On the last Tuesday of November, Anthony woke up with a fever and a whine that could pierce ear drums. Jack was due at the station early, and by the time Mrs. Bowen arrived Phryne was just about ready to tear her hair out; the moment the woman walked into Wardlow Phryne headed upstairs to change and go shopping. She had intended to spend the day making yet more telephone calls—it seemed that every possible lead ended with two hours on the telephone to some backwater office or another, only to be told that they had nothing at all on an Elizabeth or a Betty Dixon—but the idea of overhearing the incessant cycle of pitiful whining and shrieking made it impossible.

Returning home mid-afternoon, Phryne found Anthony in a feverish sleep stretched across Mr. Butler's lap.

"Sorry, miss," he grimaced, shifting slightly as he attempted to peel potatoes. "Mrs. Bowen's daughter took ill at school and she had to leave."

"Thank you, Mr. Butler," she said, moving Anthony into her arms so the poor man could go about his actual duties. "I suppose I should have arranged an alternative for such an eventuality."

It had been over a month. She had not imagined that it could possibly take this long, and had not planned accordingly. She would have to telephone Welfare again; this was ridiculous.

"It was no trouble, miss," Mr. Butler said, casting a fond look at the child in her arms. That was happening more and more often, it seemed.

Feeling the heat coming off Anthony's body even through her lace cardigan, Phryne sighed. She took him into the nursery and laid him in the bed, taking a quick assessment of his condition by rote. His lips looked slightly parched—he'd need a drink when he woke up, or she would need to wake him—and his cheeks were flushed, but he seemed otherwise well enough. The fever wasn't high enough to warrant real concern, at least.

Phryne watched him for several minutes, making sure he was properly asleep.

As she moved to leave, his hand caught and held the hem of her shirt. She reached down to extract it and he screeched, still asleep; her stomach clenched at the sound, unable to forget his terror nearly two weeks before. Tantrums were one thing, but this... she sat back onto the bed, intending to sit there until he was fully settled and she could make her escape, and sighed as she brushed the slightly damp curls from his face. This was a life she had rejected; watching him, lips moving even as he snored, his breath hot and sickly sweet with illness, Phryne knew it was not a choice she had ever doubted. She settled in to wait, and he whimpered again at the shifting mattress.

"Get some sleep, Squirrel," she said, checking his temperature with her wrist once more.

—

They were in bed, spooned together. Phryne took a deep breath and released the words that had been threatening to spill forth for days into the darkness of the room.

"I'm pregnant."

She wondered if he realised that he'd splayed his hand across her stomach protectively the minute she had said it. He didn't say anything.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" he said after several minutes of silence. "I know you're hardly going to see a Butcher George type, but it's still dangerous."

His words surprised her.

"Jack?" she asked.

"I'm not sure what you expect me to say," he said, his voice tight but not as tight as she had expected. "We both know what the outcome is going to be."

"Yes, but I expected there to be discussion before we reached that conclusion."

In her opinion, the fact that she had even considered this a discussion to be had said a great deal about the security of their relationship.

"If you were questioning whether this was something you wanted, I would be the first to tell you that you would be an excellent mother. You're compassionate and caring and incredibly adept, Phryne," he said, kissing her shoulder lightly. "But it's not, is it? You're questioning whether I could forgive this, and that's not the same thing at all."

He was right. He generally was, or at least as often as she was. It still didn't sit right with her though, and she rolled over to see his face. His eyes were tinged with sadness, but he seemed sincere. He smiled at her, the silly lopsided smile that she loved so much.

"Phryne love, there was a time I wanted a child very much. So much that it physically ached. But it was a long time ago; I made my peace with it a long time ago. And I rather like how my life has turned out," he paused to nuzzle her neck. "I share a bed with a beautiful woman who keeps me on my toes. We're happy and in love, and if we decide we want to go away for a weekend with no warning we can. We can stay in bed all day if we choose. We can get drunk of French champagne and kisses for any reason that springs to mind. We can curl up on opposite ends of the chaise and read our own books for hours, or putter in the garden, or steadfastly ignore the other one because we're in a foul mood and not have it be a problem. There's nothing to forgive."

"Jack…"

He pulled back and looked at her sternly.

"Nothing to forgive. But please, please be careful. And take Mac with you if you can, or your red raggers if you can't."

"Not you?"

His lips quirked.

"I usually find it best to claim plausible deniability when it comes to your more illicit activities."

"You are the dearest man," she said, moving closer to kiss him.

"Dearest?" he asked in mock horror. "Is that all?"

"Among other things," she smirked, rolling him onto his back and straddling him. "You're also rather charming, loyal, incredibly handsome, and terribly, terribly persuasive."

He gave her a slow smile. "Persuasive as well?"

"Well, no other man's been able to even tempt me into domestic felicity, yet here I am."

His smile widened, and she thought her heart might just fly out of her chest.

"I can live with that."

—

Jack was quiet as he entered the house, aware that Anthony had been ill that morning and hoping not to wake him. Heading towards the kitchen for a drink, he was met by Phryne as she slipped from the nursery, a grimace on her lips.

"Still unwell?" Jack asked, and she nodded her head.

"Unfortunately," she said, coming closer and giving him a brief kiss before sighing. "Also unfortunately, Mrs. Bowen's girl fell ill as well, so I've sat with him for the last… oh, four hours? It was better than the screeching, at least."

"I can imagine," Jack said amicably, remembering the time they'd visited Rosie's sister when all five of her children had been recovering from the flu. The tandem whining had been enough to give him a headache.

They went into the kitchen together, and sat at the table for a cup of tea while they discussed the day. Jack's cup was almost empty when a loud wail came from the hall, and he saw Phryne tense.

"I'll get him," Jack said quietly. "This isn't exactly what you agreed to, in the beginning, and I know it's not…"

"Not what?" she asked, a little more defensively than he would have anticipated.

"It's not what you agreed to, that's all."

She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "I have nursed a lifetime's worth of men in worse situations than a fever, Jack Robinson. Just because I don't want children doesn't mean I'm incapable."

"We both know that you're more than capable, Phryne. That doesn't mean you want to do it, and I thought you would appreciate the chance not to."

She pushed out of her seat and poured a glass of water, then set it on the table.

"He'll want that," she said crossly.

Uncertain of what exactly had transpired to offend her so, Jack picked up the drink and headed towards the nursery. Anthony was lying spread-eagled on top of the doona, weeping and still half asleep. Jack settled beside him, helping him sit up enough to wet his lips; the boy seemed to perk up at the cool drink, and quickly drank the rest of the glass and looked around for more.

"In a moment, Ant," Jack soothed as the boy crawled into his lap and pulled his arms around Jack's neck.

Realising that he would not extract himself from the vice-like grip any time soon, Jack moved to the chair; it would be more comfortable than sitting on the edge of the bed, at least. Anthony whimpered at the move, but quickly resettled. A few minutes later, Phryne peeked through the door.

"How's the squirrel?" she asked, coming inside.

"Asleep again," Jack whispered back, then held up the glass. "Could I get some more, please?"

She nodded, taking the glass with one hand and pressing the other against Anthony's forehead. She clucked, and there was a look of tenderness on her face that Jack hadn't expected. She was worried, he realised; he wasn't exactly sure why he was surprised. She'd been the one to take Anthony in, after all, and accepted the unexpected length of the arrangement without complaint. It was not a situation she would have chosen, but Phryne was remarkably good at coping with the hand that was dealt.

Jack sighed as she walked out the door, suddenly understanding her earlier irritation. She hadn't enjoyed being the one to handle the care, but it had given her something to do besides wait for the fever to break. She hated waiting, especially when she felt responsible for the outcome. When Phryne returned, she carried the glass of water and a book for Jack.

"I think I'll call Mac, see if she can stop by and take a look at him," she said quietly. "Just in case."

Jack nodded.

"That might be best," he replied. Anything to avoid the silent, impotent waiting.

—

"Do you ever regret it?"

He was almost asleep when she spoke, and his mind was foggy. It had been nearly one in the morning when he had stumbled to bed; Anthony's fever had broken and the child was finally sleeping comfortably, just as Mac had predicted.

"Regret what?" he asked in confusion.

"The…" she trailed off, then sighed. He heard her hair against her pillow as she shook her head. "No, it's bigger than just that. Do you ever regret choosing someone who wouldn't give you it?"

In his half-asleep state, he found he couldn't follow.

"Give me what?"

"A babe of your own. A happy family."

He opened his eyes, found her staring at him with a look of such vulnerability on her face that his heart ached. He reached out, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, then pulled her close.

"You are my family, Phryne. You and Jane. Mum. Ivy. The Collinses. Your red-raggers and your Aunt Prudence, in a pinch."

She huffed a small laugh against his chest. "That's not what I meant."

"I know, love."

Her fingers reached out to lace through his, pulled their clasped hands close to her breast. "Jack?"

"Not for a moment."

"But today, this whole time really, with Anthony…you've been so—"

"Not for a moment," he asserted. "If that was what I wanted, I had the chance; I chose you, before I was ever certain that you would choose me. And how could I regret this? This is…this is so far beyond my wildest imaginings."

She hummed and nodded, pressing her face against him; she shuddered once, her fingers reflexively grasping to keep him close.

"I love you," she said softly.

He pressed a kiss against her hair.

"I love you too. Now get some sleep."

After a moment, she pulled back with a glint in her eyes that promised trouble.

"Wait, when did you have a chance?"

He gave a half-smile. "I thought you preferred a never-ending source of mystery?"

Phryne's eyes narrowed, clearly remembering when she had said as much.

"It was that lovely Italian woman, wasn't it? Concetta?"

"Yes. She proposed marriage—"

"And you declined?"

"I didn't have a chance, in the end, but I intended to. I could not be the husband she deserved when my heart was elsewhere, even if nothing came of it."

"And that was the first time you decided to make do."

There was an edge to her voice, but he really was not awake enough to analyse it. Cajoling seemed the safest response.

"Phryne, sweetheart, darling, love of my later years, sun and moon and all the stars in the sky—"

"Don't be an idiot, Jack," she laughed, but there was still an unsettled look in her eyes.

He let the teasing smile slip from his face, allowed her to see the utter sincerity behind his next words.

"Phryne, you have never been 'making do', not ever," he said confidently, remembering their tentative agreement over a bottle of wine from Strano's to do just that. An minor amendment, perhaps. "Except in that vague sort of way that is true in every relationship. Would you call me making do?"

"No!"

"But you've had to compromise, haven't you?"

She nodded, slightly petulant.

"See, making do. I told you then and I will repeat it now: I most likely would have been perfectly happy if children had come along with Rosie. But not having them with you… that's not a sacrifice, it's not a compromise, it's just what works for us. Both of us. That's enough. It's everything, really."

She sighed once more, whatever was bothering her clearly appeased.

"It's everything," she agreed, wrapping her arm around him and falling asleep almost instantly.

—

Jack was not pacing the parlour, despite his expectations. He was, however, sitting as near the door at possible and only half aware of the book he was reading. He'd already jumped once, when the telephone rang. Mr. Butler had answered it, of course; they were still maintaining the illusion that Wardlow was not his residence. He'd let out the house as an extra source of income and purchased a small flat as his official address, even though he'd spent maybe half a dozen nights there in the year since he'd moved in; one paid for the other with plenty to spare, and it saved too many questions. Worth it for the peace of mind alone.

There was a knock on the parlour door frame, and Mr. Butler came through with a tray of tea.

"That was Miss Fisher, sir. She's says she's on her way home and, I quote, 'to tell Jack to stop fretting'."

Jack gave the servant a tight smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Butler."

"A pleasure, sir," Mr. Butler replied, which Jack had learnt was the man's subtle way of conveying support.

Pouring himself a cup of tea, Jack turned back to the novel. He still couldn't bring himself to pay the plot any attention, and eventually sat it aside to drink his tea and think. He'd been sincere in his approval of the plan, on the first night and on the other occasions in the intervening week. Pregnancy was not necessarily a straightforward event when you wanted it; after Rosie had… well, they'd had to burn the mattress after the last time, when they'd actually begun to believe it might come to something, and it had been the death knell to their intimacy. The idea of inflicting it upon someone unwillingly was abhorrent. It was not quite the same as wishing for the alternative, though; he supposed that some part of him had harboured hopes of a change in heart. Still, it was a passing fancy in what was agreement; appealing in abstract but ultimately not. A child would have been a significant upheaval in a peaceful life. Well, peaceful was perhaps the wrong word to describe any life with Phryne Fisher as part of it. Content. Delighted.

He heard someone at the door and turned, expecting to see Mr. Butler retrieving the tea things. It was Phryne, looking unusually tired.

"Miss Fisher!"

She grinned at him. "Hello Jack! One of these days I will scold you for that, you know."

She was referring to his habit of reverting to Miss Fisher at the slightest surprise; she was Phryne at home, most of the time.

"You love it really," he replied, setting down his teacup. "I didn't hear you come in?"

"Kitchen," she said in way of explanation, coming over and dropping into his lap.

"Ahh," he said. "Did everything…?"

"Without a hitch."

"Good. Good."

She laid her head against his shoulder, running a hand through his hair.

"I've been thinking about your flat," she said idly.

"Yes?"

"If we were to claim elopement, nobody would need to see the paperwork. I would have to have my solicitor draw up papers for the legal side of things, but I think most of those were already done when I updated my will last year."

He considered it. It could work, really. His mother would probably approve, actually; Mairi Robinson had an ornery streak a mile wide and a fondness for pointing out that her own parents had been married with a child before official records had them as such. Something about a particularly harsh winter and no minister coming to their tiny hamlet for some time. And Ivy could take the flat and save on housing fees, if she was interested.

"You aren't suggesting this as some sort of twisted apology, are you? I've already said—"

"No!" she exclaimed, sitting upright to look him in the eye. "No, never. I would never… This whole situation just had me thinking. I know you're never actually there, but the fact that it exists is unfortunate whenever I think of it."

"You, my darling Miss Fisher, are a force unto yourself."

"I think it'll have to be Fisher-Robinson, at least socially," she said lightly, though he knew what such a concession would cost her.

"Oh, I believe that you'll always be Miss Fisher to me."

"Does that mean you intend to make a dishonest woman out of me, Jack?"

He kissed her, then murmured against her lips, "Repeatedly."