair and from wheelchair to car, not
bothering to open her eyes or worry about saying goodbye to anyone. The only
friend she’d made was already gone.

Ursula and her family lived in a gorgeous old house-- nothing modern and
snobbish like what she’d shared with Denny, but rich in another way-- and it
was here that Tim had moved to, though he took trips into London as well, for
publishing business.

They installed her in an upstairs bedroom and called in a doctor to check her
and be sure that her arm was set properly.

She, of course, was unsurprised to learn that she was malnourished-- it had
only been a couple of weeks, but all she’d been able to force herself to eat
was fruit and a few pieces of toast during that time.

They made her pasta for dinner, and it was beautiful, wonderful, didn’t come in
a little cardboard bin. Still, she could only eat a bit of it before feeling
full.
Tim urged her to keep eating, though, and suddenly her stomach felt heavy and
painful, and she couldn’t take in any more.

She begged off to have a lie down, but had to stop off in the bathroom when the
effort of going upstairs made it too difficult for her, and there she vomited.

It wasn’t pleasant. It never was. But it relieved the pressure on her stomach,
made her feel less heavy and more tired.

Tomorrow, she told herself, she would start eating right.

She took in the sallow, disgusting old woman that looked back at her from the
bathroom mirror, and returned to her room, glad at last to have enough blankets
that she could actually get warm. She thought of James and wondered what he
must have thought of her, how long she had looked so sunken and waxy, all but
dead. The thought was pushed away.

The next day when she crawled out of bed, she made her way downstairs and her
stomach actually rumbled, which she took as a good sign.

The girls were eating oatmeal, and Ursula turned to see her hovering in the
doorway, unsure of the etiquette of barging into your sister in law’s kitchen
and asking to be fed, but Ursula took the problem out of her hands.

“Georgette, these are Amy and Sarah, my grand daughters. Their mum’s at work,
and I watch them during the day. Come on in, sit down-- would you like some
oatmeal?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” She responded, so impressed by the
woman’s handling of the situation that she couldn’t help but feel some warmth
towards her.

She sat, then greeted the girls when they were closer to the same eye level.

“Good morning, Sarah and Amy.” She offered them a smile.

“Hi!” The smaller of the two piped up, and Ursula patted her head
affectionately when she gave Georgette her bowl.

“Don’t mind them-- they won’t play shy for long. Honey? Milk? Sugar? Butter?”

“Butter sounds wonderful, if you don’t mind.” She was already stirring it in
preparation for shoving as much in her mouth as humanly possible-- though that
would be a horrible example to set for the children. She restrained herself.
A bit.

“Aunt Georgette, mummy said we weren’t to ask you about your husband, because
he died. But can we ask you about your wedding?”
Georgette’s single raised eyebrow at the logic of children was clearly enough
to make Ursula think she’d been insulted, if her dropped jaw was anything to
judge by.

“Sarah’s been fascinated with weddings since she realized her parents never
wed. Ah--” She was clearly fishing for something to tell the girl, but
Georgette shook her head. Having had a moment to compose herself, she looked
back at the expectant little faces peering at her over the edges of their
breakfast dishes.

“What would you like to know?”

The next twenty minutes passed in a flurry of questions about dresses and
flowers, music and cake. Thus exhausted of their knowledge about weddings, the
girls turned back to their oatmeal.

“Tim’s speaking to some lawyers today.” Ursula began, her words sounding
cautious.

“Whatever for?” Georgette responded politely, trying to act as though she
wasn’t much more interested in swallowing a few more spoonfuls.

“About criminal neglect and abuse at the hands of Aurora House. Between the two
of you, it’s likely you have a case.”

Georgette’s next swallow stuck in her throat.
She coughed and then gratefully accepted the glass of orange juice that Ursula
handed her.

“If you don’t want to be involved it’s alright. He’s just speaking to them
about options today. To be honest, it was my idea-- I hate the thought of
seeing those poor people left in there with those awful women.” Her usual soft
voice was a bit ferocious, and intimidating even when her protective streak was
not being aimed at Georgette herself.

“I-- just tell me what you need me to do.” The words came out before she knew
what she was saying, and she inhaled sharply when her mind caught up.

It scared her, not knowing where this unthinking daring was coming from. She
averted her eyes and stared down her bowl of oatmeal like it had personally
offered her some offense, glaring until her eyes swam.
Ursula patted her hand, and then shooed the girls upstairs to play, so that
Georgette could finish her breakfast in peace, ostensibly.

Georgette listened to them run down the hall, young arms pushing and jostling,
sending them laughing and crashing into walls.

Ursula sat down beside her.

“I understand you’ve had a rough time, and that you aren’t used to children.
We’re going to do our very best to get your husband’s money returned to you-
- that’s another reason Tim’s at the lawyers’, going over his will-- but even
if that doesn’t work out, I want you to know you will always have a place
here.”

The tears overflowed her lids, and when she looked up, she all but launched
herself into Ursula’s arms.

She wasn’t proud, but she sobbed in a way that she hadn’t since she was a very
young woman. Not since the baby miscarried and Denny began to hate her. She
sobbed out her entire life as a prisoner in her own home, a prisoner to her own
husband, and the hurt and fear she hadn’t been able to face, afraid she would
never leave that awful nursing home.

Ursula let her cry, making occasional soothing noises while she stroked her
back and petted her hair, and when she finally managed to stop, she sniffled.

“I am... so sorry.” She was embarrassed, but Ursula’s eyes and kind smile were
tempered by her stern tone.

“Don’t be silly. You’re family, and that’s what family is here for. Now, is
there anything you need? Anything you want? We only found a few changes of
clothes for you, and Mrs. Latham volunteered to take you into town to find new,
when you feel up to it. No hurry.”

“I don’t-- er. Almond roca?” She asked hopefully, and Ursula practically beamed
and stood abruptly, going to the cupboard to retrieve a tin.
She pulled off the lid and offered it to her, and Georgette took a piece with
shaking hands.

When she put it in her mouth, a stray tear slid down her face, and she knew
that absolutely everything would be alright. Oddly comforting, the small
luxuries.
She began feeling more human, and less like the livestock she’d been slowly
transforming into.
Sooner or later, things would get back to normal.

Tim didn’t get back until nearly dinner time, and came blustering in with a red
nose and pink splotches on his cheeks. A cold snap must have come up, and he
obviously didn’t appreciate it.

Georgette was helping the girls to mash the boiled potatoes as best as she
could with one working arm-- that is to say, she was holding the bowl still.
It was a group effort, and they seemed to be making as much a mess as they were
making dinner, but they were having so much fun that none of them really had
the heart to take it away from them. Besides, there would be more than enough.

Tim pulled his scarf off from around his neck like it was strangling him, and
didn’t really calm down until Ursula removed his knit cap for him, and kissed
his bald spot.

“Pot roast.” She told him, in the same tone some women would use to announce
coffee to men who were more beast than human, before their morning cup.

Tim made a beastly groaning noise before settling into his chair.
“The day I’ve had.” He moaned, and Ursula clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

“After dinner. You’ll upset everyone’s appetite if you start before. Have some
scotch.”

He made a face but did as he was bid, and Georgette would have been hard
pressed to keep the smile off her face.

“You are a changed man, Mister Cavendish. Congratulations, Ursula-- I would
never have believed any one woman up for the job.” She raised her glass of milk
in a mock toast, and Ursula replied in kind with her carrot juice.

The tone of the evening made it through dinner intact, at Ursula’s insistence,
and then through to when the girls were put to bed.
Georgette considered playing ill-- and her stomach was full-to-cramping-- but
she knew, too, that part of her discovering her ability to stand on her own two
feet, so to speak, was not running away and ignoring things that were
unpleasant.
She’d done that for long enough.

Ursula’s daughter Mary had come home shortly before the girls had gone to
sleep, and she joined them in front of their fire, where they all held glasses
of a nice dessert wine.

“So.” Tim began, “Today I spoke with the lawyers. About Denholme, firstly-
- Those ruddy prenup papers were binding, weren’t they‽” Timothy took a healthy
swallow and shook his head. “But, here’s the thing-- there’s a tidy sum going
into Aurora House each month that would represent very comfortable living
indeed, if we could prove that Aurora House wasn’t deserving of it, and that
sum isn’t tied up in anything else. The lawyers think, with a properly
sympathetic judge, we might be able to get that cash flow going to you.” Ursula
gasped and clasped Georgette’s good hand, obviously happy for her. Georgete
couldn’t help but grin back.

“If, and it’s a bloody big if, we can prove Aurora House is incapable of caring
for its residents. Which means that you and I would have to sue it. Now, I’m
more than happy to put in the money, but here’s where it gets tricky. Any good
defense lawyer would take one look at us and laugh. The words of two
disgruntled retirees, from the same family no less! Next to years of service
without complaint-- and the moment it comes out how much Denholme left to the
care home, and how much he left you, it will become a case of the bitter
brother and widow-- who have a publically known affair, thanks to that whole
book and movie deal business, sorry for my part in it-- versus the poor, kind
hearted nurses of Aurora House.”
Ursula scoffed, and Mary shook her head.

“I don’t understand.” She said, soft spoken like her mother, but apparently not
yet grown into a similar state of suitably steeled spine. “I thought there was
some sort of inquiry after your book came out?”

Timothy made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, and Georgette was
reminded of why she liked him so much.

“It’s often easier for someone to smooth things down and just say that
everything is okay than it is for them to actually dedicate the time, effort,
and money to making it right.” Ursula sighed and shook her head.

“Yes, the basis of all the world’s problems. Of course, had Veronica, Ernie,
and Mr. Meeks not just ridden off into the sunset, I might be able to call on
them for testimonials to help our case.” He sounded somewhat offended by the
thought of their not writing, and Georgette experienced a small flush of guilt.

“I-- the nurse that they fired for impropriety... he would... he might testify
against them.”

Tim thought for a bit. “Pointy nose, blue eyes, warm hands, glasses, bit of
grease in his hair most days?”

“James.” She said as an affirmative.

“He seemed decent. And quiet.” Which sounded dismissive. Ursula was looking
between them as if she expected a tennis match to break out.

“He is. But I think he’s passionate enough about the people he cares--cared-
- for that he might be willing to, you know, speak up a bit.” She felt more
defensive than she’d been prepared to. But then, she’d lived it until recently.

Ursula nodded sympathetically and leaned over to squeeze Tim’s hand.

“How do we find him?” Timothy asked, looking to Georgette. She spread her
hands, feeling guilty and helpless.

“He didn’t leave a number with you?” Mary blurted, clearly surprised, and her
mother gave her a look.

“I wonder if he thought I didn’t know how to use one. Many of the people in the
home wouldn’t have.” Georgette shrugged, but she felt a tiny swell of panic,
which she tried to force down.
What if he didn’t want to hear from her? He’d found Timbo before, surely he
could have done it again in the time since she’d been here.

Tim was doing one of his weaselly look abouts, the way he had whenever he was
trying to find an excuse to escape staying for dinner once Denny had gotten
home.
“Well, I suppose his email must have been on the message he sent to Mrs.
Latham. We can see if he answers a letter from us there.” He didn’t seem wholly
convinced by this answer, but they were all more than willing to let it drop.

Her stomach was cramping as it grew accustomed to being full again, and she
excused herself for bed, well aware that there was every chance that, with her
gone, the talk would turn to the accusations Aurora House had levels and the
implications they had made to her family about herself and James. She managed
to keep her spine stiff and her head held tall and proud until she made it to
the stairs and out of their view, and then she let the mask fall.

Laying in bed that night, the experience seemed all too familiar-- alone in the
dark, the blankets cool and not yet heated by her skin, the tears trickling
down her cheeks.

She dreamed that she woke up, and the past two years had all been a dream. She
woke in her home, with her husband alive beside her. She dreamed them preparing
to leave on one of Denny’s work trips, the closest thing they ever had to a
vacation.

In her dream, she lived through one such day, ignored on the plane ride while
he slept, dropped off at the hotel to iron his clothes while he had his
meeting, dressing herself and getting made up while she waited for him to come
and change for dinner. Then the inevitable wait until getting a call around
nine for her to order room service, as he’d had a change of plans--or to take a
cab to his partner’s home, to be entertained by their wife. Nevermind that at
times they didn’t even share a language... At least she was able to interact
with someone other than Lana, their maid.

She woke up, into the real present, new tears pricking fresh behind her eyes
and old ones making the skin feel tight on her cheeks.

She rolled over and tried to relax, listened to the gentle roll of falling
drops of rain outside, but instead her mind pushed at her the fact that though
James cared more for her than anyone had in some time... but apparently not
enough to contact her.
Though she’d cost him his job.
And not been very kind to him.

At least she had her family, now... and that was an odd concept. She hadn’t had
any family but Denny and sometimes Tim in so very long. And she’d spent so long
with only the abstract concept of children, the understanding that they were
little horrors that she ought to be glad not to have had inflicted on her
life... suddenly seeing these two girls, sweet and funny and well behaved,
despite their boundless energy and enthusiasm... it just made her mourn for
what she’d never had the chance to have.

And through it all, she couldn’t afford to sink into depression now. She had to
focus on writing out her experiences at Aurora House, while they were fresh.
But of course it was her right arm that had been broken.
Just to make life easy.

She hugged her cast to her chest, well aware that at her age it would take
longer to mend and that her bones would likely be more fragile even so... not
to mention the arthritis she had to look forward to, along with other
uncomfortable deteriorations brought on by age.

She thought, not for the first time, of killing herself.

But she had never managed it before, when she had far less to lose. No real
reason to start now, when things were just beginning to be... good. She was
actually poised to be happy for some time now.

It was that comforting thought that she took back to sleep with her... and no
false future waited behind her eyelids this time. Only a concerned face,
wrinkles growing from brows knotted together, and blue eyes bright behind the
lenses of his glasses.


Mrs. Latham came the next day, on Thursday, and brought with her a slip of
paper.

“I sent Mr. Simon a message, of course, but I found he’d left his number in the
one he sent us. I thought you might like to reach out to him that way.” The way
she said it, it was really more a command than a suggestion, and Georgette
found herself taking it without thinking.

“Thank you.” She muttered, staring down at the numbers, written in neat,
slanted writing, the blue of the ink stark against the yellow of the memo pad.
“I’ll call him after lunch.” She decided, and looked up into Mrs. Latham’s
kindly but intimidating face. “Ursula has made brisket for sandwiches.”

Lunch was a quiet affair with the girls off on a playdate at a friend’s house.

It went by far too quickly for her taste, but Ursula steered Mrs. Latham into
the den to discuss marketing placement or some such thing... leaving Georgette
alone in the kitchen with the phone mounted just above her head level on the
wall beside her.

She took a deep breath and reached up, shaking hand closing over the lemon
creme plastic of the receiver and bringing it to her level. She placed it on
the table and held it still with the hand in the cast, and pressed the numbers
in awkwardly with her left index finger.

She hastened to lift it to her ear then, and waited as it rang. And rang. And
rang.

There was a click.

Hello. she heard You’ve reached James Simon’s answering machine. I’m not home
just at the moment, but if you leave your name and number at the tone, I’ll
return your call as soon as I can. Thank you, and have a nice day!

It was his voice, and that was a wonderful thing to hear.
The tone came before she’d had time to compose her response in her mind, and in
her panic she hung up.

She took two deep, steadying breaths and hit the redial button.

Hello. You’ve reached James Simon’s answering machine. I’m not home-- she
listened all the way through it a second time, waiting for the tone.
When it came, this time, she was ready.

“Hello James. It’s Georgette. I’m sorry for the failure to call before now.
I’ve been... recovering.” She decided to gloss over that part. “I’d love to
speak with you. I don’t know if you’ve received the letter from Mrs. Latham
yet, or what it said, exactly, but we have a request to make of you, if you’re
willing.” She considered saying something about wanting to know how he was
doing, what he’d done after leaving Aurora House, but she couldn’t bring
herself to do so. “I’m afraid I don’t know the house number yet, so I suppose I
shall simply have to try again tomorrow. Until then.” She forced some jollity
into her voice, the way she had been taught to end every call, and hung up a
second time. She untangled her fingers from the phone cord and sighed.

She was only nervous that he would say no, she assured herself.
She rose and went to join the other women in the den, where she was asked if
he’d been home, and, upon informing them that he hadn’t been, she was asked if
she would like to go shopping for some new clothes now.

Truth be told, she was tired of living in her velor pants and beaded shirts,
and was happy to accept the offer.

“I will pay you back.” She assured Ursula, but she just clucked her tongue and
shook her head.

“We’re family.” She said again, as though that excused any sort of debt she
might accrue during her stay with them. She clasped Ursula’s hand gratefully,
then slid into the car.

They stopped off outside of the town proper at Mrs. Latham’s nephew’s house, to
pick him up and trade off cars. Gone was the station wagon, traded out for a
beautiful, roaring, ostentatious Ford Capri-- a real show off of a car. Style
and flare and, under Tom’s careful handling, speed that could set even her
subdued heart to thrilling.

Mrs. Latham took the backseat and they let her have her window down as he
whipped across country lanes and into town, keeping the wind blowing through
her hair and the giddy grin on her face until the traffic signs demanded lower
speeds and the officers posted on streets made sure that he obeyed.

“I’ll let you drive her on the way back if y’like.” He offered, his voice thick
and heavy with something a touch more Scottish than what she was used to. She
smiled.

“Not today, but once I learn to drive, I may take you up on the offer.” Mrs.
Latham made a tsking noise and pulled out a shiny new palm pilot to make a note
on.


It felt a bit like being alive again, hitting shops with another woman. True,
it wasn’t the same sort of shop she’d gone to with Denholme, but it wasn’t the
same sort of shopping trip either, no dealing with his impatience or pretending
not to be hurt by his dismissive hand flaps when she’d ask his opinion of one
piece or another.

And it helped that Tom had such a sense of fun about him, plucking the most
inappropriate things off of racks for her to put her nose up at, selecting
things that she wouldn’t have worn even in her prime. His aunt disapproved, but
she smiled too.

Altogether, it was no hardship on any of them, and by the time they headed
back, it had gone grey and almost dark.

Tom invited them in for tea, and they accepted gladly, feet still sore from the
polished tile of the shops they’d trekked all over.

The cozy atmosphere and laughter took them through the tea, and all the way out
to the car, where Charlotte climbed in, and Georgette froze.

Tom’s neighbor was just getting home, and even in low light and in profile, she
recognized him.

“James?”

The name slipped out, and he turned, eyes widening behind glasses. He paused
for a second, then proceeded to close his car door and come around towards
them. Tom looked back and forth between his neighbor and his aunt’s boss’s
sister in law, clearly confused.

“Do y’know each other?” He asked.
Georgette ignored him, suddenly nervy.
“Hello James.” She offered, uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t said anything.
He stopped short of her by a foot or so.

“Mrs. Cavendish?” He offered, and her heart sunk a little, the verbal arm’s
length more than obviously his main response to seeing her again. Only to be
expected, she tried to remind herself.

“What a coincidence! I had no idea you lived so nearby-- we only just found
your phone number today.” She knew she must sound a little desperate in her
cheer, and she found her fingers pressing against the pounding pulse point at
the base of her throat.

“And so you followed me to my home with it?” His brows curled, obviously
suspicious. His eyes darted to Tom, who still looked just confused, then over
to take in Mrs. Latham, who had climbed back out of her car by then.

“Not at all!” Georgette protested. “Charlotte, Tom and I just finished a day of
shopping-- I had no idea this was your home.” She turned to really take in the
small house. Probably identical in floor plan to Tom’s, it was covered in
grungy off-white sideboards, and really rather tiny. But, she supposed, when
one lived alone-- or at least, she assumed--
With a guilty sinking sensation, she realized she had never asked. For all she
knew, she’d lost him the only job that supported him, a wife, and a few small
children.
His left hand was in his pocket, and she cursed herself for her self
absorption.

“Mrs. Latham?” She called, suddenly remembering herself and attempting to
reclaim some of the aloofness she’d apparently lost upon being discharged.
“Would you provide Mr. Simon with the number and address of the Cavendish
household? I’d like to go home.” She gathered up what was left of her dignity
and climbed into the car, stalwartly ignoring both Tom’s pointed confusion and
James and Charlotte’s exchange.

Charlotte was back in the car not long after that, and they pulled out in
silence, making it only a very short way down the road before she couldn’t
contain herself any longer.
“And that’s the one they thought you were having a go with?” Her voice was
tinged in disbelief.

“Honestly, Charlotte, he isn’t bad looking.” Again, the defensiveness, but
Charlotte just snorted.

“I have seen people kill one another who liked each other more than the two of
you.” She shook her head, her great golden earrings bouncing off of her neck.

Georgette slumped in her seat, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out
of her.

“Well, I don’t suppose he’s likely to help us with the court case, then.” the
words came out quiet and mournful. She wondered if she could have been nicer,
how she could have handled that better...

She wondered it all the way home, and it preoccupied her, until she was
uninterested in dinner. She lay in bed for hours before falling asleep
wondering why, if she seemed to hate him, she harbored so little ill will, and
spent so much of her time thinking about him.

She would say she was just a silly old woman with a crush, but she felt as
though there would be more resentment in such a situation-- more loathing
directed at him for being unattainable. She had never liked being told she
couldn’t have something. But it hardly mattered now, did it?
That settled it then. Though as to what ‘that’ or ‘it’ was, her sleepy mind
couldn’t quite grasp.

She woke early the next morning to the ringing of the house phone and rolled
over grumbling to herself. Far too early for such nonsense. She drifted back to
sleep, and came downstairs at a more acceptable time, closer to ten.

“There she is! G’morning sleeping beauty!”
That was an enthusiastic greeting, even for Ursula, who never seemed to be
unenthusiastic.

“...morning?” She returned, the word lilted into an almost-question.

“You’ve had a call!” Amy piped up excitedly, and Sarah hushed her with a grin.
“A booooooy.” Sarah added. Ursula tutted.

“Mr. Simons called for you while you were still asleep.” Ursula clarified, and
Georgette nodded, lips forming a small ‘oh’.

“I’ve invited him for tea... I hope that’s alright?” Ursula pressed on and
Georgette wrinkled her nose.

“I doubt he’ll come-- what did he say?”

“He said he looked forward to it. Very polite, your nurse.”

“Is Aunt Georgette sick?” Amy asked, more subdued suddenly, and Georgette was
utterly floored by her worry. Strange as it was, it felt like a unaccustomed
luxury, having people care about her... having family.

“No, no... he’s just coming for a visit. But we mustn’t imply that he’s Aunt
Georgette’s gentleman friend, okay?” She hoped desperately that that would be
enough, and that there would be no further questions, but in the style of
children everywhere, of course they pressed on.

“Is he got a wife?” Sarah asked. “Can I ask about their wedding?”

“Does he have a wife, you mean. I really don’t know. But I think we have to ask
him about... grown up business stuff. So maybe not this time, alright?” She
hadn’t ever really considered herself a particularly patient person, but these
children inspired her to be that way-- or perhaps it was just Ursula’s guiding
influence.

“‘Kay!” they chorused, and Georgette was left to wonder whether it was Ursula
who had introduced them to the concept of enthusiasm, or if some of theirs had
rubbed off on her. And, if it was a communicable thing, whether or not she
would welcome contracting it.

She excused herself to dress, and found herself discarding most of her old
clothing. Though she didn’t want the family to remark on her having put extra
effort in, she didn’t want to look like she was still the slouch that she’d
been while in a nursing home, with nothing to live for.
After all, she was at least out of said nursing home.

Thank goodness that they had found some things for her on their shopping trip.
The buttons were difficult, lacking her fingers’ normal deftness, and unable to
twist her wrist, really. Eventually, though, she managed.

She sat in front of the dressing mirror and tried to figure out something to do
with her hair, but it was utterly beyond her to do more than brush it.

She gave up and flapped her arms a bit, contenting herself with ‘good enough’.

She came downstairs just as a knock came on the front door, and her heart leapt
into her throat. She cast a panicked glance at Ursula, who made a shooing
motion, urging her to answer it.

She took a deep, steadying breath, patted her hair to be sure it was in place,
and did.

James had half turned away, so her first view of him was profile, though he
faced her quickly enough with a guilty look on his face, like he’d been
considering making a run for it. His hand went to his head as though to fix his
hair. It made her feel better, more in charge, because it was obvious that he
was uneasy, too.

“Hello James.” It came out easily, far more familiar than the day before. She
was slightly less taken by surprise and slightly more comfortable, on her own
turf.

“Georgette.” he responded in kind, relaxing. She smiled and stepped aside.

“Come on in-- Ursula is making tea now.” She gestured towards the sitting room,
which, honestly, she didn’t think she’d been in since arriving here. Walking
in, she realized with a start that what she had mistaken for a fireplace mantle
when walking past was actually a small upright piano. She must have made some
small noise, because James was suddenly at her elbow, his face colored with
concern.

“I’m fine.” She fluttered her hand at him, trying to draw away, but of course
he’d been a nurse, his immediate reaction was to care for her, to take care of
her. He helped her to a chair and then nodded, satisfied, before he would even
consider sitting down, and he’d barely managed that when Ursula came in bearing
a tray with finger sandwiches and tea, cream and sugar. He bounced back to his
feet in a way that was probably intended to be very polite, but was really so
eager as to qualify as comical.

“That really isn’t necessary.” Ursula protested, and James looked sheepish, and
just accepted the cup offered to him.

“So I suppose this isn’t really a social visit, contrary to the setup.” He
pointed out, stirring the sugar into his tea while he spoke.

“Not strictly, no, but I have-- that is. How have you been? What have you been
doing?” Georgette tried for conversational, and felt she’d missed the mark,
erring, like him, too far on the side of enthusiasm.
She leaned back in her chair, unsure when she’d leaned in, and realized Ursula
was staring at her with a little bemused smile on her face.

She felt an acute embarrassment and turned her attention to her tea, forcing
her eyes to stay fixed there.

“I found new work-- Chiropractor's office. The pay isn’t as good, but it also
isn’t so demanding... I find myself with a lot of free time.” The way he said
it made her glance up, surprised-- she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him sound
bitter before. She wondered-- well, of course that bitterness was directed at
her. His eyes met hers and held them, unblinking.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Ursula said smoothly, as though attempting to cut
through the tension, but there was more than that, there was a determination to
it, like he was trying to convey something through his eyes alone.

“I got rid of my flat, moved into the little house. Took up a second job at the
cinema.”
She nodded, not breaking the odd intense gaze or the silence that followed. It
stretched on, until--

“I’ll just check on the-- kitchen.” Ursula managed, and pressed a hand to
Georgette’s shoulder on the way out, causing her to look up and crossed between
them. She mouthed a quick ‘you okay?’
Georgette sat up, again having leaned towards him, and gave a small smile and
nod to Ursula’s worried face.
Ursula patted her shoulder, then let go.

“I’m sorry. I--” She started, at the same time as he stood and began pacing
agitatedly.

“I helped you and lost my job, my home, and the last time I saw you, your arm
was turning purple and yellow and red. And you couldn’t have called?”

She had been feeling guilty, but somehow that turned into a cold flush of
anger.

“Forgive me-- I was busy trying to remember how to eat without bringing it back
up. I was trying to get used to this damn plaster, and meeting my new family
and getting myself settled. What did you expect? I am not a wealthy woman, I
had no money to throw at you for your services. All I had was lost to me-- you
know that!” Her voice snapped out like it had when they first met, and she felt
a surge of regret for having managed to spoil their friendship.

He stopped and gave her the most withering glare, taking two brisk steps
forward, almost threatening, before stopping himself.

“I wasn’t asking for your money, or your stories, or anything else. I was
asking for the knowledge that you were okay, that you had gotten out of Aurora
House. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, to me.”

She deflated and leaned back in her chair, folding into herself.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She spoke so softly she was afraid she wouldn’t be
heard. “I didn’t-- I didn’t think... no, I did. I thought of you. But I was...
vain I suppose. I didn’t want you to see me like that. I was-- it was bad.
Worse than when I was in Aurora House.” She shook her head.
“I’m sorry. This was a terrible idea. We-- we’re suing Aurora House for the
mistreatment of its residents. We were hoping to ask you to testify.”

He stared at her, then left the room wordlessly. She flinched when she heard
the front door slam, and buried her face in her shaking hands.
She couldn’t have sat there for more than a minute when the door opened and
closed quietly, and his footsteps returned.

She looked up, afraid to see his face hardened and angry still. Instead, he
just looked sad. That hurt her more than a physical blow would have, and she
wanted to push the expression off of his face. He hardly deserved it.

“Did you ever think anything more of me than as a tool for achieving your own
goals?” He asked, hurt as apparent in his words as in his face.

“Of course I did!” It was nearly a wail. She cleared her throat and composed
herself as best as she could, taking a sip of her tea and putting it down on
the table before her hands could draw attention to themselves with the
chattering saucer. “I do still, even. We-- you are... were. You were my first
friend in years. I’m sorry. I’m not good at showing it.” She looked down at her
hands, pressing them against one another to try and stop the shakes.

“Friends care about each other, Georgette. You only care about yourself.” He
didn’t sound defeated, or angry, only... disappointed. Somehow that hurt, too.

“I do care about you. It hurts to see you so angry, so tired looking. It hurt
when you called me Mrs. Cavendish.” She reached out a supplicant hand. “Please,
I’m sorry. Let’s... can we still be friends?”

“What do you know about me, Mrs. Cavendish? What do you really know? That I was
your nurse, that my name is James.”

“That you’re kind, and decent, and funny, and that you legitimately care about
the people you were helping in that awful place.” She protested, heart
pounding. She pressed her hand to her chest and took a deep breath. “I’m
sorry...” She hadn’t apologized this much since Denny had found out about her
and Tim. She could feel the tears trying to well up, could feel that long since
familiar burn in her throat.

“Oh don’t. Just-- you’re right. This was a bad idea.”

She had no idea what to say to that, and stared dumbly for a moment, then
nodded once and stood.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” She saw Ursula watching from the kitchen,
and drew herself up to be more dignified. She faced him again only to find he
was looking out the window, and cleared her throat.

He wasn’t facing her, but she could see his head droop a bit, his shoulders
slump.

“I’ll do it.” He told her, a glint of steel around his eyes which had nothing
to do with his glasses, when he moved to face her. “For the rest of the
residents who are still there.”

She nodded, understanding well the unspoken ‘not for you’.

“I... do not want to mislead you or misrepresent myself-- if we win, I stand to
benefit a great deal from this. I may nearly be able to afford my old life
back. But that isn’t all of why we’re doing this, and you must believe me when
I say so. I wasn’t happy there, except for you, and I can’t imagine they are,
either.”

“Have your lawyers ring me. I’ll see you in court.” He told her, employing
against her the same sort of bluntness that she had once used against him, with
the same aim of inflicting distance between them. He paused at the doorway,
obviously wanting to say more, and decided upon, “Tell Ursula thanks for me.”
And, having said that, he left again.

She sighed, and it was her turn to look out the window, while he got into his
little car and drove off.

Ursula crept back, her footfalls silenced by the rug.
She stood beside Georgette for a few minutes, just offering the comfort of
being close. There were no words, but that was okay. She didn’t feel as though
any words were needed. The quiet stretched on for half of forever, it seemed,
and eventually it trailed out, wore thin.

“He asked me to thank you for tea.” She was impressed with her own even tone,
and it was as though speaking broke the spell of stillness that she’d cast on
herself. She turned from the window, and, glancing backwards as if asking
permission, walked forward to stroke her hand across the well oiled wood of the
piano.

“He did agree, though. To testify.” Ursula reminded her. She paused, obviously
weighing her words. “I think he will come around as well-- that didn’t strike
me as the argument of people who don’t care.”

“We have no real reason to care, though, which I think is the problem.” She
shrugged and lifted the lid that covered the keys, running the fingers of her
left hand across them reverently, like she had the one in her house. She never
pressed down-- never made music with it, at least not when Denny had been home,
but... now because she couldn’t. She glared at her broken arm, won by her for
her stupidity, her trying to help when she thought James needed it.

Ursula made a small noise of dissent, but patted her on the back.
“Are you going to be okay?” She asked.
Georgette looked at her, surprised.

“You know... I think I will. Thank you.”

It was nearly a month before she saw him again. Eight weeks after her release
from Aurora House, the plaster was removed, though her arm ached and she was
given a series of exercises to help her muscles and bones stay strong...
something that she knew she only had to look forward to declining more over
time.

Two days later, she found herself sitting between James and Tim in the offices
of Tim’s lawyers, a Mister Mikels and a Ms. Stephens.
She held her hands, twisting her fingers together just far enough that she
could feel the twinge in the still weak and fragile bones of her wrist. It
wasn’t that she liked hurting, but it was like a loose tooth that you just
couldn’t help but push at with your tongue.

They listened to the lawyers’ plan for how to go about it, nodding along and
asking the questions that seemed pertinent, and she avoided looking at anyone
but the lawyers as much as humanly possible.

When it was over, once they’d stood and shaken the lawyers’ hands, none was out
of the room faster than Tim. Like a shot, he was gone and Georgette wondered if
it was because he was too used to being on the other side- having been sued
before, over copyright claims and the like.

That left James and she, not alone, but it meant that when she had a little
trouble pushing on her weak arm to lift herself from the plush chair, it was
James who once again stepped in, without so much as thinking, with a helping
hand.

“Left over impulses of nursehood?” She offered the light tease, giving him an
opportunity to accept it as the disconnecting point it was meant to be. No need
to try and keep talking if it was only going to end in her upsetting him,
making him feel like a tool to be used and nothing more.

“Would you like to have lunch with me? Or-- that is, would you? I wanted to
apologize.” She stared at him, unsure what brought this on-- absence, perhaps,
making the head go soft.

“I’d like that.” She answered instead of pointing out his obvious insanity.
That would be rude, after all, and as much as she didn’t feel she deserved
another chance, if he wanted to give it, well... who was she to argue?

They met Tim in the lobby and Georgette told him of their lunch plans, which
seemed to suit him just fine. He seemed antsy to be gone from the law offices
of Mikels and Stephens.

“I’ve a meeting at the office, and then I can come retrieve you before heading
home-- just call Mrs. Latham with the address of the cafe.” He held her hands
and kissed her cheek.

James watched him leave before turning to Georgette, his eyes narrowed and face
mistrustful.

She let out an exasperated huff.
“What, what did I do now?” She didn’t know why it was so easy to quarrel with
him, to not just fold up and be meek and accept his moods, the way she usually
did. Or at least used to. She wondered if it was because of their social
statuses... but that hardly made sense now. All of that had changed when she
left the nursing home.

“You aren’t still-- with Tim, are you? I mean, Ursula--” There again was that
odd intensity.

“Really? I thought it was bad enough being accused of sleeping with you-- at
least you have the looks for it. No, I am not sleeping with Tim. Not only would
I not do that to Ursula, I just have no interest-- really, what kind--” She bit
off the end of the sentence, reminding herself that she knew exactly what kind
of a person he thought she was. She folded her arms and refused to look at him.

He stumbled on his apology, and in the ensuing silence, he sighed. “I just
don’t know what to do with you. You bounce back and forth between being
recklessly strong and completely lost and vulnerable. I can never tell if
you’re more likely to slam a door in my face or burst into tears. Or both.” He
pushed his hair back, the product making the strands stick together, but
keeping them out of his face.

“What you can do is take me to lunch, and stop worrying about trying to figure
out what I’m doing in the future, because not even I know that. And anyway, the
future is an ugly place. And right now, I want a croissant and a tea. Yes?”

He agreed and showed her to his car, which she climbed into without remarking
on its age or the milky white discolorations on the roof and hood from water
damage. Contrary to what he thought, she could be civilized, thank you.

He opened the door, and she thanked him and let him order first. She picked up
the tab and he held her chair for her-- it seemed like it was some sort of
competition, but she had the upper hand, having acted as her husband’s
secretary and hostess for everyone from shareholders to ambassadors. Being
overbearingly polite to an ex-nurse was hardly a trial, no matter how
infuriating he could be.

When the food finally arrived, he laughed and called a truce.

“So... what have you been up to since I saw you last?” She asked, less prim
now, but still in the polite rut they’d started.

“Just work, mainly. Lots of it. I... took a vacation to the beach a week back.
Long overdue.”

“Oh? It’s been too long since I was near water. We used to live on a lake
side... I loved walking along the shoreline. What did you do on your vacation?”
She was overly aware that she’d managed to take a conversation about him and
make it about herself. SHe quickly pushed it back, making an effort to be more
mindful.

“A lot of walking... and there’s a small boat rental. I like to kayak.”  

She nodded, biting her lip to suppress her immediate reaction-- ‘I’ve never
been kayaking’, opting instead for “Do you do it often? You said you’d been
overdue.”

“Once a month or so. More, if it’s a stressful time. I just find it really
relaxing. What about you, what do you do to unwind?” He gestured at her with
his sandwich, and her eyes followed the falling crumbs before she responded.

“I don’t really--” She knew if she started it would quickly turn into a downer,
but he gave her a disbelieving and very pointed look, until she raised her
hands in a show of submission.

“I used to garden, but then my husband thought I was sleeping with the
gardener, so he fired him and started keeping me from working outside. I
started going for walks after that, but with where the house is and my arm the
way it’s been, I decided that wasn’t wisest. I think I may take up the piano
again, once my wrist stops twinging so much.” She shrugged.

He stared at her, that hard look that she was growing more used to seeing on
his face.

“I wasn’t sleeping with him either!” she protested, drawing at least a couple
of curious looks. “We were just friends! You cannot imagine, how isolated, how
terribly lonely-- but Denny was jealous-- that’s when I told him about Tim and
I, actually, in a fit of anger. Until then he didn’t even have reason to
suspect... well. It was once. Two men, in my whole life, and almost constant
accusations. And how many girls have you been with, hm?” She fired at him, her
words hot with derision, though not all of it was his fault. A lifetime of
slurs against her wedding vows, and she didn’t think she’d ever done more than
deny it before, save that one slip of her temper where her husband was
concerned.

“A handful. I engaged my highschool sweetheart, and then she got cold feet. A
handful of failed relationships... and then one of my teachers. Not much older
than me, but... there was a mess. It’s... really the reason I’m not a doctor.
But, I understand. I’m sorry. I--” He made a face. “We seem not to do much
besides apologizing to one another.”

“That’s alright. Some friendships are built on shared interests, ours is built
on mutual offenses.” She shrugged, accepting it much easier than him,
apparently.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those before.” He informed her, though he
was smiling incredulously when he said so.

“Yes well, it keeps bringing us back, doesn’t it? So. What now?”
He took a minute to chew his latest mouthful slowly, watching her while he
thought.
“Do you think we actually have any chance of winning against Aurora House?”

“I certainly hope so.” She met his serious tone with an equally serious one.
“Between our suits and your testimonies, I feel like we have some grounds. I
just wish we had more to add to it-- more voices pointing out the problems, so
it doesn’t just look like the Cavendish clan and friends.”

“Is there any way to contact others who have left? The others who left with
Tim, for instance.”

“They’re trying, I’m sure, though I’m not sure how. We can hope more people
will show up, I guess they’re working to have it an open to the public trial,
because of Tim’s popularity just now, in the hopes that families of the
mistreated residents from the past might show up.”

He nodded, looking hopeful, and she hated to pierce that bubble, but...

“Don’t count any chickens before they’re hatched. We’re hoping, but right now
all we know we have for sure is the three of us.”

“Well, then I suppose I’ll just be glad that I don’t have any professional name
to ruin. That’s already been taken care of.” The lines beside his mouth
deepened, and his brow furrowed.

She paused a long second, then decided to ask, since that was the whole point
of this, wasn’t it? Getting to know more about him?
“What happened? The teacher?” She guessed. He cleared his throat, then nodded,
lacing his fingers together.

“I didn’t mean to. She just... respected me, I suppose. She was the first
person to act as though she thought I was worth the effort, worth something,
worthwhile... it was just too easy to love her, and even though she never
played favorites, well. It didn’t go over well. And trying to keep it hidden,
it affected my grades in other classes, until I was failing half of them, and
eventually we slipped up, someone piped up... They tested me over and over to
prove that the grades I had weren’t got through cheating, and eventually at
least academically I was cleared. We talked, and it just got to be best if I
transferred schools. Which would have been fine, but some of my credits
wouldn’t transfer with me. Even still, I would have made do, except that I made
the move to make things easier for she and I, and... well after the mess, she
didn’t want to be near me. It tore me apart. I was-- that was the last time I
thought I might build a life with someone. Twice, I’ve thought that, and twice-
- well at any rate. I dropped out. But I was a nurse, even if I was a shamed
one, so I could try and find work, but the medical profession is too involved
with its own respectability, it’s own good name... and so that found me at
Aurora House.”

“And then your chiropractor’s office. Is that-- you wouldn’t lose your job over
this trial, would you?”

“No, I shouldn’t imagine so. But... I’ve hit the bottom for many less noble
reasons, so I don’t mind if it does. I’ll get by, I’m good at it. But what
about you, what will you do if everything goes pear shaped?” The level of
mutual concern was interesting, considering how carefully arm’s length they had
been holding each other at when they came in.

“I have... for the first time in my life, I have a family. I can learn to
drive, get a job... I’ll figure it out.” She shrugged too, wincing when it sent
a small ache through her wrist.

He reached across the table and took her hand, his attention seemingly focused
entirely on the gentle pulling and massaging he was doing on it, rather than on
his words.
“And if it goes well? Do you have plans for that?”

“I don’t-- don’t plan for the good things. It makes it less disappointing when
they don’t happen.” She was staring at his hands, trying to memorize the
movements that made the odd burning sensation vanish, that sent little cold
pins up her arm. “You’re very good at this.” She said, intending it to be a
thankful statement, rather than an observational one.

He looked up at her, and she had to take a drink to banish the lump in her
throat. Another silence stretched while he studied her face, looking for any
sign that she was mocking him, she supposed. Finally, apparently satisfied that
she meant it, he smiled.
“I’m glad. I like helping people.”

She gave him a little smile in return, but whatever she might have said was
interrupted by Tim’s arrival.
“Ruddy bloody vanity book authors. Should be used to the me me me’s by now. Eh,
your arm bothering you yet?”

She took it back, flexing it experimentally.
“Not nearly so much as it was a bit ago-- you know, if all else fails, you
might lease yourself out as a masseuse.”

James shrugged and gave them a lopsided little smile.

“I should probably head out. It was a pleasure catching up, Georgette, and a
pleasure seeing you outside of the home, Mr. Cavendish.” He stood, chair
scraping on the tile floor. Georgette waved a little, then turned to face Tim.

“Did you want anything from here? Or would you rather just head home?” She saw
the indecisive look on his face, and decided not to push him on it.

He ended up getting a latte to go.

The car trip home wasn’t as awkward as it could have been, with the radio
crooning in the silence between them while Georgette thought on what she’d
learned that day.

“Does Ursula know?” She asked, unaware how sudden the words were until they’d
already slipped free. But Tim looked almost as though he’d been expecting them.

“I told her, yeah. Well, I wrote about it, and then we talked about it. She
knows, and it’s fine. But it won’t happen again.” He said it with the sort of
firmness that assured her he was speaking to himself nearly as much as her.

“Too right.” She bit out, words clipped. “I wouldn’t dream of it anyway, but...
I just wanted to know. I don’t plan on bringing it up with her or any such
thing, but...”

“But it’s good to know what secrets are being kept.” He finished for her, and
she nodded.
“Not many, at our place. It’s nice, having someone you can be you around,
completely and without reservations.” He sounded peevish about it, and she shot
him a look out the corner of her eye, which was widely ignored.

“Do you mind if-- that is, would it bother you if I was to take up the piano?”
She hated sounding so timid, hated the idea of still having to ask for
permission, and for a brief moment she wondered how much of Denny was in Tim.

“Well, you aren’t planning on playing at all hours of the blasted night, eh?”
The look he gave her was surprised that she was asking, maybe a little
confused. “It’s hardly my piano, but I can’t imagine Ursula would object.”


It was hard at first, her wrist twinging when she stretched her fingers wide,
or turned it at just the wrong angle, but she was able to slowly practice and
bring herself back to a reasonable level.

The girls came in, at times, to sit and listen or to talk to her. At first they
were quiet; afraid to interrupt, but then they began asking questions-- and
before long she had taught them to sing along to the songs they knew, and they
took turns sitting on the low bench beside her, learning where to put their
fingers to add to her music or play their own.

She startled when Ursula spoke up one day, leaning on the doorframe and
watching her grandchildren with proud smile on her face.
“You’re actually really very good with them. Have you considered teaching piano
classes for children?”

She stammered and began to say that she couldn’t possibly, but then stopped
herself.
Why not?
“Perhaps if I get to have a place of my own. I’d hate to have them tramping
through your house, coming over to bang on keys and give everyone headaches.”

“Well, I imagine any child expected to learn piano would probably have one at
home-- how else would they practice? So maybe you could go to them.” She
pointed out, logically.

Georgette shook her head.
“I can’t drive, though. I suppose that should really go to the top of the list
of things I ought to learn how to do.”

And somehow she found herself in the driver’s seat of James’s little car. She
wasn’t entirely sure at what point she had decided he would be the most patient
of instructors, but she had. Perhaps it was an excuse to spend more time with
him, or perhaps she had had some practical thought, like how if she ruined his
car, it would cost less to replace it than anything that was driven in the
Cavendish household.

Which was perhaps not a charitable thought, but a true one.

The court process was progressing, she supposed, though she tried not to be
overly involved. She’d spent so long being sheltered from learning about every
time Denny had been sued or challenged by someone over something-- she didn’t
really see any reason for changing it now.

If she won, she would be taken care of until she died. If she didn’t, she’d
have to find a good way of ensuring she wasn’t a burden upon sweet Ursula and
dear Tim and the lovely girls and kind Mary... She had some ideas.

“Hey!” James’s voice jerked her back to the current matters at hand, just as
his hand jerked at the wheel, just as the tire began riding the ridges on the
edge of the road.
She hit the brakes and pulled them off to the shoulder, the muscles in her arm
tensed and her jaw clenched, her eyes staring resolutely ahead while her
knuckles went white.

“Is everything alright, Georgette?”

“Fine. Sorry, I-- my wrist has been acting up, so I took some pain killers this
morning. They’re just striking me a little harder than expected, I think.” The
lie came easily-- it was at least partially true. Her wrist was being a bother,
and she had taken the pills, though from her time as a trapped house wife, she
had long since built up a tolerance for over the counter pain meds.
Not that he knew that, or needed to.

“Have you eaten today?” He asked, and she flushed a bit, finally turning to
look at him.

“I... forgot.” And she really had-- she was eating normally now, maybe not the
largest portions, but regularly and healthily.

But he gave her a look like the ones he’d given Ms. Smith and Mr. Owen, all of
the people not wholly there, back at the nursing home. It made her feel sick to
her stomach.

“Why don’t you let me--” He began, but she had already unbuckled and opened the
door. He switched sides, clearly expecting her to do the same, but she began
walking back towards home.

He swore and began following her, leaving the door of his car agape in the
interest of catching up.

“Georgette, come on. It isn’t as though you’re going to walk all the way back
to the house. It’s all right! No one is free of all mistakes, especially when
learning.”

She ignored him and continued walking, until he caught the shoulder of her good
arm in his hand.
“Look, you don’t have to even talk to me, but let me drive you home. Otherwise,
I’ll just end up driving alongside you while you walk anyway, and it’ll be a
waste of both our time.”
She stared at him silently, then nodded and pulled free, turning back towards
the car. After all, he’d been kind enough to let her use it, kind enough to
help her learn. Selfish of her to take up more of his time.

She was stoically silent all the way back to the house and when he went to
park, she told him he could just drop her at the curb, rudely refusing to
invite him in.
It made him pause, but she could see the moment he tucked away his budding
frustration, and asked, “Should I come again for you to try again, or would you
like to wait a bit to schedule your next lesson?”

“I’ll let you know. Thank you for your time.” she told him and then closed the
door and turned away. Not fast enough to not see him run his hand up his
forehead and through his hair, not fast enough that she didn’t see him exhale
hard.
Well. That wasn’t going to work.


Her first train trip was just an exercise. She took the train into London to
visit the gardening store that she had always used to go to. She thought she
might pick up one of those tiny trees. She really rather adored them.

She sat on the concrete slab under the small awning beside the tracks and
waited, ride voucher in hand. She was early, as she understood the time tables
were somewhat flexible, and she didn’t want to risk missing it.

Which meant that she remained sitting when the first train breezed through the
station. Clearly, it didn’t stop here, but the wind that its passing stirred up
was strong, and smelled like the machine that carried it, all harsh angles and
speed and ground rumbling strength. She liked it.

When her train came, she sat quickly on the ground level of it, looking out the
window and waiting for the noise and the rush of movement.

It didn’t come in the way she’d expected-- not like an airplane hitting
turbulence, but with a soft sway to its forward motion.

She decided that she liked trains quite a lot.

The store was just as she remembered it, and much to her delight she found one
of the cashiers manned by Graham, her friend Graham who had been their gardener
before Denny got jealous and fired him.

“Graham! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!” She exclaimed with real
warmth.

“You either, my god Georgette, did you finally slip the leash that man had you
under?” He asked, coming around his turnstyle to hug her. He held her hands
when they pulled back, and the contact still seemed so wonderfully alien,
despite living with a family now. They still wanted to give her space. Humanity
was good for contact, at least, and she made note to remind herself of that the
next time she was moody and down on the world.

“After a fashion, I suppose.” She said, sheepishly. “He died.” There was no
false mourning.

“Well, I’m ready to come back to work, then. You always paid and treated me
much better than here.” He looked disparagingly around the store, and she
smiled sadly.

“I would love to, if I could. Denny’s will and our prenup took away all the
money. I haven’t any that my brother in law doesn’t provide for me.”

He looked stricken for her, and she patted his hand.
“It’s alright-- at least now I’ve rediscovered you. Here--” she wrote for him
the house phone number on her receipt. “Call me. Let’s catch up.”

He smiled and nodded and rung up her tree, giving her a couple of discounts for
the sake of it.
“I’ll talk to you soon.” He told her, with a final pat on her hand.

The ride home was in a warm glow, with her small tree on her lap and her heart
full of hope that the isolated feeling that came from living out of the way was
actually able to be lessened with contact. Maybe she could go look up Sonya,
her ex-maid, as well. How odd to think she knew people besides just the wives
of her husband’s business partners.

She did go out with Graham several times over the next couple of weeks,
familiarizing herself with the trains and busses of the city, as well as
getting a chance to talk to him.
Independence like she’d never really known, suddenly. It struck her that she
could go anywhere that her limited funds would allow, could tell the family
that she was meeting Graham and go the complete opposite direction if she so
chose.

She didn’t of course. She knew they weren’t controlling her, that if anything
they were helping her, that she was... was burdening them with the money she
used. So she used as little as possible, tried to keep her footprint on their
lives as small as possible, both monetarily and emotionally. Because one way or
another, she’d be gone soon.

Her wrist had begun to ache more, and it only got worse as she tried exercising
her hand. She found herself unable to spread her fingers too wide without
causing herself shooting jolts of discomfort, and so, just as suddenly as the
piano playing had begun, it had to stop. She spent time sitting at the bench,
fingers pressed to the keys as though she could absorb some of the strength of
the ivories  by osmosis. It was a few days without playing a note before anyone
asked her about just sitting there, and then she stopped doing even that.

A week later, she stood on the train platform and stared down the tracks. There
were two trains, and they arrived a very short time apart. The first stopped,
so she would let it go by unremarked upon. The second, though, didn’t stop, and
just went through the station. If they didn’t notice her, she could time it
just so... it would be fast, at least. There would be no slow decline as her
body gave up on her more and more as she aged, no gnawing hunger and shivers
from just denying herself nutrients. It would be done for her in the blink of
an eye. The mess would be taken care of by someone other than her family and,
if it went correctly, there would be no sloppy carcass left for them to have to
try and identify.

She wrote a note and tucked it carefully in her purse, in an outside pocket to
be sure that they would be able to find it. It let whomever discovered the lone
bag know who she had been, and who to contact. It outlined what would be her
last minutes, to make it easy to figure out where she’d come from, so no one
would be too put out searching security footage. It also thanked Tim and Ursula
profusely for their kindness, and Graham for being a good friend, and James for
helping her to die on her own terms. She didn’t go maudlin with it-- it was a
simple goodbye letter, nothing to place blame or mourn the hardships of her
life-- soon enough, it wouldn’t matter. All she could think of is the strength
of the machine, the unending power behind it, how small her body was.

She turned back and sat down as she glimpsed the first train bearing down.

It was luck. Or fate. Or some sort of until-now-unknown-to-her divine
intervention, but off that train came James. She watched him, something inside
of her laughing at his appalling taste in headwear, and by some accident, he
saw her.

There was a moment’s hesitation before he came over, obviously unsure if his
presence was wanted.

He stopped short of her, face folding in concern at the look she must be giving
him.
She couldn’t help it; she’d never been more grateful to see someone.
“James.” She spoke with real warmth, a real smile, and all but launched herself
upwards off the bench and into his arms.

He caught and held her, saying nothing, and if he thought anything of the hug
that had managed to last until most of the rest of the people on the platform
had found their way back to their cars, he didn’t voice it.
Finally, though, when they were left alone, he did speak.
“Georgette? Are you alright?” Her fingers tightened spastically on his arms.

“How do you always show up just in time?” She asked, the words mumbled against
his jumper.

“What was that? I couldn’t understand you. What’s happened? Did you hear
something about the court case?” A minor note of discomfort had slipped in
alongside his worry, and she shook her head and pulled away from him, wrapping
her arms around herself.

“No, I just... made some silly decisions and am a bit down on myself, I
suppose. Where were you coming from?”
He glanced backwards at the rails, where they lay empty.

“I was trying out for-- if you promise not to laugh-- there’s a bar near the
shore that wants to hire an Elvis impersonator for the weekends. I don’t think
I did very well at it. And you? Where are you heading?”

She couldn’t help but laugh.
“I think you need a bit more meat on your bones before anyone would really
consider it.”

She looked out at the train tracks. There was still time-- she could send him
away, but later, when they told him, he’d put it together. He’d know he’d been
the last person to hold her, to help her, the recipient of the last smile she
gave the world. Would he blame himself?
Looking up into his face, she knew he would.

“I was just... watching the trains.” She couldn’t even lie convincingly-- had
no idea what the next train that stopped here was.
He nodded as though it was the most normal pastime in the world, and gestured
at the bench.
“May I join you?”

She blinked owlishly, then nodded. “I just want to see this one more.”

He nodded as though he understood, and sat down beside her.

Her shoulders felt tight and she gripped the seat almost painfully as the tiny
vibrations that meant the train’s approach began.
He noticed, of course,his eyebrows drawing together and he pushed his glasses
up his nose, then took her hand.

The contact surprised her out of her single minded fixation on the train, and
she turned her eyes to him while the train ripped through the station. She
didn’t even acknowledge it, save for brushing the hair back out of her face
once it had gone.

“Can I drive you home?” He asked.

“Thank you.” She responded, and she meant it for far more than just the ride.


It isn’t until they’re at the hearing, and the lawyer for Aurora House is
holding it up that she realized that she hadn’t taken the letter out of her
bag. She isn’t sure where they got it, at first, until they called up Graham
and asked him how he came to find it (at lunch when it supposedly fell from her
purse) and how they’d come to have it (he was worried about her and knew she’d
recently been in Aurora House, and he’d thought there might be a therapist
there who could help her) and finally, they asked him to read from it.

She kept her face straight and contrived only to look confused, already
distancing herself from the contents of the letter for the defense, refusing to
claim it as her own. But she also stared at Graham, feeling betrayed, feeling
the bile rising in her throat. She could feel the eyes of her family on her,
feel their shock and their sympathy, wanted to stand and leave, run away or
console them, but how could she? When she couldn’t take any more, she slammed
her palms on the table, the ache trembling up through her wrist and making her
gasp before the angry words tumbled out of her.

“This is preposterous. I never wrote such a thing, nor would I have ever
considered--”
The lawyer interrupted and took it from there, shredding the evidence with
verbal lashings. It had little relevance to the case, anyway.

And everyone seemed suitably distracted when the proceedings were interrupted
by the sudden arrival of Veronica, Ernie, and Mr. Meeks. Everyone, that is,
save James. She tried not to flinch or shiver under his attention, and focused
intently on the chaos that followed their three last-minute witnesses.

It went quickly after that, tales of terror spilling forth, proof in the form
of marks and records, Ernie’s journal entries and Noakes’ spluttered denials
that no one truly believed.

It was over for Aurora House, and Noakes’ purpling face did a great deal to
lift everyone’s spirits.

Tim took them all out to dinner that night, and in the laughter and loud voices
of celebration, it was easy to pretend not to notice James’s silence. He would
brush it off, and it would be fine.

“They’ll have you in in a week or two to review your assets, as well!” Tim
informed her gleefully, clapping her just a little too hard on her shoulder,
his spirits reinforced with the wine that had been going around the table.

She grinned and allowed herself to feel hopeful.

“I’m using my first check to buy you a white disco suit!” She tossed the words
at James, and he looked confused and then surprised.

“That isn’t necessary!” He told her, the words going soft as parties around
them toasted.
She just nodded at him and lifted her glass.

After the dinner was ended and the guests were dispersing, she found herself
with James’s hand on her arm.
“May I drive you home? I’m quite sober, and I’d appreciate the company.”

She sucked on her teeth, not entirely certain she believed that was all there
was to it, but... she figured she owed him the opportunity to yell at her, to
rage or whatever it was that he wanted to do.

She excused herself from her family with a promise not to stay out too late.

He didn’t wait long, once they were in the car and the doors had closed, he
started in.  
“The day I found you at the train station-- were you going to kill yourself?”

“I haven’t even got my safety belt on yet.” She replied with the cruel-casual
twist to her lips and sardonic amusement in her voice.

He bounced his fists off of the steering wheel.
“Don’t do that, don’t tune me out with your stupid pride and your-- your-” He
was spluttering with impotent emotion. It made her swallow and nod.

“Yes.” One word, dropped between them, and he went still, until she could do
nothing but listen to their breathing.

“Why?” Equally heavy, it sent blood coursing to her cheeks.

“You were there. You heard the letter. My letter, despite all claims to the
contrary.”

He soaked that in, quiet acceptance and a sort of horror warring on his face.

“And if I hadn’t come?” He spoke quietly. “If I hadn’t been on the train, what
then?” He refused to look at her, they hadn’t even pulled out of the parking
lot, but he wouldn’t look anywhere but straight ahead.

“I wouldn’t have been able to.” She spoke softly, facing a truth she hated.
“I’m too much of a coward. I think we both know that.”

He was silent for a few minutes, and it left her fidgety. Finally, he started
the car.

“I’m sorry?” She offered, not sure what else she was supposed to say.

“For what?” He asked, the response nearly immediate.

“For upsetting you. I can’t help that that’s the way my mind works, but I
thought-- I didn’t think anyone ever had to know.”

“You should have told me before. If I’d known you were that unhappy living with
them, I’d have--”

“It isn’t living with them, it’s living off of them, like some sort of leech.
But that’s academic now, isn’t it? Soon, I should have money income, and be
able to take care of myself.”

“And if they decide not to grant you the money? Will you just... kill yourself?
And if they do, then what? What do you plan to do with the rest of your life?
Sit there watching trains and imagining them crushing you?”

She stared at him, horrified and feeling a little ill.

“I just... want a home, just once in my life, that’s truly mine. I want a
garden and a piano, if my wrist ever heals enough to allow me to play again. I
want to be able to give lessons to children, and read books or watch the telly,
or go for walks as I please, without needing permission to do so.”

“You’re naive. You’re naive and an idiot.” James’s jaw was tight and his lips
pressed into a thin line.

“And what would you have me do? Make plans for putting on a great load of
weight so I can go prance around on a stage somewhere, pretending to be someone
I’m not?”

He looked furious. He clenched his jaw down tight again, and drove in silence,
fuming behind the wheel.
As much as she was attentive to the moment, she was also a bit surprised to
note that, angry as he was, his driving was impeccable. No risks, no
recklessness. Just one more reason she would never make a good driver.

He got her home safely, and she thought that might be the end of it, but as she
moved to get out of the car, he caught her by her bad wrist.

“Goodnight Georgette. Don’t kill yourself.” For all that he was trying to
sneer, there was a level of sincerity to it, which only served to make her
angry.

“Goodnight, Nurse James.” She snapped back, and slammed the door of his car
behind her.


She slammed the door of Timothy’s car, heedless of his protests.

“Unfit to care for yourself!” she hissed, anger working her up in agitation.

“Now, Georgette, really, it isn’t that great a surprise-- we knew there was a
chance that that letter--” He was trying for pacifying, but he just wasn’t very
good at it. It sounded more like whining.

“Just.” She bit out, louder than she’d anticipated her own voice being, and
then stopped.

He was looking at her as though he was afraid she was going to expire that very
moment,

“Look,” he said softly. “What if we check you into a rehab? That falls under
the list of places that they would approve the money going towards for you, and
it wouldn’t be permanent.”

“I won’t go back to another assisted living home. I can’t, Timothy, you
understand.” She felt like she was pleading. He shook his head.

“Georgette, Georgette, you have a home with us for as long as you want it. You
know that. We don’t need the money, it will be alright.”

Her options thus laid out-- check into another Aurora House, or leech off of
Timothy forever, she began to shake.

She sat down at the piano and ignored everything, Timothy’s questions, Ursula,
when she got home-- she just sat and stared off and thought.

She really had no prospects. No work experience, no way of getting around. She
would hate to prove everyone right, though, would hate to kill herself,
imagining the smug nods of Aurora House and the court. She imagined her
obituary would read ‘we told you so’.

Dimly, back in a place where her thoughts were not depressive and morbid, she
heard the doorbell ring, but she ignored it until James was seating himself
beside her on the piano bench.

He wrapped an arm around her, and rested his hand over hers, in her lap.

“Georgette.” He spoke her name softly directly in her ear.  She turned her head
slowly to look at him, feeling numb. “Georgette, we won’t let them send you
back there, you know that right?”

“Where am I supposed to go?” She sounded far more lost than she had since that
night in the hospital, when the baby had... and Denny had left her there,
wordless. She had wondered, then, what would become of her, too.
Just like now.

“Ursula explained to me the court’s ruling-- listen. You don’t have to go
anywhere.”

“Well I’m not going to stay here, and be a burden. I can’t.”

“You aren’t, but you don’t have to do that either. Look, they said you had to
apply the money towards an assisted living situation, correct? I’m a registered
nurse. If you live with me, it’s assisted living. I’m barely making ends meet,
and if you want to come with me, you’ll keep all your freedoms. Just a bit of
your money can go towards groceries, and we’ll call it good. Okay?”

She stared at him, slowly understanding but not really believing.
“You want to live with me. But... why? We can’t even be around each other
without it ending in fighting half the time.”

“Because I like you, I like being around you, even when we are fighting.
Because I can help you and you can help me, and I feel like we both need
someone like that in our life. I don’t know why-- I’ve walked away from other
people for much less, but with you I can’t. I like our friendship. I value it.
So.. that’s why.”
“But you’d be devoting your life basically to my needs. I can’t ask you to do
that.”

“I know. I’m volunteering.”

“You think the court will allow it?”

“Look, you had a traumatizing experience with Aurora House. A good judge should
be willing to take this compromise.”

She nodded and took his hand, squeezing it between hers.
She felt herself thawing and a warm smile creeping across her face.

“How is it you’re always here to save me?” She asked.

He just laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
***** I'm bound to leave you- Sebastian *****
He’d been scouring Brisbane for near on a week now. He’d learned that before
shipping out, Rafael had gone to New Zealand in search of work, & that his
childhood had been spent learning at the skirts of one of the rich women here,
a Mrs. Fry.

A charming woman, one more than happy to have him for tea & who invited him to
stay until Rafael returned from his contracted service.
When Rafael was a month late in returning, he had started seeking news.

He spent each day at the docks, asking for any who had come off the Prophetess,
or who knew of one who had. But the sea trade was bustling-- there were a good
deal many men in & out of the harbor each day, & he could hardly ask them all.

He promised the tavernmaster nearest the waterfront a full shilling for any
news, & was surprised one day to wake to a lad from the tavern waiting for him
in Mrs. Fry’s sitting room.

“News from The Prophetess!” The boy chirped, front tooth missing & cap barely
clinging to his head.
He gave the boy a penny & hurried to the sluicery, his long legs easily
outstriding the messenger.

He blinked in the shadow the structure afforded & presented himself to the
barkeep.

“This lad here been sniffin’ round for days, din’t realize til now was ye he
been lookin’ fer.” Sebastian’s heart leapt into his throat as he followed the
man deeper into the seating area of the bar, but when he was presented with the
lad in question, his brows furled & his smile smoothed into a frown of
perplexion.
He gave the barman his shilling & then held his hand out for the young-- older
than Rafael, by the looks of it, but still damn young-- man to shake.

“Sebastian.” he offered by way of introduction.

“Will.” The lad replied somberly. “Though them on the ship had called me
Bentnail.”

“William.” He responded as warmly as he could manage, though his heart be
freezing with concern & the knowledge that he would not like what he heard.
“Have you news for me of Rafael?”

Bentnail pulled from beside him a small wooden chest, hesitated, & then handed
it across the table while he stood.

Sebastian opened it to find it full of letters, addressed to him, & relief &
joy shone from every corner of his being.
“Has he signed on for another tour? Have things improved for him?” He directed
his words at the boy’s retreating back. His shoulders stiffened & he turned.
His stricken look told him all he needed to know, but the words came anyway.

“Rafael is dead, sir. Hanged hisself.”

Sebastian felt the air loose itself from his lungs, & he fell back into his
chair, dizzy with grief. Odd, that, how it was so strong, he thought, though
thoughts took a distant second to the aching pull of his heart. Odd how he
cared so deeply for a boy-- a lad-- a young man. A lover, someone he’d known
once, for one night. Someone he felt as though he had met a thousand times
before.

Bentnail had gone, scampered before he might recover enough to ask for details,
but he thought he knew.

He felt a swelling wave of hatred towards that man in the bar, that Boerhaave.

He moved to stand, but paused, the weight of the chest in his lap reminding him
of what he’d lost, what no amount of ill-advised revenge would restore to him.

He sat the box on the table & stared at it, turning options over in his mind.

He could (should) simply burn it. Hide any involvement between himself & the
unfortunate cabin boy. Who knew who else besides Bentnail had been given his
name-- his military career was at stake should the name spread. & yet he could
not bring himself to believe that Rafael would have done something so selfish &
foolish as setting out to ruin him. He refused to think so.

Mrs. Fry had worried, because he’d stayed out far later than usual, after
following that strange, rough looking lad out in such a hurry. He’d missed
dinner.

He was glad she’d already eaten though, because she was a good woman who could
use a few more meals on her (which was likely where Rafael had gotten his
thinness from, such a model bodied role model as was his patron!) & he knew his
news would rob her of her appetite.

Sparing her what gruesome details he knew, he confessed to her Rafael’s final
sin, which sent her reeling to her chair, hand clenched to her breast & an
expression of horrified grief affixed to her face.

“But why should he do such a thing? He was so happy when he left here-- have
you any idea, sir?” She pleaded, & he raised the box of letters between them
like a shield from her demand for answers just now.

“I have my suspicions,” he told her gently, “But give me time to go through his
missives, & once I know-- I will tell you what I can. I understand these to be
series of the most private sort of correspondence.”

“Has he-- had he-- did he find a lady friend?” She asked, curiosity & hunger
for knowledge of her charge battling her sorrow for the strength of emotion.

“I cannot say until I read what he wished me to. Would you permit me a candle &
a bottle to my room for the evening?”

She agreed at once, gesturing that her maid fetch the requested items for him.

“I’m afraid you shan’t be with us much longer, Mister Browning, now we’ve
nothing to look forward to.” Suddenly, in the light of candles & her face
pulled taught & painted with her loss, she seemed many times as old as her
years. He gave her a tight little smile.

“I suppose not.” He agreed. “But I will stay until I know what there is to
know, & can tell you all there is to tell. You have my word.”

Seemingly satisfied that he would not steal away in the night & take with him
the details of Rafael’s demise, she retired & left him to the heavy burden that
rested, so light in comparison, in his hands, folding as carefully around the
box as they had around the sides of Rafael’s face.

He read until his head pounded & his eyes had drained themselves dry. He read
his way through Rafael’s elation, his hope, & on into his spiral of ever
deepening despair.

He should never have sent him back. He’d wished it then, but he should have
made more of an effort, gotten him a position on the Stalwart, if only he could
have. Kept him out of reach of these men who had told him... who had said such
terrible things.

Rafael thought so poorly of himself, held Sebastian so highly in his mind...
They weren’t so different.
He hadn’t been-- but there was nothing so wrong with Rafael as he thought, & he
had a lump that wouldn’t be swallowed out of his throat, an ache that wouldn’t
leave his chest, at all.

He read on until light came in his window, the grey light of predawn. Between
the wine & the words & the guilt & the lack of sleep, he felt ill. & once he’d
realized that fact, it sent him running to the privy to empty the contents of
his stomach-- which, considering his day, consisted mostly of alcohol.

He was still awake & sitting on his bed, staring at the wall opposite, when
Mrs. Fry came in herself with a tray of food.

“Sebastian.” She said calmly, coaxingly, & he turned, his head & chest both
achingly hollow. He felt like he’d lost something vital to carrying on.
“Sebastian, I want you to eat something. Then I want you to go for a walk.
You’ll do neither you nor he any credit if you sit in here & let it eat you
alive.”
“I’ve done neither of us any credit as it is.” Even his speech was hollow. How
had a boy he’d known for less than a day managed to scoop all the happiness out
of him? “It’s my fault.” He managed, so quietly he was sure she hadn’t heard
it. He wasn’t sure whether or not he hoped she had-- didn’t want to have to
repeat it, didn’t want to face the consequences.

When she didn’t react, he said it again. “It’s my fault.”

“Bollocks.” She said so frankly, so casually, that he was surprised out of his
ennui.

“Pardon?” He spluttered, & she smiled grimly.

“Did you put a gun in his hand & another to his head? Or force his hand down
his wrists with a dagger? No. This isn’t your doing, any more than it’s mine, &
I raised the lad.” She shook her head, & he stared at her as she bustled over
to begin heating him some water. Maids’ duties, & she the lady of the house!

“Eat. Go out for a bit. Remember what being alive is. Remind yourself that
you’re here for a reason. & when you can bear it, come back. I want you to tell
me what happened, what caused him to take this route. Do not dip it in honey
for me, I want it plain as your delicate tongue can manage. & then you can do
what you will. Stay on with us as long as you like, go back out into the great
world-- but live Sebastian. If God had wanted you to die with him, He would
have seen to it.”

He nodded, dumbstricken by her demeanor, her logic. He’d thought her a silly
woman, vapid & hen like. He’d never have suspected a spine so steely as this
under her fripperies. Then, Rafael had to have learned it from somewhere.

“I will.” He assured her, feeling a small smile cross his face. It felt like
his first. “Thank you.” He’d never felt so sincere before, & it came out as
desperation.

She just nodded & saw herself out.

He would go on, & live-- it was really all he could do. He just hoped Rafael
could forgive him, wherever he was now.
***** Missed Connections- Lee *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Lee wasn’t a complicated guy. He was pretty modern, listened to the new stuff,
smoked the good stuff, knew the hip crowds and hung with the artists. Saw a new
flick as often as the interesting ones came out.

He liked music, liked the notes-- they’re simple, bleeding into each other only
if they’re supposed to, only if their creator tells them to. They’re not like
people, getting tangled up and hateful and then trying desperately to break
away without damaging themselves and one another. The vinyls go in the bins,
flat and orderly and clean, and they might migrate a bit from one set of hands
to another, but for the most part it’s easy to put them back where they belong,
until they get bought.

They don’t move away while he’s at school, don’t change their phone number and
forget to tell him. They don’t disappoint, or abandon him, and they do
something better-- they bring people together.

The doors would swing open, and the chill, the moisture in the air, would come
in, along with whatever entitled hippie or delightful punk couple had
discovered the tiny record shop today.

He had his regulars, too, had his usual customers and he had lines when someone
big put out something new, but for the most part, it was a slow business. He
made enough to keep it open and to keep himself fed, and it paid for rent. It
wasn’t the Haight, but he could live with it.

Altogether it wasn’t a terrible existence.
Just slow. Sometimes a little lonely, but what do you want? Maybe he’d lost his
heart in San Francisco.

He hooked up of course, and that was fine. He wasn’t celibate by any means, and
with his business, he had no shortage of new people to interact with. All the
same, there was nothing as lasting as he’d like.

Maybe he’d bought into one too many pop songs, one too many nights high out of
his mind and listening to the free lovers speaking about soul mates and people
made to be two halves of a whole.

He’d just never found that.

But he had his smokes and his shop, the records and the customers-- he had his
late night fiddling on his guitar, and it wasn’t a bad life.

He just felt like something was missing.

Sometimes that feeling of aching hollow loneliness became overwhelming, and
he’d close up shop, take a twenty minute break.

On one unmemorable occasion, he stepped out front, the little adjustable clock
on the door announcing he’d be back in twenty minutes, and he’d lit up a
cigarette, tilting his head back to catch the raindrops on his face while he
exhaled.

The stoplight on the street in front of the shop had just turned to red.

A hired cab slid to a stop just over the line of the crosswalk, and his eyes
met with those of an elderly man, hair gone white and sparse, but his eyes so
blue, vibrant and full of intelligence.

The man stared back at him like he’d seen a ghost, and he couldn’t shake the
feeling that he knew him-- not idly, like he’d been to the store, but like he’d
known him, like family. And then the light changed, and the man was gone.

He forgot about it, of course. No one remembers every instance of unease in
their life. Especially not so minor of one. Not so brief an almost-encounter.

That was a lie.

He dwelled on it that night, plucking at the strings of his guitar, angling his
chin so that the ash from his cigarette wouldn’t harm the veneer, though lord
knew it was already chipped a bit, scratched up-- didn’t matter.

Who was that man?

He couldn’t place the face, couldn’t imagine how he must have looked when he
was younger.

Couldn’t get it out of his head.

He twanged his strings, only half listening when the result was something
beautiful, some faint echo of something else.

Something he didn’t remember until the day a Ms. Rey called, asking about a
record.

She knew it, she said, but... not as much as he did. Not as intimately-- from
the moment he turned it on, he knew it. He knew it the same way he’d known that
man, the same way he knew his store, his way around these streets, the back of
his own hand, the line of his hair. It wasn’t just recognition. It was him. It
was his. And maybe that was crazy or trippy or some of that hippie shit his
father had so despised, but it didn’t make it not true.

He almost refused to sell it to her. But she was... almost desperate for it, he
guessed. And he had it now, he’d had it on repeat since he got it in.

The moment he’d unwrapped the delivery, he’d been gripped with a weird
curiosity. What was this, that made someone so eager to find it, at any price?
Something so unheard of, because only a few hundred vinyls were ever struck.

He’d put it in, and promptly closed the store for the day.

It was so strong. Gentle, but strong, and it had everything in it. Smoke and
leaves, kisses at night on mild summer evenings, bright blue eyes staring back,
blonde hair reflecting the sun, beat up hats and well loved vests, bottles of
drink, a dark piano so well used that there were divots worn into the keys, a
gunshot, and then more-- the images that sprang to mind-- well, he was high.
That would explain it-- maybe he’d mixed his shrooms and herb again. He
couldn’t remember that... but he could remember all these things.

And that old guy, staring at him, looking so sad, and so surprised...

The next day she’d come for it, and it had tugged at his heart to hand it over,
but, ultimately he had. He wouldn’t have known about it if not for her.

It was amazing, how one little vinyl could change you. Inspire you.

Odd thing, though, the block he got with piano. He didn’t like it. Loved the
way it sounded, but couldn’t stand to play it, himself. He struggled with it
for a few years, but went back to his guitar. He’d mapped out the Sextet ages
ago, but something about it just wasn’t right, something about it was too slow,
almost geriatric, and he played the same damn thing, night after night,
tweaking it and trying to capture the essence of what he’d heard, but he
couldn’t. It wasn’t the same.

He tried for years, dabbling in increasing his drug intake in the hopes that
they would help unblock his mind, let things flow better.

The neighbors found him one day laying in his own vomit, collapsed on the floor
slouched over his guitar, with needles and powders undisturbed from their
haphazard scatter on the table that he’d fallen from his seat at.

His half-finished sheet music was so scrawled over with notes after notes, it
was not even legible. The cleaning crew disposed of it, and his body was
cremated and shipped off to what family he had left, since he had no one else
who would speak for him.

He never really burned particularly bright. He just burned out.
Chapter End Notes
     Author's notes:
     That's it for this half, guys! Thank you so much for reading.
     I know it sounds like forever off, but because of all of the research
     and stylizing that I do for these, I'm not going to give a date for
     the next one's release. It will have their soul paths for the other
     three time periods, though. The story isn't over yet-- So keep an eye
     out for that. If you have any questions, please feel free to leave me
     a comment-- I try and respond to them as quickly as possible.
     Again, thanks so much for your readership!
End Notes
     For updates on the sequel, lots of pretty pictures, musings, or if
     you just want to stop by and say hi, you can find me at
     MostFacinorous.tumblr.com!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!