"Stay with me."

Warm words whispered across her skin, seeping into her pores, thawing the marrow of her frigid bones. Yes, her lips moved in a soundless reply, she would stay with him. Forever.

In the darkness, time was suspended and there was only him. A wave crashed upon a distant shore, and as it receded precious air filled her lungs. Blood surged through her heart, a tremor building into a solid beat. Fingers grazed across her cheek, along her throat, tracing the line of her shoulder, skimming down her arm. His body moved against hers, infusing her with a liquid heat, his thigh pressing against her leg. Tension eased from her rigid muscles, sinews melting on a breathless sigh. As long as he lay beside her, she was safe. There was nothing to fear in this tiny piece of heaven. Her hand stirred, longing to touch him but her arm was caught, tangled in an unknown force. The chains of guilt, remorse, the strings of a thousand missed chances, she strained against their weight aching to be free. A faint wind stirred a lock of her hair, disturbing her sense of peace, the breeze erasing his touch from her skin. He lifted his weight from her body and the cold wind took his place. No, don't stop. Lips dry, mouth parched, she could barely whisper.

"Come back to me."

The fingers returned, pressing against the pulse at her wrist. She struggled to say his name but could only whimper. A voice called to her. She moved her head, searching. A light appeared near the edge of the darkness and she strained to see it. All she had to do was open her eyes and he would be there.

Lids heavy with days of sleep, Ruth's eyes fluttered open. Sunlight pooled under the hem of a pair of unfamiliar curtains and she blinked, disoriented by the sight. Rose coloured wallpaper decorated with tiny yellow flowers stared back at her. This was not her flat. Her mind stumbled over itself as she puzzled out her location. A realisation slowly blossomed in her consciousness and her heart became unbound, rising joyfully in her breast. It was her cottage by the sea. It had all been a nightmare and she was safe in her new home. A smile broke across her lips, the weight of a thousand worries lifting from her chest, replaced by a blanket of contentment. She turned in the bed, but the movement of her arm remained constricted. Her eyes travelled down to her wrist, veins a dark purple, inserted with a length of rubber tubing. A silver pole stood by the bed, holding a bag of clear solution that drained with a slow, methodical drip. Her eyes widened, panic rushing through her. This wasn't her cottage. She moved her head and looked up into the smiling face of a young woman.

"You're awake. Good."

"Where am I?" Ruth asked hoarsely.

"Don't worry. You are safe here."

"Who are you?"

"I am Anna, your nurse."

The young woman spoke in accented English, Eastern European Ruth surmised. With practised hands, she fitted Ruth's arm with a blood pressure cuff, swiftly inflating the pump, nodding as the air slowly hissed out. Calculating the numbers, she gave Ruth a look of approval.

"Your vitals are good. We can get you off of the drip and onto some solid food. Let me take a look at your sutures first."

Ruth frowned unable to parse what the woman meant. She closed her eyes, images from a fractured landscape flashing through her memory. Grass and sky. Sasha. The shard of glass. She had stepped in front of Harry.

"Harry," she whispered. "Where's Harry?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know who that is," the nurse apologised.

"Is there someone who knows?"

"I'll let them know you are awake."

"Who are they?" An anxious knot formed in Ruth's stomach.

"I am only a nurse," the woman answered, the confidence in her smile waning. "Can I move your gown for a moment?" She gently lifted the fabric of the drape and carefully peeled off the bandage on the underside of Ruth's rib. "It looks very good. Slight redness but that is because it is healing. We will take the sutures out in a week. Are you in any pain?"

"No." Not physical pain, only the pain of the unknown, a dilemma that Ruth hated even more.

"We will get you up walking. But you must not do too much. No heavy lifting." The nurse wagged her finger in mock warning. "I will teach you some breathing exercises to help you heal."

The solicitous demeanour of the nurse did nothing to quell Ruth's rising anxiety.

"If I'm alright, I would like to go home."

"I am sorry but you cannot."

"Why not?" Ruth asked, a hint of outrage seeping into her voice. "Am I a prisoner here?"

Flustered by the question, the nurse looked toward the door. "No, no. But you are not allowed to leave."

"Well, that's the very definition of a prisoner, isn't it?" Ruth retorted tartly.

Confusion crossed the woman's face, unable to unravel Ruth's semantics. Her hand hovered above Ruth's stomach as she held an alcohol-soaked swab and a sterile gauze. She looked at Ruth with pleading eyes. "Please, let me clean your wound and then I will find someone for you to talk to."

Ruth studied the nurse, a twinge of sympathy surfacing for the woman who obviously knew nothing but still bore the sting of her questions. Ruth had been in that position many times herself. She nodded, her mouth forcing itself into a tilted a half smile as she adjusted her strategy, recognising that it would be better to have this woman as a friend rather than a foe. She ran her fingers through the lank strands of her hair feeling slightly dirty and unkempt. How long had she been here?

"Can I at least take a shower?"

The nurse, somewhat mollified, gave a tentative smile. "If you keep the wound covered."

"And clothes. Can I get some of my clothes?"

"I will see what I can do." The nurse quickly wrote on the strip of the bandage as she finished covering the wound.

Relenting, Ruth settled back into her pillow, deciding on a different route to gather information.

"Your accent. Where is it from?"

"I am Polish."

For a brief second, the thought flashed across Ruth's mind that she was in Poland. No, that would be ridiculous. There was a justifiable explanation for all of this. Harry would walk through the door as he always did and all would be revealed. The nurse was only working on a need to know basis. Compartmentalised information. Nothing untoward was happening, she was obviously receiving proper care. The nurse eased the tubes from Ruth's arm with a practised hand, dabbing the bruises left behind.

"I will be back with some clothes and I will tell them to talk to you." The woman cleaned up her tools and then motioned to a door. "The shower is through there. Put this over top." She handed Ruth a small plastic bag and a roll of medical tape.

Ruth nodded, remaining placidly supine while she waited for the nurse to leave. As soon as the door clicked shut, she threw off the covers and sat up. The stitch of a needle stabbed into her side and she gasped in pain. Hitching her breath, she covered the wound with a protective hand. The room tipped before her eyes and she swayed as her head reeled. It would be wise to heed the advice of the nurse. With greater caution, she swung her legs over the bed and sat for a moment until the room settled back into place. She gently eased herself onto the floor, her toes curling as they touched the freezing wood. There were no slippers to be seen. No dressing gown either. Drawing the institutional green hospital gown tightly around her body, she tiptoed over to the door and tried the knob. It was unlocked. She peered out into the hall, empty except for a threadbare runner on the floor and dark wood walls. She ventured out a few more steps into the silence. If she was a prisoner the door would be locked. There had to be another explanation. She made her way to the landing at the top of the stairs. Conversation wafted from the floor below. The sounds of the nurse and a man, followed by words from a different male voice. Acknowledging she could not run a gauntlet of people in her current state, she retreated to her room. Crossing to the window, she pulled back the curtains. The panes were made of a frosted glass, giving her no view of the outside world. What was going on without her? She consoled herself with the thought that if she couldn't see out, at least no one could see in.

Ruth opened the remaining door and was pleasantly surprised to find a small bathroom. The space had evidently seen years of use but it was clean and functional. Searching for towels, she opened a built-in cupboard that sat next to the sink. Inside, there was a stack of white towels rough from years of washings. She took two and saw the outline of a tiny door. She ran curious fingers over the wood. There was no handle or hinges; perhaps it was for access to the plumbing. At in rate, she would have to drink a shrinking potion to use it. She closed the door and focused on the promise of a shower.

Plastic carefully placed across her wound, she stepped under the water, the warm stream tempering her curiosity, anxious thought swirling down the drain. The only thing she could do was summon her patience and wait for Harry.

…

In through the nose, out through the mouth, tiny muscles expanding and contracting, filling the alveoli of her lungs. The marvels of the human body and its ability to heal from trauma. If only the heart were so resilient. Ruth studied the tiny patterns in the frosted glass as she practised the exercises that the nurse had demonstrated. She sat in a worn wingback chair, cradling a pillow against her ribs, protection against the strain of an unexpected cough. Squirming in her seat, her fingers pulled at the collar of her itchy wool turtleneck. Years ago, she had been a fan of that style of garment but now she found the high-necked collar singularly constricting. It wasn't as if she had been given any choice in her current wardrobe. The orange wool top had appeared along with a brown tweed skirt, the epitome of style - from fifty years earlier. It was certainly not the outfit in which she had hoped to meet Harry.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Even though her mind had grappled with recollection, her lungs remembered everything from that day. The weight on her chest, the gasping strain, slowly suffocating. Breath, life, gone. She was certain she had died. Pieces of a conversation flitted in and out of her memory. He had asked her about her house. She had told him everything. Words that she had never dared utter before. Wonder of wonders, he had agreed to live with her. Perhaps he had only conceded to the idea because he thought she was dying. No matter- she would hold him to it. She would hold him to his other promise as well; that he would leave the Service with her. The corners of her lips tugged, unable to suppress the happiness that bubbled within her heart. Her fingers clutched at the neck of her jumper, raising it up over her mouth to cover a secret smile. Finally, fate had seen it fit to give her a reprieve, they had been given a second chance; how rare, how fortunate.

Knuckles rapped faintly on her bedroom door. She sat up, her heart thumping in her chest. Harry. Frozen to her seat, overwhelmed with expectation, she could barely speak above a whisper.

"Come in."

A man entered. Casually dressed, he was tall and thin with a shock of dark hair. Felled by disappointment, the bottom fell out of her heart. He greeted her with a solemn smile, as he grabbed a ladder back chair from the other side of the room. He brought it in front of her and sat down. On closer inspection, he was younger than she was, but fitted with a weary edge of experience.

"Hello, Ruth. I'm Mark Wilson." He held out his hand. "I'm here to answer your questions."

Relief trickled through her body and Ruth held out her hand, taking comfort in the man's firm grip.

"Where am I?" she asked without preamble. "What's happening?"

"Do you remember anything?"

"I remember that the plane was stopped. The bomb was just a ruse. I remember that I was talking to Harry…" She glanced at Wilson to see if he knew to whom she was referring. He gave her a quick nod of understanding. "Sasha came from the bunker, he had a piece of glass, he was after Harry. I was on the ground. Was I in a hospital? I'm not sure. Then waking up here."

"You know that Elena Gavrik is dead?"

Lips pressed together, Ruth looked down at the floor; her only answer, a short nod.

"The Russians are blaming us," Wilson continued.

Ruth shot him a look of surprise. "But wasn't it Ilya Gavrik who killed her?"

"They say you were involved."

Ruth's mouth opened but she was unable to formulate a rebuttal. There was an element of truth to his statement. She had effectively signed the woman's death warrant by giving Gavrik the key to the room. There was no mistaking what was in Gavrik's heart that day. She had warned the team to stand ready, to take action if needed but they had not been quick enough.

"So what does that mean?" she asked in a deflated whisper, her dreams of a life after the Service slowly taking on water.

"There have been some diplomatic salvos. Various parties looking for retribution. That's why you're here."

The secrecy, the solitude, the mystery revealed. "Is this some sort of safe house?"

"Yes," Wilson confirmed. "I'm with Six. We're going to keep you safe here."

"Six?" Ruth echoed. "Why Six? Why isn't Five looking after this?" Her chest moved with short rapid breaths, wrestling for understanding. "Where is Harry?"

Wilson leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his knees as he inhaled a slow breath.

"Ruth, I'm sorry to tell you this but Harry is dead."

Air evaporated from her newly healed lungs and she gasped, searching for oxygen. The despair of damp earth revisited her bones. "No, he can't be, he's..." Her voice abandoned her. Harry couldn't be dead. He was invincible; he had outlasted countless officers, survived bombs and bullets. He couldn't die because he was...he was... Harry. She could not find the words to articulate the concept to the man in front of her.

Wilson looked at her with sympathy. "It's true."

"No." It was a plea for him to change his answer but none was forthcoming. Still refusing to believe the man, she demanded answers of her own. "How?"

"There was a meeting with Gavrik. It went sideways. It was a setup and Harry was killed."

The reality of Wilson's words sank in and her throat constricted. A shudder ran through her body as it reeled from the overwhelming loss. Sense and feeling shut down, and she willed herself not to cry in front of this stranger. But tears do not listen, and drops welled up in her eyes, breaking free and sliding slowly down her cheek. She wiped one away with the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry. I know it's a lot to take in." Wilson leaned in closer. "I know you might be in shock now, but we need your help."

"Me?" she whispered. "What can I do?"

"You have firsthand knowledge of the Gavriks, you've researched them. Ilya Gavrik has amassed a small fortune."

"He has a stake in an oil company," she added. "Gazprom."

"That's the tip of the iceberg. There's more. Help us find his money so we can take him down. Can you do that for us, Ruth?"

She stared down at her hands, an abandoned child. "I want to go home."

"It's not safe out there for you, Ruth. They will hunt you down too."

She gave the man a dispassionate look; at that point, she didn't care if they hunted her down. "I can't do anything hidden away in this room."

"We have a work station set up across the way; computers, servers, access to anything you might need. Once we've flushed out all the players, you can move forward with your life."

Her shoulders slumped. There was no going forward. Wilson reached out and touched her hand.

"Do it for Harry."

The tender core that she had revealed only moments before, sank back into the recesses of her being, shuttering itself and disappearing, leaving only hard resolve in its stead. Blood for blood. That's what he would say. If their positions were reversed, he would avenge her death; she would do the same for him. She would track down Gavrik's Achilles heel and twist a knife in it. She would take him down where it would hurt him the most, financially. Clenching her mouth, she looked directly at Wilson and nodded her assent.

"Good." He stood up from his chair. "Get some rest today and we'll start fresh with everything tomorrow."

As Wilson headed toward the door, she stopped him with her voice. "I heard other voices downstairs."

"That's Eddie and Frank. They're here to protect you. If you need anything you can just ask them."

What she needed, they could not give. Seeing that she had no further response, Wilson left the room, his shoes silent on the hardwood floor.

The world on the other side of the frosted glass held no interest for her now. Somehow, in the depths of her soul, she had already guessed the outcome. Wicked deeds were never rewarded. Her hand balled into a fist and she slammed it against her thigh, the cry that she had suppressed escaping from her mouth. The pain of her stitches and the wound in her heart were indistinguishable. Fool, deluding herself with fanciful thoughts of their reunion; a home, a life together. The fact was she did remember the details of that day. She remembered her last words to him. They were never meant to have those things.