They returned home from their evening date-their first ever romantic appearance in public-with the mood between them decidedly dampened. He removed her coat and murmured Yes to her inquiry of tea.

A murder will naturally dampen an atmosphere, but this was more than that.

Despite their agreement to keep the engagement quiet between them, Lucien couldn't help but feel that the secret was really no secret at all and that all of Ballarat knew. What was there to hide?

Yet, Jean was restless at dinner. She hadn't worn the engagement ring again and had pulled her hand out from under his, apparently uneasy about displaying their joined hands on top of the dinner table. She had constantly been flicking her eyes over to the small group of women sitting in the corner, watching the two of them and gossiping behind folded hands.


Jean didn't even let Lucien hold her hand on the way to car, instead preferring to walk briskly ahead of him, avoiding his eyes.

Perhaps as individual actions, Lucien could ignore them. But each gesture was felt like a stinging nettle against his heart and he was suddenly thinking back to every moment between them since Mei Lin had left.

The way she broke off from his kisses. The way she twisted the ring on her finger over and over again before taking it off, hiding her hand behind her back. Her insistence they keep things quiet between them.

A heavy weight had settled in Lucien's stomach and, with a deep breath, he sought her out in the kitchen where she was putting on the kettle for some tea before bed.

"Jean, I think we should talk."

She turned to face him, eyebrows raised and the tea tray in her hands. Her bare finger was still a punch to the gut. He took the tray from her and placed it on the table.

"What's wrong, Lucien?"

He laughed, humorlessly. "Actually, that's what I was going to ask you. You seemed uneasy at dinner tonight. Well, tonight especially, but also in the last few weeks. Is everything alright?"

Jean looked down and smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her dress. "I'm fine, Lucien. Really."

But he wasn't swayed. "Jean..."

His tone-both warning and pleading-seemed to break some dam of emotion inside her. She glared at him, hands clenched at her side.

"You don't understand, Lucien. It's all well and good for you! You don't give a damn about propriety or the social structure of this town. You don't have to hear the biddies in town gossiping behind your back every time you step out of the house. You don't have to bear the burden of God and the Church's judgment on your shoulders. Your reputation isn't the one suffering."

She stepped forward, hands on her hips and tears in her eyes. "But I do! I am the one they call loose. I am the one they call fallen." Jean broke her tirade with a sob, hand coming up to cover her mouth, and turning away from him.

Lucien felt as if his heart had sunk to the bottom of his stomach. "Jean, I had no idea." Then, with a heavy heart, the words almost sticking in his throat, Lucien offered her a solution: an out.

"Jean, I know I am not an easy man to be with and you're right. I don't care about propriety or social structure. I never have. But," he swallowed hard, the lump in his throat growing larger with each word and his eyes stinging with tears. "But it is important to you. Very important. And, if it's too much to be with me, to bear those burdens, then, then," he trailed off, steeling himself.

"Then if you want, we can end our engagement. We can go back to how it used to be; you could even move out, if you wanted."

His words hung in the air and Lucien closed his eyes, scared she would take him up on his offer. Jean was the love of his life, a light in the dark, and his North Star-guiding him home. If he lost her now, he would be lost himself.

He waited for her to vehemently deny his offer, promise him that she would never give up their love, that she couldn't imagine ever returning to the way they were.

But the silence permeated the room, their breathing the only sound. Lucien felt his hands go sweaty and his chest flood with warmth and tightness-the beginnings of a breaking heart.

He swallowed hard, willing the tears in his eyes to dissipate, and looked at Jean. She stood before him, face pale and mouth open, but unspeaking.

He nodded, resigned. "Right, then...I'll just..."

But the urge to leave, to get out before he could scream or cry or both, was building. He needed a drink. He needed to get away, to be alone, to protect what was left of his heart.

He turned on his heel and fled to his study, leaving Jean behind in the kitchen with nothing more than a rapidly-cooling pot of a tea and the sound of his study door clicking softly shut.

What had she done?