AN: I'm sorry if this is too cruel, but from the beginning, I really couldn't see it going any other way. This is the penultimate chapter and thak you so, so much for going through this with me. Please don't forget the reviews and next stop, the terminus, Sybil.

Robert

He found himself in the nursery's corridor without knowing how he ended there, at the end of these many wanderings when he drifted from to room like a phantom, avoiding all and wishing nothing more than to avoid himself.

In a corner of his mind, Robert registered that he had not walked this part of the house since his own daughters were children, yet, as if pulled by an invisible leash, he found himself subconsciously taking steps and turning the door's knob, following the sound of soft baby noises. His eyes scanned the room and landed on the sight of his second daughter in the rocking chair, swaying her arms in an attempt to lull the fussing child back to sleep.

"Papa?" Edith called when he came into sight, illuminated by the orange light of the lamp. "I sent Nanny down to have dinner. I told her I can watch over the baby for a while."

He nodded, walking towards them but not knowing what else to do.

"How is she?" he heard himself asking.

"Wonderful, I think. She still won't settle down to a schedule but other than that, I think she's doing marvelously, given the circumstances."

"And Sybil?"

"Asleep now. Tom and Mary are with her...Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind terribly watching her for a while? Only, there's something I really must finish tonight and send to London in the morning and Nanny shouldn't take too long now. Mama usually comes in about this time but I believe something's come up about dinner tomorrow and…"

"Well, I…"

"Thanks, Papa. You're a dear."

Before he could answer, she placed a hurried kiss against his cheek, passed the baby to his open arms and was gone. In the quiet of the room, he realized that for the first time, he found himself in the presence of his granddaughter.

A month old and not once had he dared look at her face, afraid of who he would find there.

For a long moment, he stood frozen in the silence until the stillness was broken by the baby's cries, furious at the disruption and her passage into the arms of this imbecile who knew not the first thing about calming babies.

Unwittingly, he realized that the last time he had heard a baby's cries was twenty-four years ago, during Sybil's own infancy, also the last time he had held a child in his arms – the very child he had come so close to losing and who he may still very well lose.

He felt his body start to tremble and the tears he dared not shed in the past weeks rose, as in a storm, to his throat and to his eyes.

Her screams came back to him now, as they did regularly, a peculiar collection of memories – the cries of an infant girl screaming in his arms, unfamiliar with the almost-stranger holding her; the cries of a little girl, running to him in tears because Patrick had again deemed her too young to join in their games; the cries of frustration of an adolescent at dinner, forced into her first corset; the cries of fury of a young woman insisting that she, too, had a voice of her own (she had also passionately defended him that night, the father of the other little girl he now held in his arms; in the aftermath, Robert had often wondered if, had he made good on his threat, would things have turned out differently or would he have simply accelerated the inevitable?), then the cries of that last night – piercing, horrible, pleading for a relief.

My head! My head hurts so! It's splitting!

In all her life, never had he heard the sound of desperation escape the lips of his brave and rebellious little girl. It cut him to his core, made him feel powerless – but that wasn't exactly true, was it? Already, she was so far from him, in recent months she was almost a stranger. Perhaps that's what made it simpler for him to believe that all was going as it should. After all, he had never been adept in confronting harsh realities that put into question all he believed in.

(He also had very sharp memories of Sybil bursting into the drawing room in that ungodly attire, and then standing by Tom's side ready to throw away all of the world he had so painstakingly worked to build around her, that night in the dining room when she and Isobel conspired behind his back, nursing – so often, he had wondered if he was already on the path to losing the child who stood waltzing on his toes, the very first time she had danced with a man. In those years, there were few places he felt so lost as when he was in her presence.)

And he had very well paid the price.

Do you promise there's no more monster, Papa?

I promise, my darling. And if it comes back, I promise I'll protect you again.

Still, Robert had not dared visit her in the hospital. He passed in a trance, neither here, nor there, avoiding his daughter's childhood bedroom.

Not that he found much relief in sympathy – Tom, in the rare moments he was persuaded to leave Sybil's side, shook in fury in his presence, Cora deigned to address him only to repeat that he was no better than a murderer, Edith's attention was entirely occupied by the baby, Mary was infinitely kinder – she was her father's little girl after all, but her loyalty, ultimately, was to her baby sister, and Matthew stood firmly by Mary's side, his mother fretted over the state of his marriage, but not once had she consented to relieve him of his guilt – she, too, had no doubts on who was to blame (If there's one thing that I am quite indifferent to, it's Sir Philip Tapsell's feelings – hadn't she told him that once?).

The bundle in his arms did not stop crying and he stood at a daze, not knowing what to do and wondering for the umpteenth time what was taking the blasted nanny so long to finish her dinner. He swaying to no avail. The child would not be comforted and he wanted nothing but.

He found himself struggling to breathe, struggling to keep calm, wanting nothing more than to get out of this space that forced him to confront everything from his beliefs to his fears to what had happened and what could have happened.

I refuse to share my bed with my child's murderer.

The baby continued to fuss and he searched for something, anything that may relieve her but no bottle in sight, all that was left was a relic of Sybil's babyhood, a tattered old mouse his father had given her as a half-hearted consolation for being born female like the other two.

Increasingly desperate, Robert snatched the toy from the crib and dangled it in front of the child. To his surprise, the wailing stopped and was replaced by soft baby coos. The child raised her arms as if reaching, her blue eyes transfixed on the object that hang just beyond reach, emitting sounds of frustration at not being able to grab it in her tiny fists, flinging them like a cat before a piece of string.

Despite himself, he found himself suppressing a laugh and repeated his proceedings to the delight of his now giggling granddaughter. Unconsciously, he found his eyes locked on her tiny, attentive face and the aborted tears returned in full force, choking at his throat.

All he saw was his youngest daughter. The same rosebud lips that, years ago, he believed were the replica of Cora's, the same apple cheeks that would blush rose after a run through the park, accompanied by muddied dresses and matted hair, the same dainty nose, the same forehead, the same thick hair that was already curling into unmanageable spirals. The baby's eyes were the same blue as her father's and she had his honey-colored hair, but all else was only Sybil.

Sybil.

Even with his reservations he could see it now. How can she but anything but?

His Sybil's little Sybil.

His granddaughter watched him curiously for a few moments, then, not understanding why their game had come into an end, she began to fuss again, squealing and raising her arms towards the mouse her grandfather held. His tears came in a torrent and instinctively, he held her closer, hardly understanding what he was doing but knowing that he needed her proximity for his sanity. The baby cried in frustration and their cries mingled in this orange-hued room that once heard only the happy voices of three little girls without a care in the world but now echoed nothing but the anguished cry of adults and that of a little girl who may never know her mother.

She understood nothing yet, of course, but Robert understood enough for the both of them and his daughter's baby in his arms, he saw that dark and imagined future. Sybil gone and her daughter looking him in the eye, demanding his part in all of it – one day she'll understand and she'll have only me to blame.

Grandpapa, where is my Mama? Why do all the other children have a Mama and I don't?

"I'm sorry," he cried as he collapsed onto the rocking chair, baby Sybil still in his arms. "I'm so, so sorry, my darling girl. Please forgive me."

There was nothing more he had ever wanted to forget, to erase from his mind's eye, to scratch away from his thoughts if necessary, yet he doubted that he would ever forget that moment as long as he lived.

To recall it, all of it, still made him tremble.

He was not privy to the fact that over the past month that followed that night, she had asked for everyone – Tom, Cora, Mary and Sybbie, she always begged for – yet she had not once asked for him, never wondered why he had not come to see her.

Once, sitting before his firstborn in an empty dinner table, almost devoid of occupants, he asked, in a voice he strove to keep neutral, whether he may visit Sybil. He remembered Edith averting her gaze and Matthew startling at his question, his panicked eyes landing on Mary. "Robert, I –," But his daughter, dark circles under her eyes, cut her husband and smiled sadly at her father. "Not yet, Papa. Let them be first, but not yet."

A part of him agreed that he deserved nothing less. It was enough that Sybil survived but asking her to forgive him was something else entirely. Yet, a greater part of him, becoming more desperate each day, argued that he had only done what he thought was right, what he thought was best for his daughter and her child. Never would he have resisted if he thought it would cost them both.

But you did, echoed a voice incessantly inside his head. It was no longer your place but you resisted. It is her husband's place now but you did not believe the decision was his to make. But Cora understood that. Cora knew there was something wrong. Yet it was easier for you to trust a man's title than accept the collapse of your reality. You preferred your comfort to your daughter's safety and now you've almost killed them both.

In the days that followed, since Doctor Clarkson had declared that Sybil was well enough to go home, that the danger was greatly minimized, if not completely eradicated, Cora had acted as a guard dog by their daughter's room, while Tom was the guard dog who stayed by her side, both barring him entry. Their message was clear – not until Sybil spoke otherwise, he was unwelcome here.

I see things in the paper that would make her laugh, I come inside to tell her that her favorite rose is in bloom, he wanted to tell them, pleading for the mercy neither would give and of which the rest were reluctant to try to persuade them otherwise.

He was a pariah in his own home and it was a month since he had last seen his daughter.

At times, he relieved his solitude by remembering the child he once knew. He would imagine her running around the halls, trailing mud up the stairs, Mary at her heels, ready to catch her should she slip and Edith shaking her head in exasperation. He would hear again the laughter in her voice as he waltzed her round the saloon in London, that summer after her first season. He would watch her in concentration over a book in the library, only to shut it close, marching outdoors with it clasped tightly in her hands, because he had no time to spare to debate with her. He would again feel the fear that clasped at his heart when she entered her bedroom, hair matted with blood, the result apparently, of once more disobeying his orders. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he would see her, again fussing in Cora's lap, begging to be let down. She had taken her first steps then, to everyone's amazement, all because her screams were insufficient to remind him that he had forgotten to pass her back her toy mouse. It was a morbid exercise, remembering her as if she was already gone, but that was all that was left to him.

His memories and his granddaughter.

Still, he found himself wandering the corridors since her return, the foil of his actions when her life was in danger and his guilt paramount, for what reason he could not truly verbalize, and one day he stopped before her slightly opened door, standing back as Doctor Clarkson hurried past, without so much as a word.

She was cradling Sybbie in her arms when he arrived, laughing softly, and whispering things that only her husband and child could hear. The image was so sweet that Robert found himself frozen, committing to memory this side of his daughter to remember and look back on at a later date.

But Cora's eyes met his and in an instant, she had run to the door in an attempt to block his passage, Tom, only becoming aware of his presence, stood as if readying for a fight by fists or by words. Yet Sybil had already seen him, and from where he stood in the doorway, he watched her tighten her hold on her daughter with one hand and clutch Tom's hand with the other, clinging to both as if holding on for dear life. Her lips opened to emit an other-worldly sound of fear which the surprised baby began to mimic.

"Sybil," he felt himself saying, hardly knowing what he was doing, and her eyes looked everywhere but at his own.

He looked at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. He noted the circles under her eyes, the paleness of her pallor and the gauntness of her frame, the transformation from the happy, young mother was instantaneous. Yet nothing could match what he could see in the eyes that trembled under his pleading gaze.

And Robert, when Sybil wakes up, I won't hesitate to tell her the truth and your part in it.

For years, faced with her rebellions and fearing that he won't be able to bridge the growing distance between them, he often hoped that he could instill in her even just the tiniest amount of fear of authority, of fear of him – perhaps, that's what would bring her back. Now that he had succeeded, he wanted nothing more than to reverse it all. Take it all back, please.

Didn't you promise to protect me, Papa? He could read. Didn't you once held me in your arms and promised me the world? Did the man I love and our choices offend you so much to change all that? When did I stop being your daughter? Am I so offensive to you that you chose to deny my husband his rightful place that night and to condemn my child to the death sentence you have given me?

Mere months ago, she beamed as she ran to him, convinced that he had wanted to see her again, after everything, that it was he who had sent the money to cover their passage. Yet, it was he who had forbidden everyone from extending the money that would accompany the invitation home. It was also he who had forbidden Cora from following their older daughters to Dublin, to witness their baby's wedding. Still, she had loved him and forgiven him, beamed as he walked her sisters down the aisle and celebrated their engagements while her own had been met only with insults.

Oh, my darling girl. Please forgive me.

"I think you should leave, Robert," Cora intoned, her voice cold and protective. She saw him as the enemy and already she declared herself as her daughter's champion. Behind her, he could see Tom attempting to calm Sybil and the baby but the intention in his eyes, echoing Cora's, was no less clear.

Go!

The baby's cries, gained in intensity and within minutes, the wet nurse was curtsying past him into the room, running to take the child from her mother.

"Milady, if I could just…"

"I'll do it, please. She's my daughter, I should...I've already missed so much."

"Not yet, love," he heard Tom whisper as Sybil resisted. He watched their silent communication and felt like an intruder on their intimacy. "Doctor Clarkson says a few more weeks. Mrs. Rose will bring her back here as soon as she's finished, I promise."

"But…"

"She has to eat, love, and you need to rest. Just for a while."

He watched his daughter choke back a sob as she nodded, the wet nurse rushing past him into the far confines of the nursery. When he looked at her again, the fear in her eyes had vanished and evolved into something else entirely.

She no longer hesitated to look him in the eye.

Her child no longer in her arms, she studied him with contempt, as if conveying that all the pain she had faced and that was yet to come, as if all her suffering was due to him.

His youngest daughter regarded him with nothing less than a burning hatred.

That was another image that will be stay forever with him.

A month later he would pass by his wife's room on the way to the nursery and he would hear her strained voice mingling with that of their daughter. He pictured them whispering on the bed as they often had when Mary was a little girl and which had not done for so many years now. He would press his ears against the door and linger, desperate for the news no one would dare share with him.

A round of reminiscing was followed by Mary's choked voice and the sound of shifting, no doubt of Cora comforting her.

"Sybil's alright now, isn't she?" He heard Mary cry. "We won't lose her again?"

"Yes, my darling. She's alright now."

Cora's voice cracked, a strange mingle of desperation and relief, feelings held back that bubbled to the surface as he very well knew, yet, he could not listen to the rest of his wife's answer and he instead found himself pacing away from her door, moving as noiselessly as he can. He felt his chest constrict and the pain rise through his body.

He found himself in front of the nursery, desperate for the granddaughter who was all he had left of Sybil. From the first moment he held her, he knew without doubt that she would always be his unquestioned favorite, if only for that reason. He longed to take her in his arms, to act silly as he would never dare to do elsewhere, to tell her of things she would not yet understand, but now, she was his only confidant. He opened the door slowly but was only met by the orange light of the lamp and an empty crib – not even the tattered mouse was in its place.

In his solitude, he felt his loss and in this privacy, he finally allowed himself to weep.

Yes, their Sybil had returned. But he knew without a doubt, now more than ever, that he had lost her forever.