Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was still dark when Jack slipped out the back door of the hospital, shrugging his coat on to ward against the hint of chill that the wind whipped through the gaps between the buildings. Dawn was not far off, though; the grey streaks of cloud overhead became more orange-tinged with each passing minute, the birth of the new day imminent.

He'd likely be early to meet Belle. No matter. He was grateful for the opportunity to sneak out and get an extended period of fresh air. Most of his 'free time' at the moment consisted of standing out in the grounds of the hospital, tilting his head back and letting the sun hit his skin while he tried to guess how quickly he'd be called back in for another consultation.

Port Victory was settled at this time of the morning. The port would surely be busy with activity, as it was all through the night, but in the centre of town where the well-to-do lived, it was far too early for normal people to be up and about. Well, Jack had never been normal, and he wasn't about to settle for it now. He took a segment of the orange he'd swiped from the kitchen on his way out and threw it into his mouth, enjoying the sweetness of the juice bursting across his tongue. As he walked, he debated the merits of saving half of the orange for Belle, and then remembered that her household got the freshest oranges in the town, so decided to finish the whole thing off without feeling guilty. Hetty, of course, would probably remind him that the fruit was for scurvy patients, not doctors in need of a quick snack, but Jack privately felt that if he was going to be running an entire hospital with only Belle to help him out and still no wage, it was only fair that the hospital part with the occasional orange for him in exchange.

He reached the wall at the bottom of the driveway to Government House in due course and hopped up to sit on it, letting his legs dangle freely as he settled in to wait. The sun was just creeping over the horizon now, and he basked in the sensation of the first rays of daylight hitting his face. He loved his work, and he particularly loved getting to do it with Belle, but it was proving to be quite a lot more than he'd anticipated, especially with his temporary promotion. Of course, Sneed had had two other doctors to help him, but with his colleague still on bed rest after his operation and the Prof—

He sucked in a harsh breath. Damn it, he thought he'd got better at controlling the flashes of pain that shot through him every time he remembered Boxer standing in theatre, uncharacteristically lost for words as he stumbled through his explanation of what had happened to Prof. But it flickered to the front of his mind once more, and suddenly he was back in theatre and his nostrils stung with the tang of Sneed's blood, and his fingers slipped over Sneed's liver as he desperately fought for his friend's life, and the Inspector explained that Prof had— and that he'd had to—

"Jack?"

He startled out of his musings to find Belle standing just to the side of his perch, an amused look on her face.

"Hi," he said, jumping down off the wall to stand in front of her, hastily dusting himself off. "I, er, came to meet you."

"Well I can see that," she laughed, then offered him her arm. "You seemed to be thinking about something very intently there. Penny for your thoughts?"

He took her arm gratefully, letting her lead him back into town. "Just thinking about a case I had yesterday," he said, trying to recall one they hadn't already discussed. "Wondering if I should have considered a different cause."

"The lady with the gallstones?"

"Yeah," he said, trying to not to seize her suggestion too obviously. "I think it might have been her pancreas instead. She mentioned heavy alcohol use, and her diet isn't exactly ideal…"

They discussed the case between themselves for a few minutes as they made their way down into town. The low light of the sun bounced off the buildings around them, casting the area in a warm orange glow that brought out all the gold streaks in Belle's hair. Jack found himself mesmerised by her, both by the radiance she seemed to shimmer with in the light and by the intelligent suggestions she raised in response to his concerns. After agreeing a change of treatment for the woman in question - bring her back in to palpate the pancreas again and suggest some dietary changes - they moved smoothly on to discussing some other patients Belle had seen yesterday. As a student, she was running everything past him to get his experience and recommendations on her treatment plans. Jack already knew that she had an excellent theoretical knowledge; it was practical experience she was lacking. With the rate at which she was progressing, though, he felt it likely that she would require nowhere near the normal training period for a civilian surgeon…

He was still musing on this when she caught him off guard with an abrupt change of topic.

"Have you spoken to Rainsford yet?"

He tensed before he could control his reaction, and swore internally when he realised she'd felt it through their clasped arms, slowing down and turning to face him head on. Belle had, for a couple of weeks now, been encouraging him to speak to Sneed, with each 'encouragement' becoming more and more direct as Jack continued to avoid her suggestion. It wasn't that he was angry that Sneed had survived - indeed, Jack had been overwhelmingly relieved that Sneed had managed to go home from the hospital six days after his surgery with only moderate anaemia and no signs of post-operative infection, an outcome nothing short of miraculous for those who were so inclined. But it wasn't like Jack could come out and say to Belle that he was cross at Sneed for getting stabbed and leaving him in charge, because Jack knew how ridiculous it sounded without needing to say it out loud. He knew he was avoiding his colleague, but the thought of going to Sneed's home to check in on him with a basket of fruit or something equally asinine just felt inherently wrong to Jack. What would he say? How would they co-exist now that Jack knew what Sneed's organs felt like in his hands, and the Prof's ghost hung between between them?

"I thought he wasn't up to visitors still," he gave by way of a lousy dodge. Belle's eyebrows furrowed.

"That was a week ago," she replied slowly. "I saw him on Tuesday, and he was perfectly fit for company then, even if he is still mostly on bed rest. I'm sure I told you that."

Drat. He tried another tack. "Well, you know how busy we are at the moment; I've barely had a moment to sit down and eat, let alone pop over to Sneed's for a cup of tea and a chin wag."

"And yet you've had the time to come and walk me to the hospital this morning." Her steely eyes made it clear that she wasn't buying any of his pathetic excuses.

"I don't think me waking him up at five in the morning is the best thing for his recovery. You know, as the surgeon who operated on him—"

"As your assistant in that surgery, and having actually seen the patient in person post-operatively, I can assure you that you would not be disturbing his recovery by popping in and seeing him, especially just for a few minutes."

Jack waved a hand dismissively, starting back towards the hospital. "He'll be fine. He'll be up and about again in a few weeks, he doesn't need me sticking my nose in—"

"Jack, I'm worried about him."

The genuine concern in her voice gave him pause, and he turned to her to find her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"What do you mean? He should be well outside the window for a post-operative infection by now…?"

She shook her head. "It's not his body. It's his mind I'm worried about."

He felt something cold and unpleasant run down his spine. "What, like the Prof?" He hated how his voice still wavered when mentioning the former Head Surgeon, like he hadn't had the best part of a month to get his head round the events of Cholera Week (as he'd started sarcastically referring to it in his head).

"Not like Prof, no. I don't think he's a danger to anyone. He just seems… sad."

Jack sighed. "And, what, you think me showing up unannounced with a bouquet of daisies and a tin of shortbread is going to fix that?"

Belle huffed, her exasperation evident. "No, of course not. But I think it would be beneficial for the two of you to talk about what happened that day, and about Prof."

"Why do we need to talk about it?" Jack could feel his hackles rising, even as he knew it wasn't Belle's fault. "It happened, it was bloody awful, but Sneed is going to be fine and Prof can't hurt anyone else now, so I don't see the point in going back over it all again."

"You lost a colleague together; you had your hands in his abdomen trying to save him—"

"And I did save him, and he's going to be fine. He'll get over it."

"Jack, I know you've seen men like this before, from your time in the Navy - you must know the effect that traumatic experiences can have on a person's psyche."

"And I also know that making people talk about things they don't want to doesn't help anyone either!" He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "So will you just drop it, please?"

Belle watched him thoughtfully for a few seconds. "Alright," she said eventually. "I won't push you on it for now. But will you promise me that you'll at least think about it? I think it would really help both of you."

He regarded her carefully for a few seconds, before letting a sigh pass his lips. "I will… try," he offered.

She beamed at him, and stretched up to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "Thank you," she said, and reached out to squeeze his hand and continue leading him toward the hospital.

They walked on for a few seconds in semi-comfortable silence before, apparently unprompted, Belle laughed softly. He tilted his head down to her in quiet amusement. "What?"

"I'm just… really happy," she smiled at him. "I know maybe that's insensitive to say, given what we were just discussing. But Jack: to think that three months ago I thought you were going to be hanged in my father's name, and even if you avoided the noose we'd never get to be together, not truly. Not to mention that there was almost no chance Sneed would have let me practice at the hospital with my mother watching like a hawk. And now, here we are. Promenading in broad daylight, without fear that you'll be arrested. You, Head Surgeon; me, officially your medical student."

"Interim Head Surgeon," he corrected her.

"You know what I mean," she said with a look. "Jack, listen." She brought them to a stop again, turning to face him and holding both his hands in hers. "We did it," she smiled. "We're free, and we can do whatever we want. This is just… I never thought I would be so happy in all my life."

She beamed at him, so radiant that he couldn't help but smile along with her.

"Me too," he told her, and at least his body didn't need to lie about anything as he leaned down to kiss her sweetly.

But as they carried on walking back towards the hospital, his chest didn't seem to share the same lightness that she exhibited. Instead, it burned with the tightness of the instinct that he was walking into a gilded trap.

Jane was pleasantly surprised when she rolled over and found that Edmund's side of the bed was cold.

Well, that sounded all wrong. It wasn't that she was grateful that her husband was absent - if anything, she had been rather looking forward to waking up and letting him shower her with gentle kisses, as had become their routine in the last few weeks. No, it was more that his early start was emblematically and physically representative of his newfound commitment to his work as Governor. The less-charitable part of her brain quietly commented that it wasn't as though he'd really had a choice, since she was still on bed rest from an illness that had very nearly killed her, but she quashed that with a sense of satisfaction that her husband was finally finding his work engaging and fulfilling, at least to some degree.

She managed to get herself up and into the bathroom unaided, feeling quite pleased with herself - that is, until she was situated over her chamber pot. Her constitution hadn't been quite the same since her brush with death, and she had been disgruntled to discover that many of her favourite foods were now likely to cause her issues later in the day, or first thing in the morning, or any time, really. The poor scullery maid hadn't said anything, of course, but Jane knew the contents of her chamber pot had been particularly unsavoury as of late. Perhaps she would grant the girl an extra afternoon off a month, as a token of gratitude for her discretion.

Closing the bathroom door behind her, she rang for her lady's maid, who attended promptly. The girl was young, as were many of their citizens in Port Victory, but she'd been a fast learner and Jane was finally beginning to feel confident in her work. Dressing took a little longer than she liked, still, but that was more because Jane had to take frequent breaks to sit and catch her breath than anything to do with her maid's shortcomings.

When they finished, her maid dismissed herself with a quick curtsy. "I'll let the cook know you're ready for breakfast, milady."

"Thank you, Ethel," Jane replied. "I shall take my breakfast in the second dining room today."

"Of course, milady."

It was there that Edmund found her, a few minutes after she had struggled her way down the stairs, clutching the bannister tightly for support. He would have helped her, of course, if he knew she was still finding the stairs so much of a challenge, but Jane had had rather enough of people regarding her with pity. They were only blasted stairs, after all; she'd faced and won worse challenges in her life.

When she heard the rattle of a tea set on a tray, she gestured to the place in front of her without looking up from the paper that Edmund had left after his own breakfast. "Just leave it there, thank you."

"If you'd prefer, but I was rather hoping we might be able to share a cup together."

She twisted round in her seat as much as she could to find Edmund concentrating very hard on balancing a loaded tea tray in his hands as he crossed the floor towards her very slowly.

"What on earth are you doing?" she laughed.

"I just said, I thought we could share a cup together—" Edmund stumbled over the edge of the rug and fell forward. Incredibly, he managed to catch himself before he could drop the tray, falling to his knees but, somewhat miraculously, leaving himself, the tray, and its contents otherwise unharmed.

He looked up at her with surprise. "I have absolutely no idea how I managed to do that."

Jane laughed. "Well, don't waste it. Do you need a hand getting to your feet?"

"No, I'll manage perfectly well, thank you." He got to his feet, completely steady, and continued approaching the table, setting the tray down between her chair and the nearest, which he dragged closer still.

"There you go, darling," he said, placing a kiss atop her head. Despite herself, Jane leaned into his embrace, closing her eyes with it. There was no-one else around to witness it, and there was nothing wrong with a husband and wife sharing tenderness between them from time to time.

"Thank you," she replied as they parted, reaching out for the teapot between them. She could smell the tea inside even before she began pouring it, and raised an eyebrow at Edmund.

"You know this is mint tea, yes?" She'd developed a newfound preference for the herbal tea, but etiquette dictated that it was only for the afternoon, and only to be taken in private.

"I know," he said, shuffling a little in something approximating indignation. "Belle told me that it would be better for your digestion, particularly before meals. I thought it might help with your stomach pains, so I procured some from the latest shipment from Hong Kong."

Jane stopped pouring. "You did that for me?" she asked quietly. She'd wondered why the tea had suddenly become so abundant in the household…

Edmund shuffled under her gaze again. "I meant only to help you; I was perfectly discreet about it—"

"Edmund." She reached forward and placed a hand atop his. "This is most thoughtful of you. Thank you."

The servants came in then, and they sat back from each other as Jane was served breakfast. Edmund declined a second helping himself, but as soon as the door closed behind the footman he reached out and stole a sausage from her plate. Jane feigned indignation at his actions, swatting lightly at his arm, but secretly she'd asked for an extra one precisely for him to do just that. So what if she enjoyed the cheeky look on her husband's face as he managed to smugly eat a sausage? They'd been through enough recently. She was allowed to enjoy herself with him.

Edmund prattled on about minor affairs of state as she ate, managing to talk without stopping despite it taking her twice as long to finish her plate as she was used to. Jane fiercely resented the way she was forced to have only small mouthfuls and long pauses between each one. He was very patient, waiting until she'd set her cutlery down and washed her food down with a mouthful of tea, before getting on to what he'd really come to ask her.

"I've been thinking," he began. Here we go, she thought, but decided to hear him out anyway.

"Well, I've been thinking that we ought to have some sort of big project here in Port Victory," he continued. "Something grand that establishes our town as a beacon within the colony. And, of course, something which would be of benefit to our population."

"Did you have anything in mind?" she asked, raising her teacup to her mouth to avoid immediately jumping in with suggestions.

"Well, I was thinking that the sewer system ended up being a bit of a debacle. But if we did it properly this time, got some engineers in and thought it through properly, we might be able to come up with a similar system for running water. There's an excellent paper in one of the files in the office; I shall have to show it to you."

"Well, it would certainly be distinctive to be known as the only town with a proper sewage system, but I'm not quite sure about the legacy it would attach to your name," she said diplomatically.

He nodded. "Quite right, and exactly what I thought you would say. Perhaps not engineering then. What about the arts? Oh, we could build a museum!"

"That would certainly be in line with Prince Albert's ambitions for the colony," Jane noted.

"We'd need to get the architects in to discuss it in detail, of course," he said. His tone shifted slightly as he said it, but Jane couldn't quite work out what had driven it. "But they'll have to wait until you're recovered, obviously."

"I'm well enough to receive people for an hour or two now, I should think."

Edmund's face perked up. "Oh, goody! So that means that you would be well enough to have Doctor Dawkins for dinner, then?"

Ah. That explained his clunky change of topic. Jane felt her face settle into its familiar unimpressed scowl.

To his credit, her husband flinched only a little under her gaze. "I just thought, darling, that now we've given our blessing to Belle's courtship we ought to show Dawkins our hospitality. I've been putting it off while you've been recovering, but if you're well enough to receive, it would be rude not to—"

"Oh, like Dawkins knows or cares what is considered rude in polite society."

Edmund frowned. "That's not very kind, darling. He did save your life, you know, and he is Head Surgeon now."

"Belle and Dawkins' assistant saved me, and Dawkins simply fell upwards into the temporary Head Surgeon position in the absence of any other duly qualified doctor who had not recently been stabbed."

"In any case," Edmund continued, raising his voice slightly. "Belle has chosen him, and unless we are changing our position regarding their courtship, we should show him the hospitality we have shown any other potential suitor of hers."

"'Potential'." Jane scoffed. "You know well that she intends to stay with him if we permit it."

"We have permitted it. To change our minds again now would only push her away for good. We came so close to losing her before. Jane, listen." Edmund got off his chair and knelt before her, taking her hands in his own and looking at her with a gentleness that she was not expecting.

"This whole business with Dickie- no, that's not what I mean," he clarified as she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "You know that I care not a whit about that man and your relationship with him before we were married. What I mean to say, Jane, is that Belle is our daughter. And after all that business with her illness and her considering leaving us, I desire very strongly that we keep her close. If her choosing to marry a talented surgeon is the price to pay to keep her close, I think we could certainly be much worse off– I mean, she's not exactly run off to become a lady of the docks, has she?"

"No, but she is content to be Dawkins' whore, apparently," she muttered. Edmund sighed heavily.

"Janey, I won't do this if you don't agree. But I think one informal dinner as a chance to get to know the man who is likely to become our son-in-law is the very least we can offer Belle, after everything."

Jane considered it for a long moment. "I'm still not giving my blessing for their marriage," she began, but Edmund beamed anyway.

"There's plenty of time to work the rest of the details out," he said, placing a kiss on her forehead.

"But I suppose we could have him for dinner tonight," she concluded.

Edmund looked slightly surprised at this. "Tonight?" he repeated.

"We may as well get on with it before I can talk myself out of it."

He nodded, then kissed her head again. "Thank you, my dear," he murmured to her, and despite herself, Jane smiled at his affection. A lot of things had changed after that awful day, and some of them tested her patience, but this between them had certainly changed for the better.

Henry had long suspected that Captain Gaines had been something of a masochist, but the office in the murky bowels of the prison was a bit on the nose, even for him. It let in so little natural light and trapped the stenches of the unwashed inmates and their various bodily excrements. It was the seat of power of a man who enjoyed the darkness associated with his work, rather than seeking the Lord's light in ensuring justice was done for the innocent and those in need.

Perhaps it had been the other way around, Henry hypothesised: was it that Gaines had been a normal, well-adjusted man before he had to work in this dingy den, and had simply succumbed to madness from a lack of natural light? He thought it unlikely. From all that he'd heard about his predecessor, both through official communications and the Port Victory rumour mill, there had been something deeply wrong with that man long before he'd come to Australia.

Perhaps Henry and his predecessor had that in common.

The desk was equally as torturous as the room itself, with a fixed panel at the front that preventing him from straightening his legs out as he worked. The constant pressure from being bent at an awkward angle made his knee throb angrily within a few minutes of being sat in his chair. It had been like that since the Professor's assault, despite Lady Belle's careful assessment of it in the aftermath.

It had taken a few hours for him to realise just how severe the damage was; the business of the night and the initial investigation of Sneed's stabbing had kept him busy for a long while. But once the necessary evidence had been collected, and Henry had been reassured by the nurses that Doctor Sneed had survived his surgery, at least for the meantime, as he sank into a chair for the first time in hours he'd realised: his leg really fucking hurt.

He'd tried to stand, then gave up when hot streaks of pain streaked out from the centre of his knee, up the outside of his thigh and down the back of his calf. Alright, then. He knew he'd overdone it even before the events in the morgue, and the Professor's kick would certainly have worsened any soreness he was already ignoring. He just needed to rest for a while. The hospital had quietened, finally - about time, since it was approaching two o'clock in the morning - and he doubted he would bother anyone if he just rested in the chair until his knee was recovered enough for him to stumble back to his bed.

It was Lady Belle who had noticed him as she strode by a short while later, double-taking at the way he lay slightly crumpled in his chair like a half-empty sack of potatoes.

"Inspector? Whatever is the matter?"

"It's my leg," he admitted. "I thought it just needed some rest, but it doesn't seem to be improving much."

"May I?" she asked, and promptly dropped to her knees in front of him without waiting for a reply. He baulked at her actions - hardly an appropriate position for her to be in in front of a man she was neither related nor married to - but Lady Belle didn't seem to mind as she reached out for his knee, and then paused.

"Would it be alright if I examined your leg? I can ask Jack to see you instead, if you'd prefer a male doctor."

Henry waved a hand in dismissal. "No, that's alright. I'm sure Doctor Dawkins has matters far more important to attend to at present than my duff old knee."

She nodded. "Very well." Her hands gracefully lifted the leg of his trouser, and he tried not to get flustered at the idea of her seeing his bare legs. No woman had, of course, since his wife died. Some part of him had hoped that Lady Belle would see him déshabillé at some point, but this wasn't quite the scenario he'd imagined them in. That dream was gone, too; she'd made her choice, and he was trying his damnedest to respect it.

She managed to wiggle the trousers up above his knee, where the muscle of his thigh prevented them from rising any further, and he heard her tut.

"Well, I'm not surprised you're sore, given that your knee is twice the size it should be," she told him. "What on earth happened?"

"It was already sore before today's events, but I've been on my feet for a dreadfully long time now. I knew–" He hissed as she pressed a thumb gently onto the side of his knee, causing something inside to burn until she removed the pressure with a whispered apology. "I knew I was over-exerting myself, but there was no option but to continue."

She nodded thoughtfully. "And this?" she asked, pointing to the top of his knee. He leaned over a little and found the edge of a bruise peeking out below the hem of his trousers, a matching one more clearly visible on his shin.

"Well I should suspect that the Professor's well-placed kicks should have achieved those," he replied, much more calmly than he felt.

Lady Belle regarded him with something akin to pity, which was somehow worse than her previous concern. "Yes, I would imagine they would have." She rose gracefully to her feet, dusting her hands off on the nurse's pinafore she'd layered over her clothes. "You'll need ice for the swelling. Do you ice your knee regularly already?"

"No, my lady."

"You should begin to. At least once a day, ideally in the evening. It will help reduce the inflammation; should help the joint flex more smoothly. Wait here."

She bustled off and returned a few minutes later with a glass of ice wrapped in a piece of cloth. "This should help."

He pressed the cool bundle to his skin, and just about avoided moaning out loud in relief as the cold began to leach the pain from his knee almost instantaneously. "You are most kind, Lady Belle. Thank you for your assistance."

She smiled politely at him. "You're most welcome, Inspector. If you have no further complaints, I'm going to go and check on my mother. Would you let Ja- Doctor Dawkins know, if you see him on your way out?"

He went to touch the brim of his hat, remembering belatedly that he wasn't wearing it; had no idea where it had ended up during the day's events and didn't really care. "Of course, my lady."

Lady Belle smiled, and then dropped one of her hands down to squeeze his gently. "If there's anything we can help with, please let us or one of the nurses know. You don't need to suffer in silence."

"Duly noted, my lady," he replied, feeling conflicted by her kindness and rather wanting her to leave him alone so he could continue to feel sorry for himself without an audience. Thankfully, she seemed to discern his polite dismissal for what it was, and squeezed his hand once more before turning and heading up the staircase to her mother's bedside.

He'd sat there, reflecting on the whole damn night, until the ice had numbed his leg enough for him to just about stumble back home, falling into bed as the sun came up.

"Inspector?"

Bramwell's voice pulled him out of his reverie. Henry cleared his throat and busied himself shuffling some papers on his desk in a futile attempt to make it look like he hadn't been daydreaming on the job.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"Sir, I've finally finished the report for the McGregor serial murders, and his assaults on you and Doctor Rainsford Sneed. The judge is happy for you to sign it off, since there's obviously no perp to convict."

Oh, yes. He'd killed the Professor, hadn't he.

He'd been doing a good job of ignoring his guilt regarding the Professor's death, mostly. Well, occasionally. Or not at all really, but he at least had got to the point where he wasn't thinking about it all day, every day. Unless someone brought it up.

"That's fine; give it here." He all but snatched the papers from Bramwell's outstretched hand and scrawled something resembling his signature on the back page as quickly as he could. "Is that all, Sergeant?"

Bramwell fidgeted slightly before speaking. "You also need to authorise the release of the body to the family, now the investigation is closed."

Right. "Yes, of course."

Bramwell tapped another sheet of paper. "Just here, Sir."

Henry signed the document without looking at it for a second longer than necessary. "Give my condolences to the bereaved."

"Of course, Sir." Bramwell leaned forward to retrieve the documents from Henry's desk, but made no move to exit the room thereafter.

Henry sighed. His knee was really starting to scream now, and his patience was wearing thin. "Is there anything else, Sergeant?"

"No, Sir, it's just that…" Bramwell paused, clearly hesitant to say whatever was on his mind. "You know no-one thinks any less of you for what happened, right? The Professor was being a menace, and you acted in self-defence, without any intent to–"

"Thank you, Sergeant," Henry said, raising his voice as he looked back down at his paperwork. "That will be all."

He heard Bramwell stiffen before clicking his heels together. "Good morning, Sir," he said quietly, before turning on his heel and leaving Henry alone in his dark, dingy office.

Fagin had come to appreciate a lot of things since his brief foray into the underworld, but there was nothing he'd come to appreciate more than waking up to find his face situated perfectly between a pair of Rotty's lovely, warm, juicy–

The pie directly in front of him was snatched away without warning and he jolted up from where his head had been lying on the table. He was still in The Bagpipes; evidently, he'd fallen asleep there mid-celebration again. "Oi! I was about to eat that!"

"You better bloody well not have been; I've been saving that for myself for the last three days." Rotty smacked him round the back of his head for good measure as she dropped into the chair next to him.

"These pies have been out for three days already?"

"Mine has. Yours, more like seven."

Fagin pulled a face, then reconsidered. Rotty's pies were still Rotty's pies, even if they had been out a week. Fuck it. He'd eaten several significantly more questionable things in his life. If this was what took him out– well, it would certainly be a tasty way to go.

Besides, Fagin knew he was good for a while on that front. Him and The Big Man Upstairs had come to an understanding, after all.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while. Aputi and Flashy joined them when Fagin was two-thirds of the way through his pie, both of them looking rather sorry for themselves and wincing as the door to Rotty's rooms banged shut behind them. Fagin chortled.

"Rough night out, lads?"

"Don't talk so loud," Aputi asked him, rubbing at his temples. "All this celebrating is starting to have a negative effect on my brain, I think."

"Can't take effect on something that don't exist. Here." Fagin threw him a flask, the liquid sloshing inside as Aputi caught it. "Some Hair of the Dog for you, that'll help."

Aputi opened it excitedly, then his face fell when he sniffed the contents. "Fagin, this is just more alcohol."

"Can't get hungover if you never stop being drunk," Fagin replied, toasting his own little amuse bouche of port to Aputi in amusement.

"Give me that." Rotty snatched the glass from his hand and knocked it back before Fagin could stop her. Damn her. And damn his old man reflexes. He'd noticed that they'd got markedly slower since his brief nap in the dirt - yet another example of why he needed Dodge back sooner rather than later.

"Very well, consider it payment for the pie," he told Rotty, who laughed sardonically as she set the glass down.

"I'll consider actual legal tender payment for the pie," she replied. "And I'm keeping a tally, you know. You owe me for fifty-four pies over the last three weeks, in total. I'll call it fifty, because we're friends."

"I make all that effort to return from the dead and you can't even comp me a few dozen pies?" Fagin pressed a hand to his chest and pretended to swoon. "Rotty, you wound me."

"You were the one who somehow managed to cling on to life in that shitty wooden box for longer than any reasonable person should have expected to. Could've done us all a favour and stayed in there, you twat."

"Rotty," Flashbang protested softly. Next to him, Aputi shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, his skin suddenly taking on a grey pallor. The boys had been struggling with the guilt of accidentally burying Fagin alive and subsequently almost not being able to dig him back up in time, and they tended to start looking very unwell any time it was mentioned. Rotty, on the other hand, seemed to be using humour to cope, once the shakes had stopped that first day.

So, Fagin tried something he'd been working on recently: tactfully changing the topic of conversation to accommodate someone else's emotional needs. Who'd've thought?

"Well, lads: as much fun as the last few weeks of celebrating my timely escape from demise, I thought you might appreciate a change of pace and a new gig to help us along the way."

Rotty finished brushing her hands of crumbs and looked at him. "Oh, thank god. At least I know what you're gonna pay me with now."

"I was always going to pay you, Rotty- need I remind you that we have all that glorious cash from the toffs we swindled with the land scheme, prior to the Dickie incident?" He laughed in amusement. "That was such a blinder, weren't it? And of course, they've all signed legal documents, so there's no risk of anything coming back against us."

"Not sure how well that'll hold up in court– that's if they let you live long enough to drag you in front of a magistrate instead of just shooting you in the head like a stray dog, of course," Rotty commented, picking at her nails.

"Oh, shut your trap, Rosemary," Fagin replied, wincing when Rotty smacked him up the back of his head in response.

"Say my name again and I'll take my pie back out your intestines with my bare hands."

Flashy flinched at her threat, but Fagin just chortled.

"Did you finally speak to Jack, then?" Flashy asked, cutting Fagin off from what he'd been about to say.

He felt his lips press into a thin line. "Not yet, no," he replied, hating how obviously his voice fell. "Still trying to get him to acknowledge I exist."

Dodge hadn't been there when the others had got him out of the ground, nor back at the warehouse waiting for him. He hadn't come by later that day, or the day after. Granted, there'd been some pandemic or bowel convention or something going on which had kept him busy for a day or two, but Fagin had been surprised - and hurt, quite frankly - when a whole week eventually went by and the only sign that Dodge even remembered Fagin existed was when Fagin had woken up one morning to find Dodge's scant possessions cleared from the warehouse and a short, blunt note on the floor next to his bed.

I meant what I said. Good luck with the rest of your life.

Now, Fagin- Fagin had done something very un-Fagin-like in response to this. He'd respected Dodger's wishes and left him well enough alone.

It fucking killed him, of course. To have left their relationship like that, on those terms; not to mention that Dodge seemed completely unbothered by Fagin's very close brush with death. He'd hoped the boy would at least have come to check on him in person, to see Fagin with his own eyes and make sure he hadn't gone the same way as half the Elbow. But the days had turned into weeks and there had been no sign of Dodge changing his mind. And Fagin couldn't find it in himself to challenge it. Yet.

"I understand he's been busy at the hospital since Sneedy boy got stabbed by the dear old Prof, so I'm giving him some time," he continued. "So we'll plan without him and if he decides to join us at a later date, we'll just have an extra pair of hands to use. But we don't need him for what I have in mind."

(They did, in fact, need Dodge, but even with his newfound clarity post-resurrection Fagin couldn't bring himself to voice that desperate wish aloud.)

"But if we have all that cash from the land grab, why do we need more?"

"I think it would be prudent to buy ourselves a little buffer, Flashy, just in case any discrepancies regarding the land sales come to light."

Rotty snorted. "Since when do you think ahead or plan backups? Have you ever even used the word 'prudent' before?"

"Now, Rotty, it's considered cruel to mock the intellectually disabled," he replied snidely. "Come on, listen here…"

It was mid-morning when Hetty knocked on Jack's office door. Well, it wasn't his door, really; it was Sneed's, and Jack was just borrowing it until his colleague was fit to return to work. He'd seen a full clinic's worth already, but he could hear the corridor still brimming with people waiting to see him. He scrawled some shorthand notes that he told himself he'd write up in more detail later, and looked up to find her lingering on the threshold.

"Jack? Can I have a moment?"

He sat up in his chair and gestured to the one opposite. "'Course."

"Thanks." She settled herself into the seat, smoothing her skirts and apron out before speaking next. "Jack, I need to talk to you about how things are running around here. Or rather, how they aren't."

"We're understaffed and underfunded. I'll make sure this breaking news gets printed in tomorrow's paper."

Hetty sighed. "Yes, you're right: these problems have always existed. But they've been a lot worse since the cholera epidemic. What with the drain on our supplies and being down two surgeons, we're soon going to be unable to meet demand even more than we already were. Not just for the free services, but for the paying clients, too."

He frowned "I thought Prof's salary was getting redirected into the funding, where's that gone?"

"It's not materialised," she replied. "Not substantially, not that I've seen."

Jack exhaled and slouched back in his- Sneed's chair. "Well, we need to work out where the rest of that money's going, because–"

"You're not listening, Jack," she persisted. "We're not getting any of that money. It's not getting paid to us any more."

His brow furrowed. "Well, that doesn't make any sense. The Governor told Belle–"

"Have you considered," she said, speaking quietly, "that the Governor might be lying to his daughter to keep her on side after everything that's happened between them all?"

Jack considered that for a second. "Belle's smart enough to know when she's being lied to," he concluded.

Hetty rolled her eyes. "Of course you take her side," she muttered under her breath.

"That's not fair–"

"It's the truth, Jack! You're so blinded by your feelings for her and not wanting to get hanged by her mother that you're willing to let it get in the way of common sense, not to mention your duty to this place! And what about us nurses? We're already eating tiny portions as it is, and now we have Elspeth to look after–"

"You chose to take her in, nobody made you do that."

Hetty levelled a scowl at him. "For shame, Jack Dawkins. I would have thought you of all people wouldn't want to see a child go starving in the streets."

"Of course I bloody don't! My point was that I can't magic money out of nowhere, no matter how much we all desperately need it."

"So speak to the Governor then," she implored, leaning forward in her chair. "We do the work we do because we're called to it; because we want to help people. But we still need to eat and have sufficient supplies to do our work. The Governor will listen to you; he respects your position more than Lady Jane ever has–"

"Yes, but as we know, she's the one who's really calling the shots in this colony. And we're all well aware of what she thinks of me."

Hetty narrowed her eyes. "Seems to me as though she's had a change of heart recently. Or did your execution get rescheduled without anyone telling me?"

Jack felt the truth of what Hetty was saying to him, but the situation was more complicated than what she was willing to understand.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Hetty scoffed and rose to her feet. "I thought you cared for your community more than your own advances, Jack. But perhaps I was mistaken."

"Hetty–"

But she'd stormed out of the office before he could begin to form an apology.

Edmund arrived outside Dawkins' office just in time to hear raised voices followed immediately by one of the nurses stalking out in a terrible temper, muttering under her breath as she headed down the corridor towards one of the store rooms. Dawkins was visible through the ajar door as Edmund approached, head in his hands and his shoulders slumped - unsurprising, really, given he'd clearly just had and earful from that nurse.

Edmund paced forward and knocked tentatively on the door frame. "Sorry to disturb you, Dawkins. Is now a bad time?" he asked.

Dawkins' head shot up, and then the man launched to his feet in quick succession. "No, sir; uh, come in. What can I do for you? Is it Lady Jane; is she unwell? I can fetch Belle, she's just doing some education on the ward–"

"No, no; all is well," Edmund said, cutting off Dawkins' verbal deluge. "Sorry, I should have made that clear. No, I just came to ask you something, if that's alright?"

Dawkins looked slightly bemused but managed to recover quickly, gesturing to the chair opposite that the nurse had probably just vacated. "Of course. Please."

"Thank you." Edmund took the seat. Dawkins made no move to offer him tea or other refreshments, but Edmund supposed he had caught him off-guard in the middle of his duties, so he allowed the slip of decorum. The young doctor fiddled with his hands for a second before clasping them loosely in front of him in what Edmund suspected was his attempt at appearing professional.

"What can I help you with, Governor?"

Edmund smiled. "How are you finding being stood up to the Head Surgeon position?"

Dawkins blinked, clearly not anticipating the question. He recovered quickly, though. "I am grateful for the learning experience," he replied. "Though we are all eagerly anticipating Doctor Sneed's full return to health and to his steady hand at the helm here."

"Certainly. Rainsford is a good man and a talented surgeon."

"Quite."

"Have you seen much of him since his injury?"

Dawkins' face crumpled slightly. "No, I'm afraid not. It's been so busy here, as I'm sure you can appreciate given the circumstances…"

"Yes; it was a terrible shock to learn of Prof's dreadful actions; awful business, really. Although I suppose he's paying for it now; I'm sure God will be seeing to that!"

Dawkins looked mildly concerned for a fraction of a second, before smoothing his expression back into neutrality. "So, yeah. I'm afraid I've not found time to visit him yet. Although Be- Lady Belle reports that his wound is healing well, and he should recover enough to return to light duties in a few weeks."

"Oh, marvellous! I knew the old boy wouldn't be down for long, eh?"

Dawkins hummed non-committally, and then an awkward silence stretched out between them for a few seconds. It was the doctor's turn to continue the conversation, but Edmund could tell the lad clearly had a lot on his mind, so he graciously turned to a different topic.

"You said Belle was offering education on the ward?"

It had the intended effect; Dawkins straightened up in interest. "Yes, Sir. Most people don't have anything resembling a formal education, and as such many concepts of public health are foreign to them. Be- er, Lady Belle and I thought that if we are able to explain them in a way that is accessible, regardless of someone's background, we might be able to reduce the incidence of some common ailments. In particular, we try and catch the residents of the Elbow when they come in, since they have the worst of it."

Edmund blinked.

"Well that's mighty charitable of her," he said after a short pause. "I thought she'd be following you around all day, but it's nice to know that she's putting that knowledge of her to good use too."

"Yes, sir," Dawkins agreed. "She's a good teacher, and she's shaping up to be an excellent doctor."

"She's always been determined to be the very best at whatever she sets her mind to," Edmund chuckled, thinking back fondly to eight-year-old Belle, still in London, announcing at dinner one evening that she had decided to redesign the locomotive from scratch, given that Stephenson clearly had no idea what he was talking about. He explained this to Dawkins, who'd raised an eyebrow at his non-sequitur laugh, adding, "she'd found some dispatches I'd received - God knows how she got into my case without the key - and had been reading them by the gaslight in her windows after we'd gone to bed."

Dawkins chuckled, some of his visible tension finally dissipating. "That sounds like her."

"Of course, once she learned how much mathematics was required to become an engineer, she quickly changed her tune. Medicine always seemed like a much more natural calling for her, in any case. She was always asking 'why', anytime she learned anything new; Jane and I were rather relieved when she began corresponding with surgeons at the hospitals, as we were never able to give her answers to the level of satisfaction she required! Honestly, introducing her to Professor Simpson was one of the best parenting decisions I think I've ever made!"

Dawkins nodded, a shrew smile twitching onto his lips. "I'd say it was an excellent decision as far as a great deal of people are concerned."

"Quite."

Another silence stretched out between them. Edmund was running out of polite conversation to make, and Dawkins was apparently reluctant to continue existing turns. He sighed. There was no further prolonging the inevitable, it seemed.

"So, Doctor Dawkins…"

Dawkins registered his change of tone immediately and straightened back up in his chair, like a schoolboy awaiting reprimand from a master. Edmund regretted that their relationship was still so frosty, but it was understandable given the circumstances. Hopefully a successful dinner would be a step towards ameliorating the whole situation.

"I'd like to invite you to family dinner at Government House this evening. Just an informal dinner; no whistles or bells required on this occasion."

Dawkins regarded him and said nothing, his mouth hanging slightly open before he closed it with a soft cough.

"I thought it might be beneficial to spend some time getting to know you a little better, seeing as Belle seems to have made her choice in a characteristically-Belle manner."

Dawkins continued to remain silent. Edmund felt he'd been very considerate – the man had obviously not been expecting his visit, much less the invitation – but Dawkins was broaching the threshold of being rude with his lack of response, quite frankly.

"Would you be able to join us at six o'clock?" he prompted, trying not to sound irritated.

Finally, Dawkins blinked, seemingly remembering that he was supposed to graciously accept the invitation. "Uh, yeah, I should be able to wrangle that with Hetty."

Edmund arched an eyebrow. That… was not quite what he was expecting.

Dawkins apparently detected his confusion. "Nurse Baggett knows the workings of the hospital best; I'm sure she'll be able to manage the workload to allow me to duck out for an hour or two."

"I should certainly hope that we will be able to entertain you sufficiently for more than an hour or two!" Edmund scoffed, then scaled his indignation back when he realised that Dawkins had stiffened again, likely unaware that his comment had been insulting.

"I'm sorry, sir," Dawkins said, looking a little ashamed. "I still have a lot to learn about polite society, it would seem."

Edmund smiled sympathetically. "It's no matter, my dear boy. You'll learn, with time."

"I… look forward to it," he replied. He thought for a few seconds, then spoke again. "Is, er, Lady Jane alright with having me for dinner?"

"The invitation is extended on my wife's behalf also," Edmund said softly.

Dawkins nodded. "Of course. Then… I am honoured by the invitation and graciously accept your generous offer of hospitality."

Belle must have taught him that one, Edmund smiled to himself, but Dawkins delivered the appropriate acceptance with suitable gravitas and permissible inflection. Perhaps there was hope for presenting him to society yet.

"And I'll make sure my wife remembers that you are a guest," Edmund added, getting to his feet and buttoning his jacket. "I know you two have had a difficult history, but I'm hoping we can put all that nasty business behind us. No need to keep reopening old wounds, as it were."

Dawkins stood too, towering over Edmund despite his slim stature. Edmund admired how he carried himself with such confidence, something Edmund had been in desperate need of when he'd been Dawkins age. "For Belle, I will certainly try," he replied.

Edmund swung his hat back onto his head. "Good day, Doctor Dawkins. We look forward to seeing you at six on the dot."

The flowers in the window box needed some attending to, Belle thought as she made her way towards Sneed's front door. The sun had been beating down on Port Victory all summer and the majority of the plants in town were suffering from mild drought. It was a small blessing on Rainsford, in a way, that everyone's plants looked so bereft; it made his look similarly affected rather than so obviously neglected.

The paint on the door was in need of a touch up, too, but that was more of a long-term issue. It was cracking, likely from the heat, but it was worst around the knocker. If Rainsford answered the door first time, rather than pretending he was out or asleep as Belle suspected he tended to do, she thought the paint might have fared rather better.

As it was, he opened the door shortly after her second knock today, squinting out into the sunlight.

"You're in luck; I've just put the kettle on," he said in lieu of a greeting, turning back into the house and leaving her to make her own way inside. Belle didn't mind; if anything it was refreshing to be able to interact with someone other than Jack without the veneer of formality that society liked to insist was the only way of having a relationship with someone outside your family.

"I brought more camomile and peppermint," she said as she shut the door behind her. "My mother has found it beneficial as part of her recovery from cholera. There's an excellent batch that's come in on the most recent shipment from Hong Kong."

Rainsford didn't reply until she'd joined him in the kitchen, where he was lowering himself slowly into a chair at the table. "That's kind of you, thank you. How much do I–?"

She waved him off, setting her basket on the table. "Don't be silly; it's a gift."

He nodded his head. "That is most generous of you."

"It's tea, not a gold watch. And I intend on drinking some of it myself, so it's largely selfish." She managed to refrain from rolling her eyes at him as she sank into a chair herself, skirts ballooining around her. She noticed a smudge of questionable origin near her hip and quickly reshuffled the fabric so it wasn't visible.

She needn't have bothered; Rainsford was facing in the opposite direction, eyes seemingly unfocused. He looked a little less pale, she noted; perhaps he had been taking her advice to spend an hour or so outside in the sunshine every day.

Belle let him come back to the conversation in his own time, smiling softly at him as he turned back to face her.

"Are you well?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse as though he hadn't used it much thus far today.

"I am, thank you. I'm continuing my education, which I'm finding most engaging although more than a little exhausting at times."

The ghost of a smile tweaked his lips. "I remember those days fondly. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad that my studentship is long behind me now."

"I shall certainly be pleased to see the end of mine," she agreed. "Although I suppose then you'll have two renegade doctors to keep straight, rather than just one and his impressionable student."

"I have known you for a long time, my lady, and I can say for certain that one thing you have never been is impressionable," he replied. "You have always charted your own course with a determination of spirit that many great men spend their entire lives in pursuit of. It is as refreshing as it is difficult to pursue, but I dare say the challenge has never dissuaded you, not one iota."

Belle didn't quite know what to say to that, and was saved from having to reply by the kettle starting to whistle on the stove. Rainsford made a move as though he was going to get up, but Belle swept out of her chair and cast him a look as she made her own way to the stove.

"Is Mrs Winston on a day off today?" she enquired as she busied herself with the teapot. The kitchen was more out of sorts than a housekeeper would normally permit, but it wasn't dirty enough that she'd likely been away for more than a day or two.

Rainsford shuffled a little in his chair behind her. "I gave her the week off."

He looked exactly as apprehensive as she expected when she whipped around. "Rainsford, you know you need the help–"

"I'm managing perfectly well, and she needed a break; she's been here every day since I came back–"

"Because you needed the help!" Belle protested. "Rainsford, you should have said; we could have lent you a maid, or else you could have come to stay with us–"

"I am managing perfectly well," he repeated with gravelly firmness. Part of her recoiled slightly at the directness of it, but mostly she was secretly pleased to finally hear something resembling an emotion in his voice. "Please can we forgo this topic of conversation?"

She sighed. "Alright," she agreed and turned back to the teapot. Awkward silence bubbled between them for a few minutes as she busied herself sourcing teacups for them both - although she deliberately neglected to obtain saucers for them in a move that would have her mother spitting feathers were she present, but which she knew Rainsford preferred.

When the tea was poured for them both and Belle had settled back in her chair once more, Rainsford spoke again.

"Your mother; is she well?" he asked.

Belle permitted the change of topic. "She is, thank you for asking. She's still weak and needing to rest, particularly in the afternoons, but she is on the road to recovery."

Rainsford nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. You made an excellent discovery. It is most fortuitous that she was able to benefit from it and experience your suitability for the role first hand."

She blushed and looked down at her hands. "Perhaps I can convince you and Jack to publish it with me? Two respected surgeons as co-authors would certainly lend credibility to it."

"Perhaps."

She watched Rainsford reach for his cup, pausing halfway as if he'd changed his mind. Then he shook his head and picked it up slowly, gently.

"It's a wonderful blend," he said after taking a sip. "I am very grateful for your kindness."

"It's just some tea, Rainsford," she reminded him softly.

He grunted, a most un-Sneed-like noise, and she managed to conceal a smirk behind raising her own cup to her lips for a mouthful. Rainsford was right - it was very fresh and well balanced. She so rarely had the time for nice herbal tea at the hospital; it was very lovely to have the opportunity to sit down and drink it, particularly with a friend who needed the company.

They made polite conversation for a little while longer before Belle decided that she couldn't put off her news any longer.

"Rainsford," she began, leaning towards him as he set his empty cup down. "There's something I've come to let you know."

Henry had come by the hospital to deliver the news personally a few hours before. She'd been in theatre with Jack learning how to relocate both a shoulder and a knee - thanks to Thomas Mackenzie's drunken attempt at climbing down scaffolding - when one of the nurses came to inform them that the Inspector was waiting to speak to them both. They'd made him wait, although inadvertently; the shoulder had slipped back in easily enough but the knee had been bloody stubborn, and in the end Jack had had to brute force it back into place.

"Will that not be uncomfortable for him?" Belle asked as Jack got down from the table, wiping his brow from the exertion.

"Oh, yeah, definitely; it'll be bloody excruciating when he wakes up," Jack replied. "But he should still be able to walk, and maybe it'll teach him not to be so bloody stupid in the future."

He'd been in a funny mood all day, she thought. It had got worse from mid-morning, which coincided with her father's surprise visit to the hospital, if Nurse Maggie was to be believed. She was a little put-out that her father hadn't wanted to speak to her at all, but she supposed they did tend to catch up each day when she came back from the hospital, so perhaps he was saving their conversation for that.

In any case, Jack had been a little twitchy since then, and had summarily deflected all her attempts to ask what he and her father had discussed, other than to say that he'd been invited to dinner with them that evening. That was likely the root of most of his anxiety - it would be, after all, the first time he and her mother would interact since she had been discharged home for convalescence. Belle suspected there was something else getting at him too, but Jack refused to talk about it, and the patients had kept them busy enough that there hadn't been a good opportunity to get into it again before Thomas Mackenzie had arrived cursing to high heaven.

They walked side by side back into the foyer after washing their hands again, and found Boxer waiting patiently in one of the chairs by the foot of the stairs. He rose from his seat with only a small wobble that neither Belle nor Jack felt inclined to comment on.

"Doctors." He greeted them each with a polite nod of his head, which Belle was pleasantly surprised to see Jack return in kind. He and the Inspector appeared to have come to something of an understanding during or shortly after the events of the cholera outbreak, and she was pleased that their relationship had become much more cordial since.

"Good afternoon, Inspector," she replied. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I have some information I wish to inform you both of. Is there somewhere we might converse in private?"

Belle stiffened, making an educated guess what this was pertaining to. She felt Jack place a hand at the small of her back, offering support and reassurance as he used his other to gesture Henry down the hall to the office.

Despite both their protests, she insisted that the two men take the seats, scowling at Henry pointedly when he tried to be so bloody honourable about it even as he wobbled on his bad leg. It must have been a bad day for him; she made a mental note to check in on him later in the week to see if his symptoms were persisting. For the time being, she simply leant on the cupboard with her arms folded, a very casual gesture that her mother would surely take offence at if she were here to witness it.

"I suppose there's no delicate way to handle this, so I'll just deliver this as cleanly as I can," Henry said as Jack sat down from closing the door behind them all. "The investigation into Doctor Sneed's stabbing has now concluded. The result is that the Professor's body can finally be released to his family, and a funeral may take place. As I understand it, his brother is understandably keen to get on with things, and Curate Cracksworth has agreed to conduct the service and burial tomorrow afternoon."

Belle saw Jack's posture stiffen in the corner of her eye, but she wasn't sure if it was from mention of the Prof, Darius, or just the reminder back to that awful long night. For his part, Henry's fist bunched against his trouser leg briefly, before returning to lay flat against the top of his thigh.

"We have done our best to keep the particulars of the circumstances surrounding the Professor's death under wraps, so it is likely that a large portion of the community will want to attend the proceedings to honour their former Head Surgeon."

Jack got to his feet suddenly, the feet of his chair screeching unpleasantly on the hard floor and making Belle jump.

"I need to go and prescribe Thomas Mackenzie some pain relief," he said, already crossing the room. He was out into the corridor before Belle could even open her mouth - though to say what, exactly, she wasn't quite sure.

"He has been struggling to reconcile the Professor's actions with the man he had come to know and respect." Henry seemed to phrase it more as a statement than a question. Belle nodded.

"It's been a challenging period for a great number of reasons," she replied quietly. "I think the cruelty of it has affected him the most. Doctors are supposed to heal, not harm."

Henry nodded. "The Professor's action were certainly a shock to all of us." A pause. "How is Doctor Sneed's recovery coming along?"

Belle blinked, surprised by his sudden change of topic. "He's recovering. His wound has healed well; the scar shouldn't be debilitating for him. He's still regaining his strength, but he continues to improve day by day. Your donated blood was quite the lifesaver."

He ducked his head. "I would have given twice that to save his life. I regret that he was ever in that position to begin with."

There was silence for a few seconds that Belle wasn't quite sure how to fill. Eventually she stood back up from her perch and brushed her hands down her apron. "I'm seeing him on my way home later," she told him. "I'll let him know about Prof and the various plans."

"Please pass on my well wishes to him. I hope he makes a full recovery. I would visit myself, but I wouldn't wish to be an imposition on his convalescence." There was an earnestness to Henry's expression that Belle wasn't expecting but couldn't quite parse. But the Inspector's expression quickly settled, and she logged it in the back of her mind to return to later.

"Thank you, Inspector. I will."

By the time she'd finished recounting the pertinent details to Rainsford, the man had become so still he was practically stone.

"There is a great deal for you to think about," she said softly when he failed to respond. "And you know there is no expectation that you will attend; everyone understands how–"

"Thank you for dropping in, Lady Belle," he cut across her, his tone rigid and devoid of emotion as his eyes continued to stare into the middle distance. "I'm feeling rather fatigued and needing to rest now. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to show yourself out."

Belle sighed. "Rainsford, it's okay, you can talk to me–"

"I will retire now," he repeated, pressing his lips together into a thin line. His knuckles were almost as white as the tablecloth on which his fist rested.

Belle wanted to stay, wanted to help him manage the feelings that were clearly so loud in his mind right now. But she knew from experience that he would not be willing to share them with her, no matter how much she reassured him that she wouldn't judge him for them. So it was with great reluctance that she rose from her chair and gathered her basket together, and she wasn't afraid to let him see it.

"You know where I am if you need anything at all," she told him softly.

He nodded, still not meeting her gaze. "Good day, Lady Belle."

She leaned down and kissed the top of his head gently. "Good day, Rainsford," she said softly, before turning and letting herself out the back door.

The rest of Jack's afternoon passed in a bit of a blur. Thankfully, the complaints people brought to his clinic were largely mild and quickly resolved - a change of diet here, calendula paste there. He appreciated the monotony of it, the ability to run on instinct while his brain spiralled in private.

He reasoned the point of the invitation was to catch him off-guard, to give him as little time as possible for him to prepare - even though he'd inevitably fail to meet Lady Jane's standards. It didn't matter whether he had an afternoon or a year: nothing he did would ever be good enough for her. Belle seemed to believe there was some miraculous solution to all their worries, but he was less convinced.

He managed to kill as much time as possible after clinic by doing a whole series of jobs that Hetty had been on at him about for a few weeks, but eventually he could put off his departure any longer else he'd risk turning up late, and if he knew one thing about polite society it was that it was considered the height of rudeness to turn up late to an invitation.

So of course, it was bloody inevitable that as he made his way through town towards Government House, he felt the presence of a familiar shadow at his back, determined to interfere in his life once again.

He cursed under his breath. He'd been determinedly avoiding Fagin, Rotty, Aputi, and Flashbang in equal measure since the cholera outbreak. Well, not quite equal. Flashbang had done him the service of coming by the hospital the afternoon after… everything; after he'd woken up and reorientated himself to being solely in charge of a town's worth of patients, to the colleague dead in the mortuary and the other one on the brink of death downstairs. He and Flashbang had managed a quick exchange while Jack ate breakfast, during which Flashy had reassured Jack that Fagin was no longer buried alive - or dead - and Jack had… not said anything. Flashbang had clearly understood the emotions behind Jack's silence well enough, because none of the gang had been by to speak with him again since. Whether they were respecting his wishes or simply taking Fagin's side, Jack didn't care; they were leaving him well-enough alone, and that was all that mattered.

Fagin, however, had never been one to long-respect anyone's wishes, implied or otherwise.

"Dodger!"

Jack steadfastly ignored him, carrying on walking with purpose.

"Dodge!"

Almost there, and then he could lose Fagin up the hill…

"Jack!"

It was the use of his first name that made him stumble; only half a step, but it was enough of a weakness that Fagin pounced, seizing a hand around Jack's arm and pulling him to a stop.

Jack paused for a second, taking a breath before turning to face the man he'd been avoiding for the best part of a month.

Fagin looked almost the same, and for some reason Jack hadn't been expecting that. It felt like the rift between them and the ensuing events should have left some permanent mark on Fagin the way they seemed to have blighted Jack's soul. But instead, the man seemed unchanged, but for some new clothes and a slightly manic gleam in his eye.

"What do you want, Fagin?"

His words came out with more malice than he'd intended to use, but the way Fagin recoiled in response was satisfying, albeit in a way that made Jack feel a little slimy at the same time.

"I thought you'd want to see for yourself that they'd got me out of that box," Fagin said, much more softly than Jack had expected.

"I heard," Jack replied cooly. "Here you are; clearly it was no great achievement."

Fagin shifted in front of him. "To be honest, Dodge, this 'welcome back to the living' parade has a lot less pomp and circumstance than I was expecting."

"Well, that was your mistake, wasn't it?" Jack bit back before he could stop himself. "Why would anyone throw a parade in your honour? I can think of no greater waste of resources."

Fagin flinched again. "I just thought you'd want to see for yourself that I hadn't joined Saint Pete at his pearly gates."

Jack snorted. "Like you've got any chance of getting into heaven. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to be getting on–"

"'If I'll excuse you?'" Fagin repeated. "My, my; Cheekybones has taught you her language dead quick, hasn't she? Bet you fit right in with those toffs now, don't you; Mr. Head Surgeon?"

"It's temporary; just until Sneed recovers." Jack hated that he had to explain himself to Fagin; hated how this whole conversation was going, if he was honest. He'd spent so much time thinking about what he wanted to say to Fagin, how he was going to say it all. And he'd not managed to reach any conclusions about any of it yet, but he did know that this was well off from what he'd been aiming for.

"Ah, well, I'm sure you and Her Majesty will work out some way to keep both your interests aligned," Fagin continued, a smug smile twitching his lips.

"Stop referring to Belle like that."

"Why should I?" Fagin's voice snapped with disdain for the first time in their conversation, the emotional whiplash throwing Jack off balance. "That woman has been nothing but a distraction and a death sentence for you, and yet you continue to defend her and her ilk even though you know there is no way they will ever accept you amongst their ranks."

"What do you want, Fagin?" Jack asked through gritted teeth. The only thing keeping him from socking the man in the face was the knowledge that he absolutely could not show up to this dinner with bruised and bleeding knuckles.

The man's face softened. "I want to fix this, Dodge," he said, gesturing between them. "I want to clear the air between us. I want us to go back to the way we was before all this business."

"Well, I don't." Jack tried to walk off again, but Fagin's grip tightened on his arm.

"Come on, Dodge," Fagin pleaded. "Tell me what you need me to do to sort this out."

"Nothing."

Fagin blinked. "Well, that were easy."

"No it wasn't, you stupid, selfish bellend," Jack snapped. "I said nothing because there is nothing you can do to trick me back into helping you out again. We've been doing perfectly well without each other the last few weeks; I see no reason to put an end to a good thing."

"I haven't, Dodge; just… come to the Cat and Bagpipes for a pint, let me explain what the gig is and then–"

Jack scoffed. "I should have guessed. Of course you just want me for another con! I should have bloody known."

"No, Dodge, you're not listening; just let me explain–"

"No, Fagin!" His frustration boiled over, and he shoved Fagin's grip loose easily with the extra strength his anger provided. "My life is the best it's ever been; at least since you followed me here and set about systematically ruining it. I've gotten used to not having you bothering me every minute of the day over the last month, and it's been bloody brilliant! So, no, Fagin; I don't want to have a pint with you; I don't want to run a job with you; I don't want to even see your hideous old mug if I can help. So kindly piss right back off out of my life, and I'll thank you to not look back on your way out."

Fagin stood with his mouth hanging agape, and something akin to satisfaction swelled in Jack's chest, tinged as it was with a sourness that he didn't care to dwell on as he turned on his heel and strode purposely down the street. The old man had thankfully taken heed of Jack's words, because he heard no footsteps, muffled or otherwise, as he continued his way to Government House as though nothing had happened.

By the time he reached the bottom of the drive up to Government House, Jack's burning anger and hurt had subsided - or, rather, it had transformed into something arguably worse: stomach-churning anxiety. He berated himself for the feeling; he'd fought in actual wars, after all, performing gristly surgeries while literal cannon-fire pelted his ship and killed his friends. Dinner with the Governor of a small British colony in comparison should be nothing in comparison, but whatever part of his brain controlled his emotions didn't seem to agree. He blamed Fagin for it, even as a quiet part of his brain tried to rationalise that he'd been feeling like this since the Governor's visit earlier in the day, long before their altercation in the street.

"You know, I promise we're really not that intimidating once you get to know us."

Jack turned and smiled politely at Fanny, who was making her way towards him with a reassuring smile on her face.

"I'm not sure I'll really be given the opportunity to do so." He felt comfortable being honest with Fanny, who was still something of an unknown quantity but had at least always spoken to him with kindness and respect.

Fanny stretched her arm out as she reached him and he took it in the way Belle had taught him, offering her his arm as they promenaded up the drive towards the House. "I appreciate there have been some matters of contention between you and my mother–"

"What; her baying for my blood until three weeks ago should be dismissed as 'a matter of contention'?" He knew he was being unfair, but there were so many emotions warring inside him and he really wasn't sure how he was going to get through this dinner without inevitably proving to Lady Jane that he was too poor and uncouth and hot-tempered to ever be suitable to marry her daughter.

Fanny levelled him with a remarkably Belle-like look of apprehension, and Jack remembered quite suddenly that all these women were related to each other, god help him. "I know you are nervous to speak to Mother and Father, but you really don't have as much to worry about as you think," she said to him softly. "My father thinks rather highly of you, and my mother is slowly coming round to the idea of you joining the family."

Jack scoffed. "The day your mother welcomes me with open arms at the front door is the day I eat my hat. No, you can rest assured I'll be on my best behaviour; although god knows I'll inevitably cock it up at some point and then this whole charade will come to an end and I'll be back out on my arse and waiting for my turn at the noose if your mother has anything to say about it–"

"Jack."

He raised an eyebrow at Fanny's use of his first name, knowing it was considered impolite to refer to someone with their degree of social separation with such familiarity.

Her lips twitched into a smile. "Belle's not the only one who can buck social standards, you know. Or need I remind you which one of us has committed more crimes?"

Jack blanched. "Please, for the love of god, do not mention your work with Fagin in front of your parents, or else I think your mother will just have me shot at the dinner table."

"She'd never do that! It would ruin a perfectly good tablecloth."

He snorted, and Fanny giggled. They continued their way up the drive, the House only a few paces from earshot now.

"Jack," she said again. "For all it's worth, I am really pleased that Belle has chosen you. You clearly make her so happy, and fulfilled, and seen in a way that Society would never be able to offer her. It's wonderful to watch, as her sister. And I can never thank you enough for curing her condition. My mother, strong-willed as she is, can be made to see reason. We just have to keep working on her. I'm not saying that we won't have our teething issues along the way, but there's enough of us on your side that I'm confident that we will get there eventually. And, selfishly, you are by far and away the best candidate for a brother-in-law I've ever had."

Jack looked across at Fanny, who was smiling reassuringly at him. Now, emotion made his words lodge in his throat for a different reason, but she seemed pleased when he nodded his thanks at her in lieu of speaking.

"Come on, then. I've asked them to make artichoke soup especially. I think you'll quite like it!"

He laughed, despite his heart beating in his mouth from nerves once again, and let him lead her into the House.

Belle wasn't quite sure why it was taking so long for her parents to grasp such a simple concept; but here she was, somehow explaining the basic principles of hospitality to them for the third time in half an hour.

"For the final time," she said, well aware that it was obviously through gritted teeth and beyond the point of caring. "Jack is a guest, and we will show him every courtesy that we would any other guest or suitor."

"He is lucky to have been invited at all, and he will answer for his actions as any honest man of his class should expect to," Jane replied, her tone lacking some of its usual force but none of its firmness.

"Are you serious, Mother?" Belle threw her hands up in frustration. "Sneed is still recovering from his wounds, the Professor is dead; Port Victory cannot cope with losing yet another surgeon!"

"Yes; I'm sure it's Port Victory who would be unable to cope," her mother retaliated smoothly. "Doctor Sneed would be able to return to work sooner if necessary, I am sure."

"Spoken like someone with no understanding of how long abdominal wounds take to heal, and with no compassion for another person who has also undergone a traumatic and debilitating medical procedure."

"Belle, darling, you've made your point," her father butted in. "Your mother and I have promised to show Doctor Dawkins the same courtesy we would any other man in his position–"

"That's a lovely little qualification you've thrown in there, father," she snapped. "This is exactly the point I am making! Jack, for all his faults, is a clever, brilliant, kind man who seeks only to help others and help them realise their potential. You should treat him with the same level of courtesy you would the Queen, and her the same as a street urchin; there should be no difference in the kindness you offer another human being! What is it about that that you cannot seem to understand? Why do you insist on holding on so tightly to rigid class structures that are making this so much more difficult than it needs to be?"

"Belle, it is just not that simple, and it is one-dimensional of you to suggest it could be." Her mother's words were surprisingly devoid of emotion, and it made Belle a little uneasy. "You may wish the world were different from how it is, but our reality is that this is the one we live in and we are bound by society to continue to do so. It would do none of us favours to simply discard the rules and conventions that have existed far longer than you or I."

"No," Belle replied sarcastically. "It would just be inconvenient for you to do so."

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone, madam. I have agreed to this dinner, but there is a long way to go before I would ever give my blessing for you to marry that man."

"Jane–"

"Then we are in the same position we were a month ago," Belle said, speaking over her father. "Do you hate him enough to disown me? It would save us all a lot of time and performative effort to just get it out in the open now."

"Belle–"

"Don't make me think about it too hard."

Belle was spared from having to try and reply to that by the door opening and Fanny bustling in with a smile that was too exaggerated to be natural. "I do hope we're not interrupting anything," her sister called.

"'We'?" their mother asked.

Fanny stood aside to reveal Jack standing in the doorway looking about as relaxed as Belle felt - which was to say, not even slightly.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but Fanny had insisted on him walking into the house with her ("you're basically family now, anyway") and they'd followed the sound of Belle's voice into the drawing room - and into the middle of their argument that had evidently been about him.

Everything in him screamed to turn around and flee from Lady Jane's narrowed gaze, but he summoned his courage and stood his ground, bowing slightly in greeting. "Governor, Lady Jane. Thank you for your generous invitation."

An uneasy silence pervaded the room as Jack waited for someone to say something. Eventually, it was the Governor who spoke, jolting into action.

"Our warmest welcomes, Doctor Dawkins. Forgive us; we were expecting you at six o'clock."

"It is six," Fanny noted, pointing to the mantelpiece clock which showed one minute past.

The Governor blinked, then quickly recovered. "You're quite right, Fanny. Our sincerest apologies, then, Doctor Dawkins, for losing track of time and not having the courtesy to meet you at the door."

"That's alright," Jack said, getting a headache from the ridiculous etiquette rules he was already unintentionally violating.

Belle finally broke free of whatever mental block she'd been under and strode across the room towards him, reaching out for his hand and pulling him in for a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for coming," she said softly, only for his ears. "I know how difficult this must be for you."

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak unless absolutely necessary.

"Good evening Mother, Father," Fanny said, smoothly gliding past them to greet her parents. "Apologies for my lateness; there was an overturned cart in the centre of town. Doctor Dawkins was kind enough to escort me the rest of the way home."

"How thoughtful of him," Lady Jane said as she kissed her daughter's cheek in greeting. Her eyes gave her away; Jack could see the hardness in them.

"I saw the most orange oranges in the market today," Fanny said as she left her mother's embrace and turned to kiss her father on the cheek. "It was as though they had invented a new colour. Do you suppose that there are also lemons that are the most lemon-coloured?"

There was a slightly baffled silence for a few seconds.

"Uh, well, yes, I suppose so," the Governor eventually said. "Though I wonder if it changes the potency of the flavour? It would do wonders with a bit of whisky, I suspect."

"It might make them less bitter for sailors, which I suspect would go down well with the boys on the ships," Jack said, then cursed himself internally - why couldn't he come up with something that didn't remind Belle's mother of his past exploits in the Navy-?

"I should imagine!" Fanny cried in delight. "Although I suppose there's not much whisky to be had which would sour the mood more than the lemons..."

At Jack's side, Belle concealed a snort as a sneeze, before stepping forward to address her parents. "Why don't we have a drink before dinner?" she suggested.

"Marvellous suggestion!" the Governor said. "Now, Doctor Dawkins, I should certainly hope that I can interest you in something from my extensive collection…"

Jack managed to choose something that achieved the Governor's approval ("oh, excellent choice, good man!"). He was grateful for the glass to occupy his hands; it stopped him fidgeting under Lady Jane's inscrutable scowl. Belle, Fanny, and the Governor carried the conversation between them, Jack chiming in whenever he could or felt able, but for the most part he sat and tried to hold her gaze. He had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what she thought. He loved and respected Belle, and that should be enough, damn it.

Finally, blessedly, they were interrupted.

"Dinner is served, my lord, my lady."

"Thank you, Parsons." Jane stood and raised her elbow, levelling her stare at Jack once again. "You may escort me to dinner, Doctor Dawkins."

Jack took her offered hand and tried not to imagine that her fingers were talons that bit through his sleeve into the skin of his arm.

Belle had had her fair share of awkward family dinners, mostly since she'd reached thirteen and realised that her parents were flawed human beings just like the rest of the world.

This, however, was something quite beyond itself.

The conversation was stilted and awkward. She was grateful for Fanny, who graciously stepped in to carry the conversation whenever Jack or her mother failed to respond, which was frequent. Despite this, several courses passed without incident, and Belle began to believe that there might be hope for this, for her and Jack, after all.

They managed to get all the way to the joint before the evening fell apart.

"The food has been excellent, thank you, Lady Jane," Jack said politely, and Belle smiled.

"Yes, thank you, Mother," Fanny replied. "Mrs Duncan has outdone herself."

"Well, she's certainly improved since the last time we had guests over. I think the ball may have been beyond her skill set, in hindsight."

"I'm sure she's grateful for the additional help," her father said as he picked his glass up.

"What sort of food do you tend to eat at the hospital?" Fanny asked, leaning around Belle to smile at Jack.

He shrugged. "Whatever we can afford usually. Sometimes people donate food to us; the baker on Elizabeth Street and his wife are some of our most generous donors. We try and make sure the patients get some food while they're in, so we tend to get whatever's left over."

"And the odd trip to the Cat and Bagpipes, I imagine!" Belle's father guffawed. Jack managed a tentative smile.

"Well, I'd never say no to one of Rotty's pies," he replied, and her father nodded sagely.

"Smart man; she makes some damn good pies," he agreed. "Not to mention her ale, and of course–"

"Might we not discuss common public houses at our dinner table? Especially one run by such an unsavoury woman."

All gazes turned to Belle's mother, who was tersely cutting up a parsnip.

"That's not very nice, Mother," Fanny said. "Rotty is a brilliant woman, and the Bagpipes is the centre of the community for a lot of people-"

"I should certainly hope that is not the case for anyone in this room," their mother interrupted.

Belle watched her sister and father suddenly become most interested in their napkins.

Their mother sighed. "Yet another corruption of this family," she reflected. "One wonders where the source of infection might have originated."

Belle could feel the tension in the room building, and tried to change the topic. "Father, did you see in the paper that–?"

"One typically considers doctors to be the healers of infection, not the propagators," Jack replied.

"And yet doctors are typically mild-mannered, well-educated men with regard for their betters, so I suppose we're all disappointed with what we're stuck with."

Fanny's cutlery clattered into her plate, after which a heavy silence rang through the room. Belle looked from her mother's rigid jaw to Jack's form, trembling slightly in his seat. It was making the loose strands of his hair bobble as they dangled in front of his face.

"I am going to ask you this only once, because I am sick of all this dancing around what you actually mean." The softness of his voice belied the force with which he spoke. Belle knew it wasn't the time, but something deep in her gut stirred in interest at the quiet power in his voice. "Did you mean what you said to Belle about her and I having a future together, or did you just say it because you were grateful that we'd just saved your life?"

Belle could feel her mother's temper flare without turning to look at her. "How dare you–!"

"Did you mean it or not?"

"It is not your place to–"

Jack scoffed. "None of this is 'my place'; you've made that perfectly clear. So let go of your precious conventions for a moment and just tell me what you really think."

"Jack–"

"Jane, I don't think–"

"You want honesty?"

The viper expression had returned to her mother's face, and Belle watched in horror, powerless to stop her, as she lashed out.

"There is no world in which you can erase your history. There is no world in which I can even pretend to forget that you are a criminal, of many more crimes than you have been convicted, I am sure."

"Jane, that's enough!"

"And there is absolutely, unquestionably, no world in which you will ever be good enough to marry my daughter."

Her proclamation rang through the dining room, tearing Belle's heart to shreds in its wake.

"You promised," she whispered, but her mother either did not hear or simply deigned not to respond. "You promised you meant it."

At her side, Jack, who had been sat completely still for a few seconds holding her mother's gaze, gave a humourless chuckle and stood up from the table, throwing his napkin down on top of his half-finished meal.

"Well, I suppose I should be on my way then. I would thank you for dinner, Lady Fox, but in the spirit of our newfound honesty I think we both know that both of us wished it had never happened."

"There are many things I wished had never happened," she replied smoothly.

Belle felt Jack press a kiss to the top of her head, surprisingly tender giving the anger she could feel radiating from her. "I tried. I'm sorry," he mumbled, but before she could turn to reply, he was gone from her side out into the night.

Edmund was resisting the impolite urge to put his head in his hands at the dinner table, but it was a close-run thing. And really, given the state of things, who could have blamed him?

Belle and Fanny were sat in stunned silence, tears dripping silently into Belle's lap. Down the table, Jane sighed and somehow managed to place her napkin on the table in a smug manner. "Well, that little experiment was very conclusive–"

"Oh, fuck you Mother."

Edmund recoiled at the vulgar expression. "Language!" he thundered. "I understand you are upset, Belle, but there really is no need–"

"You were never really going to give him a chance!" His daughter continued as though he hadn't spoken. "Tell me: what was the point of inviting him for dinner if you were never going to even attempt to accept him?"

"Because your father insisted," Jane replied, staring her down as she had been doing to Dawkins all evening. "I have been a most gracious host, but he has blatantly disregarded all notions of hospitality–"

"He has no idea!" Belle cried. "He hasn't spent his entire life being trained in the social machinations of our class; you're judging him to standards he could never reasonably achieve."

"And yet he is still lacking, despite all the time he has spent around you–"

"You know that is not what we talk about when we see each other–"

"Oh, I know exactly what the two of you do when you see each other–"

Belle pushed back from the table, her chair scraping on the floor. "So all that you told me about wanting me to be happy, wanting me to make my own choices– was that just a lie? Because you thought you were at death's door?"

"How dare you accuse me of lying?"

"And yet, the shoe fits."

"That's quite enough!" Edmund said, feeling he could allow the tennis match of barbs to continue no longer. "From both of you."

"But, Father–"

"No, I've heard enough. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, Jane, that is no way to treat a guest. And Belle: your mother is still convalescing and this sort of argument will achieve nothing but lengthening her recovery."

The two of them started to protest again, but Edmund stood to his feet in what he hoped was a commanding manner.

"I shall see if I can catch Doctor Dawkins to offer our sincere apologies. I suggest the two of you retire to separate rooms and reflect on the image of our family you have presented this evening. We can only hope that the servants are paid too well to gossip."

For once in their lives, neither his wife or his eldest daughter had anything to say to that, so Edmund took the opportunity to stride from the room before either of them regained the ability to yell again.

He wasn't really expecting to be able to catch Dawkins up – the younger man must surely have made his way all the day down the drive before Edmund even left the table – but as he stepped out into the cooling air of the evening, he was surprised to find him sat on a bench just round the corner from the front door. The young doctor was bent in two, with his head in his hands and taking big, slow breaths as he obviously strode to calm himself. Edmund stepped back, wanting to offer Dawkins privacy, and debated the merits of leaving the man alone and simply writing an apology letter, which wouldn't be as personal as apologising in person, but he didn't want to ambush him at the hospital again—

Without warning, Dawkins got to his feet and strode towards Edmund, who tried to hide himself in the bay window - forgetting that it was a protruding structure and thus offered nothing to hide behind. Dawkins stopped a few feet away and regarded Edmund with a thoughtful expression, before clearing his throat.

"My apologies, my lord, for my hasty exit from the dining room," Dawkins said, offering a small bow.

"You have nothing to apologise for," Edmund replied. "It was my wife and daughter who were ungracious hosts; it is we who should be apologising to you–"

"Please, don't." Dawkins' voice was firm. "I see now that this was never going to work. Sir, I love your daughter more than anything in the world, but if our being together is going to cause this much strife–"

"Now, let's not make any hasty decisions," Edmund said, cutting him off. He gestured at the bench Dawkins had just departed. "Might we be able to talk? Man to man, as it were?"

"Sure?"

The bench was a little on the small side, and Edmund felt his thigh brush Dawkins' as they situated themselves. No matter; it would be awkward to find somewhere else now.

"I am sorry again for how my wife has treated you," Edmund began. "I understand we come from very different walks of life, but that does not mean that you are not entitled to basic human decency. Equally, I trust you can understand that what Belle is asking of us is rather a lot for us to get our heads around–"

Dawkins snorted then stopped and looked horrified. "Forgive me, sir–" he began, but Edmund waved him off.

"No; I asked to speak man to man, and part of that entails hearing honesty that may make us uncomfortable. I would like very much for you to speak your mind."

Dawkins regarded him carefully. "You promise you won't have me hanged again?"

Edmund chuckled. "I promise. Unless you have any further murders you need to confess to?"

"No further murders, no."

"Excellent," Edmund said, choosing to ignore the stress Dawkins had placed on the noun. "Come on, old chap. Have at it!"

Dawkins was quiet for a moment again, and Edmund tried to be patient and let him. He was mostly successful.

"I find it… challenging trying to work out what it is you want from me to prove that I'm worthy of Belle. You seem to have decided that I'm not inherently unworthy, but I don't know what else I need to do. If saving Lady Jane's life wasn't enough, I don't know what else possibly could be."

A wave of pity and shame brushed through Edmund as Dawkins collapsed into himself again, holding his head in his hands as he had done earlier. He'd always been secretly very impressed with the work of the renegade young doctor, despite the Prof's objections. And yet, even Prof would admit that, for all his particularly gauche approaches, Dawkins was both an effective and compassionate doctor and surgeon. That he'd come with such a glowing recommendation from the late Captain Grimm was testament to how hard he'd worked to overcome his evidently uncivilised upbringing. Edmund was a man of high society, and likely to be a Duke some day if Dickie remained heirless, but even he could appreciate the merit in recognising someone who was genuinely exceptional, no matter their background. It was just a shame Jane didn't see it like that – and he knew exactly how likely it was for her to change her mind on almost anything.

"Do you want some brandy?" he blurted.

Dawkins looked up at him, mildly bemused.

"I don't think either of us are drunk enough yet to try and think ourselves around the women in my family," he explained.

Dawkins considered this for a moment, and then shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

After urging Dawkins to stay seated, Edmund nipped back inside to his desk. The dining room was now empty and cleared; he could hear Fanny at the pianoforte in the drawing room, but neither Jane nor Belle's voices which led him to the conclusion that they were likely in their respective bedrooms stewing. It was easy enough to grab the bottle that he had hidden in his bottom drawer and a couple of his nicer glasses - he was showing Dawkins some true hospitality, after all.

The young doctor was still on the bench when he returned, to Edmund's partial surprise, and took the proffered brandy with thanks. They each nursed their drinks in semi-comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the sun set below the horizon. The staff, thankfully, had lit the lanterns around the outside of the house, so they were still able to see each other.

"This is very nice brandy," Dawkins said to him after a while. "Reminds me of some good stuff I had when we got back from Sevastapol, before I came out here."

"Always good to have some on hand for celebration," Edmund nodded approvingly. "I don't suppose you remember the name…?"

Dawkins shook his head. "If it had had a label, it was gone by the time the bottle reached me. I'd been offloading the last of our surviving patients to the hospital. I sat with the other surgeons – the ones who had made it back, that is. I remember we sat with our legs dangling over the edge of the new basin in the port and just watched the sunset, a bit like we're doing now."

"Do you miss it terribly? Being in the Navy?"

Dawkins shrugged. "Yes and no. I'm glad to have the opportunity to practice different types of medicine, work for the community that needs it. And living on dry land is always a welcome thing."

"I was very pleased to have had only a short land tour myself. I had neither the composure nor the constitution for long duties at sea. Thankfully, my father wasn't particularly interested in either of his sons having decorated military careers and instead decided we should both become statesmen. He was remarkably thoughtful, in that regard." He took a sip of his brandy, and silently toasted the late Duke.

"My mentor was remarkably thoughtful when he arranged my honourable discharge," Dawkins said, staring into the middle distance. "And when he took me in in the first instance, really. But for him, I'd've had no prospects, no career. Probably would have starved to death or been stabbed before I reached manhood, to be honest."

Edmund managed to conceal his gasp of surprise behind another sip of brandy, but when he lowered his glass Dawkins was regarding him with amusement.

"You think I'm joking."

"Not joking; perhaps exaggerating."

Dawkins considered this. "Maybe when I was younger - needed less food. Once I reached adolescence I was just hungry all the time. It was all I did: think about where my next meal might come from, when it would come." He scoffed, lifting his glass to his lips. "It's no wonder I struggle to read."

"Is it common among people like yourself? Illiteracy, that is?"

Dawkins stared at him for a moment, and Edmund got the impression that the young doctor thought he was being obtuse.

"Well, yeah? I mean, you only go to school if your parents have the money for it, so that rules out anyone who lives from meal to meal, or doesn't have parents, like me."

"Your parents are no longer with us?"

Dawkins shrugged. "No idea, to be honest. I never knew who my dad was; he must've abandoned my mum when she found out she was pregnant with me. I don't remember much about my mum, but I think she was young. I think that was part of why she gave me up." He sighed, looking up at the stars beginning to twinkle above them. "I wonder sometimes how many more kids there are like me, with no prospects and no-one who cares for them. And I wonder how many of them could be surgeons or lawyers or greengrocers or blacksmiths if someone took the time and attention to make sure they got something resembling an education. Maybe then someone would succeed in escaping from that existence."

"You succeeded," Edward noted.

"I got lucky," Dawkins replied, pointing at him with one of the fingers wrapped around his glass. "I happened to be in the right place at the right time when Captain Grimm came looking for boys to serve on his ship. But for that…" He shrugged. "Well, we certainly wouldn't be sat here having this conversation, that's for sure."

Dawkins knocked the rest of his drink back in one gulp and wiped his mouth before handing the glass back to Edmund. "I am sorry for how this evening went," he said softly. "I promise I did come here with the best intentions. I hope that we're able to work something out, for Belle's sake, but…"

Edmund sighed and took the glass from him. "I'm sorry, too, old chap. Thank you, both for your candour and for the kindness with which you treat Belle. That's mostly what I want, as her father. I regret… that things are not that simple."

Dawkins nodded, then rose and started off down the drive without further comment. Edmund was getting old: even with the gas lamps lit, Dawkins had gone no more than twenty paces when he seemingly vanished into the darkness.

The night was pleasant and there was still a decent amount of brandy left, so Edmund stayed sat on the bench for a little while. In truth, he was in no rush to go to bed, even if, as he suspected, Jane would pretend to be asleep when he came in, her anger bolstering her pride even more than normal. The brandy warmed the back of his throat as he mulled over Dawkins' unexpected candour. He'd known that the man came from unsavoury origins, but he'd had no idea the level of abject poverty he seemed to have overcome. Edmund had seen it himself, mostly as a younger man living in London stumbling back from nights at the Club: young boys running barefoot with their arms full of newspapers; girls selling candles or even matches individually on street corners. A forgotten memory resurfaced: a young woman potentially not even of age, her belly swollen with late pregnancy, perhaps with multiple babes. "Please," she'd croaked as he passed. He could remember the stench of her unwashed clothes; the gaps in her mouth where several teeth were already missing despite her youth. "Spare some change, please, your lordship. For me and my babies to eat today."

He'd passed her by without making eye contact.

The brandy suddenly tasted of ash in his mouth. He spat the contents of his mouth onto the lawn, then, on a sudden impulse, poured the rest of the bottle away too.

Inside, there were still embers in the fireplace in his office so it was easy enough to light a few candles until there was enough brightness for even his old eyes to see the words on the pages of the books in front of him. He shifted through the top layers of papers, then stopped when he recognised the handwriting that dominated most of the notes.

His chair was behind him, but instead he leaned heavily on the desk and let out a long breath. All that education, all the things he'd taken for granted without ever sparing a thought to life without them, and he'd let it all go to waste to drink alcohol and doltz around while his clever, brilliant wife was left to cover up his abdication of duty.

No more.

One title caught his eye as he resumed his search. A report, written relatively recently. He sat down at his desk, drew a pad to make notes, and began to read.

Belle had long since got used to rising at ungodly hours, even though the initial excitement associated with it had dwindled somewhat with the turning of the seasons. She was getting better, too, at getting herself dressed without needing to rouse the maids to help her. Her chafe burns from her ill-fitting corset had healed with some salve that Nurse Catherine had thoughtfully provided her, and she'd become rather adept at lacing her ties closed in a matter of minutes.

She'd under-tied one on this particular morning, however, and she could already feel it shuffling loose as she made her way downstairs before settling at its maximum gape as she reached the ground floor. A quick stop to check revealed that she remained perfectly decent, so she decided to just leave it. One of the nurses would surely help her correct it when she reached the hospital, and in any case she'd only be in this outfit for half the morning, as she'd be returning for luncheon and to change out of her colours before attending Prof's funeral.

As she looked back up from her hip, her eyes drifted across to her father's study, the door to which lay ajar. Through the small crack, she could see the top of her father's head as it turned over – apparently in sleep.

Smiling, she crossed the floor towards him and knocked gently on the doorframe. Her father mumbled for a moment before bolting upright.

"Goodness gracious me; have I really been here all night?" he asked her, his eyes still wide from sleep.

She chuckled softly. "It would appear so. What was so enticing that you couldn't even make it to bed?"

He gestured at the various papers sprawled apparently haphazardly across the surface of his grand desk. "Research."

"Concerning?" she asked, picking one document up to inspect it and frowning in surprise at the title Minutes of the Committee of Council on Education, 1840.

"A proposal for something that could significantly improve the lives of a lot of our people, particularly the ones who tend to be somewhat forgotten."

She hummed thoughtfully. "That being…?"

"Not fully formed yet, and not discussed with your mother, but something I hope to share with you in due course."

She hummed thoughtfully and replaced the document carefully. "Well, I wish you luck in your endeavours and I look forward to hearing about them in more detail in due course. And I'm very proud of you and the intention behind them."

He beamed at her. "Thank you, darling. That means a great deal coming from you."

Belle smiled, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on her father's head.

Even though it was markedly cooler inside the church, Henry still felt himself sweating and pulling at his collar, even though he'd checked his tie three times before stepping into the Lord's House.

He spent every night before bed praying for forgiveness – physically got down on his knees in search of absolution even as they screamed at him in protest. God seemed to have forgiven him his sin, or at the very least was willing to turn a blind eye to it, but for Henry the guilt still persisted. Even after he'd finished pleading to God, he found himself lying awake for hours trying to work it through in his head. Could I have smashed the syringe against his head instead? Should I have called for back-up first? No– the time it would have taken for him to retrieve even two soldiers would most likely have proven fatal for Rainsford Sneed. But even as he tried to rationalise this to himself, tried to see sense in the logic that he had saved countless other lives from the Professor's rampage, the feeling persisted in crawling under his skin: you are nothing but a murderer and a hypocrite.

This feeling intensified as he forced himself to watch Ernest McGregor sob quietly, one hand resting atop his brother's coffin.

He'd been avoiding the man – yet another example of his cowardice. Bramwell had volunteered to liaise with Ernest regarding his brother's investigation, and Henry had been all too pleased to leave him to it. He pretended it was under the guise of supporting Bramwell's development as an up-and-coming leader, but he knew in his heart perfectly well why he couldn't bring himself to look Ernest McGregor in the face.

"Inspector."

Grateful for the interruption from his silent reflection, he turned and was met with the sight of Lady Belle and Doctor Dawkins approaching him, the Lady's heels clacking rhythmically on the stone floor. He bowed politely in greeting.

"Lady Belle; Doctor."

Dawkins nodded in response; he, too, looked as though he was trying very hard not to appear too distraught in front of half of the town. It was Lady Belle, therefore, who spoke.

"It is good of you to come," she told him softly, her big brown eyes wide with empathy and concern.

He stiffened; her compassion was something he neither deserved nor was able to manage adequately. "There has been an excellent turn-out," he said, slightly deflecting her comment. "I think most of Port Victory has come to pay their respects." Indeed, the pews were already approaching full capacity even with ten minutes to go; only the front rows remained empty, reserved for family of the deceased and the Fox family, of course. Henry looked around a little and saw the Governor had gone straight to Ernest's side and offered his hand in consolation.

"He was well-respected, and I know many people will miss him dearly," she replied. Dawkins shuffled unpleasantly, and Henry was beginning to think that perhaps Dawkins was the only person who didn't want to be there almost as much he did.

Almost.

"I am grateful that he brought up such excellent doctors in his stead. It leaves the town in most capable hands."

Dawkins snorted, then softened under Lady Belle's firm gaze. She turned back to face Henry, but her next words drifted off as she focused on something beyond his shoulders. "Oh, my," she breathed.

He turned– and faltered slightly at the sight of Rainsford Sneed striding slowly into the church from a side door. His steps were slow and deliberate; the reason became obvious when he stumbled slightly, pressing a hand to his abdomen before righting himself and working his way towards their grouping.

"Doctor Sneed," Henry said softly as he reached them. "I am so very relieved to see that you have recovered from your injuries."

Sneed regarded him with an expression he struggled to parse. "Inspector Boxer," he replied in kind. "I never got the chance to thank you for saving my life."

"I deserve no thanks; you should never have been in that position. If I had been a better investigator–"

"You saved my life," Sneed repeated, more firmly this time. "And likely a great many more. There is no ill-will to be held against you."

And Henry… didn't quite know what to say to that.

"I'm glad you came," Lady Belle said quietly to Sneed, reminding Henry that she and Dawkins still stood at his side.

Sneed bobbed his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. "I didn't have an acceptable excuse to not," he replied– and, well, Henry couldn't have expressed the sentiment better himself.

Lady Belle's expression hardened. "Well, at least you're here."

To Henry's right, Sneed wobbled slightly. "Forgive me; this is the longest I have stood since…"

"Yes, of course," Lady Belle replied. "Here; why don't you escort me to the pew?"

Dawkins bristled slightly at this, but Lady Belle shot him a look that strongly implied he consider his words carefully and he settled again. The two men stood in amicable silence watching Lady Belle lead Sneed down the aisle to the front pew.

"The nurses have saved me a seat off to one side, if you'd rather not be in the public eye." Dawkins' offer was made quietly, audible for Henry's ears alone, and he appreciated that almost more than the offer itself.

"That would be preferable," he agreed. Dawkins nodded, and turned to lead him into the transept without another word.

Jack knew he was supposed to be sitting quietly and respectfully – had felt Hetty's hand on his leg, urging his bouncing leg to still more than once – but the indignation and anger simmered under his skin, creeping closer to boiling the longer the service continued.

It didn't make any sense. How was Sneed so calm? How was he able to duck his head and recite the Lord's Prayer with such piety and peace? What part of him was able to approach the coffin and bow his head in respect one final time at the end of the service, in the knowledge of what the man had done, not just to him but to half a dozen innocent people?

He managed to sneak out of the crowd that approached the coffin at the end of the service, ducking out a back door to wait in the church yard for a few minutes. Slowly, the throng began departing the church and crossing the road to the modest church hall opposite for the wake. When he saw some of the nurses emerged, he slunk back into the crowd and avoided making eye contact with Hetty.

Inside the hall, the hubbub provided cover for him to hide off to one side, grabbing a much needed drink on his way. At least they had the good sense to provide alcohol at the funeral. He was perfectly content to conceal himself in the corner until other people started leaving; maybe sooner, if he could think of a good reason to leave that wouldn't make either Belle or Hetty suspicious–

"It's good to see you, Dawkins," Sneed said at his shoulder. Jack startled at his colleague's sudden appearance, and turned to face him with a scowl on his face.

"You shouldn't be so light on your feet, it's disconcerting," he remarked. Sneed's lips twitched slightly.

"It's wonderful to see so many people turn out for him," he continued, ignoring Jack's comment. "You can see how many lives he has touched–"

"You can drop the pious act around me," Jack snapped. "It must be exhausting for you."

Sneed looked at him with a soft bemusement. "It's not an act," he replied. "I am genuinely pleased that my injuries had healed enough to permit me to attend today, to join in honouring the Professor's life–"

"Honour?" Jack knew his voice had risen because a few people turned and gave him the look over their shoulders that indicated that he'd made yet another social faux pas, but the anger that had been barely contained for all these weeks had started to bubble out from the lid he'd been keeping on it, and in that moment he simply did not care about how he came across in front of the toffs.

"You think it was honourable what he did to you? To all those innocent people he butchered– not to mention the countless patients who died on the table while he was Head Surgeon because he refused to let us try ether and carbolic acid, countless lives we could have saved–"

"Jack."

"No, I don't get it! How are you this calm? How- how can you possibly come here today and honestly pray for his soul when he– when he–"

"Jack." Sneed's voice was so soft, but not in an eloquent, toff kind of way; it was soft in the way a mother's voice strode to soothe a crying baby. "I understand why you are angry. I was, too, for a long time. But I have come to understand that the Professor was unwell and scared for his brother, and that he did the things he did because of that."

"He could have asked us for help," Jack countered. "He should have come to us, and we would have helped him, we would have tried–"

Sneed scoffed. "Yes, you would have helped from your prison cell, and I would have helped around the overwhelming duty of running a hospital, after telling him he was no longer fit to practice surgery. We made him feel alone, that he couldn't come to us; so he had no choice but to take matters into his own hands in order to save the one person he loved that he had left."

"That's your excuse for him? That he loved his brother so much–"

"Yes." The simplicity of Sneed's response took Jack by surprise, and his colleague pressed on in the gap that he left. "Love doesn't necessarily manifest itself in our actions or be returned to us quite in the ways we might wish for. I believe the Professor was motivated by a love that was honest and pure. And that motivation caused actions which hurt the people who thought him better than that, but the truth is that he was just a man doing what he felt he needed to do to help someone he loved. That, at least, is understandable and forgivable."

A flash of movement caught Jack's eye, and he shifted his gaze to find Fagin lurking at the back of the room, undoubtedly waiting to pickpocket someone and cause more havoc in Jack's life.

"Some people aren't deserving of forgiveness," he said quietly, watching Fagin dip in and out of the crowd. "Some actions are too great to be forgiven and forgotten."

In his periphery, he saw Sneed turn to see what Jack was staring at.

"To say, as a blanket rule, that some people do not deserve forgiveness is rather a harsh position to take," Sneed told him. "Perhaps you've forgotten that everyone has made mistakes at some point in their life; some that they may regret, some that they may not, even though others may wish they did. It is easier, I think, to judge people from the security of having paid employment, intellectual fortitude, and people they love waiting for them at the end of the day. From what I've seen, most people are just doing the best they can with what they have available to them. I think you may know a few people yourself for whom that has been true at some point in their life."

Jack said nothing in response. He had no idea how to reply, in any case.

Sneed sighed and shuffled on his feet. "If you'll forgive me, I need to go home to rest. My doctor is most insistent that I take better care of myself, and she's quite right."

"Forgive my eavesdropping, Doctors, but I should be more than happy to escort Doctor Sneed home, if he would permit it." Boxer had reappeared at their side as silently as Sneed, and Jack winced, wondering just how much of that conversation the Inspector had been privy to and also when the two of them had become so adept at sneaking up on him.

"That is most kind of you, Inspector; although I rather feel that the threat to my life is substantially reduced compared to the last time I required your services."

Sneed's pitiful attempt at a joke died a death at the sight of the flat expressions on Jack and Boxer's faces.

"I would be grateful for the company," he rephrased. "As long as you are not needed here–"

Boxer was already shaking his head. "I have done my duty," he said quickly. "I shall see you anon, Doctor Dawkins."

Jack, still trying to get his head around Sneed's words, merely nodded at them both, staring at the back of his colleague's head until it had long disappeared through the door of the church hall.

Belle knew Rainsford and Jack must have spoken, because the first time she managed to free herself to find Jack in the crowd he was somehow even paler and less talkative than he had been already, which was saying something. When she found him at the side of the hall, ten minutes after she'd started trying to excuse herself from a conversation with Lady Chiswick, he didn't even greet her verbally but instead simply nodded towards her and reached out for her touch. She took his hand gratefully, taking comfort in his touch as much as he seemed to find in hers.

"You've done well," she told him. "I know how hard today has been for you."

"I spoke to Sneed," Jack said, almost speaking over her. She took it in her stride, though, brushing a thumb over the back of his hand.

"And?" she prompted.

Jack sighed, relaxing back into the wall. "And… I don't get it. He forgave him."

"That is most magnanimous of him."

He scoffed. "Or you're right and there is something wrong with his head."

"Jack!" Belle hissed, tugging on his arm. "Not in public!"

"Why is everyone so calm about this? Why do we have to pretend that the Prof was a great man when he tortured and killed people, would've killed Sneed if Boxer hadn't been there–"

"Jack, I know you're upset, but please don't bring this up here."

"Are you concerned about the Prof's reputation? Because he's not here to appreciate it any more, is he?"

"I'm trying to protect Rainsford's privacy and prevent the hospital becoming the target of gossip and fear-mongering."

"What, you think I don't care about the hospital I'm in charge of?"

"That is not what I'm saying– what–?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a moment?"

She turned at the sound of her father's voice to find that he had climbed onto the stage of the church hall. The general hush of conversation slowly petered out, the focus of the room turning to the Governor. At her side, Jack bristled but didn't move away from her, which she supposed was a good sign.

"Thank you all. It is so marvellous to see so many people turn out to honour dear old Prof. I know I speak on the family's behalf when I say it means a great deal to know how many lives he touched during his time in Port Victory, and to know that he will be dearly missed." He cleared his throat and continued.

"Many of you will be aware that my daughter, Lady Belle, has begun working in the hospital, supporting the excellent work of the doctors and nurses there. She has helped bring to my attention the plight of some of the less fortunate in our society. It is with this in mind that I am excited to announce a new programme today that I hope will bring support to those members of our community."

Belle couldn't help it - she squeezed Jack's hand in excitement. "This must be where the Prof's salary has gone!" she whispered. "He's going to fund medical care for everyone in town!"

"I am thrilled to announce that, following construction of a new schoolhouse just down the road, all children in Port Victory will be invited to attend for age-appropriate schooling, completely free of charge. Further details are to follow, but if anyone wishes to contribute towards the programme your donations will be graciously accepted. Thank you all."

He stepped down from the stage into stunned silence that quickly reduced as people struck back up conversation - most likely hushed whispers asking what on Earth was the Governor on about?

Belle turned to Jack and found him, against all odds, smiling.

"What?" she asked, feeling her own smile broadening.

He shrugged, but his obvious joy remained. "I think there's hope for us after all."

The hospital had a rare quiet about it. Tim wasn't white; he had no superstitions about using that word. If anything, he was grateful for the quiet - it allowed him to focus without the inevitable interruption of Jack, Belle, Hetty, Flashbang - pretty much any of the gang, especially when he hid himself in the morgue like today. Instead, he could lose himself in his work, becoming completely absorbed in the intricacies of the metal work. The gears were small and fiddly, a daunting challenge, but one which he revelled in.

It took him a while, therefore, to notice that he'd gained an audience.

"That looks interesting."

He stiffened at the sound of her voice, both relieved and saddened to hear it in equal measure.

"I like giving things my full attention." He replied in Dharawal, using her language to make the point.

"Not the thing that deserves it most."

He sighed, and then took her bait, tearing his binoculars from his face (he just needed them for precision work, his eyes were fine and he was not getting old). It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust in the low lighting, and he rubbed at his face to speed the process up.

"We both made our own decisions. I have tried to respect yours."

"I know. Which is why I brought her to see you."

She turned around to reveal, strapped to her back–

Tim couldn't get to his feet fast enough to move round his desk, closer to his daughter who slept peacefully against her mother's back.

He could see Red's lips broadening into a smile despite herself as he pulled her and the baby into his embrace. Already, his cheeks were wet with tears, but he didn't care. He had missed her, missed them both so much…

Eventually, she gently detangled his arms from their enveloping embrace. "Try not to wake her up," she said, but it lacked any bite.

He settled into the seat next to her. "What made you come back?" he asked. Gaines was long gone, and most of the soldiers thought her dead; she could have returned months ago but had chosen not to.

She scowled. "I heard yet another white man was having a go at selling off our land, and I've come to put a knife in his throat for it."

"Okay, yes, it sounds bad when you put it like that, but Fagin–"

"It was Fagin?"

Tim winced as Red rushed to her feet. "I'll gut him. Where is the bastard?"

"It's not like that," he tried to calm her. "Well, it is a little, but not completely-"

"He thinks he's entitled to my people's land; if he wants our stuff so much he can have my fist in his face and my foot up his–"

"It's not like that," he repeated, stopping her before she reached the door. "Just listen to me."

He explained, quickly, Fagin's exploits of the past few months: how he'd conned much of the town's rich folk into believing they were buying land in Country, culminating in £20,000 from the Governor's brother - not to mention stealing a whole bar of platinum from some visiting Frenchmen - but it had all gone to pot when it had been stolen–

"Stolen? By whom?"

Tim smiled. "Well, you see…"

He crossed the room and crouched down to dislodge the air brick. "It's our land," he told her as he removed the cover. "So I figured it was our money, too."

Red had crossed the room before he had withdrawn it fully. "Twenty thousand pounds?" she whispered. "Tim! Do you know what this could do for our people?"

She snatched at it, but he drew it back out of her reach before she could get her fingers around it.

"What are you doing? Give it to me; I can share this among six clans before nightfall–"

"Just wait," he bade her. "I haven't decided what to do with it yet."

She frowned. "What do you mean you haven't decided? It belongs to our people; we need to share it with them!"

"Yeah, but Fagin and Rotty and all them put themselves in a lot of danger to get this; Fagin basically died–"

"And yet I saw him getting pissed in The Bagpipes on my way here; he's clearly fine." She snatched for it again, but again he kept it out of reach. "Tim!"

"Just listen," he said. "I don't disagree that this belongs to our people, and in time they will get it, I promise you. But- what if we could bring them something even more powerful along with it?"

Red's eyes widened, and then she nodded. "I'm listening."