He wants to take her pain away, Jo repeats in her mind. She knows it's true and yet with each gentle thrust, though he holds her like porcelain, she is breaking. He wants to take her pain away. This is why they are making love in the middle of the night and she is choking back tears and he can't look at her face.

The sensation of bile is in her throat, caught, sitting there like a lump of lead, slowly poisoning her. She has deserved this discomfort. It is minor, she tells herself, lying a hand across the broad spectrum of his shoulders. He should know at least she is grateful that he tries, that he wants to do this at all is a mark of the kind of man he is.

Her husband.

Suddenly his hips shudder and she runs the tips of her nails down the centre of his back and she knows he has come and she no longer has to keep her eyes shut and swallow all of this like some sort of self-flagellation. How can she act like such a martyr? It sickens her more.

Friedrich grunts lightly as he moves off her to lie so close beside her, an arm wrapped around her waist as though it will seal the deal. Jo shuts her eyes again and rolls away from him, silently crying now though she can feel his peaceful smile against her back, his arm still tight like a vice.

Please God, she prays though she knows she has no right anymore, let him think he has done me right.

"I love you Josephine," he whispers in that gruff German voice she knows better than her own these days. She swallows hard, hoping to swallow any trace of tears.

"I love you too." And she does. Only it is too little, too late.

Jo tries harder to be a real person the next day. She throws her heart into cleaning, scrubbing the kitchen floor with such vigor that her hands and arms turn red with the force. Fritz smiles at her, kisses her cheek and tells her, as he does everyday "Everything will be well," his 'w's terribly 'v'-like. She scrubs a little harder and her wrist seizes up.

She kneels in the suds, holding her aching wrist as she looks up at the sky through the kitchen window. Time holds no meaning for her anymore. Clouds are passing overhead and the earth keeps turning and she sits there, just sits, the soapy water soaking through her pinafore, through her dress, through her first petticoat, the second, the third (it is now spring), her stockings, her drawers. A part of her feels as though she is melding with the floor. She needs to be scrubbed clean, wiped free of the dirty water, so clean before it touched her.

The maid takes away her sponge twenty minutes later when she finds her kneeling in the kitchen. She has nothing to say to Mother Bhaer. She lifts the pail of water and soap and empties the bucket outside the back door. She puts it all away and Jo still kneels on the kitchen floor, looking up out the window.

The sun moves from one side of the house to the other, the water clings like ice and still Jo doesn't move. She is left alone and she watches the clouds until her husband returns home.

"Jo," he is gripping her shoulders too hard but she won't tell him it hurts. "Jo, dear." She can hear the running water behind her; filling the tub she knows her husband will ask her to sit in, to warm herself. It is cold but she can't find the strength to move. To feel.

The maid is unbuttoning her pinafore and all she feels is the pressure of her thick fingers, prodding into her back with every button. Fritz holds her from in front and is looking at her as though she is trapped behind a brick wall. What, she wants to ask him, what, what, what.

"Come now," he seems to settle on saying, though she reads much more in his eyes she doesn't ask him. He pulls her pinafore off and she can feel the maid has already started on her dress. Her underclothes are pulled down and she is standing naked, propped up before them like the china doll that stood on the dresser in front of Beth's bed when they were children. It stood there until Amy knocked it down, fighting with Jo over whose turn it was to read Father's book.

Amy couldn't even read, Jo recalls.

She has been dragged to the bath and now lies in it, covered up to her neck in such hot water it stings her skin all over. Her legs and waist are numb from the shock and she blinks, looking for Fritz. He stands in the doorway; talking to the maid he has pushed into the corridor. She doesn't wonder what they are saying; she knows it is about her.

She wants to cry again.

Fritz will turn around though and she will be caught. He will know what is written across her face and she will have no choice but to dunk her head under the water and hold it there until the soap penetrates the deepest cells of her body. Until she is the water and God will take her back.

Jo doesn't realize she has done it until she is spitting out water and her husband is holding her and it is cold again. She has soaked his jacket through.

The bed feels like a box, pressing into her from all sides but she hasn't the strength to move, to push it away from her. Jo lies there and thinks about these things, these feelings but they are hard to piece together and she just shuts her eyes.

She should be trying to get on with her life, she thinks. She should be trying to think of something, of someone that will make her want to get up and face the day, face those clouds that pass interminably overhead without her will. Jo pictures the face of her mother, pictures her father, her Beth, John's Meg, Meg's children, Amy…

She can't think of Laurie. She won't think of him.

Jo rolls over to face the other side of the bed, pressing her face into the pillow. Her husband's side is empty and briefly she wonders where he is. Then she remembers it is midday and the sun is shining through the lace curtains from her side of the room for a reason. It shouldn't be so confusing, she thinks.

Time makes no sense to her now.

"You must be careful, Jo." Her husband's hand strokes her hair out of her face and it feels so soothing she worries she will fall asleep before he finishes. She has only just woken. "Herr Doktor says you are still weak from the pneumonia, liebchen. You must be careful."

She closes her eyes and feels guilty that his concern feels more like a lecture. She knows, she knows, Jo wants to tell him, but his hand is like a warm muff against her ear, his fingers so smooth and gentle that she cannot form the words.

"Don't cry, Jo."

He mumbles something in German before the warmth of his hand is taken away and she can hear him move across the floor of their room. She does not open her eyes.

He pauses in the doorway, she knows because the wood groans under the shift of his weight. Jo imagines he is leaning against the doorframe, looking across at her but she cannot bring herself to turn over and smile at him. It is too much, and then he leaves.

Tomorrow, she promises herself, she will get up and surprise him with a kiss. She will smile and cook breakfast – something harmless like toast – and put the washing on the line and not look for the trees in the outer field. She will run about with the boys and she will put them to bed and be the wife she knows she can be.

She will not think of Laurie.

Tomorrow comes and goes. Another tomorrow comes, another tomorrow goes, and then another and another. Her life becomes a series of tomorrows, parading through without much pomp and no circumstances and Jo lies in bed and feels like nothing very much.

Fritz brings her warm milk and it doesn't help. He holds her at night and it doesn't help. The boys write her stories and it doesn't help. The maid stares at her as though she has lost her mind and is nothing but a stretch of clothes and flesh to be pitied. And it doesn't help.

Eventually she feels sick.

It is not the nausea of guilt, but something else entirely. It is something she thought she would forget forever and it rushes over her like cold water until she is throwing back the sheets and running for the bathroom. She vomits into a pot, nothing but liquids and hot, searing bile. Everything tastes like acid and she vomits more. She vomits until there is nothing left in her stomach except a raw, tender feeling and she is shaking, her face red and hot like her throat.

Jo stands, away from the pot beside the bath and stares at herself in the mirror. She is standing, she is standing by herself and although there are flecks of yellow sick in her long unbound hair she is smiling. She is so thin and she is smiling and holding the front of her nightdress.

She knows what this feeling is. She is having a feeling and she knows what it is.

She is pregnant.

The doctor comes and she remembers his visit. It is no longer a blur when he performs such strange tests, feels for a fever and tells her to eat more, to rest as much as she needs, but please eat more. It is a circumstance. She remembers her husband escorting him out, never taking his eyes off her. She remembers sitting in bed and blinking and feeling so strange but… and she dares to feel it… happy.

It is like a spell has been lifted off her. She feels and she feels and it is feeling that makes her happy.

Fritz returns with a bowl – "stew" he informs her with such a doting smile – and she eats. It isn't much but it is something. She swallows three whole spoonfuls of it and drinks so much water that she feels full. She likes to feel full and she knows she is on her way back to normal.

Tomorrow is coming and for once she feels like it.

Nothing improves quick enough for her. Jo does not return to work about the house within the week, she still eats too little and sleeps too much but things are changing. She begins to put on weight again, she begins to sit up, out of bed on her own volition, she begins to see day and night. Most of all she begins to feel again.

Jo is by the window and she watches her boys run in the field below. It is a much-welcomed sight as they tag each other and run about giggling and shouting to each other. It is late in the afternoon and the sun will finish setting within half an hour but she watches them contentedly.

Supper will come soon and she will join them tonight. She will clear an entire plate and smile at her boys. Jo will be part of her family again and it thrills her.

She has discovered the little joys in her life since her sickness and she has come to treasure them all the more. How could she have wanted to throw all of them away when they mean so much to her, always meant so much to her? She clouded her mind with one situation, Jo decides, looking down at the boys being rounded up by Fritz to ready them for supper (and her). One situation in her life was allowed to overshadow the rest and she feels more ashamed of that than Fritz says she should.

He tells her the shame and guilt are passing things, like the sickness itself and she will soon be better and feel silly for even feeling them. She tries not to laugh at his delusion and thanks him earnestly instead. He cares so much for her and she loves him so much and she tries to hold onto the feeling every waking moment. If she can just keep the feeling alive in her heart long enough it might erase every thought and feeling she had before the sickness.

In a way it has become a turning post in her life. Without the sickness she might have continued down that dark path, thinking only of the man she refuses to think of, that thinking overshadowing every good and honest thing she had and has at Plumfield.

Thinking of what she has Jo stands to dress herself for supper, a hand on her slowly increasing waistline. It has been two month since the sickness and she has begun to fill out and it is touching to know that this child is no lie. It comforts her when her husband holds her at night to not have to lie, to not have to hide. To hold this child in her heart without guilt, to imagine, just for a while that this child will fix everything in her life.

The turning post, she realizes is actually the child.

Jo dresses in a plain brown dress, pins her hair in a net and stands before the floor-length mirror smoothing imaginary wrinkles away. She cannot fool herself. Everything in the past, every lie, every sin, every moment still counts.

She is lying to herself to get on.

Jo steps away from the mirror and opens the bedroom door, heading downstairs to sit with her boys. That newfound lightness in her step has gone and she plasters a well-practiced smile on her face and starts her life again.

It is hot during the middle of the day now and spring is hardening for summer. She wears only two petticoats today and is washing the clothes. Her arms are deep in the outdoor sink, sleeves rolled up as the maid takes the cleaned articles to the line and pins them up. Her stomach is swollen though small and it is uncomfortable to lean over the sink like so but it helps keep her mind off of what day it is.

A letter arrived for her that morning, odd enough that it was not sent through the post but when Jo saw the pointed scrawl of her name on the envelope there was not so much mystery but a sickened realization. She'd excused herself from breakfast and escaped to the study by the bedroom upstairs.

Jo drops the last of the clothes for the maid and pulls a smile for the woman before taking the now empty basket indoors. She is trying not to think of the day but the letter keeps coming to mind and she stops in the kitchen, the basket against her hip.

That letter had been the hardest letter to open. She'd looked out the window over the desk to the field lined with trees and swallowed. The envelope was small and light in her hands but her throat was scratchy and her hands shook just a little. Jo steeled herself and pulled the flap out of the back – it hadn't even been sealed – and reached in. Her fingers froze at the contents before she managed to pull them out. A small pressed flower and a yellowed note lay in her hand.

Jo puts the basket down beside the door – she will need it later for when she takes the clothes off the line. She smoothes her hands down the front of her pinafore, letting the cotton soak the remaining suds off her arms before she pulls her sleeves down, suddenly feeling cold. Jo looks around the kitchen for something, anything to do but is met with order and completeness.

"No," she pleads with herself, but her legs are already walking her out the kitchen, up the stairs and towards the study.

She opens the study door and the letter and its contents are right where she left them in the morning, propped on the desk, covered in sunlight. Jo turns and locks the door behind her though no one shall disturb her for lessons are on and her husband is teaching math.

Jo sits at the desk and opens the letter as she had before, staring at the gentle effort of its sender. She drops them to the desk and buries her face in her hands. It is too much. The past is catching up to her again and she is stuck in time.

The azalea's faded colour almost matches the colour of her skin in the sun and she stares at it, wondering how long he kept the flower. How long has he planned to send it, or was it one in Amy's collection he saw only a few days ago before deciding to send it to her. Jo's eyes switch to the note, folded over once carefully. She pushes it open and stares at his neat script, thick from a new pen undoubtedly chosen by her sister and she hates it and hates that she hates it.

It reads:

'Take care this day

-the Lawrence Boy'

She wants to scrunch it up and throw it as far from her as possible. It is too sweet, it is too perfect it is just what she needs and didn't want to know.

Her child should have been born today.

Jo does not tear the little note up though. She does not crunch it into a little ball and throw it in the paper wastebasket beside her, filled already with her husband's unfinished letters to her mother.

She sits, holding it between her thumb and two fingers, trying to remember the feeling of its maker's hands. She stares at the flower and the note and tries to remember what it was to be the centre of the world to the man she loved but it was so long ago and so much has happened that all she can conjure up is the looks of his nails, short and blunt set in such long fingers made to play pianos. Made to drum against her skin.

But she cannot remember the feeling.

The note is folded and tucked back in the envelope and Jo looks up, back to the window before her, eyes scanning for the tallest tree, the one with the little body buried beneath. She has consciously avoided finding that tree for so long that when she sees it she knows she is already crying. Three slightly smaller trees from her view surround it and she knows they have grown since her last visit. Their last visit.

Jo picks up the flower and leaves the house, thinking she won't be missed for a few hours. It is better they don't know she is crying again anyway.

The tree feels bigger than she remembers and when the wind rushes through it, bending the thinner branches at its edge, rattling its leaves she feels as though the tree is passing judgment on her.

She kneels in front of the unmarked grave; placing the little vase Meg gave her two years ago for Christmas on top. Now there is visible evidence of her murder, Jo thinks, tears blurring her vision. Laurie's pressed flower is joined with three daisies she picked from the path outside the kitchen door and though there is much sentiment in the action Jo thinks it right.

"So much has changed," she says to the wind. She wipes her sleeve across her eyes and stares up at the boughs of the tree. It is a little easier to see the bark and leaves, the undeniable strength within the tree than her mistakes on the ground.

"You can't be replaced," she says at last, laying a hand on her abdomen. It helps to make these small statements for everything she says sounds so big, so final as the wind greedily swallows it up.

"And I can't ever be sorry enough."

Jo looks back down to the little vase, the small flowers dance around, quivering as she lets her tears fall freely. There is no use in pretending she is strong and hard and made of mettle that can't be shaken. She killed her baby and carries another and although the order of the world should be returning her heart is begging for everything to be different.

She hates herself and nothing has really changed. It is only getting easier. Time is making the hate softer, its constancy makes it dull and she tries, she tries so much for control. Everything in her past is still real. And she has the time to accept that.

She misses everything that never happened. Everything that could have happened and should have happened.

She misses Laurie.

The whole of summer passes and Jo makes an effort to see no one but her husband and the boys she lives with. Her mother visits her two times, but her age hinders the desire to see Jo more and her daughter understands. In truth, she is grateful for her mother has always symbolized virtue, honesty and everything good in the world and it hurts to see her. She doesn't feel good enough, doesn't feel like she is the daughter her mother raised her to be and when she waves goodbye it is a relief.

She is more comfortable hiding with herself.

Autumn passes too and she sees no one then either. She has to write more letters and it helps when she is sick for it all feels like less of a lie to have such an excuse to keep her in bed and away from her family guests. She lies in bed and listens for their familiar voices below, her husband's the most recognizable of them all.

Only once does she hear Laurie and he is laughing, "Bess," she hears him laugh and she wonders what the little girl looks like now. She won't find out though – not tonight - and she pulls the blankets tighter around her and closes her eyes, feeling the child within her move as she does.

It won't be much longer.

Later she hears the door open and the sound of feet shuffling against the carpet rug. The other side of the bed lowers and the slats creak with the new weight. Cold feel touch hers and a warm hand lies against her belly. A throat clears and she knows it is Fritz and a moment later he is snoring softly, a warm body against her back.

Jo smiles because this is familiar. This is her life now and she can live with it.

It is Thanksgiving. Jo is round with child and wearing a dark green dress, so thick in the colour she feels like it is already Christmas. Fritz smiles at her as they set the long table, the beautiful table cloth a present from her mother, the silverware their wedding present and the glasses from Friedrich's homeland. Everything looks warm and inviting and as she rubs an absent-minded hand over her stomach that her nerves are all gone.

She can face her family tonight. And she won't be ashamed.

Fritz kisses her cheek as he places the final plate in front of the chair she stands before and the edges of his beard scratch lightly against her skin. "Your cheeks are so red, Josephine," he notes and she smiles, straightening his collar.

The children are upstairs getting ready and she feels like home is the most wonderful place on earth. "They have reason to be, dearest," she says, still smiling. She leans forward and Fritz captures her lips. Their kiss is slow and gentle and it fills her like red wine, comfortable and warm, spreading from her lips into her fingertips. They pull apart and she can't stop the blush spreading across her face and Fritz smiles at the sight, rubbing her back.

"Pardon, Ma'am," the maid is standing in the archway of the dining room and Jo nods. "The Laurences are here. Shall I show them in or will you meet them in the hall?

And just like that Jo feels every inch of warmth sapped from her.

"We'll see them in, danke Mary." Fritz lets her go and follows the maid out. Jo is shaking but she follows without tripping a single step. Wringing her hands she tries to remember how to forge a smile like before everything had felt so natural until she hears her sister's voice and forgets how to breathe.

"Jo! Fritz! Oh Jo it's been so long!" Jo finds not only the Laurences but the Brookes and Marchs in the foyer hall and her youngest sister is pushing past them heading straight for Jo who is frozen to her spot.

"Goodness you've grown," she says over Jo's shoulder, embracing her strongly. "Fritz said the child had grown but I hardly imagined this." Amy pulls back to study her sister's swollen belly, awe and happiness across her young face. Fritz had of course told them about her pregnancy – it was only natural, she reassures herself but when she looks past Amy into the crowd of her family she sees a face that mirrors her own.

Laurie stands by the wall closest to the door, shock stamped across his face. He is holding a little girl who must be Bess.

Jo looks away fast.

Her mother comes to kiss her and everyone is greeted and welcomed in. Jo's boys waltz down and say their 'howdiedoos' before everyone shakes hands and congratulates the weather for what should be a wonderfully clear, crisp night. They move to the parlour in the back to watch the sunset over the trees in the fields beyond and Jo retreats to a chair in the corner.

Fritz pours some drinks and everyone catches up, sharing stories of Demi's good arm, Bess' first words and a great debate over the fastest of Jo's crowd. Jo is silent but she smiles quietly, watching her sisters navigate their families into order, their mother holding their father's hand, the tall dark form of her husband as he plays host. She has missed this, missed them and if she could not feel Laurie's stare beating into her from the opposite corner she might think everything perfect.

"Fritz," she calls him over. Her husband bends beside her, still carrying the tea, and listens. "Is there anything I can do?" Jo asks for she has the sudden desperate need to be busy. Laurie is still watching, her eyes flick over to his without her permission and she concentrates instead on the line of her husband's jaw 'neath his beard.

"No, dearest. Alles gut. Everyone is happy." He smiles, squeezing her hand briefly before he moves away with the teapot still in his hands.

Jo looks back to Laurie whose attention is momentarily on Bess whose hands seem to grab for everything. Amy sits closely beside him, her hand resting on the arm of his chair as her baby plays with her golden curls. The three of them are a complete picture, a complete family and an old ache starts in Jo's chest. This is the reason she has avoided them so well for almost a year and it fills her with righteousness. She has done the right thing.

She quickly looks away.

Mary pokes her head in, a hand on the door to the parlour. Jo sees her and nods, smiling her thanks. As soon as the woman disappears Jo stands, one hand on her belly as she announces, "The turkey's ready!"

Jo manages not to catch herself alone with anyone other than her husband during the Thanksgiving dinner. Everything goes smoothly though she can feel Laurie's gaze on her almost the whole time, she simply reaches for her husband's hand and when it comes time for farewells, Jo only waves instead of the old embraces and kisses. It hurts but everything is manageable and she sleeps well that night, knowing she has kept two families together.

Four weeks pass and it is time for Christmas at Orchard House. Her red dress is made of velvet and she wears tartan ribbons in her hair. Her husband is in his customary black suit and together they look quite presentable. Plumfield has had its Christmas morning and every boy has been spoilt with gifts this year so they are angels when it comes time to hand the reign of the house over to Mary and the older lads.

Fritz helps Jo into her side of the buggy seat, careful not to let his hands slip on the heavy material. The bottoms of her shoes are wet from the snow and it is difficult but they make do. It is only a short ride to Orchard House but Jo is shivering when they arrive and Mrs. March swiftly seats her daughter by the fire. They are the first of the three families to arrive and Jo savours this moment to prepare herself. She will be cordial but distant. She won't even have a chance to speak to Laurie.

The Brookes arrive next and their family mill around the sofa nearest to Beth's old piano, Meg trying hard not to let her children upset anything though they refuse to sit still. Daisy and Demi run over to Jo to feel her belly as they had at Thanksgiving and Demi so graciously declares, "It's bigger!" before Meg laughs and shushes him, calling him over to sit on her lap.

"I'm too big for that," he says but climbs atop regardless.

The Laurences arrive at last, unusually late and Jo tries not to hear them in the foyer as they enter.

"You should have thought of that yesterday, or two days ago, honestly Laurie it's Christmas. How could you even think of work at Christmas?" Amy's voice is quiet but Jo knows her sister's lecturing well enough.

"I told you –" Laurie begins but he is interrupted by Mr. March who offers to take their coats and hats. That is all Jo hears of their conversation before Brooke asks the Professor about the latest news from Germany and Meg blushes.

Fritz is still talking when the couple enter, Bess in Amy's arms, a crocheted bonnet on her little head. The Professor holds his conversation and everyone greets them with a "Merry Christmas!" which is quickly returned despite Amy's tight smile and Laurie's tired eyes.

All return to their seats and Jo carefully folds her hands, avoiding Laurie's eyes. His gaze has found her again and she can't show she is shaking, she knows they're having problems but that doesn't justify anything. It shouldn't, she pleads with herself, trying to drag her mind from the topic. Think of the fireplace, think of Daisy on her father's lap, think of Fritz so close by.

Jo takes her husbands hand and returns his soft smile.

Conversation begins again and Fritz is soon engaging Brooke with tales of his family and the latest ideas from Berlin. Meg is bouncing her boy on her knees and cooing at her niece beside her in Amy's arms.

"How are the little dears?" Amy asks Meg and they talk of babies and treasures. The little girl pulls at the lace frills that adorn her mother's neck, sucking on the fingers of her spare hand and Laurie sits beside them, oblivious. Jo has caught his gaze now and there is real danger when she realizes she can't look away.

This is their family; this is what they almost threw away.

Jo blinks slowly, following the line of his jaw, the scratchings of a beard beginning, the flattened collar of his Christmas clothes. He looks thin, thinner than normal and she wishes she didn't know the cause. She looks back up to his eyes, seeing he has measured the changes in her too. They are so black, so deep she might never be able to pull herself out of this.

"…Emily took that tansy," Jo's attention immediately centers on her sisters' conversation. It is soft and quiet as though they shouldn't even be talking of it. She would hear that word a mile away. "I don't understand how anyone could give up their baby just like that."

"There is no excuse, it is selfish and it is murder," Amy says decisively, whispering the final word for the children's sake. On what authority has she, Jo questions to herself, guilt battling with angry spite as her sister continues. "She'll never set foot inside a church again I suppose."

"I suppose not. I just wish there was something I could have said to make her stop. Oh, Amy I'm afraid I didn't do my Christian duty," Meg looks to her lap, running a hand over Demi's dark hair. "Do you think she's quite well?"

Jo stands suddenly, feeling as though the earth is rising up to meet her and swallow her in this sickened feeling. "Excuse me," she whispers for her oblivious husband's benefit and leaves the room on the tail of Amy's voice.

"It's Christmas and she's performed the greatest sin –" Jo never hears the end of Amy's sentence for she's reached the hall and her heartbeat is thundering in her ears.

"Oh God," she gasps, one hand against her belly, the other at her throat. It is as though she is choking down the pill once again and the ground is spinning infinitely beneath her. Her head feels like water and sick and it tips. "Oh God," she will faint.