Dear all,
I got a review for my other MFMM story where the reviewer asked for Phryne's POV. I toyed with the idea of writing the same story from her point of view, and maybe I will one day. I have, however, written another story. It's set during the last episode of the first season, King Memses' Curse, and a bit beyond. Let's pretend there isn't a season 2 and 3, just for now. It will be a pleasant surprise when you stop pretending.
Lots of love and thanks to Lyn, who is my first reader and reviewer. Your comments and corrections are so valuable, and make me a better writer.
Like most fan fiction writers I'm a romantic at heart.
He doesn't get it! Damn him! He doesn't get me! Damn Jack Robinson! How dare he pull ranks with me and lock me in? Damn him!
Phryne knows that rank pulling is unfair, as she isn't a police officer of the Victorian Police Force.
But he did appoint me his honorary constable at the morgue.
She beats the heel of her shoe and shouts for Constable Collins again. When no one comes she sinks down on the bunk in the cell and tries to collect her thoughts.
I have to get out of here. That bloody Foyle has my Janey. No, my Jane. How can he be so utterly mad that to think he needs to kill a number of girls who have nothing in common other than sharing their unfortunate birthdays with him? And with me. Oh, Jack, just let me out of here and I'll happily do whatever Foyle wants. Maybe there really is an afterlife and I will see my sister again. I'll do anything he says as long as I don't have to lose another person. Another Janey. I'll go mad if he does something to her. I'll go as mad as he is with his jumbled faith in whatever the Egyptian pharaohs believed. The tiny hieroglyphs shoved up his victims' noses, those golden cups and that silver ring with the name of a…
Phryne's musings are interrupted by the sound of steps. It's not Jack Robinson, she can hear that, and it's not Constable Collins either. When Dot appears in the doorway a few yards out of reach from the cells, Phryne forces herself to contain her rage. Dot doesn't deserve the loathe she feels for whom she thought was her friend, that bloody Detective Inspector Robinson, who thought it fit to lock her in for her own safety. And for assaulting a police officer. She hopes her kick to his shin still hurts.
Dot provides her with a few new pieces of information. Bert and Cec are still following leads to places related to Foyle that he might still have access to. Places to hide a terrified child and drug her with God knows what to keep her sedated. And then… Suddenly something clicks inside Phryne's head.
That ring! The ring with King Memses's name somehow written or engraved on it. And Foyle thinking he is an incarnation of him. He's an incarnation of the devil himself. But who told Foyle about the ring?
"Somebody told Foyle about the ring when he was in prison. Who else would know?"
Of course it's Rhodes. It must be. He's the only one left from that excavation in 1913. And Jack is… Oh God, Jack is going there now.
It's not too difficult to persuade Dot to follow Phryne's plan to get her out of the cell, but when Constable Collins appears with the keys a few minutes later something about his sheepish smile tells Phryne that her plan hasn't really worked out the way she thought it would. She does not linger to learn the details but heads for the university as fast as she can.
An hour or so later she hands over her small gun to the devil himself, enthralled by something in Foyle that she can't put her finger on. Maybe it's just hate and a wish to understand how or when or where of even if… Phryne would give her life or soul or mind to find an answer to any question about Janey.
"Did my sister die in pain?"
She doesn't recognise her own voice when she finally asks the question. Foyle almost chuckles, turns to her and leans down. He smells of dust. Of death and dust and something buried
"No, not for a moment. No… she died gloriously, without pain of fear. And I laid her to rest…"
A huge silence fills Phryne when Foyle, at last, confesses what she has accused him of doing for the last fifteen years. With his confession, Janey finally dies inside Phryne as well, and that huge silence takes her sister's place. She registers his words without really listening. When she asks where Janey is, where she is buried, her thin voice echoes like thunder.
Her whole life after Janey disappeared has been filled with this painful lack of knowledge and answers. Her every move has somehow been connected with her wish, her need to know what happened to her sister. Underneath it all there has been the nagging chanting of Janey died instead of me. Janey died instead of me. Janeydiedinsteadofme. But Phryne's quick wit, her deduction, her willingness to explore new social circles, when her father's inherited title changed everything she knew; all stem from the same source; what happened to my sister? Is there someone, somewhere who might know? Is she dead? How did she die? Is there a chance that she is still alive, that the child abductor Foyle wasn't behind Janey's disappearance? Her constant "what ifs", her wildly associative mind finding endless scenarios and answers to every question made solving other crimes an easy pastime. Phryne would never have become a private detective if it weren't for years of trying to think like a criminal. Like a kidnapper. A murderer. Who is she now that she knows?
She doesn't really care anymore. One last time she asks about Jane and Jack, but she knows that their fate is out of her hands, and she doesn't argue when Rhodes points her own gun at her and tells her to drink whatever poison Foyle has prepared for his fourth goddess. It tastes like strong wine with bitter herbs, and it has the same effect as a really strong cocktail or a shot of whisky. A numbness starts around her lips and spreads over her cheeks and into her scalp. The sensation is not unpleasant. When she has emptied the golden cup she tells Foyle that Rhodes won't follow him into the afterlife. Detachedly she wonders how Foyle can be so thick as to think a successful professor of History would willingly commit suicide next to an escaped murderer, but she doesn't really care. When the two men start to fight over the gun, her gun, she closes her eyes. When a shot goes off her eyes snap open in the hope that Foyle will lie dead in front of her. But it is Rhodes who flees the room, apparently hit, and the utter disappointment makes her lunge at Foyle. She doesn't care if he shoots her, she is compelled by the literally dying wish to hurt him. A kick, a scratch, a punch, anything. Another shot goes off and she has no idea if she is hit or not. She can't really feel her body anymore, but when Foyle slips to the floor beneath her she woozily deducts the bullet has hit him. She hopes he dies quickly so she can give in to the overwhelming wish to sleep.
Jack's voice calling her name briefly sobers her. And then Foyle begins to talk.
Damn it! He isn't dead yet.
Foyle stammers about her coming willingly to his macabre sacrificial altar and her rage clears her head enough to speak her mind and assure him that he's not headed for eternal life, but a life in jail waiting to be hanged.
Suddenly Janey is in the room, and Phryne tells her how sorry she is. For not being quick or clever or strong enough. For not being the one who Foyle took all those years ago. And Janey just watches her without all the condemnation Phryne deserves before she morphs into Jane who watches her with wide and scared eyes. Something moves in the corner of her eye and she catches a glimpse of Jack before her field of sight begins to blur at the edges.
He meets her eyes with an expression of incredulity. Like what the hell are you doing here, with that man, in that state, with that weapon?
Damn him! He still doesn't get me.
But he does. When her legs give out and she expects the stone floor to come up and hit her, she feels his arms catching her. His scent of soap and after-shave follows her into darkness.
It is still silent when she wakes up. Everything she sees is white before Dr MacMillan's fiercely red hair comes into view.
"There you are, love. How do you feel?"
When Phryne tries to answer her voice is as silent as her mind.
"My throat hurts," she whispers.
Mac puts her hand to Phryne's cheek and leans down over her. The doctor's eyes are bloodshot and without their usual twinkle.
"I know. We had to have your stomach pumped. I didn't know what poison you had, but Inspector Robinson could give me an informed guess that you'd taken it less than an hour before he brought you in. But apart from the pain, how do you feel? Dizzy? Is your vision blurred? Does your head hurt?"
Phryne is so overwhelmed by the silence inside her, the lack of a constant buzzing of questions, self-reproaching thoughts (Janeydiedinsteadofme) and curses over Murdoch Foyle that she can only shake her head to Mac's question about her state of mind.
A few days later she stands at the foot of her sister's excavated grave. Her sister's body, a skeleton with unidentifiable rags clinging to it, is so small. As small as Jane's. Phryne shivers despite the hot day and forces herself to let go of the blue hair ribbon she has saved ever since that day. The day Janey disappeared and the din of unanswered questions began their loud dance inside her. Now it feels like a radio with bad reception has been switched off and she is still reeling from the silent experience. She is also very quiet, and has been so ever since she woke up in Dr Mac's ward. When she speaks her voice sounds as raw and loud as drunken laughter in an empty church, and it troubles her. There are so many things she wants to say. To Jane. To Dot and Mac and Mr Butler. And to Jack. The problem is not a lack of words but an unwillingness to break the blissful silence inside her. At first the silence was pitch dark, but slowly it has become filled with light where she can glimpse her sister, alive and happy and full of mischief. It's as magic as the first time Phryne went to the cinema; moving, dancing images laughing and talking soundlessly. She is afraid Janey might leave for good if she uses her voice to enter her new life without her sister. Without the merest flicker of hope that Janey isn't dead.
When Jack takes her hand and pulls her up from her crouched position he doesn't say a word, only rests his hand lightly on her back.
Maybe he does get me? Being this unusually quiet?
Jack took her statement of the events that lead to the basement below the Faculty of History before she left the hospital. Even then he didn't ask as much as he usually does. He began by telling Phryne that Murdoch Foyle is, once again, behind bars, awaiting trial for abduction, assault and murder. After that he only asked what he needed to know, and hinted he'd fill in the details he was part of, himself.
Phryne can feel sweat trickle down her back under her black clothes. She closes her eyes and her memory plays one of countless happy moments with her sister. When she opens her eyes again and sees the dusty remains of her sister's body she feels ready to leave. The dry bones below her have nothing to do with Janey. What is left of Janey is inside Phryne, and will stay there. She turns to Jack to indicate that they should leave. He gives her one of those sad smiles that doesn't reach his eyes.
His professional smile. Must come in handy with all the horrendous news he has to deliver to various victims and their families.
Phryne forgets about her police statement. Forgets about the papers that bear witness of how she learned about her sister's death, and on which she will have to sign her name to verify their truth. She focuses on finding her way in her new, silent world, filling it with sounds, voices, music, street life. When Bert tells her about his landlady being robbed of her pearls and a few gold rings in a locked room she hesitantly tries her sleuthing skills again. It's easy, easier than ever before. After having ruled out a trained monkey accessing the locked room through the tiny window, she deduces that the petite schoolmistress on the upper floor was once part of a circus; a contortionist and funambulist who could easily have balanced on the brink on the façade of the house and squeezed herself in through the window. The former circus performer is presently in dire need of money to pay off the school's caretaker who has seen her in rather unprofessional teaching position with a teenage male student. Phryne convinces Bert's landlady to not call the police with the understanding that the young teacher will seek new lodgings. Phryne also asks Bert and Cec to follow the blackmailing caretaker around to see if they can sniff out any information that his victim can barter with. Phryne leaves Bert's lodgings feeling elated, relieved and a lot more alive than she has for years.
On the night of her birthday, when her guests have started to arrive, and Mr Butler supplies them with their preferred choice of drink, Phryne is passing through the kitchen when she hears a knock on the back door. Jack, who, to her knowledge, never has used the back door, looks a bit embarrassed when she opens.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I've just realised it's your birthday, but that's not why I'm here. I hoped you wouldn't see me."
"Why not? And why didn't you use the front door as my guest?"
Jack hesitates.
"Well, at least, come into the kitchen," Phryne prompts.
"Miss Fisher. Phryne. I have your statement of the… of the events at the university here. I'd forgotten about your birthday party, and I hoped I could just leave this with Mr Butler for you to read and sign tomorrow."
A low buzz fills her ears when she is emotionally transported to the dusty basement and her sister's murderer. She knows she has to do this now, or ask her guests to go home. The forgotten, unfinished business has robbed her of every ounce of party mood.
"Give the papers to me. And sit."
"Phryne, you don't have to…"
"Yes, I do."
"Your house is full of your guests…"
"Who love my champagne. Now sit while I read."
She reads quickly, the words seem to trickle into her mind on their own accord, silencing all sounds and darkening her memories of everything except of the cold and dark cellar. Again Janey dies in the dark.
"So, if that is the true statements of events as you recall them…" Jack begins in his professional police voice. Phryne looks up, and he doesn't finish the sentence. She takes his pen and signs her name on the last page. It doesn't change anything. She doesn't even remember her party mood. She would like a stiff drink, a warm fire, the absence of people and memories of her sister. She tells Jack that Aunt Prudence has arranged for Janey to be buried in the family plot. Her voice trembles and suddenly her old echoing chanting slips out.
"Janey died instead of me."
She is certain Jack will assure her with something politically correct and utterly useless in his professional voice and blank expression, but he doesn't.
"So you owe it to her to keep living to the hilt. Not that I've noticed you've wasted a moment," he says with a tender smile.
So, that's what you think of me, Jack? Still casting me in the role of the ever partying, never responsible, far too rich, far too shallow person.
His smile contradicts her conclusion, but she doesn't want to explore what he really means. He has become, in so many ways, a constant in her life. She knows she has overplayed her upperclass role on occasion, and used her own contacts to beat him to the conclusion of a case she has just barely been tolerated on. She has taken him by surprise by changing her mind at a moment's notice, just to keep him on his toes. Kept him guessing. Why on earth wouldn't he see her as the women she portrays so well? The Honourable in her title entitling her to be the exact opposite.
A voice inside her, the voice of reason perhaps, tells her, and has been telling her for a long time. No man since Vic Freeman has made her feel as safe as Jack does. Phryne doesn't feel the need to display her independence and freedom quite as strongly with Jack. With all other men her heart is disconnected, and all they get is the outgoing, fun-seeking swinger at clubs, restaurants, theatres and bedrooms. But with Jack her heart flutters and reaches out for him, and it worries her. She can't see him as a part of her life. Not the life she is leading. In the life she came from, a life not unlike Dot's background, Jack would be everything she ever dreamt of. He would get her, the Phryne she was when she grew up.
He would get me and he would keep me.
Her hand does what she can't allow her heart to do. Jack closes his fingers around hers. His hands are warm and dry while hers are as cold as the icy crystals her dress is embroidered with.
"Help me to celebrate."
He nods with a small but genuine smile and she gets up to sashay her way to the parlour, well aware that he follows her.
Mac and Cec are dancing. Albert is sticky with sugar when he clumsily kisses her cheek. Hugh is crouching beside Aunt Prudence's armchair. Phryne takes Dot's hands into her own and tells her how pretty she is and that Hugh is a very lucky man. Dot blushes and Phryne feels a pang of jealousy.
Such an easy life. Not keeping up this web I've been spinning around myself. I wish…
Her eyes meet Jack's across the room. He is not the Detective Inspector now. He is her… friend? Yes, but…
She empties her glass of champagne before she crosses the room.
"What a crowd, Miss Fisher. Such a blend."
It is, and she is glad he has noticed just that. When she grew up she never understood the class system, as it was perfectly clear that all social classes held both good and bad people, and now, when she is as far away from her younger self on the social ladder as the moon is from Earth, she still holds that belief. Even Aunt Prudence is beginning to slip from her former class orientated views.
"Dance with me, Jack?"
He hesitates and Phryne lets her heart beat as wildly as it wants under his gaze. Mr Butler appears conveniently with a tray and takes Jack's empty glass.
"Please?"
"Of course, Miss… Phryne. It's your birthday, I won't deny you having your toes trodden on."
But he lies, just as she suspected. He has shown her his quick reflexes enough times for her to bet on his dancing skills.
She has felt his arms around her before, but the dance enhances the experience. Surely his hands were not this warm and firm when he grabbed her at the theatre, pulled her against him at the Café Réplique, or draped his jacket over her shoulders and held her at her cousin's costume party when she wore that ridiculous Egyptian outfit.
"Thank you for staying."
"Thank you for asking me. I'd imagined a different sort of crowd here tonight, but of course I was wrong."
"I'm not that kind of Honourable, Jack."
"I've come to see that," he smiles down at her.
"And I'm not…"
No, this is not the time.
"You're not what, Phryne?"
And maybe it's his use of her first name, or his hands that warm her whole body, or the way he watches her, that makes her continue.
"I'm not living every day to the hilt, as you said, to compensate for Janey. I'm not clubbing and dancing around Melbourne with an escort of men to live my sister's life for her. I'm not shallow just because I have money, I'm not insensitive just because I'm not conventional."
Jack dances her into a corner and stops. Phryne can feel a blush creeping up her neck, and she doesn't know if it's anger or the proximity of Jack. The scent of his soap and after-shave reminds her of how blissful it was to give in to drug-induced sleep in his arms.
Jack looks appalled, and she has a nagging suspicion that her temper, her overly associative mind, her emotional rollercoaster during the last week, or her champagne has got the better of her.
Damn. Maybe it would be better if he really didn't get me.
"Phryne, stop. I don't think those things about you. You are the most compassionate woman I've ever met. I think I know you well enough by now to distinguish between your façade and your true person. I can see when you are playing your role, and when not."
"And when is that?"
"What?"
"When can you see me acting, and when not?"
Phryne really feels she ought to restrain her emotional outburst, laugh the discussion off and go to ask Mr Butler when dinner will be served. But this being as far into an honest and personal talk she's ever reached with Jack she doesn't. Those dark eyes that don't waver, not even when someone drops a glass with a shrill smash, and those warm hands still around her play tricks with her mind, her different roles and her heart.
I wish I was Phryne of Richmond, not this complicated aristocrat with more roles than I can count. It would be easier. Easier to get me. Not guessing me or treating me like a hand grenade.
"You are the Honourable Miss Fisher when it suits you and the company demands it. If you like the company, that is. If not, you quite often turn into a more dishonourable Miss Fisher, just to impose your will. I've also seen you in the role of an operetta singer, which is not my preferred dramatic art."
How strange that no one comes to bother us. Surely someone will. Any minute. Or dinner will be served.
"What is, then?"
"What is what?"
"Your preferred role."
"Hamlet."
Is he teasing me or have I really bewildered him enough with all my pretence to think that there is no real me inside?
"Not in my repertoire."
"Oh. Of your roles?"
He smiles down at her and brings up his hand to cup her chin.
"None."
"None?"
"Maybe I'm wrong here, but I think that sometimes, with me, alone with me, quite often here, in your house, you are not acting. Bit by bit you have given me glimpses of the tragedy with your sister, your friendship with Dr MacMillan, your protectiveness towards your household, your sometimes insecure parenting with Jane. I like to think that you are you then. Just Phryne."
"Everyone!" someone shouts. It's Bert, and his bawling voice is testament to his slight inebriation. "There is a meteor shower outside. Come look!"
Jack raises an eyebrow questioningly, and Phryne shakes her head. The room is empty in less than a minute.
"Yes, it is," she says. "Just me."
"And that's how I endure your other roles, your uncanny ability to show up at crime scenes, your own take on law and order, and your quite intimidating talents in various martial arts. Because I hope that, at the end of the day, you might just be you. Phryne."
I never thought… Maybe he sees right through me? Maybe he gets me? Is that what I want? When I'm just me?
"It's easy being me, with you, Jack."
He looks surprised.
"It is?"
"Yes. Easier than with anyone." She reaches up her hand to mirror his on her cheek. His skin is warm and she strokes his lips with her fingertips. When he closes his eyes at the sensation she feels a thrill of anticipation surge through her.
Easier than with anyone.
She flattens her hand against his face and he kisses her palm. When she gasps he pulls her closer and opens his eyes.
"With me?" he asks in an incredulous whisper.
She stands on her toes and kisses him hesitantly. She is Phryne from Richmond and not as experienced as the Honourable Miss Fisher who takes command of every situation that promises to satisfy her.
Jack moves his hand from her cheek to cup the back of her neck, pulling her body close against his own. Phryne sincerely hopes he will get her, literally, if he lets go of her, as she will have serious balance issues with the night spinning as it is.
He doesn't let go but answers her kiss softly.
"Really?" he mutters against her skin.
"Shut up and kiss me," she whispers back.
He does. His lips are warm against hers. Phryne feels herself eased back against the wall. When Jack lets his fingers wander down the back of her neck she feels they are trembling slightly and it amazes her. She, or is it one of the other Miss Fishers, hasn't paid attention to such small details in years. Or hasn't been kissing anyone with stakes as high as with Jack. She is well aware that they are crossing a line they've been dancing precariously close to for some time, and that they can't go back to their seemingly professional relationship should things go awry at this new personal level. For years her love life has been ruled by 'onwards' with no particular interest in 'going back.' But her love life has also been one-dimensional, with no, or, at best, little interest in her partner's life or feelings. Thus the high stakes with Jack.
She bites his lower lip softly and he groans before he parts her lips with his tongue, devours her mouth and pushes her hard against the wall. His scent and taste fills her and she realises she can let go of her grip of his shoulders. She opens her lips more and lets him taste her and explores his body under his jacket with her fingers. His teeth graze her lips, and his tongue fights with hers. His bristles chafe her lips raw. Nimbly she undoes a few buttons in his shirt and strokes his skin. He stops kissing her and throws his head back.
"Phryne, don't. You have no idea…"
Merry voices are coming closer, and Phryne returns to the here and now with cruel speed.
Birthday party. Guests. Dinner. Damn!
Quickly Jack grabs her and pulls her through a doorframe. They are in the unlit, rarely used study that faces the garden. Phryne giggles at doing something forbidden. When she looks at Jack in the semi-darkness there is such burning hunger in his gaze that her laughter dies. He pulls her against him and kisses her so hard and with much desire she doesn't know where she ends and he begins. The laughing voices are coming closer still and she leans her head back in defeat. He strokes her throat with his fingertips and pushes down her shoulder strap to kiss her shoulder. When she shivers he laughs softly. He leans into her and whispers against her skin.
"You have no idea for how long I've wanted to do that."
"What?"
"Kiss you. Touch you."
"Phryne?" someone calls. Aunt Prudence. "Where is the girl? Has anyone seen her? Dinner is served."
Phryne is momentarily distracted and Jack takes a step back from her. The cold that hits her body is unpleasant but sobering. He buttons his shirt and straightens his tie, before he pulls up her shoulder strap and smiles tenderly.
"You don't want a search party, Phryne, do you?"
She shakes her head and is just about to make her presence known when he stops her.
"No. You should… Your make-up, your hair…"
"Oh. Right. Well, you go, and I'll take the other door.
She chitchats her way through dinner. Thankfully she sits next to Bert who has an endless supply of stories about just about everyone in Melbourne. On her other side is Hugh, but he only has eyes for Dot, which Phryne is grateful for. Hugh is a lot more sharp-sighted than Bert even when a bit tipsy, and Bert is a bit further than tipsy. Opposite the table Mac gives Phryne funny looks. Jack is on the far end of the table and is the sole focus of Aunt Prudence. The dinner lasts for an eternity, but the fine wines make her tipsy and stir the party mood in her.
Did we really? Am I mad? Maybe. Or maybe it's just me.
She giggles at Bert's stories and feels audacious and light-headed.
So what? He said he saw me, just me, beyond all the Miss Fishers.
When the party leaves the dining room to go back to the parlour for drinks and more dancing, Mac takes Phryne around the waist and pulls her aside.
"Too much sun today, dear?"
"What? No, why?"
"You have a slight blush, just here. Looks like sunburn, to me."
Mac trails her fingers over Phryne's upper lip and down her chin. Phryne laughs.
"No. Not that kind of burn, anyway."
"Oh," Mac nods. Explicitly she seeks out Jack with her gaze. "Really. Well, about time then."
Jack asks Phryne to dance to a softer melody than before.
"Thank you for inviting me," he says again.
"My invitation is always open," she answers with a smile.
He looks down on her and she can see his eyes stray to her lips and darken. His hands hold her more firmly than the first dance of the evening and he strokes her hand with his thumb in a way that distracts her.
"And you will be you when I decide to take you up on that invitation?" he asks.
"Sometimes. It depends on the occasion. Sometimes your police work might need an amateur actor who speaks thespian, or someone well connected within the upper class circles, or someone with a really fast car."
He pulls her an inch closer and she inhales his scent again.
"I know, Phryne. I get it. I know you need to be all these different Miss Fishers. I would never want to change that. But I really hope the Phryne under the masks will be here, too."
"I am, Jack. Whenever you want."
A flushed Hugh Collins taps Jack on his shoulder.
"Sir. Constable Randolph is outside in his car. He guessed you were here. There has been a break-in down at the docks. A large quantity of furs have been stolen. Came from Russia, last week, apparently. A guard has been knocked about, by the look of things. He only speaks Russian, so Constable Randolph wasn't sure. And the furs hadn't been through customs, yet, so the ownership of the stolen goods is unclear."
Jack sighs and Phryne can feel his hand at her back taking an even firmer grip around her.
"Where is Inspector Henderson?" Jack asks.
"Down with the flu, sir. And Inspector Wilkins from City East is out of town."
"Can I come?" Phryne asks.
Both men look at her. Hugh looks surprised and Jack frowns.
"I speak enough Russian to pass as a Russian revolutionary, and I can tell a mink from a sable."
"But, Miss Fisher," Jack begins.
"Miss Fisher would be happy to be of assistance," she interrupts.
He looks down on her with half a smile.
"Wherever did you try your hand at fur trading, Miss Fisher? Or learn Russian?"
"That's a story for another time, Inspector."
"All right, then. Let's go. Your car or…"
"Mine. It's a lot faster."
After a hurried goodbye to her guests, Phryne grabs her car keys and beats Jack to the Hispano-Suiza.
The dark streets down to the harbour are ill lit, and, for once, Phryne doesn't drive faster than the speed limit. Or maybe that's because of her company. She feels ambiguous. She both wants and doesn't want to be the Russian-speaking fur connoisseur Miss Fisher. Jack takes her hand and pulls it to his lips.
"I know, Phryne. I get it. I get you. And I need you. Right now I need someone with linguistic skills in Slavic languages. Can you be that for me tonight?"
"Always, Jack. Whenever you want."
He gets me. All of me.