"If that's all right, of course," Harry added softly, trying to keep a tight lid on his emotions, trying to remember that as strange and difficult as he was finding their sudden change in circumstances it must have been doubly unbearable for Catherine.

She eyed him over the rim of her coffee cup for a moment, blonde hair all a tangle, still dressed in her pajamas. For all the heartache that had come between them, all the years of silence, he loved his daughter fiercely, and he saw rather a lot of himself in her. Even her dogged pursuit of justice for the weak and downtrodden was a gift he had given her, for it was Harry, and not Jane, who had devoted his life in service to his country, sacrificed again and again so that others might be kept safe. In this moment, as she silently weighed him up and deliberated his request, she reminded him quite forcefully of himself. She could be a cool customer, when she wanted to be, knew how to work with people, how to accomplish her goals. It was just that, unlike her father, she was rather more adept at expressing her emotions. That she had inherited from Jane.

"Of course it's all right," she said at last, with a sigh. "You ought to meet Emma, and we ought to talk. I'll text Rachel and let her know she's welcome to come for breakfast."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that perhaps some of her ire had cooled, but then she looked down at her mobile and made a rueful little sound.

"I suppose that's not even her real name, is it? Rachel.' Her tone was derisive, and as she spoke he realized how much she must still be hurting. He imagined it must have been all but impossible for her to imagine someone like Ruth, someone closer in age to Catherine than to her father, someone soft and kind, taking up with him. It must have seemed like such a betrayal, on both their parts, and though he longed to defend himself he could hardly find the words. How to explain the inexplicable, he asked himself; how could he ever hope to give voice to everything that Ruth had meant to him, all the hope and all the potential and all the loss that was their short-lived affair, when he had never even voiced his feelings to Ruth herself?

"No," he said sadly.

Catherine stared at him for a moment, caught between curiosity and seething rage, but in the end she simply shrugged and shuffled off, muttering about having a shower before the boys woke up. And in the silence Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, thinking about his daughter - both his daughters - thinking of Ruth, and the frailty of love, the impermanence of personal connections in his world, the sheer inconceivable providence of his having found her here, the insurmountable difficulties that faced them.

Right, he thought bleakly. Coffee.


"But, Mumma," Emma whined, but Ruth remained firm in her convictions.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said, dragging the comb through Emma's blonde curls without the slightest hint of sympathy. "This will only take a moment."

There were few things in life Emma Rose Evans hated quite so much as having her hair seen to, but Ruth was determined that when at last Harry and Emma were introduced he would see that their daughter was neat and clean and well-looked after. Though Ruth had not insisted that she wear a dress, knowing that Emma loathed them and that she was only going to be playing with the boys anyway, she would not budge on the matter of her hair. And besides, even if Emma did not enjoy it, Ruth found a certain sense of calm in moments like this, standing behind her daughter, running her fingers over those soft blonde curls. Emma had been blessed with hair the color of her father's, a deep rich blonde, and it hung in soft ringlets almost to her shoulders. The curls reminded Ruth, not just of Harry and the way his soft hair would curl around his collar when he let it grow too long, but of Ruth's father as well; he'd had thick, dark hair, as curly as Emma's. Sometimes just looking at her little girl made Ruth's heart ache, thinking of her own father, how she missed him, how she wished she'd had the chance to introduce him to his grandchild.

Wishes, Ruth had found, were not often granted, and so she was hellbent on making the most of the opportunity she'd been given, having Harry back in her life. There was still a spark of something between them, and while she feared that giving into it would be madness she was resolved not to push him away. Some force of fate beyond her understanding had brought him back to her, and she would not squander this chance, would not let him slip through her fingers again, not unless that was what he truly wanted. And she would not keep him from his child, would as gently as she could introduce them to one another, and perhaps all together they would find their way through this mess.

"There we are," she said when her work was finished, pausing to place a tender kiss against the top of her daughter's head. "All done."

Emma was out of the chair in a moment, racing off for the door, and Ruth watched her, smiling softly, thinking uncertain thoughts about the titanic shift in their lives that was about to occur. Emma didn't know it, yet, but everything was about to change.


"Here we go," Catherine said softly, and before Harry could ask what she was talking about there came a soft knock upon the back door.

He had been sitting at the kitchen table, speaking softly to his daughter, but now that Ruth had arrived he was on his feet in a moment, straightening his shirt front and taking a deep breath. Catherine did not see him fidgeting for she had already gone to open the door.

This is it, he told himself, waiting with bated breath for Emma and Ruth to appear. He had given it a lot of thought, this first meeting with his daughter, and decided it might be for the best if he were not introduced as her father. He did not want to make her uncomfortable, did not want to force her into affections she was not ready to feel, did not want to overwhelm her, and so he planned to take things slowly with her. She was, after all, only six, and this situation was confusing enough for the adults in the room.

One thing at a time, he told himself.

But then, oh then, the door opened and they stepped through, Ruth and Emma, and his heart very nearly exploded in his chest. He could not blink, could hardly breathe as he hungrily devoured the sight of them, this woman he had loved and lost, this child who was his flesh and blood.

Ruth was speaking softly to Catherine and Emma was holding tight to her mother's hand, wide blue eyes staring at the stranger across the room. Those eyes, so like her mother's, left him startled and aching, brought the stunning truth home to him at last in a blow fierce as a knockout punch. This was Ruth's child, a child she had carried within the shelter of her own body, a living piece of her, and in Emma's face he saw the features of his beloved, the high, sharp rise of her cheeks and the full bow of her lips and those eyes, huge and blue and brilliant and lovely. The soft blonde hair, however, was all Harry, and he almost grinned at the thought that he could see a piece of himself in the countenance of that angelic little girl.

Beside her Ruth was lovely, wearing a soft navy dress, her dark hair longer than it had ever been in London, falling in gentle waves around that face he loved so well. Time had not dulled her beauty; if anything, she was more enchanting now than she ever had been before, now that she was older, and wiser, and sadder, too. He could hear the warm, melodious sound of her voice, but in truth her words did not register, for Harry was too caught up in staring at them, his daughters and his beloved. His daughters; Christ, but that would take some getting used to, the notion that now there were two where before there had only been one. And though Catherine was tall and proud and a mother herself as he looked back and forth between the pair of them he could almost convince himself that they shared some things in common, their sharp noses perhaps, or the curve of their chins. Catherine's hair was the exact same color as Emma's, though hers was straight and fine. In that moment, he was hard pressed to say which of them was loveliest, Catherine or Ruth or Emma, for they all possessed a piece of his heart, these three beautiful girls, represented to him all that was good and worth fighting for in this world.

The brief conversation had drawn to a close, however, and Ruth caught his eye and smiled once, tightly, her expression full of trepidation, before she began to close the space between them with Emma in tow. Harry watched their approach feeling as if his tongue were stuck to the roof of his mouth, utterly at a loss for words.

"Emma," Ruth said softly as they came to a stop right in front of him. "I'd like you to meet someone very special. This is-"

"Harry," he said, cutting her off, just in case she had intended to blow the whole thing right open there and then. He tried to tell her, with just his gaze, that he thought it best they wait, and though she looked a bit surprised she did not seem displeased.

"Hello," the little girl said softly, uncertainly, apparently as anxious in the face of attention as her mother.

"It's very nice to meet you, Emma."

A strangled sound escaped Ruth's lips; she tried to mask it with a cough, but he had seen in her eyes all the swirling emotions that filled his own heart as for the first time he spoke to their daughter. His heart was full of wonder such as it had not been since...well, he thought to himself, since the very first time he'd laid eyes on Catherine.

"Are you Louis's grandad?" she asked him. She spoke softly, without much confidence, and still she clung to her mother's hand, and Harry found himself fighting a powerful urge to draw her into his arms, to tell her not to fret, that all would be well.

"I am," he said, and she smiled up at him, and he very nearly began to weep. No more words would come; he was lost, completely. She was a marvelous little thing, was Emma, but he had never been particularly good with children - babies he could handle just fine but he lost all aptitude once they were old enough to speak - and he had no earthly idea what to say to her. Ruth was no help, for she looked rather overcome herself.

"The boys are in the sitting room," Catherine cut through the silence neatly. "Why don't you go play with them, Emma?"

She looked up at her mother, seeking permission, but then Ruth smiled and nodded and she was gone, tearing off through the house in search of her playmates; her nephews, he thought ruefully. And suddenly, the whole thing just seemed so completely strange, so utterly wonderful, that a wide, wild grin flashed across his face. He looked up sharply and found Ruth staring at him with tears in the corners of her eyes. When she caught sight of his smile a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaped her, and he could not stop himself. He laughed, once, the tension leaving him in a sharp short burst, and then he took a single step and pulled Ruth hard against him. She went with him willingly, her hands fisting in his shirt and her nose pressed hard to his neck as she wept silent tears and he grinned, her hair brushing his chin, his very soul singing in joy. He kissed her temple once, because he could, because she was there, because he could not tell her he loved her, not now, not after all the many years of their separation, because he loved her so fully that he could not contain himself. Over the top of her head he caught Catherine's gaze, saw the hurt, the questions, the anger in her eyes, and some of his jubilance faded, but only a little. The moment was too beautiful for grief, and he was certain that Catherine's wounded heart would heal in time, once they all had a chance to grow more accustomed to their situation.


Though she had known that this moment would be a heavy one Ruth had been ill prepared for just how much it affected her, watching Harry meet their child for the very first time. For so long she had yearned for this, had wanted, so badly, for them to know one another, for Emma to have a father, for Harry to be proud of their child, and he had surpassed all her expectations, had been kind and gentle and seemed to be rather pleased with Emma. He was taking it all in stride; yes, he was shocked, of course he was, but he had understood, innately, why Ruth had not sent word to him, why she had remained lost to him for so many years, and he did not begrudge her the choices she'd made. That was the thing about Harry, about them, that had always worked, that had convinced her to pursue him despite the nagging of her rational mind; somehow, miraculously, he knew her, understood her, in a way that no one else had ever done, and when she looked at him she knew him, his heart, his mind, in a way that frankly terrified her.

And now he was holding her, and though it might have been rash, given how much their lives had changed, though perhaps it was foolish to seek such comfort in him, she could not deny that the warmth of his arms around her soothed her racing heart, reassured her in a way that no words ever could.

But Cate was there, just on the other side of the kitchen, and so Ruth forced herself to pull back from him, offering him a watery smile before running her fingers through her hair and turning her attentions to her friend, feeling a little embarrassed, feeling as if she had just suffered some sort of emotional whiplash.

"Coffee?" Cate asked weakly, her eyes bouncing back and forth between Harry and Ruth like a spectator at a tennis match.

"God, yes," Ruth and Harry answered together.