April 27, 1895

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rowan, I really am, but I don't think I can manage. Your records are - well, quite frankly, they're huge. I'm afraid I've got a rather full load already, I wouldn't be able to render these in time."

"There's no rush," the man dabbed at his bald head with a handkerchief.

His subdued manner made Anne smile kindly. "I really do want to help," she told him sincerely, her perverse satisfaction at the role reversal rapidly fleeting. The post master was a good man, she reminded herself. Hadn't he helped her twice before?

"Well..." she eyed the stacks in the back office. "If you let me take one box at a time, and give me a week, I can lower my fees to two cents a page."

Poor Mr. Rowan clumsily spluttered that money wasn't an issue, and thanked her effusively. Anne assured the man that it was a pleasure, handling herself as gracefully as she could. Her poise held until she reached the edge of the forest: she then broke into a joyful dance to accompany her victorious yips.

May 8, 1895

"What do you think?" asked Diana. "Pigeon gray, or emerald green?"

Anne examined the long strips of fabric being presented to her. "They're both lovely," she answered earnestly.

"Green is appropriate for all seasons," reasoned Diana thoughtfully. "But grey would bring out the hazel in his eyes."

A sudden vision of teasing hazel eyes and a lopsided grin made Anne's heart hammer against her breast.

"Anne?"

She blinked and turned her attention back to the neckties. "Green. The green one."

The briskness of her reply made Diana frown. "Are you alright, dear?"

Anne forced a smile. "I'm fine. It's just... I can't believe this is really happening, after all this time."

"What's happening?" inquired Davy, joining them on the porch. Surprised by his sudden arrival, both friends started.

"Nothing!" squeaked Anne, promptly shutting her notebook full of sketches.

"I was just leaving," Diana stood, cramming the ties in her bag. "Davy, have you grown recently? How tall would you say you are, now? Less than 180?"

"Uh..."

"178, perhaps," she measured him with her eyes. "Anne, would you say 178?"

"Probably," agreed Anne with a wry smile. For all her virtues, her bosom friend severely lacked discretion.

"Well, never mind that just now, I should go. We're expecting you and the Harrisons tomorrow for supper, don't forget!"

With a swift pat to Davy's cheek and a wink to her partner in crime, Diana took off. Davy tilted his head at Anne, who shrugged with a feigned air of ignorance.

"Women," he muttered to himself as he went indoors in search of some tea.

Well, thought Anne with a sigh. At least he wasn't giving her the cold shoulder anymore.

May 23, 1895

Anne plunged her hands into the bowl of hot water and sighed. With sharp pain shooting through her arms, she was forced to recognize that she might have bitten off more than she could chew with Mr. Rowan's offer. But, by golly, it was satisfying: not just the pay - though it was an undeniably sweet benefit - but the work itself, the productivity that got her somewhere.

This was what she was meant to do. The farm was her home, but it wasn't her life. She lived for words: letters were her language, and she thrived on prose and poetry.

Swishing her fingers in the steaming bowl, she wondered if she ought to cut down on clients to focus a bit more on her own scripts. The entrepreneur in her balked at turning down paying customers, but she missed her own writing - and she hoped that her muscles wouldn't snap before she could get to it.

June 4, 1895

"Egg salad again?" whined Davy.

"What's wrong with that?" asked Anne without looking up from her stack of documents.

"We had egg salad yesterday." He plopped tiredly onto his chair and eyed the plate in front of him with distaste.

"It's leftover," she explained, underlining a sentence with her pen. "Has it turned? If so, I'll make some more."

"I'm tired of it," he grumbled. "Can't we have something else?"

"You know how I feel about wasting food." She marked an 'x' in the margin, then placed the paper on a stack and reached for another sheet.

"I don't see why you kill yourself making two cents at a time," grumbled Davy.

This made her set down her pen firmly. "It's an honest living, and it's supporting us both right now," she looked up from her work to fix him sternly. He might be saddled with worries about the farm and his long distance engagement, but his attitude was starting to get on her nerves.

"It's not working!" he slapped the table. "You keep saying that everything is fine, but all we eat is eggs and sandwiches!" His chair scraped the floor as he stood.

"Davy-boy..." she called as he stormed off, plate in tow. "Davy!"

The only reply she received was the sound of his door slamming shut. She considered going after him to explain the reason they were eating egg salad was to spare her arms - a boiled egg was just about the toughest food she could chop nowadays. She could march up to his room and tell him the whole truth of it all...

He's angry. Let him cool off first.

As hard as it was to let him marinate in his own negativity, Anne agreed. She would have a talk with Davy once he'd calmed down.

June 6, 1895
Prince Albert, SK

Dear Anne,

Forgive me for not being able to reply sooner. The hospital is in chaos right now, because of the supposed mishandling of funds: administration is at war with the director, the nurses are feuding with the administration, the doctors are all on bad terms with the director - the whole thing is a mess. The doctors and nurses have a peace treaty of sorts, but who knows how long it will hold out.

Thank you for your letters. Even if I haven't been able to answer, they've brought some comfort to these weary bones. At the very least, they've made me laugh, which is nice for a change - everyone here is at their wits' end. Even Kate snapped at me today, which is never a good sign.

I'll admit, I've never heard of typewriter-inflicted injuries before (though I once treated a man whose toes had been crushed by a calculating machine). I suppose the repetitive gestures might induce some fatigue. What have you done to relieve the soreness so far? Have you tried soaking your arms in ice baths?

I wish there was more I could do, but it's hard to stay awake - I keep dozing off mid-sentence.

Please keep writing, but don't type. Rest those industrious fingers of yours whenever you can!

Your very tired friend,

Doug

June 12, 1895

"Hey," called Anne as she entered the barn. Davy looked over his shoulder and nodded, then turned back to feel Miranda's sides. "Everything alright? Is she sick?"

Davy shook his head. "Looks like she might've grazed too close to the barbed wire. I'll need to have a proper look at it in daylight."

"We could bring in the other gas lamp," suggested Anne, but he shook his head staunchly.

"Orlando gets spooked out by flames." They both glanced over at the old horse, who paid them no mind as he munched on his oats.

"Any news from Millie?" she asked. As predicted, his shoulders tensed up.

"Nothing special," he answered tightly.

"I take it Mr. Hodgson's stance hasn't changed."

"Nope." It wasn't in Davy's nature to be short, but his future father-in-law's demands threatened to stretch his already lengthened engagement to breaking point.

"How much did he want you two to save up, before he gives you his blessing?"

Davy stood up abruptly to throw some feed into the trough. "Enough to live off for half a year, according to his 'estimations'." He set the bucket down, and picked up a pitchfork.

Anne followed him. "Tell me the figure."

He cited the number, forking fresh hay into the pen, missing her thoughtful nod.

"Millie makes less than two dollars a week nannying. And me..." he sighed. "A whole year at the factory, and only fifty dollars saved. Spent it all to pay for the help this year, and the harvest was bad last year, so I'm back to nothin'."

"Well, then, this ought to be of some help."

Davy eyed her outstretched hand suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Take it." He reached for the unmarked envelope and stared at it. Balancing the fork against his chest to free his other hand, he opened it. Upon registering its contents, his eyes grew wide as saucers.

"Anne! How did you..." his incredulous look morphed into a frown. "I can't take this. Not when you worked so hard for it."

She beamed proudly at him. "It's not my money. That's your inheritance."

"My... what?"

"From Matthew. He set it aside for me... a dowry, of sorts. He wouldn't let us spend it, even when times grew hard: after Marilla left us, I found out it had been saved for my wedding. And since I'm never getting married, it's yours."

He looked down at the envelope. "You don't know that. You can be pretty fun, and you're fine looking, for an older girl. You might get married yet."

Oh, Davy, she bit back a sad chuckle. The boy could pay a backwards compliment like no other. "Besides," he continued, "you need this worse than me."

"Than I. Don't worry about me - with what I'm earning now, I can afford to move out."

A cloud passed over the boy's face. "You're moving out?"

"Surely you didn't expect me to stick around? You and Millie will want to start a family. You two'll need some privacy, you won't want me getting underfoot."

"I don't want you to go." He was an eight year old boy again, clinging to her skirt as she readied herself to leave for Redmond.

"We can discuss this later - I'm not going anywhere yet," she offered him a reassuring smile. "Don't you want to share the good news with Millie first?"

His face lit up like a candelabra at the notion. "I'll write her right now!" The forgotten animals watched, nonplussed, as he dropped the pitchfork and raced out of the barn. Anne's smile deepened when his footsteps came running back.

"Do you think the post office is still open? I might telephone her instead."

"It's closed, but you can try the Bells'. I'm sure they'd let you use theirs."

"Good idea!" And he was off once more. Orlando fixed Anne with a reproachful glare: she ought to call him back, ask him to leave the envelope safely at home.

"Oh, let him be happy," she chided, picking up the pitchfork and setting it against the wall. He hadn't been in such a good mood for so long...

His excited stomps returned once more. "Hold this for me, please?" he thrust the envelope in her hands. Before Anne could reply, Davy threw his arms around her and squeezed her in the tightest embrace she'd ever received.

June 19, 1895

The forest was quiet as a church: the trees formed a reverent arch with their branches, ready to welcome and shelter any passerby. The creek slithered along, keeping its trickle at a subdued murmur. Even the critters observed a respectfully muted tone, despite the spring madness which normally urged them call out, and chase, and mate every year.

Lying down and looking up, Anne gripped the edges of the blanket she'd spread on the spot, taking in deep breaths of sweet summer air.

Life had always gone too fast for her taste. While everyone around her was in a hurry to grow up, to move on to the next stage, Anne had longed for more time, to stay where she was just a bit longer.

When her Avonlea schoolmates complained about being babied by their mothers, Anne had prayed that Matthew and Marilla would never treat her like an adult. When all the girls began to blossom and grow curves, Anne had pretended to be as upset as Jane Andrews to develop last, when secretly, she was glad about not being confined to a corset.

Upon graduating from Queens, she'd been forced to listen to everyone's grand plans for the future. Her own situation was submitted to everyone's curiosity and scrutiny until Matthew's passing - and then, she'd been relieved to be needed home, where she could keep an eye on Marilla. Ever the knight in shining armour, Gilbert had laid down his cape, in form of the Avonlea school teaching position, and enabled Anne to stay within the nurturing perimeter of Matthew's treasured land.

Going to Redmond had been a big step: eventually, her reluctance to leave was outweighed by her thirst for education, and also the need to make Marilla proud. If she never married and had children, as had done several of her peers already, at least she would climb the echelons of academic excellence, as high up as she could go. With Gilbert by her side, it leaving wasn't so daunting.

Their fellow Islanders had all progressed in the four years they'd been gone. While Anne was having a hard time adjusting to seeing her bosom friend nursing a baby of her own, Gilbert had broken into a sprint: the insufferable boy had skipped past everyone else, racing straight for the finish line. This shook Anne to the core: she been desperate enough to vow that if, by some miracle, Gilbert were to survive typhoid, she would ask him to propose again, and promise to say yes this time.

Face to face with her frail chum on the mend, she'd faltered. As they wandered slowly to Hester Gray's garden, she'd found herself unable go through with it: he was meant for medical school, and a brilliant carrier as surgeon in a big city hospital. Anne respected and admired his ambitions, but she couldn't follow him, and leave Marilla.

Poor Marilla had never made it to her graduation, though she had been proud: she'd said so many times, on her sickbed. "You never showed interest in marriage," she'd reflected on her last day above ground. "Roy...?"

Anne shook her head earnestly. "He wasn't the one for me."

"You don't want... a family..."

Smiling through her tears, Anne took the wrinkled hand and held it to her own cheek. "You're my family. And Diana, and Rachel, Davy and Dora, the Blythes... they're my family."

The pale lips smiled back at her. "That's right. You built your family. Not everything is given. Anne..." A grave look descended upon her face then. "Don't be afraid... to love... make a family. Being different...is fine."

Marilla's parting words had validated what Anne had already decided: she would never marry. She'd had her chances, and had been right to turn them all down. Instead, she would take care of the twins, keep Green Gables running, and stay close to her family. But even Davy and Dora had moved on with their lives: Davy first, even before Marilla's passing, and Dora one month after.

It had taken two years and seven days for the shock of Gilbert's death to wear off. She hadn't thought it possible to recover at all - and perhaps she hadn't, if the voice in her head and New Year visitations were any indication. However, his latest apparition had been a wake up call: she could see now that she'd been lagging, unwilling to move on. Green Gables had been a convenient excuse to stay anchored, helping her dig her feet into the ground to resist the pull of time.

You're alive and I'm not.

He'd been right, as usual. Death hadn't waited patiently for Gilbert to live out his life: why would it wait for Anne?

With her eyes open, she'd seen the train of life zooming past her, and had jumped on. Used to standing still, she now clung desperately to the handrail while life hurtled on at breakneck speed.

For the first time, she recognized that the life might be nicer with a partner, someone to make the journey less lonely.

And what am I, chopped liver?

Anne smiled and closed her eyes.