"Anna, you won't believe what Dr. Strallan's done in here," Edith said quietly, looking around the darkened office that belonged to Anthony. She had stopped by early, while the street lamps were still on and the damp of night hadn't quite left. She wanted to drop some things off before her meeting, but now she didn't want to go.

Anthony's own, rather stately desk had been pushed into one corner, making room for a prim little walnut one in the opposite corner just for her use. While Anthony's desk had a stiff looking leather chair behind it, Edith's was wicker with a cushion, much like the one in her bedroom. On her desk Anthony had placed a thesaurus, dictionary, and an antique copy of Jane Eyre that Edith imagined was quite valuable.

"Edie?" Anna asked after a long silence.

"Sorry, I was just surprised. He's given me a desk and some books," Edith managed.

"Well that's generous of him," Anna replied, not grasping the extent of the man's thoughtfulness. "So, what did you do last night?"

"Had Anthony for dinner."

"Really? I thought you had spent the morning with him."

"I had," Edith muttered distractedly. She pulled the desk drawer open to find pads of paper, new pens, and a little notecard that simply read "Welcome" in unmistakably masculine print.

"Oh, I see. So you're enjoying this Dr. Strallan?"

"Immensely," Edith sighed without thinking. As she sat in the wicker chair, she tried to downplay the pounding in her chest and the strange new emotion filling her head. "He's a terribly decent man."

"Is it possible he's a terribly decent, available, attractive man you might actually have a wee something for?" Anna probed.

"Anna," Edith moaned.

"It's alright, you know. To be interested in him. In anyone. It might be a nice change for you."

"Really, Anna. He's twice my age, and a professor, and rather old fashioned."

"So he's perfect for you."

"Stop it."

"Look, I don't know why you're so reluctant to just admit you might like the man. I've never seen you spend more than an hour willingly with anyone besides me and your family, and barely even us. And if you're looking for someone to talk you out of him on the basis of age, call Mary or your mother or someone because I won't do it. John's older than me and we couldn't be happier."

Edith, unable for form a response that sounded reasonable even to herself, was quiet for a while.

"All I'm saying," Anna finally offered maternally, "Is that you've never believed you'd find anyone you could really fall for, and maybe now that you have you're just a little hesitant. Don't be so afraid all the time, alright?"

"It's not that I haven't liked men, Anna. It's that they haven't liked me," Edith said in a rare moment of truthful sadness.

"Oh Edie," Anna sighed, "You haven't let them like you."

"Anna, I'm going to be late for my meeting with Professor Gregson."

"Just, promise me you're going to give yourself a chance, alright?"

"Yes, of course. Bye Ann," Edith agreed softly.

Looking around the little room, Edith took a deep breath. Dr. Anthony Strallan, in roughly forty-eight hours, had proven himself to be a kind man and a kindred spirit. Edith, who had always considered herself practical and sensible if nothing else, found herself in quite the predicament. She was not a romantic or maudlin person, but her personality simply would not allow her to ignore the facts either. The burden of being terribly clear-minded, Edith decided, was that you must see the truth whether you'd like to or not, even about yourself.

Edith stood, a dreamy smile playing on her mouth that she caught in the reflection on the window. She ran her thin fingers along the edge of his desk, over his antique clock, the arm of his chair. She wondered when he started his mornings, and gathered it was early because it simply suited him better. Knowing she would have to hurry if she were to be on time to meet Mr. Gregson, Edith gathered her bag and the extra copy of her manuscript. She would have been more reluctant to go had she not the promise of Anthony sitting in this very room upon her return. Smiling to herself once more, Edith slipped out, locking the door behind her.

In his email, Michael Gregson had suggested they avoid the "formality" of a campus office and meet at a little coffee place a few blocks away. It was a particularly blustery day, the last of the mild summer blowing south. Gregson wasn't hard to spot, sitting alone at a table in the back, an ankle crossed over his knee and an expression like he owned the place. When they made eye contact he smiled and nodded.

"Hello Mr. Gregson," Edith greeted, offering her hand. He took it limply and didn't stand.

"You must be Edith Crawley. Hello, please take a seat. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"No, thank you," Edith said, sitting across from him. His beady eyes and rather large ears did nothing for his thin, hard frame, and something in the way he looked her once over made Edith uneasy. She found herself glad that she had worn a button-up blouse with a knit cardigan and trousers as opposed to the more form-fitting sweater dress she had been considering. "I don't drink coffee, actually. And I've already had my morning tea. But thank you."

"All good writers must drink coffee to excess. And smoke, too. Do you smoke?" he asked with a teasing smile.

"I don't," she replied, "I find it rather repellant, actually."

"Oh dear," he sighed, "well I see I have my work cut out for me."

Edith glanced down at the table, mostly to avoid his stare, and shrugged.

"Well, Edith, how do you like Dublin so far?"

Edith found herself gauging Michael Gregson's general manner against Anthony's. Dr. Strallan had insisted on calling her Miss Crawley until somewhere around Temple Street when she finally stamped her foot in protest. And given that every inch of Dublin would permanently be associated with Dr. Strallan for Edith, she wasn't sure how to phrase her answer.

"I'm very fond of it," she managed.

"Yes, well, the romance fades, I can tell you," Gregson said cynically. "But if you make the right friends it will never be dull. I'm from Belfast originally, but I traveled between London and New York for a long time. Those are real cities, full of color and life."

"What made you settle in Dublin, if it isn't a 'real' city?"

"Ah, well, I was in want of a grown-up job and called in a bit of a favor, sent in my work as a journalist and whatnot and here we are. So," he said, changing his tone and the subject, "What have you got to show me?"

Reaching into her large bag, Edith produced a copy of her work. "This is a collection of short stories I've been working on." Gregson took the manuscript from her hands indelicately and leafed through to the middle.

"Have you got a particular favorite?" he asked. Edith shook her head. "Alright, I'll start with this one," he muttered with a frown.

Edith, surprised and embarrassed that he was going to read it right there in front of her, waited awkwardly. He seemed to be treating it with mock solemnity, but she tried to believe he would take her work seriously. The longer she waited, fidgeting and uncertain, the more she wished she were back in the comfort of Anthony's presence. It felt extremely wearisome, after the last couple days, to be returning to her familiar social anxieties.

"Well," Gregson said suddenly, causing her to jump. He slapped her manuscript onto the table and folded his arms. "Very well done indeed."

Edith, admittedly flattered, dropped her head. "Thank you," she muttered, "and what criticisms have you?"

"None, really. Your style is clear, your vocabulary strong. Well done."

"Perhaps if you read some of the others," she tried, hoping he wasn't simply being dismissive.

"Don't need to. You see, I know the publishing business, and you've just what they're looking for. Elegant stories and a pretty face, you'll sell like mad."

"I'm not so concerned with selling, Mr. Gregson," Edith began.

"Call me Michael, I insist," he interrupted.

"You see I've come here to study and to improve my writing."

"What is there to improve? Really, Edith, this is wonderful. But if you'd like, I'll take the rest of these with me and read them when I can. And, as your portfolio advisor, help you arrange anything you wish to include when you're ready. Anything new you produce in your workshops I'll be happy to review. Perhaps over dinner sometime we can hash out some of the details."

Edith nodded weakly, unsure whether disappointment or defeat was more prominent at the moment.

"For now," Gregson continued, "Let us get to know each other a bit? I'll be in a much better position to help you if I know who it is you are." He flashed a smile and folded his hands together over his knee.

"Unfortunately," Edith hedged, "I'm afraid I must run. But thank you for your help, and I do look forward to your notes on the rest of the stories."

"I'll email you when I've finished and we can get together to discuss," he agreed.

Edith was already standing and buttoning her wool coat. "Yes, alright," she said hesitantly, halfway to the door.

"Looking forward to it, Edith," Gregson called coolly, leaning back in his chair. Edith felt his eyes on her as she left and tried not to look in too much of a hurry.

Michael Gregson had been polite, friendly, and was complimentary of her work. So why Edith had a restless feeling in her gut as though she needed a good scrubbing was somewhat of a mystery to her. A week ago she might have been flattered by his attention and found him attractive. Now, as she hurried back through the fresh rain to campus, she was forced to acknowledge that anything less than Anthony's crooked grin and blue eyes and sincerity seemed wholly inadequate now.

When Edith opened the door to Dr. Strallan's office, she found him sitting in one of the wingback chairs, looking over some papers that seemed to be student work. His legs were crossed, his left hand holding an essay while his right absently swirled a cup of tea. Upon Edith's entry, those great, cerulean eyes of his glanced up and his face immediately brightened. He stood to welcome her, and Edith felt she had seen this very image a thousand times before, as though she'd been greeted by this exact view every day of her life. She smiled widely despite herself.

"Hello you," he greeted, tossing the paper he'd been holding onto the stack on the floor beside him.

"You were very busy yesterday," Edith accused gently, dropping into the chair across from him.

"I was with you most of the day," he answered, frowning slightly in confusion as he sat too.

"When, then, did you manage to move a desk and chair in here for me? And some lovely, lovely books?"

"Oh, you know," he stammered uncomfortably. If Edith wasn't mistaken, he also blushed mildly as he glanced down.

"Dr. Strallan, I can't thank you enough."

"You needn't thank me at all, but if you're going to insist on calling me Doctor I'll have to insist on calling you Miss Crawley."

Edith flushed and muttered a "Very well."

"Can I get you a cup of tea?"

"Please," she nodded. "I've just had my meeting with Mr. Gregson and I'm afraid I need it."

"Oh, was that this morning? And how did it go?" Anthony asked, trying to keep his tone casual as he moved to the pot on the windowsill and poured Edith a cup of tea. Before she had time to ask he added a splash of milk, just as she liked it.

"Alright, I suppose. He was very complimentary of my work, but I'm not entirely certain my goals are quite in line with his."

Anthony grunted by way of reply as he returned to his seat.

"Anyway, I don't suppose I have to go to him for anything except final approval of my portfolio."

"Certainly not," Anthony agreed absently.

They were quiet for a while, Edith sipping her tea and Anthony staring at the floor in thought. He seemed to be working something out, but Edith didn't care to press him for information. Glancing around what felt now like their office, Edith saw Anthony had returned her manuscript to her desk.

"You can't have finished it already," she said in surprise.

It took Anthony only a moment to know what she was referring to. Following her gaze he also looked at the neat bundle of papers and said, "I did, actually. Last night."

"You are tenacious," Edith laughed, blushing deeply at the thought of him knowing her work so intimately. "May I ask what you thought?"

"It was very gracefully done, Edith. Your stories are solid, purposeful, and tidy. There were several passages that showed real mastery of language. I took the liberty of flagging them, I hope you don't mind."

Edith shook her head quickly, unable to speak for the pounding in her chest. He had read it, all of it, and he approved. But then Edith saw something in Anthony's eyes, a certain reservation that clouded them, and she deflated. "What else?" she asked, "I can see you're holding back."

"It was very beautifully done, but overall, I think you are absent from your work. Do you know what I learned about your from reading your stories?" he asked. When Edith shook her head he said, "Not a thing. Except maybe that you have an above-average vocabulary and a propensity to use conjunctions when you're describing emotion or beauty."

Edith nodded, trying to take in what he said and willing herself, much to her humiliation, not to cry. "I see."

"As a writer, you are your greatest asset. A work without you in it is pointless. You have a great deal of talent, that much is clear. What I think your stories are lacking are vulnerability and honesty. They read like they were written by someone with an identity crisis."

Edith felt absurd. Her throat was thick from fighting her tears and she couldn't think of a thing to say except to nod. Anthony's eyes were searching her face, and sudden recognition widened them.

"Oh dear, I've been unkind," Anthony said, true concern crossing his features. "I had no intention of hurting your feelings, Edith. I just thought I owed you my full honesty."

"Of course, I do appreciate your candor," she said with a thin smile. "I really do. I value your opinion a great deal."

"No, I can see I've gone and made you upset. They are really wonderful stories, Edith. Truly they are."

"Please don't feel like you must pander. I appreciate your honesty. It's exactly what I wanted. And you're quite right, of course." Edith spoke as serenely as possible, but tears began to brim over and she turned her head quickly to brush them away.

"Oh, I am an ass. Let me make it up to you."

"It's not necessary, really, Anthony."

"No, no. I'll think of something." Anthony reached out and placed one large hand over Edith's shoulder. Even in her current state she noticed the warmth it sent through her. "Please don't cry," he pleaded softly.

An embarrassed laugh burst through Edith's tears. "This is absolutely ridiculous," she complained. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I should go."

Anthony watched helplessly as she stood, mouth gaping as he tried to find the words to stop her. Edith forced a smile as she took the manuscript off her desk and moved for the door. "I'll see you," she managed, closing the door between them before she really lost it.

The cold air stifled her tears while Edith walked home, but the moment she was inside her little flat they fell hot and fresh. She felt so silly, a grown woman crying over one mild criticism. But looking at herself in the mirror she'd hung in her entry, Edith saw only her grandfather's eyes, and her mother's skin, and her Aunt Rosamund's hair. It was, she acknowledged for the second time in as many days, the same reflection she'd always seen.

And then Edith realized she wasn't crying because of Anthony's criticism. She was crying because he was absolutely right.

Her entire life Edith had been an amalgam of familial obligation and disappointed expectations. She was not social, or conventionally pretty, or dutiful. She'd never made a decision to be just who she wanted, but never committed herself to her parent's wishes either. Instead she had wallowed somewhere in no man's land, fulfilling neither herself nor her parent's desires. Of course she had no identity. She'd spent her life trying to come to terms with it and never had.

But something about her newfound independence or the strange old city, or the way her skin still hummed from Anthony's touch changed this suddenly. She was no longer the invisible Edith, annoyance to her sisters and gofer for her parents. Edith had come to Dublin, on her own hard work and savings. She had decorated her flat to her liking, and she had made friends with a man who understood her and appreciated her tastes. She'd even, Edith accidentally admitted to herself before she could censor the thought, fallen in love with him.

And then the tears fell all over again.

When Edith had pulled herself together some time later, she was sure of two things: who Edith Crawley was, and that Edith Crawley was in love with Dr. Anthony Strallan, unlikely as it was after such a short time.

Feeling a need to begin again, Edith took her manuscript from her bag. She marched to the tiny balcony at the far end of her flat and threw the doors open. Taking a deep breath, her lungs filled painfully with the icy air as Edith unbound the stack of papers and tossed them into the wind. The breeze took them higher and scattered them in strange movements all over the soggy alleyway.

Feeling liberated, Edith wanted to continue the trend. In her bathroom, she searched the drawers beneath her sink manically until she found what she was looking for. With a satisfied grin, she took her girlish braid in one hand and cut it at the base with the other. Her strawberry-blonde hair fell against her cheeks in a rough, a-line bob, the natural wave already returning to it without the weight of length to pull it straight. The eight inches of hair in her fist shocked her at first, until Edith realized it was the same damn braid she'd worn most of her life, and now she was free.

A knock at the door brought Edith back to earth. Certain it was Anthony, she quickly cleaned the mess she'd made and wiped her puffy eyes.

"Coming," she called. "I'm here!" And Edith smiled at the private truth in her words as she opened the door.