A/N: Set after the events of series two and prior to series three. Apologies in advance.

~oOo~

She often thought of his deft hands in the dark. Without intention, the sight and memory of their warm paths over the soil of her flesh came between words, between other thoughts. A shiver crept over her as she peered past a building in the town square. It was the middle of the day, but in her mind she stood in an evening garden of white-blue light and shadow. Areas of her heart she seemed able to translate by her choices in colored fabrics.

Jocelyn attempted to be secretive, spying on the blacksmith from afar. She wanted to catch sight of him without his knowledge. To witness him in his element in a place other than a hayloft; an area made a bed; their bed.

He was a captive in his stall, bent above flame, absorbed in his work. Jocelyn wondered whose company she might share should she be allowed entry to the grand hall of his thoughts.

"Ma'am, Widow Castell, are you well?" Alice Sharrow broke through the haze, her voice like her spirit; impassioned, saddened. She was not one who could well hide secret truths.

Jocelyn would lie to this raw and open woman. She would have to. She couldn't admit her feelings to herself, much less Alice. She mentally extracted from her being that which might weaken her, along with all other matters best kept buried in the cool ground with what remained of her husband. So, like he, would they wait untended.

A ghost, the pacing shade of Samuel Castell knew this. He perceived all of her darkest secrets with his descent. They burrowed into him, such as all her plans and deeds made reality. His rising from the dead in such fierce effort to sway her, his wordless request to act on her love, was not enough to persuade her to heed her heart's urging. Such emotion was to be denied. All that she had fought for, the power she'd gained, she would not surrender for love of a man. Daily she harbored conflict; pain, but she bore it without offering those who consulted her knowledge of her defeat. She kept from him. Attempted to be kept from the heart, not the flesh. She told herself this though she knew it wasn't true.

"I am fine, Alice. I merely stopped for a moment to catch my breath. I find this heat so oppressive." Her hands were crossed at her waist. One hand clutching the other as though one might gain power from one less used.

Mercy Myrtle, who had been standing beside Jocelyn, chose to speak, never knowing when she should remain silent. "That it is ma'am. Why I do believe every day when we go a-walking you do stop here or somewhere near so as to catch your breath." She paused a moment. "Though it do seem to make your intake of air all the worse, ma'am, if I do say so. You seem ever so lacking in breath. It is odd. But you are a very fair and fragile lady." She shrugged, her lids lowering over her dark eyes, her lips a thin line. "Isn't it a lovely view of the water... The water and the blacksmith's stall. I find I like to take in the sea air myself as well." She sighed and waved to James Reed as he momentarily paused to glance at the three women. James returned the gesture before resuming his work.

"Enough, child. I'm certain Mistress Sharrow has more pressing matters to attend to at the moment."

"James Reed is a good man." Alice turned, her arms crossed, palms touching the crooks of her elbows. Her voice was soft. Her gaze moved from their former subject, Reed's stall, to Jocelyn.

Castell allowed the stones in her to stand. They were around her heart, around her thoughts. The emotion behind her eyes read as indifference. "The blacksmith? I suppose he is a skilled tradesman."

Alice saw beneath veneers of plaster and paint people cocooned themselves in. Beneath the shells they were born in, shells of flesh and marrow. She'd recently witnessed how James and Jocelyn's union was Recorder Castell's only comfort as he walked the earth after death. It in fact seemed to be his sole purpose for return. "You will find no better man. Widow Castell. Take to mind no amount of power or money can buy the sort of happiness love affords. You need to follow your heart. Do as it guides you or else be unhappy the rest of your days."

"Follow it so that I might be as unhappy as you are now?" It was cruel and unnecessary, though far from beneath the widow.

Jocelyn knew it would hurt. Alice was awash in grief. Every day she was separated from her husband and forced to live with and accept the man who had raped her. A Summer's work of farming had been all for not as the Sharrow's crops were lost at sea, leaving them destitute. Alice knew death and pain. The deep sorrow that stretched through her life was interweaving, like some long and winding stream whose surrounding land was always bounded by darkness.

Alice placed her hand to her waist. She seemed to bend in on herself, brows creased.

Jocelyn was genuinely sorry. She looked to her shoes, the ground. "Forgive me."

"I struck too close to your heart. You felt the need to recoil. Silas will come back to me. I feel it. We aren't parted forever. This is a test we must pass through."

"I wish I entertained hopes such as yours for the future." Jocelyn schemed. Jocelyn performed wonders. But Jocelyn herself did not always know how fortune might turn.

"It's a wish easily fulfilled. You simply have to let go and believe that not everything is in your hands. We are looked after." Alice shifted, adjusting the strap of a bag over her shoulder. "I have to pick up a few things before I return home. Pepper and Winganuske are with young Silas. I don't want to leave him much longer."

"Farewell, Alice. Take care."

"Yes do," Mercy said. "And please kiss your sweet babe for me, Mistress Sharrow. And, well, tell Pepper I said hello." Mercy bowed her head and clutched the end of her apron.

"I shall. I'm sure he'll be pleased."

Without aiming to, Jocelyn moved, ignited by frivolity. She looked at him, looked at him until he felt it. Felt her focus, her being, and he was forced to look up. Their eyes met.

She looked away.

~oOo~