Emma's weight pulls her forward, closer to the ground that she would like, as her foot getsstuck under the root of a tree. Her arms move to break her fall before she actually touches the ground, jolts of electricity travelling from her wrist to her shoulders. The air leaves her lungs in a groan, her chest colliding with the ground painfully and her eyes closing under the pain. She stays that way for long second, mud already caking her cheek and her hair, prickles and twigs hurting her neck, her knees, her legs.
She mentally checks each and every one of her muscles, wiggling her toes inside her sleepers, but despite the knowledge that she will be sore in a few hours she is otherwise alright. So she propels herself up until she sits on her heels, and glares behind her.
A large oak looms over her, but there is no sign as to why she fell, or even how she found herself here in the first place. It is that second thought that makes Emma frown, because – why is she here, exactly? There might be some reason as to why she would be in the middle of the forest, only wearing her nightgownand slippers. But the answers don't come, and she frowns some more. Perhaps she hit her head when she fell, even if she didn't notice at first.
She raises a hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers here and there. She only manages to dirty them some more, with mud instead of blood, so she might not be hurt. Just confused, which doesn't make sense and – well, only adds to her confusion.
A sound startles her then, coming from her left. A car, her memory provides a second later – the word familiar, but also foreign, new. Probably just her concussion, Emma thinks as she rises on unsteady legs. Her nightgown is torn at the hem, and dirty with more than mud – some of the brown verging on the crimson of dried blood. She gasps, and checks her own body, with her eyes and her hands. She doesn't find a single wound, though, only scratches and bruises. Some she must have gotten when she fell, some that look older, already the ugly yellow shade of healing bruises.
Straightening her gown once more, Emma makes a hesitant step toward the left. Her legs tremble under her weight, but she keeps her balance – it might not be much, but it's something, and she walks with more assurance after only a few seconds. She finds a road soon enough, black and long and empty, stretching to the left and to the right until it loses itself into the trees. Emma stares, unable to choose which way to go – she needs to go somewhere, at least, needs to find someone, anyone.
Her hand shoots to her throat, fingers wrapping around the pendant that rests between her collarbones. She plays with it for a few seconds, a habit she doesn't remember getting in the first place but one that soothes her too. Left, she decides, for no particular reason. She'll go left, and sees what happens.
As it turns out, Emma doesn't have to wait long. A car appears in front of her, its engine less startling than the one she heard earlier, and stops next to her. It's big, and green, and an old lady jumps out of the passenger side immediately.
"Oh, my poor dear!" she says, her eyes widening at the sight of Emma. "My poor, poor dear. Richard, come and help me!"
She has a kind face, wrinkled by the years but gentle – her blue eyes shine with worry as she comes closer to Emma, and her hands are warm when she rubs them against Emma's bare arms. The one she called Richard, her husband most likely, is just as old and just as kind, shrugging off his fleece jacket so he can wrap it around Emma's shoulders.
She numbly slips her arms through the sleeves, hugging the jacket closer to her as to warm her body. Her fingers barely peekout from the sleeves and she hides her red nose in the collar, letting the woman rub her arms some more.
"What's yourname, darling?"
"Emma," she replies simply. Her voice is hoarse, like she hasn't spoken in a very long while or has screamed too much lately, and maybe one of those is true but Emma just doesn't remember.
It dawns on her, then, when the older woman asks, "What happened to you?" It dawns on her that she doesn't remember why her voice is hoarse, doesn't remember how she found herself in the forest, where she is coming from, what she is doing here. She frowns, and racks her brains, but comes up empty which each question she asks herself, save a few pieces of information.
Her name is Emma. She will be eighteen in two months. Her favourite colour is the blue of the morning sea. And – this is it. This is all she has, all she can remember, and her hand shoots to her throat once more, her fingers grabbing the pendant around her neck as panic rises within her. Why can't she remember? What is wrong with her? She should remember, everyone remembers who they are. She knows her name, and when she was born, but there might be more. There is more.
Her parents – her – her mother – she has a mother, right? Everyone has a mother. And a father. And a house, perhaps even pets, family, friends. A life, somewhere, anywhere. A mother – a – a mother who kisses her goodnight everyevening, a father who chased away the monsters under her bed but – that's not it.
It doesn't seem right.
It doesn't ring a bell at all.
She tugs on her necklace until the chain bites the skin of her neck, her breathing shallow and difficult. "I – I don't remember – I," she tries, but a sob gets stuck at the back of her throat, swallowing her words. "Why can't I remember?"
The woman shushes her softly, in what Emma supposes to be a soothing voice, but it has little effect on her when she lets the panic overwhelm her, when she lets the tears run freely down her cheeks. She gets pulled into a hug, hand drawing circleson her back as she sobs into a stranger's neck.
"We need to go to the police," the man says.
The woman doesn't reply, but she nods with her cheek pressed to Emma's head. She doesn't move, though, not until Emma's tears dry in her eyes, not until Emma's fingers untighten their hold on the back of her coat. Only then does the woman step away, if only to cup Emma's cheek and look her in the eyes. Her features are still gentle, even if concern and pity can be read in her eyes too – Emma can't particularly fault her for that, she does make quite the pitiful sight after all.
"Come on, darling. We'll find some help."
It's warm inside the car, and Emma curls up against the back seat, looking out the window – it's only forest from miles on end, trees after trees after trees. The radio plays some country music, and the woman turns around in her seat to hand her a small bottle of water as well as a cereal bar. Emma swallows them both down in seconds, her stomach rumbling for more food already – when was her last meal? Why can't she remember something as basic as eating?
She's still trying to remember even the smallest crumble of a memory, ten minutes later, when the forest turns into fields, and then into the streets of a small town. They pull in front of a white building, the golden star reading some unknown town's sheriff station, and Emma gets out of the car slowly, carefully. But the woman smiles and nods at her, so Emma follows her inside.
The sheriff station is empty but for three cops sitting at their desks, all of them raising their heads at the newcomers. The closer to them is a black woman, and she motions for them to come closer and sit in front of her.
"We found her on the side of the road. She doesn't remember anything."
The policewoman raises an eyebrow, but it's more curiosity than disbelief, and it turns into something akin to concern when she takes Emma in – dirty hair and torn-up dress and muddy sleepers and everything.
"What's your name?" she asks, not unkind but a little stiff.
"Emma – just – just Emma."
"And how old are you?"
"Eighteen," she lies. The woman's eyebrow almost reaches her hairline, at that point, so Emma corrects, "I'll be eighteen in two months."
"I'll need to call child services," the policewoman comments. "But first, tell me what happened."
Emma fidgets on the spot, grabbing her necklace once more – she decided she wouldn't question that habit, not yet at least – when she feels the stares of the other two policemen on her. It was to be expected, of course, but it still makes her uneasy and she is at lost for words. So she swallows around the knot in her throat and looks down to her feet, not knowing what to do.
"Emma," the policewoman says, and Emma raises her name to the sound of her name. "Do you want us to talk in private?"
Her eyes widen at the underlying meaning of the woman's question, but she shakes her head anyway. "No, no, I'm fine. I just really don't remember what happened. Just – I fell on the ground in the middle of the forest. That's all. Nothing else."
The policewoman doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't look unconvinced either, and she spends another few minutes asking Emma questions she doesn't have the answers to. It is frustrating, but compulsory, so she goes through it without a complaintas she tries to be as helpful as possible in her lack of answers. The policewoman does indeed call child services next, and thanks the elderly couple for their help, before she shows Emma to a tiny bathroom where she washes her face in the sink and changes her clothes. It's a pair of sweatpants too big for her, and a large t-shirt with the sheriff station's logo on the back, but it's better and warmer than her night clothes, so once again Emma doesn't complain. She's even fed, and taken care of, until an hour later a woman enters the station.
She works for the child services and asks Emma the exact same questions the policewoman did, and Emma is only mildly annoyed at not having the answers. It is like she jumped over all the stages of grief and settled for acceptance immediately because – well, because it's easier that way, maybe. (Does it sound like denial? Oh well.)
They don't find her in their missing person records, or any kind of records really, and so soon enough the woman from child services asks Emma to follow her. There is no point in staying at the station any longer, after all, so Emma climbs into yet another car driving her gods know where.
She dozes off after a while, lulled to sleep by the soft music on the radio and her own exhaustion, only to wake up with a startle, lost and confused. They've entered a city, a bigger one this time, and the woman explains her that a doctor will check up on her before she is sent to a group home for the night, and they will decide what to do in the morning – which means a lot, but also nothing at all. Emma just nods and goes with the flow, because it's easier that way.
She coughs when the doctor listens to her lungs, agrees to be measured and weighed, examined. The doctor frowns at her bruises, but doesn't comment, only takes notes on a pad Emma isn't able to see. Denial leaves place to frustration, and she wonders if this is the kind of woman she is; little patience and a quick temper.
Maybe, who knows.
…
His hand is warm against hers, fingers entwined as they rest on her lap. It is the most intimate displays of affection they can allow, Granny looking over them like a hawk – the queen couldn't have chosen more threatening a chaperone for Emma's courtship. It does make Emma uncomfortable, knowing her every move is watched, her every choice will be reported to her lady mother later today. She understands why, of course, but this lack of freedom doesn't make it any less acceptable in her eyes.
"How was your journey?" she asks, her thumb drawing circles on the back of his hand.
"It was fine, thank you for your concern." Killian's ears are pink, no doubt with the embarrassment of being stared at. "We were afraid we wouldn't come back before the winter ball, but Poseidon was on our side it seems."
Emma can only smile at that comment. She has never been a religious person, even if she sometimes visits Athena's temple with her mother, as well as Artemis', but Killian is like many other sailors out there – he respects Poseidon above all the other gods, careful never to bring his wrath on the Jewel of the Realm. An old superstition, like there are so many others among the men of her mother's Royal Navy – Emma has already met the big tabby cat they keep on board, for luck and chasing rodents. And it would be lying that to say grabbing Killian by the collar didn't bring luck to her life – as well as love, happiness.
"Poseidon is always on your side," she beams at him. "He saw what a great sailor you are, and is now taking care of you."
Killian's blush spreads to his cheeks and his neck as he ducks his head, embarrassed by her praises. But he is one of the best sailors in the Royal Navy, even the Admiral will admit to that, and Emma can only be proud of him – as he of her when she tells him of her royal meetings and diplomatic visits to foreign kingdoms.
"You are too kind," he replies, his fingers squeezing hers before he lets go of her hand.
Her skin feels cold already without his touch, and she forces herself not to grab his hand again, lest she looks too eager – her mother's voice rings to her mind, lessons of etiquette she heard too many times through the years. But her disappointment gives place to excitement as Killian reaches inside the pocket of his uniform – he loves to bring her tokens from his travels, shiny rocks and seashells and other little things from far away kingdoms, places she'll never get to visit herself.
But it is not one of his usual tokens Killian presents to her that day. No, it is a silver necklace, shining in the morning sun, and Emma gasps when she reaches for it and gets a closer look. Two little charms dangle from the chain, on top of each other – one is a ship's wheel while the other is a little swan with its wings spread out. It's so perfect – so perfectly them – that Emma can only stare in awe at the necklace for long seconds.
"Do you like it?" Killian asks then.
"I love it!"
She beams at him before turning around and bundling her hair up so Killian can clasp the necklace around her neck. The charms rest between her collarbones, just above the hem of her dress, and Emma brushes her fingers against the cold silver, grinning at Killian once more.
"It is no ring yet but – that way you can remember me even when I am away."
It is no ring yet because his official courtship started not so long ago, and it would be bad form for him to cut corners and propose before it is time – but he will propose, somewhere in a near future, and this token of his love is only further proof of that. If Emma were to decide to wear the necklace in public, and she will, it would be enough for other suitors to back off, for them to know her heart is already taken, even if her hand may not be yet.
"I don't need jewellery to have you on my mind," she replies honestly.
He has been on her mind a lot, ever since their first meeting – even more so since the ball thrown before his crew left for a mission, where he had stolen a kiss under the stars. Her lady mother and her aunt Red have scheduled afternoon teas with other suitors during his absence, but it was hard for Emma to pretend to like their advances when she could only think of the next time she would see Killian.
The queen must have taken the hint, for the meetings with new suitors stopped a few weeks ago – even a blind man would see Killian is the perfect prospect for Emma anyway, as great a fit for the crown princess as they go. Kind, sensible, polite, well-raised – many are the qualities that would make him a good prince consort and an even better partner.
"I am glad to hear that," Killian replies.
He can't suppress a grin of his own now, dimples flashing on his cheeks, and it takes all of Emma's self-control not to press her fingers to the little indent at the corners of his mouth, not to steal another kiss from him. Granny is still watching, after all, so instead Emma turns her head to the side, tilting it ever so to offer her cheek to Killian.
He brushes his lips to it, lingering for longer than decency would like – for longer than Granny likes, for she coughs loudly, forcing them to lean back. His cheeks are a beautiful shade of crimson but his eyes shine too, love and happiness dancing in the blue of his pupils.
"You are always on my mind, too."
…
Emma's sleep is restless that night. Her limbs are sore, as was expected, and the mattress is hard, uncomfortable. Another girl in the dorm snored all through the night, waking Emma up several times. When she does manage to sleep, nightmares come to plague her – only flashes of light and colours, sounds, feelings. Nothing tangible, and nothing she remembers in the morning. She is as exhausted as she was before going to bed, and it makes for sluggish movements and slow reactions.
Which is how, after a breakfast of cereals and milk, Emma finds herself in the office of the woman who took care of her the previous day, sitting in a chair just as uncomfortable as her bed, and having a conversation that is even more uncomfortable, if only that is possible. They go through another round of questions and non-answers, as if memories could come back to Emma during the night, and Emma grows frustrated all over again.
"What's that necklace?" the woman asks all of a sudden, and Emma startles.
She's been playing with it again, all through their discussion, without even noticing she was doing it. She has done it more than once this morning – waiting for breakfast, and then later under the shower, even before meeting with the woman. She still can't explain why, but the necklace seems important to her, is important to her. If only she could remember why, or even where she got it from – did she buy it herself? No, she seems too attached to it, it must have been a gift. So why isn't anyone looking for her now, why didn't anyone tell the police she's missing?
"It's, I don't know, it's a swan."
She lets go of the necklace, self-conscious, and sits on her hands instead.
"A swan, huh? Maybe it represents you, you seem graceful."
"Swans are assholes," Emma shoots back immediately – it startles the woman into a bemused snort. "But they mate for life, right?"
"I think so. Maybe you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend out there."
Emma wrinkles her nose – if she really had a loved one out there, why haven't they shown up yet? It's the same old question all over again, and she's tired of thinking about it. She's tired of thinking that some facts seem to point to a loving family, to her having a nice childhood, when nobody is actually looking for her, when according to the policewoman yesterday Emma doesn't even seem to exist.
If someone loved her, Emma would remember, right? The necklace looks expensive, and it's not everyone who would buy a teenager such beautiful pieces of jewellery. But things don't add up, and nothing makes sense. Nothing makes sense at all, and she is even more exhausted just trying to find logic in this thing she should now call her life.
"It's not rare to have amnesia after a trauma. Your memories should be back soon."
Emma wants to laugh at the woman's face, or even scream at her about that trauma apparently so traumatizing she doesn't even remember it. The woman knows nothing, absolutely nothing, and her useless comments aren't helping in the least with Emma's cloudy mind. So Emma leaves the office and goes back to the main room.
During the days that come, she mostly keeps to herself. One of the other girls in the group home is obviously a bully, but she is also younger and a few inches smaller than Emma, and clever enough not to start a fight she probably wouldn't even win. The other girls are younger still, but shy and quiet too, so Emma just grabs a book and reads in a corner by herself. It makes for long days, lonely and boring, but she likes it better that way for some reason.
On the fourth day, she is told they found a foster family for her to stay until she's eighteen, and that she needs to pack her stuff. Emma raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the ratty PJs they gave her, as well as the t-shirt from the police department – her only belongings with the pair of jeans and pink hoodie she's wearing, and the bra too small for her that keeps biting her skin under the arms. But she doesn't comment and does as she's told, before she goes to the living room.
The woman – her foster mother – is already waiting, and she stands up when Emma enters the room. She's beautiful, breathtakingly so. She can't be forty yet, her features still soft despite the hint of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and her hair is the same shade of blonde as Emma's – they could pass off as mother and daughter, probably, a thought that brings a shiver of dread down Emma's spine.
"Hello Emma," the woman says, with a kind smile and even kinder voice. "I'm Ingrid."
"Hi," she replies awkwardly, not knowing what to do, what to say.
But as it turns out, she doesn't have to say nor do much, for Ingrid checks the last paperwork with the woman from child services, before she shows Emma to her car. The drive to Ingrid's house is spent in tense silence, only broken once in a while by short bits of conversation – mostly her asking if Emma is allergic to anything (she doesn't remember) or what her favourite food is (she doesn't remember either). Ingrid gives up after a few attempts, and Emma leans her head against the window, staring at the landscape until she dozes off.
They're in the suburb of Augusta by the time Emma opens her eyes again, rows and rows of houses that all look the same until Ingrid pulls over in front of one. It looks just like the others, pastel blue door and beige curtains. Home, Emma thinks with a sigh as she steps out of the car and looks up at the windows of the second floor. It's better than nothing, of course, way better than the group home, but it still doesn't feel right to her – like she was thrown in a life that doesn't belong to her, and she now has to deal with what she got.
So she does just that, letting Ingrid show her around the house. There are several bedrooms for kids, but Emma is the only one to stay in the house for now, so she can pick whichever room and bed she wants. She chooses the little room with the green walls and the white comforter, and she takes a shower before meeting with Ingrid in the living room for lunch. She stays under the water for longer than is truly necessary – they weren't allowed to take long showers in the group home, and it was always lukewarm, unpleasant. Now, she carefully combs out her hair with her fingers, and shampoos it until there are bubbles everywhere.
She smells like soap and cleanliness when she wraps herself in a towel and dries her skin. Her clothes are still the same, though, and she'll need to wash them eventually. Her wet hair soaks the back of her shirt a little when, finally, she goes downstairs and finds Ingrid in the kitchen. The older woman kindly smiles at her above her shoulder, before focusing back on her cooking.
"I'm making grilled cheese, is that okay?"
Emma shrugs, before she remembers Ingrid can't see her. "I guess," she replies then, because there is no good nor wrong answer at this point.
"Okay," Ingrid laughs, before she points out to a mug on the kitchen counter. "I made you hot cocoa, too."
"Oh. Thanks."
The mug is hot against her fingers when she grabs it, the smell of the drink rich and intense. Ingrid added some whipped cream on top of it, and it's slowly melting into the chocolate but – it feels wrong, like something is missing. Emma looks around her, frowning at the kitchen appliances, before her eyes fall on the spice rack in the corner. She grabs one of the boxes, and sprinkles some cinnamon on top of her drink.
"Hot cocoa with cinnamon, huh?"
"It feels right," is the only answer Emma finds because – well, it does.
"It's good. It means some memories are coming back to you already."
…
Emma rises on her tiptoes, grabbing the kitchen counter to propel herself up, still too little to really see anything at all. Her mother laughs before she scoops her up and sits her on the table – her little feet kicking the air as she watches her mother go back to her cooking. She pours milk in the pan, as well as a good amount of cocoa powder, stirring and stirring until it makes a beautiful brown liquid. It makes Emma's mouth water just looking at it.
"Now you see," Snow White explains as she keeps stirring. "When I was a little girl like you, my mama would make me hot cocoa. And her mama made her hot cocoa too, and her mama's mama, and…"
"Wooow!"
Snow White laughs, before she adds, "But you can't drink too much, because then it will hurt your tummy a lot."
She tickles Emma's stomach, just above the navel, and Emma squirms a little, giggles tumbling out of her mouth as she tries to escape her mother's hand. Snow White stops then, making sure her daughter isn't about to fall down the counter, before she takes the pan away from the fire and pours the hot chocolate in several mugs.
Emma saw the ship making port in the morning, her father having taken her to the harbour so she could admire the big, white sails and impressive cordage. The ship was coming back all the way from Agrabah, or so her father had told her, a land where it is always hot and sunny, where the ground is made of sand instead of grass, with no forests but palm trees instead. Emma is fascinated by the tales, faraway lands she wants to visit once she grows older, bolder.
For now, she is stuck in the castle with her riding lessons and her boring tutors, but at least her mother makesthe family hot chocolate with the cocoa beans that came in the ship's hull.
"And now here's the secret ingredient," Snow White goes on.
She puts a finger in front of her mouth with a low 'shhh' and Emma mirrors her, her finger a little crooked and pressed to the side of her nose. Her mother grabs a little metal box and opens it, showing its contentsto Emma – brown powder, not as dark at the cocoa one, which Snow White grabs between her fingers and then sprinkles on top of each drink.
"Cinnamon. That, my darling girl, is true magic."
"Magic!" Emma chirps back happily. She has seen magic already, if only because aunt Red turns into a wolf sometimes – her snout is warm and her fur soft, and Emma loves to cuddle against her in the cold of winter, when she feels sleepy. Magic exists, everywhere, and Emma is always fascinated by it – papa says he and mama have magic of their own, even if Emma doesn't understand what it means yet.
Snow White pokes her daughter's nose with her finger. "Magic indeed, my darling."
…
Since she is above seventeen, Emma isn't enrolled in the nearby school, and it takes her about a week to find a little job at a coffee shop in the neighbourhood. Ingrid opens a bank account with her, so she can save her money, and her official papers come in the mail a little while later – her ID card reads 'Emma Swan' and she rolls her eyes, annoyed at the child services' sense of humour. 'Emma Smith' would have been more than enough, really, they didn't have to go all the way to find her something out of the ordinary.
Her days are long and exhausting, but her body seems to be used to the physical effort required by her job, so she isn't as tired as she could be when she leaves the shop at the end of the day. She even gets the hang of the espresso machine after her first week at the coffee shop, and the owner is nice enough. It may be the bare minimum when it comes to money, but it's not that bad and at least it keeps her busy. That's seriously all Emma asks for, at this point.
Ingrid buys her new clothes, too, and they test different types of food regularly so Emma can learn to know her own tastes. It makes for an hilarious meeting with Brussels sprouts (definitely not her thing) and it's love at first sight with onion rings. All in all, living with Ingrid isn't as bad as Emma would have thought at first. Ingrid is nice but not overbearing, letting Emma have her life and alone time when she needs it, all the while being funny and witty. They have movie nights at least twice a week, and Emma grows attached to the woman fairly quickly.
Ingrid jokes that Emma is like a little chick after hatching, imprinting on the first person she saw, and "it's your name, after all!" To which Emma scoffs and rolls her eyes, but the metaphor is cute, and it fits. Only a little.
Ingrid also shows her the town's library, and Emma would be lying if she said she didn't love having access to that many books – she always has one in her bag, reading when there are no customers around at the coffee shop, and discovers the joys of going to bed when the sun is rising because she just couldn't put her book down before finishing the story. Ingrid jokes that she is lucky, getting to discover those books for the first time all over again, and Emma has to agree. Nothing compares to the wonder in her eyes when she picks up a Harry Potter book for the first time, and reads it all in one go the very same night.
It's on one such evening, nose buried in The Goblet of Fire as Emma rests in bed after a long day at work, that Ingrid comes to knock softly on her door. Her brow is furrowed as she stares at Emma, lips pressed into a pensive pout – like she is pondering on which words to use, which sentences to say. Finally, after long seconds of stilled silence, Ingrid takes a few more steps into the room.
"I don't want to pry, but – I bought you a box of tampons when you arrived, and you never used them. Are they okay? Do you need something else?"
It is Emma's time to frown as she looks away from her book and closes it. She's been living with Ingrid for a little more than a month now, and it had completely slipped her mind that – that she was supposed to get her period, at some point. She gasps and jumps to her feet, Ingrid already grabbing her by the arms before she can move any further.
"Okay, listen. We're not panicking now. I'll buy a test, and we'll see what happens next, okay?"
Emma finds herself nodding, because she can't do anything else at the moment – her brain went into overdrive for a few seconds, but now she is too numb to think at all, and she lets Ingrid pull her downstairs so they can go to the nearby store to buy a test. It all happens in less than twenty minutes before she finds herself in the bathroom, peeing on a stick and praying to any deity out there to have a little pity on her.
If they hear her, they decide not to listen.
She does panic this time, biting down on her bottom lip not to – cry, maybe, or yell, or both. This isn't fair, and she says so to Ingrid. This isn't fair, because she doesn't remember anything, doesn't even remember having sex or – or whom she had sex with, which all things considered is an important detail. Her hand instinctively reaches for the necklace around her neck, before she remembers the women from child services telling her she may have someone out there looking for her. She lets go of the necklace with a groan, or maybe a sob – where is he? Where is that guy who cares enough to have sex with her no matter the consequences, but who won't look for her when she goes missing? Where the bloody hell is he?
She finally breaks down in Ingrid's arms, barely hearing the woman's words of comfort over the sound of her own cries – how she tells her everything will be okay and they will find a solution, and don't you worry darling, I'll help you no matter what. She hears it all but doesn't listen, as the tension that had built-up through the last few weeks finally explodes into a flood of tears and desperation.