Chapter Two:

It was cold here, and she was clad only in her nightshirt, stumbling around blindly, lost and confused. The overpowering smell of vanilla filled her nostrils, but not enough to completely drown out the stench of rotting flesh, forcing her to try to keep from retching constantly. Dull brick corridors stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions, leading into darkness. It was no ordinary darkness, though - it was shifting, constantly moving, as if what lay at the end of those passages was fluid, always in flux.

The passages were lit by a blue phosphoresce that seemed to come through the walls, through the gaps between the bricks. Curious sounds came from all around her, some unknowable, some all too familiar. The distant sound of crying was everywhere, as were screams - the sounds of suffering, of pain. But the most distinct sound of all was a single voice. One that was crying a two word phrase constantly, again and again, trying to be heard, trying vainly to get someone - anyone - to answer, to fulfil the desperate request.

The phrase was 'Help me'.

Zosia sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. She was drenched in sweat, and clambered out of bed, stumbling over to the window to seek some comfort from the cool nighttime air. After some clumsy fumbling, the window slid open, and she tried to catch her breath as the cold breeze cooled her clammy skin. When she was satisfied that she could breathe normally again, she turned from the window - a quick feel of her flannel nightshirt revealing it to be uncomfortably damp - and pulled a t-shirt from her drawer, quickly exchanging one for the other.

Walking into the kitchen, she opened the fridge and surveyed her options for a drink. Wine was tempting, but unwise at three in the morning. Coffee was also tempting, but hardly conducive to getting back to sleep. In the end, she settled for bottled water, and slumped down at the kitchen table to process her current situation.

It had been over a week since she'd had that dream - from before she'd talked to Jesse and Colette. Why was it returning now? Surely she was in a better place? She was trying to move on, she was trying to rebuild broken relationships - what else did she need to do?

Her mind turned to Jesse and Colette - she'd known them both since she was twelve - constant colleagues and friends of her parents. She was filled with happy memories of shared holidays, impromptu advice sessions from both of them, begging Colette to keep embarrassing secrets from her parents, and much more. Jesse was kind of a rogue, and possibly something of a philanderer, but he was kind, and funny, and always knew how to make her smile. Notoriously bad at choosing presents, though, she thought with a smile, thinking of the train set. Colette wasn't as warm - she had a brusque, almost dismissive manner sometimes - but she was loyal and had a cast-iron moral code. Zosia remembered the times Colette had comforted her after bad break-ups, the times she had tried to warn her away from undesirable partners, and the time Zosia had begged her to keep quiet after she had caught Zosia smoking.

Thinking of Colette made Zosia guilty. She was still friendly with Jesse, but her relationship with the other woman had suffered after her mother's death, only improving now. She had been terrible to Colette when she'd turned up at Holby, and she wasn't sure why. Had she been jealous of the closeness between her and Guy? it wasn't romantic closeness, she knew that - Colette had always been far too sensible to fall for Guy's charms - but it had felt like Guy had turned to Colette instead of Zosia, and that had hurt. That wasn't Colette's fault, though, and Zosia was glad that they were getting along more now.

After some deliberation, Zosia decided the problem had to be her father's reticence to talk. It was what was bothering her - it had to be. Tomorrow she would try to talk to him some more, and see if he was ready to open up. It would be better for him too, surely?

As she was thinking, one of the other bedroom doors opened and Arthur paddled out, squinting at her as he put his glasses on. "I thought I saw a light on," he said groggily. "Thought maybe someone had left it on, and I should come and turn it off - I mean, electricity isn't getting any cheaper..."

"Couldn't sleep. Sorry for waking you."

"Oh no, it's okay." Arthur sat down opposite her. "Worried about something? I think work's going all right - for you, that is - and...oh dear - has something else happened? It's not like that guy you overdosed with viagra, is it?" He turned around, suddenly in a panic. "They're not still here, are they?"

Zosia scowled at him. "First of all, I didn't overdose that man with viagra - he did it himself. And secondly, no, there isn't anyone here I've injured in a sexual mishap. But, thank you for your high opinion of me."

Arthur scratched his head and paused awkwardly. "Um. Sorry. So...why can't you sleep?"

"Bad dreams."

"Want to...ah...talk about it?"

"Not really."

"It could help?"

Zosia placed her head in her hands. "I don't know, Arthur...it's like...one step forward, two steps back...I try to fix things and it doesn't work...I stay away and it doesn't work." She sat back in her chair. "Every little bit of progress I make is so hard, and nothing seems to..." She tailed off as Arthur's eyes glazed over at something. "Arthur? Are you listening to me?" She looked down to where he was looking, and realised the white t-shirt she'd chosen was a very sheer one. "God, Arthur, are you staring at my breasts?"

"What?" Arthur looked up suddenly. "God! No - I mean, I'm tired and I must have dozed off, and besides, I've already seen them...not that they're not...you know...very attractive and all..."

Zosia sighed and stood up. "Good night, Arthur. Sorry for waking you up." She walked to her room, calling out behind her: "And stop staring at my bum!"

Closing her door to Arthur's muffled shouts of denial, she flopped down onto her bed. Tomorrow she'd talk to her dad again, get him to open up. It was what they both needed, after all, wasn't it?

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"I said no!"

Zosia stood back, surprised at the force behind Guy's words. A quick glance to Colette revealed that she was equally shocked. "I'm sorry..." she stammered. "I thought...I thought you might want...be ready to talk."

In his anger, Guy had stood up, knocking his chair over from the sudden, violent movement. He leant over his desk towards her. "When I am ready, I'll let you know, all right? Until then, drop it!"

"I just thought...it might help both of us..."

"It won't help me. It will just remind of that time, of what she was going through...you weren't there..."

"And whose fault was that?" yelled Zosia, suddenly overcome with anger.

"Your mother's!" spat back Guy. "I just did what she wanted, no matter how much it tore me apart!"

"I thought we could help each other..." snapped Zosia.

"Guy..." said Colette softly, "she might have a point."

Guy softened a little, and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, darling...it's just..."

But it was too late. The rage that Zosia had been holding back had spilt out, and she couldn't plug the gap now. "Forget it," she snarled. "I don't need this, and I don't need you!" She strode out of the office, ignoring anything the other two might have been saying, and slammed the door hard behind her. As she made her way down the stairs, angry tears pricking at her eyes, she couldn't keep from yelling at herself in her head. Stupid girl, she thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did she always do this? Fly off the handle, let her mouth run away with itself? Hadn't she been trying to stop herself from doing this very thing?

Now she was back to square one - she was hurting, her father was hurting, their relationship was in the toilet once again, and any chance they had of moving on was dashed for now. Even in her anger, Zosia realised she had been out of line - she'd pushed it, tried to make her father do something he hadn't been ready to do, and when it hadn't gone her way, she'd exploded. Classic me, in other words.

The damage was done now, though, and her stupid, silly pride prevented her from going back to apologise. As she walked through the car park, she realised she was heading for Albie's - her subconscious mind no doubt already planning to drown her sorrows. Like father, like daughter, she thought ruefully.

Before she reached the bar and the promise of blissfully intoxicated oblivion, she forced herself to stop. No, she thought, getting drunk isn't going to help. What she should do was go back, apologise to her father, and talk things over like adults, but her stubbornness made that impossible right now, no matter how much she regretted her outburst. Unsure of what direction to take now, Zosia stood on the pavement, letting the summer breeze cool her down. She rummaged in her pockets for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes, and as she did so, her keys fell to the ground. Cursing, she knelt down and picked them up, her eyes falling on one neglected key in particular as she did so. An idea that her rational mind instantly dismissed as ludicrous flashed through her head.

Zosia stood up again, shaking her head. No - that was possibly the worst idea she'd had in some time. In no way should she even consider doing that. Unfortunately, bad ideas and stubbornness were something that went hand in hand when it came to her...

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The house stood in stark contrast to the bright blue sky around it, the spring evening still bright even at this hour. It would have been more appropriate had it been overcast - had the sky been ominous and grey, the threat of a storm hanging in the air. It would have matched how Zosia felt, standing at the gate to the house she had considered a home for almost all of her life, yet had not been within a mile of it in over a year. How did something that once held such comfort - such safety - to her, now fill her with dread, twisting her stomach in knots at the very sight of it?

The answer was obvious, of course. It was because of what had happened on one of the last times she had been here.

The taxi pulled up in front of the house, and Zosia got out, hefting her bag behind her. She pulled a few notes from her wallet and handed them to the driver without looking at them or him, then turned back to the house. At the sound of a throat clearing, she turned back to the driver. "What?" she asked irritably. "Come on, that must have been enough."

"Where's the tip?"

"Tip?" She snorted. "You should give me one, given the quality of your driving. You're lucky I didn't puke all over your seat." She burped. "Sorry - wow, I should not have had that last martini on the plane. But hey, it was a celebration, right?"

The taxi driver did not reply. His gaze remained stony. "Tip," he said firmly.

"God!" Zosia dropped her bag, turned to the taxi driver, and pulled up her t-shirt and bra, holding them up for a few moments, then pulling them back down. "Okay - got a good look? Great - I think that should cover it."

The taxi driver was speechless. Zosia took that as agreement and picked up her bag, heading through the gates to the house.

Zosia paused at the door. Was this wrong? She still had her key, so of course it wasn't breaking and entering - plus it was her family's home, so she had a right to be here, and yet...it still felt like a intrusion of sorts. It wasn't really the family home anymore, was it? It was her father's house now. She had her own place, and her mother...wasn't here anymore. Maybe she should ask her father before going in.

However, he probably wasn't in the mood for talking right now, and neither was Zosia. This might be the best course of action - maybe by going back in here, she could find out more about her mother's last days without having to bother her father. He'd appreciate that, right? He wouldn't even have to know - she doubted he'd be home for some time, and she'd be long gone by then. In fact, she half suspected that he slept at the hospital sometimes. It would make sense - he probably had the same mixed feelings about the house as she did.

All the rationalisation in the world didn't get rid of the churning in Zosia's stomach as she raised the key to the door. She paused, took a deep breath and slid it into the lock. She couldn't run forever.

Zosia slammed the door behind her, and dropped her bag to the floor. "Mama! Dad! Zoshie's home! I know I might sound a little tipsy, but that's okay - exams went great, so I'm celebrating!"

There was no answer. Zosia frowned and walked through the hallway.

Normally her mother would be here to meet her - her dad not being here was pretty much par for the course - but there was no sign of either of them. Confused, she made her way through the house, calling out for anyone to answer her.

As soon as Zosia set foot into the house, a wave of emotions overwhelmed her - she couldn't count the times she'd walked in here to be greeted by her mother, always waiting for her at the base of the stairs, a huge smile on her face and a reassuring hug to greet her. In fact, this had been the last place she'd seen her mother alive. The taxi to bring her to the airport had been outside, and she'd hugged her mother on the doorstep, telling her not to worry about her - that she was fine at medical school, that she'd call every day, that she wasn't overwhelmed by the prospect of her exams. Had she told her mother that she loved her? Zosia couldn't remember - she hoped she had. Then she'd waved goodbye, got into the taxi and sped off, never imagining that she'd never see her mother again.

Had her mother known then that the cancer had returned? Had her father known? Had they both said their goodbyes that day knowing that she'd never see Zosia again? She had to know. She had to understand.

Zosia wandered into the kitchen, to find her father sitting at the table. "At last!" she said irritably. "I've been calling for, like, ever! What is up with you?"

There was no answer. Zosia saw that her father had a glass in his hand which he downed in one gulp, instantly refilling it from an almost-empty bottle of whiskey on the table. He repeated the gesture, and Zosia realised that the room stank of alcohol. "Jesus, Dad - how much have you drank? Don't tell me you and Mama have had another stupid fight again? What was it about this time? Being indiscreet? Spending too much time at the hospital? All the usual shit?"

Guy didn't answer, much to Zosia's annoyance. Just before she was about to grill him for answers, the kitchen door opened and Colette walked in. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and they widened in surprise when she saw the new arrival. "Zosh..." she said softly. "I forgot you got back today."

"Yeah, seems like a lot of people have." She jerked her thumb at her father. "What's up with him, and where's Mama?" Something didn't seem quite right. "Hang on...what are you doing here?"

Colette walked over and gently took Zosia's hands in her own. "Zosia..." she said softly. "Something's happened...it's about Anya...your mother..."

Zosia's mind reeled and tears filled her eyes. "No," she said quietly. "No, please..."

"It was the cancer...it came back..."

Zosia shook her head. "No, no...that's not right...she would have told me...she would have said something! This is just a sick joke." She looked at Guy. "Tell me this is just a joke!"

He didn't say anything, merely downed his glass again.

"Zosh..." The sound of Colette's voice made Zosia turn to face her again. Tears were running freely down her face. "I'm so, so, sorry."

Shaking her head, Zosia tried to somehow figure some way this could possibly not be happening, but the inescapable, horrible truth finally hit her. Her mother was dead.

And Zosia screamed.

Tears ran down Zosia's face as she sat at the kitchen table, head in hands, sobbing at the memory. It was as raw now as it had been a year ago. When she was here, it was as if she had never left that moment, never left this room.

That was the problem, wasn't it? She had never left this room, not really. What had happened here had defined her life from that point on - no matter what she did, no matter where she went, no matter how much she drank, or how many people she fucked, she was always still here, a little girl sobbing about the death of her mother.

Composing herself, she forced herself to get up. This ended today - today she was going to move beyond this place - she was going to deal with her issues (or at least start the process). She couldn't keep this up - at various times over the past year she'd felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Something had to change.

It was strange walking through the house again after so long, mused Zosia as she ascended the stairs. It felt familiar, yet somehow not - as if the memories she had from here had happened to someone else, in another life. At the top of the stairs, her parents' room was at the end of the corridor. Reaching the doorway, she held out her hand to the doorknob, but stopped just shy of it, her hand clenching involuntarily. She wanted to go inside but...no.

No, not the bedroom, she thought. Making a clandestine visit to the house was one thing - invading her parents' private space was another thing entirely. Going into the bedroom was one step too far.

As Zosia turned away, she saw the door to her mother's study was slightly ajar. Walking over to it, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, smiling at the mass of papers covering her mother's desk, the bookshelf, with the books filed in an baffling order - one that would make sense only to her mother, and the CDs scattered around, on top of, and sticking out from beneath the CD player. Her mother had never really been one for organisation. She was glad her father and the cleaning staff had left the room as it was - a tidy, orderly room wouldn't have been like her mother at all. She supposed that her father must have ordered it to be left like that - he probably couldn't bear the idea of anyone disrupting it - and for that, she would have to thank him. This room - so much like her mother - was doing nothing but making her feel better.

A hard-bound notebook was sitting open on the desk. Zosia took a quick glance at the page, mentally translating the Polish text. With a start, she realised what it was - a volume of her mother's diary - and it was open to the final entry, dated just a few days before her death.

Zosia whirled around in shock, hands to her mouth. She was in no way ready to read that at this time. The thought surprised her - did that mean she was prepared to read it in the future? It was her mother's diary - her most private, innermost thoughts. Surely it would be a violation of her privacy to read it?

On the other hand, it would help Zosia understand what had gone on with her mother right before her death - it would help her to finally see how her mother felt about keeping it from Zosia, how she had come to the decision to keep it secret. It could help Zosia finally put the past to rest and move on with her life.

Looking at the book, Zosia made a decision - she grabbed the book and shoved it under her arm. She might not be ready to read it now, but that would change, and she might not get another chance to get it. As for the privacy issue...well, if she knew her father, he'd already read it - and if he could read it, why couldn't she? The justification was flimsy, even by Zosia's standards, but she'd set her mind on this course of action, and there was no turning back now.

It was time to leave. Finding the diary had galvanised her, reassured her that the trip had not been in vain - that it was the key to her peace of mind. She was suddenly worried that her father would return and prevent her from taking it, so it was time to get out. As she hurried towards the door, something caught her eye, something sitting on top of one of the bookshelves in the room.

It was a box, not much larger than a Rubik's Cube. Zosia paused in her exit and picked it up, drawn to its unusual design and its incongruity with the rest of the room. It was a black and lacquered, with complex gold etchings on each of its six faces. She'd never seen it before, certainly not in this house. As she turned it around to examine it, the light bounced off the gold etchings and the black lacquered surfaces, creating odd patterns on the Box. It was absolutely beautiful.

Zosia didn't know why, but she stuffed the Box into her coat pocket. For some reason, she felt compelled to take it with her. Was it her mother's? Her father's? She didn't know - she just knew she had to bring it with her. She hurried down the stairs and out the front door, locking it behind her. As she closed the gate behind her and prepared to turn the corner to the next street, she heard a noise behind her, turning to see her father's car pull up to the gates.

She slipped around the corner quickly, hoping he hadn't seen her. It didn't appear that he had, as he waited for the gate to open and drove through, not calling out to her, or signalling that he had seen her at all. Zosia took a deep breath, looked at the diary still tucked under her arm, smiled, and walked towards home.

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Close examination of the Box yielded no answers. It seemed to be one solid piece, with no clues as to what its purpose may be - if indeed it had one beyond the aesthetic. If not - that purpose, Zosia thought, was one it fulfilled admirably. When she let the light dance over the surfaces, she imagined she could see shapes in the black spaces between the gold etchings. A trick of the eye, obviously, but one that must have been intended.

As she was gazing at it, Arthur wandered by the open bedroom door, toothbrush in hand on the way to the bathroom. He paused as his eyes caught the Box and they widened in excitement.

"Oh, wow!" he said, walking into the room eagerly, setting himself down on the bed beside Zosia. "Where did you get that?"

"Do you mind?" When he gave no answer, she sighed. "I suppose not. It's an...heirloom. It was my mother's." Probably, anyway.

"It's incredible," said Arthur, gazing intently at the Box.

"Do you know what it is, then?"

Arthur looked up at Zosia in confusion. "Do you not?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't..."

"Yes, yes, of course. It's a puzzle box. I think. Certainly looks like one."

Zosia frowned and examined the Box intently. "So it opens? I've been looking at it all day, and I can't see any way of opening it."

"Well, if it was easy to open, it wouldn't be much of a puzzle, would it?"

"Hilarious."

Arthur leaned over and pointed at the gold etchings. "If I had to guess, I'd imagine that there are tiny pressure points and mechanisms on the surface of the Box. You probably have to be concentrating really hard to even notice the movements. I mean, some of the puzzle boxes I've seen require over fifteen hundred movements to open them."

Zosia repeated the figure incredulously, and Arthur nodded. "You said this was your mother's? Do you know where she got it?"

"No. Sorry. I just found it at the house."

"Oh! You've...ah...been round to the house? I didn't think you'd been back there since...well, you know. Does that mean things are better between you and Mr. Self? That is a relief, because you know, with me and him being on the same team now, it was awkward when you two were arguing, because I was in the middle, and..."

"He doesn't...know that I was there," said Zosia gingerly. At Arthur's exasperated gasp, she continued: "And it would be really nice of you not to tell him that."

"Okay...just when I thought things were getting easier, they suddenly get a whole lot harder." Arthur sighed. "I'll keep quiet." He gestured to the Box. "About that - you wouldn't mind if I...well, I'd love to have a crack at solving it..."

"No!" Zosia was shocked by her snapping - as was Arthur from the look of it. "I'm sorry, Arthur - I'm just tired. But...it's an heirloom, like I said. I'd just really prefer not to have anyone else mess with it right now." She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for keeping quiet."

Arthur blushed, made some indistinct comment about it not being a problem, and left. Zosia set the Box on her cabinet, and got ready for bed.

The Box stayed in her thoughts that night.

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When she arrived at the hospital the next morning, Zosia was dreading seeing her father. She'd never been very good at being humble, and it was even worse when her father was involved. As it turned out, she didn't even have to go to his office - he was standing in the lobby, impressing a group of junior doctors (female, Zosia noted, with a lack of surprise) with some of his favourite card tricks.

Zosia sighed. He'd always been obssessed with stupid magic tricks - he'd even tried to teach her some, but she'd never been interested. It had always delighted her mother, though. Mentally steeling herself, she walked over to him, calling to get his attention.

At the sound of his name being called, Guy turned around to see Zosia walking up to him. "Well..." he said evenly. "I've got an important meeting first thing with the board, so if you could perhaps keep the screaming at me until after the meeting, that would really help my mood."

"I'm not going to scream at me you." Zosia paused, not quite meeting his gaze. "I actually came to...look, we both said some things we regret yesterday, I'm sure...so let's just move on, not dwell on them, and perhaps...well...we can just pretend yesterday didn't happen."

Guy smiled at her. "Why Zoshie, is that an apology?"

"Don't call me Zoshie, and...no. No, it's not an apology. Just...clearing the air. Why, were you going to apologise?"

"Oh, no." Guy shrugged. "I think we can move on, then. Maybe I'll see you later?"

"Maybe," said Zosia curtly. After an awkward pause, she gestured vaguely to the lifts. "I...I should go." Her father bid her goodbye, and she left, still not quite meeting his gaze. As she stepped into the lift, she felt the tension drift out of her and she exhaled loudly. Why was that so difficult? Surely not everyone found it that painful to be cordial to family members?

As the lift door was closing, a hand darted in between the gap, causing the doors to reopen, and Serena Campbell stepped in. "Ah, Doctor March!" she said. "I haven't seen you in some time, have I?"

"No...how have you been?"

Serena shrugged. "You know how it is. It's going well...considering the circumstances."

"I heard about your mother," said Zosia tentatively. "I'm sorry...I know how hard it can be when your mother gets sick." When Serena failed to reply, Zosia got worried. "Sorry - did I overstep the mark? I didn't mean to pry or..."

"Don't worry, Doctor March," said Serena, with a sigh. "It's just a lot to take in - I'm still trying to deal with it myself. But...your concern is noted, and appreciated. Anyway - I hear that your studies are going well. Confident about passing the year?"

"I think so."

"Good." Serena smiled. "I'm glad that you seemed to have sorted out your...issues. I always thought you had a great deal of potential, despite them."

Zosia smiled back. "Thank you - that means a lot. And I wouldn't say I've sorted them out, but...I'm working on it." She paused. "Speaking of that, I suppose you'll be seeing my father later on."

Serena frowned. "I hadn't planned on it...why?"

"At the meeting with the board...he mentioned it to me this morning. It seemed quite important...I thought you would have been involved."

"Well, that was quite logical to think, considering I am deputy CEO. But no, I have not been notified nor invited to said meeting." The lift stopped, and Serena gave Zosia a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Anyway, good day, Doctor March. Nice to see you again."

With that, she was gone and the lift doors closed again. Zosia leaned back against the wall, and gave a small smile. It was childish and petty, she knew, and she should be past all this by now, but it still gave her some amusement to know that she'd dropped her father right into Serena's bad books - a place that no-one relished visiting.