This will be the last chapter of this story. As always, I'd like to thank everyone who stuck with it, who read and, hopefully, enjoyed it. I'm so happy to have had the privilege to share this story with you, and hope that the ending will not disappoint.

Also, as an aside, this chapter's title was taken from a Paula Cole song called "Happy Home". And thank you to Astra, for pointing out a glitch in the posting at one of the most crucial points.

Chapter 7: Home Sweet Freedom

Tomorrow, Michel will leave.

Tomorrow, I'll go with him.

I sit up in bed, though the clock tells me that it's barely two in the morning. The sky is clear, and I trip over one of my three pieces of luggage on my way to the window. Above me, the crescent moon seems to float on a violet cloud; beneath me, the garden spreads out to the stone wall surrounding Noir's home. Noir's home… I turn the words over in my mind, and allow their meaning to spread through my consciousness.

Yes, this building is Noir's home, and because of that, it can no longer be mine.

I've tried so hard to come to terms with this decision, and what it will mean to every aspect of my life. I've tried to deal with the changes, with the severe losses and seemingly-inadequate gains. I've tried to rationalize this pain, and still, I am no more at peace with it than I was to begin with.

If Noir asked me to stay, I doubt I would be able to refuse him. That's why I have to leave as soon as possible, before he recovers enough to do so.

I sigh, and turn away from the window. I've come to realize that I've always taken stability for granted; I never believed that there would come a day when I would be unsure of what I was going to do, why I was doing it, and whether it was the right choice. I never thought that I would be unresolved about anything, at least not as long as Noir was alive.

Now, resolve is a dream, and even its hazy image is fading quickly.

I sink back into my bed, which is too soft, and stare up at the ceiling, which is too bleak. The darkness surrounds me, and the unknown quantities it conceals are almost a metaphor for the many ways my life could unravel from this point, for the many people I might become, and the many lives I've released myself into the possibility of living.

I try to focus on the most positive of these projections, and find optimism as elusive as oblivion.

---

I expect no fanfare when Michel and I leave the house the next day, and receive none. As I stand in the entryway, waiting for Michel to join me, I can hear a servant dusting the nearby parlour, and the sound of another dragging a bucket across the floor of the intersecting hallway in the process of, presumably, scrubbing it. The noise reminds me that, despite my departure, the house is moving on, and the feeling both sickens and soothes me. On one hand, I will not be missed; on the other, I will not have to feel guilty for extracting the price of my freedom from the wages of another's inconvenience.

"Laila."

I look up, and see Florian coming down the stairs. In his left hand, he's holding a small, rectangular box, barely large enough for a few sheets of folded paper. "Thank goodness. You haven't left yet."

"Hello, Florian," I say. "I don't know what you need, but Michel's going to be here soon, and---"

"I know: I don't need anything. I just wanted to give you this." He holds the box out to me. "It's not much… certainly not as much as I wanted to give you. Noir wouldn't hear of a party, though, and I had to sneak out just to buy this." He chuckles. "Noel picked it out. He said it was perfect, so if you don't like it, remember that I had nothing to do with it."

I take the box cautiously, as though I expect it to transform into a serpent at any moment. "Florian…" As my right hand closes over the box, I press my left to my mouth. "Thank you. Thank you so much." My gaze traces the outline of the sloppily-tied ribbon. "Do you mind if I open it later? I may need it… on the trip."

Florian smiles. "Do as you like. It's yours." He opens his arms, and I half walk, half fall into them.

"Thank Noel for me too," I say as his arms fold around me.

"I will," he replies.

From the stairs, someone clears their throat pointedly, and I look up to see Michel descending languidly, as though he has nowhere in particular to be. "I sincerely hope that I am not interrupting anything," he says with a pleasant grin.

Florian laughs, and the vibration of his chest is comforting. "Not at all. We were saying goodbye."

"Well, don't let me stop you." Michel touches my shoulder as he passes. "Come when you're ready. Don't rush yourself."

I nod. "Thank you."

Once he's gone, I close my eyes. "Please take care of everything," I whisper to Florian. "I know you will anyway, but…"

"I understand. And I will."

I tighten my hold on him as though, in this last extremity before my departure, my instinct is to cling to any relic of my old life. "Please… thank Noir for me too. Not now, but when he's calmed down, when and if he begins to understand why I'm doing this… thank him for everything. Thank him for being there for me, and for doing his best." I feel tears coming, and sniff resolutely, determined not to cry. "Tell him I love him, and I always will. Tell him I'm sorry it had to be this way."

"I will," Florian says, for the third time. "On one condition."

"Yes?"

He leans down, and his breath stirs my hair as he says, "Be happy, Laila. Whatever you do, be happy." With that, his arms fall back to his sides, and it's all I can do to let go of him in return.

"I'll write to you as soon as I'm settled," I say as I back toward the door. Every step is an effort, as though my feet are mired in quicksand.

"I look forward to it."

"I'll write to Noel, too… will you give him my letters, if I send them with yours?"

"Of course."

I open my mouth to speak again, and suddenly realize that there's nothing left to say. In the void left by the absence of words, the terror of uncertainty threatens to crush me again, and I freeze. Though I do my best to command them, my legs refuse to move any further.

As though he intuits my struggle, Florian comes forward and takes my hand. "You can do this, Laila. You need to do it, for yourself." He begins to lead me, very gently, toward the open door, and I follow him so reluctantly that it feels more as though I'm being dragged.

"Farewell, Laila," he says once I've made it outside. Then, he lets go of my hand, and walks back into the house.

"Farewell, Florian," I recite. I do not turn around: I know that I cannot bear the sight of the door closing behind me.

The soft click of the latch alone is nearly enough to bring me to my knees.

"Laila." This time, it's Michel's concerned voice that brings me back to my senses, and I look up to see him standing less than four steps from me. "Is there anything I can do?"

I take one step forward, then another. "If I stop… make sure I keep going?"

He grins. "Why, my dear, you make it sound like a chore."

To what I believe is my credit, I clear the twenty-three steps to the waiting carriage without this assistance.

---

During the few daydreams in which I've pictured the act of leaving, the boat that waited to carry me out of France always seemed so big, almost the size of a British flagship. Michel's ship, by contrast, is of the lightweight class favoured by merchants, and for a moment, I pause before it. Surely, such a modest ship cannot be the vessel of my departure. Surely, such a great change cannot be accomplished by such relatively minor means.

I shake my head then, and remind myself that the change is great only in my eyes.

"I know she doesn't look like much," Michel is saying when I return to my senses, as though he's read my mind, "but I find that less is more, at least in some cases. Wouldn't you agree?" He smiles invitingly at me, and I force myself to smile back.

"You'd know more about that than I would," I say.

"Quite possibly," he replies, and his smile broadens as though he considers my reply a victory of the highest order. "Come. I'll show you to your cabin. I gave orders that it was to be appropriately furnished, but if you don't like it, you may always relocate to another one." He laughs. "Please don't ask me to delay the voyage any longer in order to refurnish it, though. The captain is loyal, but even he might feed me to the sharks if I kept him waiting any longer."

I bow my head. "I apologize for holding you up."

Michel clicks his tongue. "Now, really… when have you ever known me to be coerced into something I didn't want to do?" I look up just in time to catch his wink. "That's one of the perks of being a free spirit, you know: no one can tell you what to do."

"Thank you, then."

"You are, as before and always, most welcome, Miss Laila." He begins walking, and I follow him as far as the boarding ramp in silence. Once we reach its lower boundary, however, I stop, and by the time Michel turns around, he's already halfway to the deck.

"Is everything all right, Laila?" he asks.

I turn, and look out at the port town behind us. I watch the harbour workers going about their lives, and imagine Noir and Florian going about theirs. I allow the memories of my time in this country to flow through me, and capture them within myself. I will never let them go, but nor will I ever let them control me.

"Not yet," I reply, "but I'm coming anyway."

My first step onto the boarding ramp does indeed feel like a victory of the highest order.

---

Inside my cabin, the décor of which I don't even notice, I unwrap my present from Florian and Noel. The ribbon falls, forgotten, to the floorboards, and I lift the lid from the box as I've often watched Noir open treasure chests, with equal parts anticipation, satisfaction, and trepidation.

The box contains a very finely made crystal pin, cut into the shape of a rose, complete with thorns. The blossom is tinted amber, and I recall reading somewhere that yellow roses represent dying or platonic love. For a moment, I wonder whether this link was intentional, until I notice the folded slip of paper tucked beneath the pin.

No matter what, it says, in Florian's handwriting, we'll always love you.

I set the box aside, and press my hands to my face. I don't want to cry anymore; I want to face the dawn of this new chapter in my life bravely, and happily, in the certainty that I've made the right choice. I'm so sick of tears, and the weakness they demonstrate. These, I tell myself as they begin to fall, will be the last I cry over this.

Though its falsehood is evident, the lie remains comforting.