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Chapter Text

It’s odd, returning to a place one purposefully fled from. Especially when taking into consideration where she had fled to. “Most children who run away go and join the circus,” the head of her ambulance unit had remarked at her induction (to be fair, she had almost done that once, too). But Phryne had run away to join a war. At 17, she had already lived two entirely different lives - starving street child turned nobility overnight - adding “war veteran” to that list seemed only like a natural progression. If anything, it would give her purpose, which was noticeably missing in the upper echelons of British society.

The biggest shock to her system, after her father inherited a title and its accompanying wealth, was to find out that money didn’t solve everything. It didn’t erase years of hunger, freezing cold nights, and perpetually dirty clothes (though her father seemed to think it did). It didn’t stop her new peers from looking down their noses at her for her strange accent, ill manners, and penchant for fistfights. Didn’t prevent her from feeling overwhelming guilt for suddenly being a “have” amongst the “have nots”; nor did it prepare her for hearing discussion of those same “have nots” at charity balls from the mouths of those who’d never known hunger nor thirst. And… most of all… it didn’t bring Janey back.

Her little sister would never know this life - one without worry of when her next meal would come or of when their father might explode in drunken anger at their mother (or them). Janey only knew suffering. And while part of her saved a morsel of hope for her return, she knew that her sister likely suffered a painful death, as well.

It wasn’t fair.

Her parents never blamed her, not outwardly anyhow, but they didn’t need to. The amount of times she replayed that day in her head always left her with the same conclusion: she was supposed to be watching her… she was supposed to keep her safe… and she had failed. So convinced of that truth, she didn’t even allow herself to receive comfort nor concern for it - though her mother, friends, and even Aunt Prudence desperately tried. It wasn’t until Janey’s first birthday after she went missing that, clutching her blue hair ribbon in her fist, Phryne gave in to her mother’s affection and brokenly sobbed with her head in her lap.

Perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising then, that she ran away. It’s not that she didn’t enjoy her newfound luxury or that she was ungrateful for it - quite the opposite, in fact - but being handed a life of stability, knowing others would work their entire lives to the bone and never have a fraction of what she did… that Janey wouldn’t… it didn’t feel right not to earn it. And laughing over tea and cucumber sandwiches while young men perished on the front lines just wasn’t acceptable to her.

It was what her father said the night she decided to leave that sealed it. “We’ve put all that behind us,” he’d shouted after she balked at his insistence on her having a coming out party, despite her own insistence that it felt ridiculous considering her upbringing and the current state of the world. But they were part of polite society now, he’d told her, and there was no room for uncooperative daughters. To which, Phryne politely replied, there had been plenty of room for drunken, neglectful fathers when she was a child and that he’d do better to cooperate with her or “bugger off.”

Her slammed door accompanied his thundering footsteps up the stairs and the rage inside her was prepared to break her father’s nose if she had to, but her mother - always frustratingly trying to curate an equilibrium that would simply never exist - intervened. Their frenzied shouting ended with Margaret calmly declaring, “She will come around.”

She will not, she’d thought and began tossing items in a rucksack before writing a hasty note:

“Leaving you behind me.

Sincerely,

Your Uncooperative Daughter”

From there, she resisted contacting them for weeks (not that there was much time to between shellings and blood stained linens), but when she got wounded on the field… well, she’d had to put someone down  for next of kin. It was only two months later that the war ended and she found herself in Paris. Her father called on her immediately to return home, but if he thought living through the horrors of war would cure her of resistance to becoming a proper lady of high society, he was sorely mistaken. She wasn’t going back to England now; to that farce of a life, not a chance in hell. Freedom in the form of Paris was at her fingertips and she’d be damned if she let that opportunity go to waste.

And it was beautiful for a while. There was hunger, freezing cold nights, and less-than-pristine clothes, it’s true; but there was also music, smooth wine, raucous laughter, art, and the most vibrant postwar joie de vivre she would never cease to cherish. There was friendship with people she understood again. There was hope.

Unfortunately, there was also the kind of unsuspecting naïveté that comes with the blindness of bliss.

She hadn’t seen it coming; by God, having had the father she did, how did she not see it coming ? The way he lured her in with effortless charm, writing poetry of his devotion after a mere two weeks of romance… If that hadn’t been her first clue, encouraging her to reestablish contact with her wealthy parents should have been. Not that she accepted a single handout once she had, only taking payments from her father for services rendered; obtaining paintings for him from the newly-rejuvenated art community in Paris.

It had surprised her, their reaction at the time. She had expected anger, blatant attempts at guilt, or to simply to go unanswered. Instead, they had been strangely sympathetic and kind. “Please let us know how you are, darling” her mother’s telegram said, “Love you dearly.” Though she was too proud to admit it, it had caused a twinge in her heart and warm tears to spring to her eyes (though she was equally too proud to let them fall).

Little did René know it was that very message - the one he had facilitated - which would give her the courage to leave him behind for good.

She didn’t return right away after it happened, instead seeking comfort in the care of friends, but before long - she found she had become disillusioned with Paris and that the idea of attending a garden party in the English Summer was rather nice, actually. The thousands of souls lost over the past four years, some of which she had watched depart herself, would have cherished the chance for such nice things; the chance to live as vibrantly as possible. Why shouldn’t she?

When she first arrived back at Somerset, she was surprised that, instead of one the servant staff, it was her mother who greeted her at the door. She didn’t fuss over her, but Phryne had noted how she lingered in her embrace and how glassy her eyes were with unshed tears when she finally pulled back. It was disconcerting in a way. Overt affection hadn’t ever been a signature of the Fisher household really, and as such, Phryne wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

The astonishment only continued in the following days as Margaret ensured the dishes served at every meal included Phryne’s favorites, that her closet was filled with new clothes, and that she would only receive visitors she chose - chose! - to see. Every time her father even began to hint at a social gathering, her mother presented a swift elbow to his ribs with a tight smile that silenced him immediately.

They were so strangely considerate that she had begun to wonder if some mystical benevolent beings had replaced her real parents in her absence, but one afternoon it all made sense. Phryne hadn’t entered the upstairs study up until then and when she did, she found a framed photo of her and Janey on one of the side tables. Perhaps the only one that existed of them as children. She didn’t recall ever having seen it before and she traced over it with her fingers in wonder. So mesmerized, she hadn’t heard her mother enter the room.

“I asked your Aunt Prudence to send me that several months ago,” she’d said.

That’s right. Aunt P had them take a portrait in tandem with Guy and Arthur one visit, making them wear those frilly dresses and tying their hair back in giant bows. They looked utterly ridiculous and the expression on Phryne’s face spoke volumes of it. Still…

“I’d forgotten that was taken,” Phryne replied, sitting on the nearby chaise and stroking over the frame once more. “Janey was so small… look how pretty she was.”

Margaret stepped closer, sitting down beside her, and passing a hand over Phryne’s hair to cradle her cheek, “Both of my girls were always pretty. Still are.”

She was quiet for a moment, emotion swelling in her chest as she stared into her mother’s eyes. Within them, she saw the heartbreak of a mother who’d once lost a child… and who recently feared she’d lost another. Suddenly, in that moment, Phryne felt a kind of remorse she rarely had before. She would never regret leaving; never regret her time in the war, but perhaps disappearing without a trace had been a little callous. Especially considering…

“Mother, I… “

“I’m so sorry, darling,” she interjected, smiling wearily. “So sorry that you were made to feel you had no other choice… “

Phryne felt shocks of confusion run up and down her spine and unwelcome tears spring to her eyes. She thought all those years that she’d been screaming into a void; that she was the leftover child whose words were both unwanted and unheard, but had her mother been listening all along?

“The things you must have seen,” she whispered, her own eyes misting over as she gently titled Phryne’s chin up, “After all you lived through… Oh, my brave girl… I am so very sorry.”

Streaks of tears stained her face and her lips trembled fiercely. What a paralyzing, frightening relief it was to be so thoroughly seen.

“And I do hope,” she smiled sadly, “That whoever he was is gone for good.”

She felt so utterly stunned that her head jolted back from the impact of those words. How on Earth did she… Oh.

Oh, of course.

Without further warning, she was leaning into her mother’s arms and sobbing out five years worth of pain with her head upon her lap. Margaret had lovingly stroked her face, gently rocked her, and murmured comforting words until she had exhausted herself into sleep.

As a child, Phryne’s mother had worked multiple jobs simultaneously, trying to keep her family afloat. As such, she was notably absent at times, leaving her and Janey in the care of their hideous father, and she remembered resenting her for that. She had felt abandoned and detached from her; like she and her sister were obligations more than they were loved. But Phryne now knew, from experience, that obligation wasn’t always void of devotion; that dedicating yourself to the care of another, especially at your own risk, was a kind of love not often given so freely.

There were still many things she didn’t understand about Margaret Fisher, and she likely never would, but she knew at least that her mother understood her. She didn’t particularly like or agree with many things her daughter did or would do - traveling without a companion, practicing martial arts, carrying a gun, refusing both marriage and children (God help her) - but she understood. It was about the choice and the freedom, both of which simply hadn’t been options in Margaret’s time, but they would be for her daughter. By the sweat of her own brow, if necessary. They would continue to have many a disagreement over the years about Phryne’s decisions, but Margaret would fiercely protect her right to make them. 

Thus, Phryne found that - as she grew older - understanding the minutia of their differences wasn’t important, as long as they mutually understood their fundamental values. It wasn’t perfect. They weren’t perfect. Never would be. But it was more than Phryne had ever dared to expect, so it was also more than enough.

Chapter Text

It’s a gorgeously cool day in June - crisp air, fluffy clouds, and sun shining with a brightness that illuminates the suite they’re staying in while visiting Sydney. In the corner of the drawing room, Phryne stands just behind Jane in front of a full length mirror, smoothing the sleeves at her shoulders and straightening the hem of the skirt.

Jane is positively beaming. This is a special day for her; one that she’s been dreaming of for years and her excitement is bubbling up so intensely that it’s practically bursting out of her skin. “Please tell her I said it’s the loveliest suit in the world. It must’ve taken ages to make! Also that I wish she could’ve been here… I miss her.”

Phryne makes a sympathetic noise, gathering up Jane’s long hair and gently sweeping it to rest along her back. “I will, darling,” she promises, grasping her upper arms softly and resting her chin atop her shoulder.

——-

“Oh, Dot,” Phryne gasped, reaching for the garment on the hanger and letting the cotton fabric slide through her fingers, “It’s stunning.”

“I’m glad you think so, Miss,” she responded, a pleased smile gracing her face. “I came up with the pattern myself. … Well, I tweaked one, really. But it should be the only one of its kind.”

“I think it certainly is,” she smiled, continuing to marvel at the suit she knew Dot had spent weeks making. Not a glamorous piece by any means, but it had its own character and sophistication - petal detailing adorned the bottom hem of the jacket and skirt, which was echoed in the round edges of the lapels. The buttons were a polished grey brass, catching just the right amount of light to be elegant over gaudy, and the lining was the most gorgeous royal blue satin she’s ever seen.

“Do you think Jane will like it?” Dot asked hopefully.

“Oh, of course she will,” she reassured her, reaching for Dot’s hand and squeezing lightly. “She’ll be the smartest-looking graduate there.”

Dot gave her a grateful smile, letting out the breath she had clearly been holding. “Jane’s worked so hard at university, I think she’s more than earned that title already. I’m just sorry I can’t be there to deliver it in person.”

Hugh had recently been injured on the job. Thankfully, it was nothing too serious, but he was still healing and with three babes at home, well… it unfortunately meant the Collinses wouldn’t be traveling any time soon.

“I’m sure Jane understands, but I’ll send your love nonetheless.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

——-

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jane says, a quiet sadness behind the sentiment. Mrs. Ross had fallen ill with the flu five years ago and, though Phryne had sent over the most excellent doctors (Mac was, of course, happy to help), she didn’t respond to treatment and passed away two weeks into the illness. Jane had been devastated, of course, but they laid her to rest in the finest of coffins, at the most beautiful of cemeteries, with the largest of headstones. After the funeral, Jane joined Phryne and Jack in the parlor and said with her chin raised high, “She isn’t suffering anymore, and that’s all I ever wanted for her.” Although her eyes still glittered with tears, they knew then what she was really saying was, “I’ll be alright.” And she was.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Phryne tells her, giving her one more squeeze and kissing her cheek before releasing her.

“It’s very sharp, Jane. Such a perfect picture of a beautiful young woman,” Aunt P says from a few feet away on the sofa and Phryne’s brows nearly hit the ceiling.

Ever since they arrived, Aunt Prudence had been  behaving uncharacteristically genial almost to the point of being sweet. It was a bit disorienting. Phryne had even suggested they call on a doctor at one point, but Aunt P’s answering scowl let her know the old bird was still in there.

“Thank you, Aunt Prudence,” Jane blushes, giving her a small smile before turning back to the mirror.

“I agree,” the rumble of a deep voice says from the doorway and all three ladies turn to see Jack, standing bright with pride and holding a small, wrapped box in his hand.

The blush on Jane’s face deepens, but she stands a little taller. “Thank you, inspector.”

“I wondered where you’d run off to!” Phryne smirks, gliding over to place a kiss on his cheek, which he returns. “No rogue murders, I assume?”

“Out of my jurisdiction, Miss Fisher, and not that it would surprise me with the way you attract trouble, but no,” he gives her a playfully sharp look and she rolls her eyes.

“Spoilsport,” she mutters and Jane giggles softly.

“I wonder if I might steal away the young lady of the hour for a moment? If that’s alright,” he says,  fidgeting with the box in his hands.

Phryne turns to Jane with a questioning look and Jane nods. “Of course that’s alright,” her daughter replies, lightly rocking on her feet as she clasps her hands in front of her.

It’s amusing sometimes how alike she and Jack are, Phryne thinks. Neither are at ease being the center of attention, squirming in one way or another to expel their nervous energy, and defaulting to endearing modesty when it occurs. Equally, both are quietly serious where seriousness matters; academics at heart with a dedication to reason one can’t help but to admire. It had been such a joy, watching them grow closer, and she’s happy Jane had him during those important formative years.

“Well then,” Phryne says in her higher-pitched voice with a tight smile, “Aunt Prudence and I will just… “ she shoots Jack a pleading look that Jane laughs at under her breath as she walks past, “ … have some tea until you get back.”

He gives her a knowing smile, whispering, “Won’t be long,” before meeting Jane at the door.

“You’d better not be,” she mouths and both Jane and Jack giggle quietly as they close the door.

One cleansing deep breath later, she joins Aunt Prudence on the sofa, pouring herself a cup of tea as Prudence nurses hers. Her aunt is unreasonably silent, looking tense and worried, as if something particular is on her mind.

“Everything alright, Aunt P?” she offers, letting her conscience get the better of her.

She opens her mouth to speak, but then quickly closes it, huffing in exasperation.

Dunking a biscuit in her tea, Phryne furrows her brow suspiciously, “What on Earth is the matter?”

She sets her teacup down with a soft clink, tightening her lips, “I still don’t need a doctor, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Phryne sighs through a mouthful of biscuit and looks up to the ceiling as if asking the heavens for strength. “Well, if you’re not ill, then what is it? You’re not acting yourself at all.”

“I am perfectly myself, thank you,” she gives her a pointed look and Phryne takes a gulp of tea like it were spirits. She wishes it was.

“Very well, my apologies for asking,” she starts to stand, “I’ll let you have some time to yourself.”

“No, no wait,” Aunt P reaches out to touch her arm and Phryne turns to look at her, slowly sitting back down. Something is clearly bothering her. Aunt Prudence is wringing the sash of her dress in her hands, wrestling with what she wants to say. After a few more moments, she glances at Phryne and then sighs, “I’ve been trying to think of how to approach this.”

“Approach what?”

“I… “ she closes her eyes for a moment, then looks at her sincerely, “You’ve done such a wonderful job with Jane, you know.”

Phryne huffs out a small, incredulous laugh. Was that all? “Thank you, Aunt P… though, really, Jane did a wonderful job with herself.”

She nods, still looking rather serious, “She had to overcome quite a lot.”

“Yes, she did,” Phryne agrees softly, “And she did so beautifully.”

“Because of the opportunities you gave her,” the lines in Aunt Prudence’s face deepen as a strange sort of hurt passes over her features. “You gave her what she needed to succeed.”

Phryne is very puzzled now. Her Aunt Prudence was many things, but vague was never one of them. “I did, I suppose, but I… I don’t follow, Aunt P.”

There’s a heavy silence followed by her aunt turning to her with tears in her eyes. “I should have taken you and Janey in.”

Phryne blinks in confusion, eyes widening and shaking her head. Where was this coming from? “What? … What do you mean?”

Prudence sniffs, her voice thick with emotions that Phryne is not accustomed to seeing on her aunt. “I knew… “ she breathes out, “I knew you were in dire straits. Margaret tried to hide it, but I knew. You and your sister were always starving when you visited, cuts on your knees and dirt on your faces… and that ridiculous, horrid father of yours… “

Phryne can only look at her silently, mouth half-open in shock, not having remotely seen this coming.

“I should have intervened. I should have insisted you come live with me… “

Some of her senses return to her as her aunt continues to sob pitifully and she reaches for her, “Aunt P… “ she says gently, laying a hand on her knee, “Janey and I weren’t your responsibility.”

She turns her head sharply at that, anger and despair in her eyes, “Of course you were! You were my nieces… my family… and you were suffering. … And I let you.”

“No,” she whispers, shaking her head and Prudence sobs harder.

“Margaret was too proud to ask for help, but you were just children! My sister’s pride shouldn’t have mattered!” she wails, accepting the handkerchief Phryne offers her. “Look at how well Jane has done since you took her in. She could’ve easily been left to welfare, but you gave her a home, a school; a stable life. I could’ve given you that. You could’ve had those same opportunities; been fed and safe… and Janey… maybe even Janey would still be… “

Aunt Prudence dissolves into sobs and Phryne, despite all these years and laying her to rest, never fails to tear up at mention of her sister. Oh, Darling Aunt P…

She wraps her aunt in her arms, who accepts the embrace, clinging to her tightly. She’s in pure hysterics for several minutes, mumbling words that get muffled against Phryne’s blouse, but she thinks it sounds a lot like, “I’m so sorry.”

Once she has calmed a bit, Phryne pulls back, taking the handkerchief and lightly dabbing her aunt’s face dry. “Aunt Prudence,” she says softly, “You needn’t beat yourself up like this. You gave us plenty.”

Her aunt shakes her head, uncharacteristically resisting the praise, “Not enough.”

“Plenty,” Phryne repeats, “Don’t think I didn’t notice the times, when we could barely afford a single cabbage, suddenly being capable of a full roast dinner. Or those fine coats that magically appeared in our wardrobe.”

She purses her lips, still unconvinced.

“Our spontaneous weekends at your estate?” Phryne smiles kindly, “You always told us it was because Arthur missed us… but they always seemed to happen just after one of mother and father’s harsher arguments.”

Aunt P takes a deep breath. “For reasons I’ll never understand, Margaret just wouldn’t give up on Henry. You can’t imagine how infuriating it was.”

“Oh, I think I can,” Phryne counters and she’s relieved to see a hint of a smile on her aunt’s face at that. “Listen, Aunt P… I tease - and I want to be clear that I’ll continue to - but I’ve always been grateful for you being my aunt.”

She gives her a warm, teary smile, then pats the hand that’s returned to her knee, “Dear girl.”

“And you know, as far as opportunities… “ Phryne continues, smirking, “You introduced me to many influential people over the years, many of whom I remain friends with even now. And some of them I even like!”

Her aunt tsks then and Phryne can’t help but to laugh before looking at her genuinely, “What we went through; Janey disappearing… none of it was your fault. It took me a long time to accept that it wasn’t mine, either. It’s just something horrible that happened. And we did the best we possibly could with what we had at the time.”

She reluctantly nods, eyes nearly dry again, “I suppose.”

Phryne smiles softly, “Yes, Jane was given opportunities, but she had to put in the work to seize them. Not everyone would.”

In fact, it would’ve been unsurprising for her to reject the lifestyle she’d fallen into, Phryne thinks. “It’s not easy looking after a kid who’s been through the ringer,” Jack had told her, and she knew that first-hand. After moving to England, Phryne daydreamed about running away back to Collingwood sometimes. It wasn’t a nice place, but at least it was a familiar one - a place she understood. Being thrust into an entirely different environment and culture, full of trivial rules and hollow, insincere people… well, to put it lightly, it was a bit of a shock. At times, she felt confused and defensive as a cornered animal. Thus, she had braced herself for trouble with Jane; counted on it even. But it never came. Oh, they had their moments over the years; small squabbles over inconsequential things, but more than anything - Jane took every opportunity given to her with grace and care and never once took it for granted. “Nothing that matters is easy,” she’d told Jack all those years ago, and yet loving and caring for Jane had been just that.

Holding both her aunt’s hands in hers, she squeezes lightly, taking a deep breath, “There are still plenty of children out there like her and like me, and none are more or less deserving of a good life than the other. Nor can they all be saved. Life is very unfair that way. But it never fails to matter when someone tries. Everything you did for us mattered. It mattered very much.”

Aunt Prudence gives her a look so soft, she didn’t even know she was capable of it, then hums a grateful “hm.”

“Besides,” she continues, “With so much respect, Aunt P, you and I would not have survived each other.”

She taps her arm in reprimand, though there’s a glint of laughter in her eyes, and then falls into deep consideration. “That is rather an excellent point, dear.”

Chapter Text

Sitting on a shaded bench in the hotel courtyard, Jack is feeling the strangest combination of joy and anxiety. Jane is sat next to him, carefully unwrapping the box he’s just given her and he’s rather certain his heart now lives in his throat.

Jane, who just turned 22, but to him will always be that scrappy 14 year-old he met on the train halfway to Ballarat, now graduating university. He isn’t sure if he has the right to - he’s never dared to call her his in any regard - but he is so proud of her. The way she has risen to every challenge and persevered through unfathomable odds… it would feel miraculous if not for how hard he watched her work for this. One simply couldn’t not be proud - and he hopes the gift in her hands will carry that sentiment.

“Oh,” Jane gasps softly, having unfolded the inner wrapping. “Crime and Punishment!”

“First edition English translation,” he tells her with a satisfied smirk and Jane smiles wide.

“No! Really?” she carefully takes it from the box, marveling at the cloth binding and the gold embossed letters on the spine. “Oh, it’s stunning.”

It had taken a while for he and Jane to form a bond. Not that either held any distaste for the other (well, he hopes), but both were the slow-to-thaw type (as Phryne had often put it). There was a short while that he feared himself unequipped to parent a teenage girl; what advice or guidance could he possibly give to someone whose lived experience differed so greatly from his own? Adults were supposed to be pillars of wisdom and strength, but Jane was self-sufficient almost to a fault (much like her foster mother, he’d often think).

Then one day, he entered the parlor to see her engrossed in his copy of Moby Dick and all it took was one question about what she thought. They talked for hours that night, dissecting grand tales and marveling at historical allegories, barely even noticing when they were called to dinner.

He would often still defer to Phryne’s expertise (particularly on the more delicate matters, he was only so knowledgeable), but after a while - there was a comfort between him and Jane that echoed a kind of relationship he’d thought he was well past the opportunity for.

“My father gave it to me when I graduated the academy… A beast of a read, if I’m honest, but it seemed apt for the occasion.”

“It is!” she nods, eyes bright, and his heart settles back into his chest as it swells. “Oh, but are you sure, inspector? This must mean so much to you.”

“It does,” he confirms with a gentle nod of his head, “Which is why I’d like you to have it.” They share a warm smile for a moment, but then Jack’s over cautious nature steps in, “Of course, you don’t have to feel obligated to accept it! I recognize it assumes quite a lot and I wouldn’t want you to feel that you had to keep it. It might-“

“I love it,” she interrupts, staring at him with grateful warmth, “I love it so much. And I promise to take good care of it.”

He smiles fondly, letting out a deep breath, and then nods towards the box, “There’s more.”

“Oh!” she looks down, handing him her book so that she can reach in for the remaining item.

“I know the tradition is a bouquet or corsage,” he explains as she examines the frame of pressed flowers in her hands, “But I wanted to bring you a piece of home that you can take with you.”

She stares at them in amazement; a beautiful assortment of yellow roses and sunflowers, and her eyes widen suddenly in recognition. “These aren’t … ?” Jane eyes him curiously and he gives her a sheepish nod. “The ones we planted? They still bloom?” she asks, astonished and touched.

She remembers, Jack thinks, and then swallows down the beginnings of tears in his throat. “Between myself and Mr  Butler, we’ve managed a rather healthy garden. Recently, we even added some hydrangeas which should bloom in a few months,” he tells her proudly and she exhales a pleased laugh.

“I can’t wait to see it,” she says softly, hugging the frame to her chest, “But I’ll cherish this until then. Thank you, Jack. For everything.”

“I’m very glad. You’re welcome, Jane,” he beams and they share a pleasant moment of quiet between them before Jane gingerly takes the book and lays it back down in the box with the frame.

“I have a surprise for you and Miss Phryne, as well,” she tells him and he looks at her in bemused confusion. Surely graduates aren’t meant to give gifts to their par-… guardians? “I hope you’ll like it. But it’ll have to wait a bit longer.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. I’m sure we will,” he smiles, then looking down at his wristwatch. “Speaking of which, we ought to go and rescue Miss Fisher before a murder occurs in the form of Mrs. Stanley.”

——-

“Did she like it?” Phryne asks him that evening in bed, carding her fingers through his hair as he sets down his watch on the side table.

“I think so. She seemed… “ he hesitates, searching for the right word, “Grateful, I guess.”

“I’m sure it means more to her than you know,” she assures him, wrapping herself across his chest.

He hums softly, running a hand down her side, “She’s here because of you. That will always mean the most, as it should.”

She tuts, rolling her eyes, “The way neither of you can take a compliment… it’s rather silly.“

His chest shakes with a silent laugh as he kisses the top of her head and curls her in tighter to him. “Perhaps because it never fails to wind you up.”

——-

It’s halfway through the ceremony and the Dean of Students has just taken the podium, Jane standing off just a few feet to the side.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to take a moment to recognize this year’s recipient of the Marie Byles Award for Academic Excellence: Miss Jane Ross.”

A supportive applause follows as Jane takes her place at the podium, with a particular robust display of enthusiasm from her friends in the fifth row. Taking a deep breath, she searches the crowd for a moment until she sees them; her Miss Phryne and Jack and the rest of her family. Excitement replaces anxiety and she smiles their way before opening her mouth to speak.

“Thank you, Dean Saunders.”

Good afternoon and congratulations to my fellow graduates. It is an honor to stand here with you today.

Over the past five years, we have studied, side by side, the intricacies and complexities that make up our laws. Our professors have challenged us to think critically, to apply logic with intention, and have taught us all that is permissible or not in the eyes of the court. One thing they could not teach us, however - though we are told it is what the law ultimately serves, is what I encourage us to ponder today and every day in our practices going forward…

I’m speaking of justice. What does justice mean, really?

When I first told people I intended to study law, they were surprised. I suppose I would’ve been, too. My own relationship with the law had been inconsistent at best, neglectful at worst, and one could reasonably assume it would be the last thing I’d choose to study. At five years old, I was separated from my mother and sent to where all of society’s forgotten children were: welfare. I never knew my father or other family; I’m not even sure I had any - and the law had decided my mother was unfit to care for me. The law was not wrong… but it failed to consider that the majority of welfare were unfit, too. I spent the following ten years being traded like livestock, often going to bed - if there was a bed - hungry and sick. I was exposed to violence no child deserves to experience and I often wondered, if the law knew my mother was unfit, how could they not know about this?

The sad truth is that many did. But they chose to turn a blind eye, either from their own discomfort or from being bribed. As a result, my distrust took root and grew stronger every day. What I concluded from my own experience and observation was that what the law said, wasn’t always what the law did… and from there, I asked myself, “Then why should I?”

Suffering feeds into desperation and it is amazing what desperation can drive someone to do. When the option is to steal a loaf of bread from the bakery or starve, which would you choose? When it’s to stowaway on a milk cart or freeze to death overnight? To stab a man’s hand or let him break your arm? Some would say wrong is wrong is wrong, which is an objective truth, but is it justice to punish only the last domino and ignore the hundreds that fell before it? I don’t think there is a simple answer to that, but I do think it’s an important question to ask.

This must all sound very pessimistic. If my belief in the law was so fragile, why pursue it as a degree?

You see, I used to live in a world of last dominoes and, as one myself, I was certain I’d only ever take the fall. But one gloomy afternoon, with a pocketful of stolen jewels, I met someone who - for the first time - looked beyond the last plat to fall.

My foster mother is, I think many would agree, a force to be reckoned with. There is little, if anything, that she cannot do. The day she and I met, I was poised to be locked up for life or worse, but she took a chance and listened. That small act, which to me was never small, helped unfold a web of crimes that affected many more people than one scraggly girl on the back of a train. Not only did she solve a robbery and a murder from that event - she exposed an abuser and liberated a group of girls society had long since given up on.

It would be an incredible feat all its own, but this was far from an isolated occurrence. Her life story is a chronicle of lives changed for the better, which I am honored to be part of. I’ve learned so many things under her wing, but more than anything, I learned the power of compassion. That the sum total of a human being is not the single worst thing they’ve ever done, nor the best.

You might be wondering how this could possibly be compatible with the absolutism of law. For that, I turn to my foster dad. As a senior detective inspector, he is a servant of the law, not its master. It is not an easy task, by any measure. Some have even called him dour, but I think of him as thorough; tedious. Under his watch, nary a detail goes unnoticed. And it’s because of his thorough nature that cases, which would otherwise go unsolved, are so consistently closed. He, like my mother, looks beyond what’s laid before him; for it’s there we often find the truth.

It was from watching my parents work that I understood what I couldn’t previously about the law - that justice relies on the integrity of those enforcing it. Knowing this, my ambitions became instantly clear: I wanted to be a representative of integrity. I wanted the law to serve the people, not the opposite. But change doesn’t come just from desire, it equally requires action.

For that, I am beyond grateful for the knowledge I have gained in my time here. The people of integrity I have come to know has multiplied, along with the hope I feel in mankind. 

I look forward to serving with you; perhaps sparring with some of you, and I have faith in the future. I’d like to once more thank my foster parents for the shining example you were for me. If I am able to achieve even a fraction of what you have, I will have succeeded.

I know it will require a lot of work - neither justice nor integrity are always easy - but then… nothing that matters ever is.”

——-

“Jane, darling,” Phryne embraces her, smoothing a hand in her hair and holding her tight; remnants of tears in her eyes. “My bright girl… I am so very proud.”

”I tried not to overdo it, but at some point I couldn’t help myself,” Jane says and Phryne pulls back laughing. “I hope what I said was alright.”

“Oh,” she sighs, stroking the hair from her daughter’s forehead. “More than alright. That was the loveliest speech I’ve ever heard.”

Jane smiles, quickly hugging her again before pulling back. Searching around them expectantly, she asks with some concern, “Where’s Jack?”

Phryne lets out a sympathetic laugh. “Still in his seat, I imagine. He’s been a blubbering mess since you said the word ‘Dad’.”