A/N: I must first apologize for my absenteeism. As it turns, gmail sent all of my alerts, favs and reviews into my spam folder – and it is remarkably easy to put a story on the back burner when not hearing anything about it. I am so sorry for all of the reviews that I did not respond to, I love hearing from fellow N/S lovers! This chapter is not 'hot off the presses' but it is only seen by me, so, if you see any glaring mistakes, I won't be offended if you let me know.

Also, I don't want to put another A/N at the end, so I will tell you now that Fanny and Margaret know different versions of the rhyme by design.

The Sum of All Wisdom

"The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope."

Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo

Chap 10 – One for sorrow

The days following Frederick's departure were a taxing lot in the Hale home. Margaret busied herself with mundane tasks; undertaking any charge which promised to occupy her mind with anything apart from thoughts of the great many losses that she had managed to acquire in so short a time. Mr. Hale, too, attempted to return to some state of normalcy, declaring that he needed to brush up on his reading if he were ever to return to his teachings—though more times than not, Margaret would find him staring into the fire, the neglected book laying listless upon his lap. Mourning attire proved to not be as simple an endeavor as Margaret would have thought—though truth-be-told, she had thought precious little on the topic. The ready-made dresses at the Draper's were far beyond her meager means, forcing her to turn to dying several of her lesser-used dresses.

With the sleeves of a work dress rolled up and an apron straight from the rag bag secured about her waist, Margaret allowed herself one last look at what was once one of her mother's favorite gowns. After absently caressing the smooth, crisp fabric of the baby blue taffeta Margaret forced her hand away, knowing that it would be best to stop reminiscing and simply forge ahead with her plans, no matter how bitter. With the wash basin filled and prepared with the dye—nothing holding her back but her own will to resist the gloom that had overtaken so much of her life—Margaret inhaled a deep breath and plunged the garment into the murky water. The black tendrils that crawled the pearly blue cloth—irrevocably changing it—caused Margaret's lower lip to quiver. She could not help but mourn her dress—silly as it was—to lament the life that if could have led. With the handle from the small broom that generally resided by the kitchen hearth, Margaret thrust the remainder of the dress below the water line, stirring it gently—precisely as the young merchant-man had instructed. As her heart began to steady, Margaret reminded herself that it was only a dress—an impractical one at that. It had been worn to many an event in London yet only once in Helstone; she could never bring herself to expose it to the Milton air which had a way of tainting everything brave enough venture into it. Her once-fair dress would now see this world.

When the dress was hung to dry and Margaret could bear to think on it no longer, she went above stairs to speak to her father about her mother's funeral—a topic of which they had silently agreed to avoid up to that point. A letter had arrived from Mr. Bell while Mrs. Hale was merely ailing that led Margaret to wonder whether he would indeed be well enough to make such a trip; it was at that point that Margaret requested she accompany her father, should Mr. Bell be unable to make the journey. That very morning, while Margaret was dying her dresses, another letter had arrived—once more from Mr. Bell—which Margaret had spent the better part of the morning attempting not to think upon. At tea time, she went to her father's book room.

"Good afternoon, Papa." Margaret said, pouring her father tea before filling a plate with a variety of offerings in hopes that something may entice him to eat. "Dixon had mentioned that you received word from Mr. Bell this morning," she stated. "How is he?"

"Unwell, I am afraid, my dear. He has the gout." Despite the ill news that Mr. Bell would be unable to attend and was indeed ailing, the letter seemed to be a source of pleasantness in her father's otherwise bleak existence. "He will not be able to attend Maria's services, but he does assure me that he will visit as soon as he is through this fit. He apparently sees a need to check on several of his properties, as his agent had made the matter sound rather urgent." There was a heavy pause before Mr. Hale continued, "He mentioned that I might visit Oxford this winter; thinks that a change of scenery may do me some good." A solid minute passed by before he said another word. "I suspect that it may become unbearable." After taking a long sip of tea, Richard Hale stared out of the window. "The cold, I mean."

There was a lingering stretch before Margaret found herself able to speak. "I am sorry that your friend will not be here." Moving to her father's feet, she swallowed and asked that which she had wondered for days on end. "Would you still be amenable to my attending mother's service with you?" Margaret was cautious in her question, not knowing how her father would respond.

"Of course, my dear." He took her daughter's hand and kissed her palm before holding it to his cheek. "It will do me good to have you by my side." Mr. Hale looked as though he planned to say more, but simply released her hand and rubbed his weary eyes. "Let us not speak on the services any more just yet." Margaret agreed, though she found herself already longing for the thread of humanity that she been starved for these days on end. With nothing to occupy her mind but the sight of a vigorous fire, Margaret sat, immersed in her own thoughts, until long after sleep had overtaken her father.

The days dragged on, lonely as they were. Being the ever-vigilant daughter, Margaret saw to it that her father had food when he was hungry, tea when the hour called and a partner when he was in want of company—though neither found themselves in much of a humor to speak. With the solitude came time to think, with time to think came reason to worry; anxiety mounted as each hour with no word from Frederick was fraught with forebodings.

The morning of the funeral arrived just as every other had in their bustling industrial town. Watching the busy streets, alight with commerce, Margaret felt the trifling affect that her tender troubles had on the world at large; she watched the faces of strangers and distant acquaintances pass before her home and felt, perhaps for the first time, her own inconsequentiality. The realization that in her deepest moment of desolation, there was no one—not one person—to stop and take notice was staggering. Pushing away from the window, Margaret lowered herself to the floor where she feared that the gravity of it all might crush her.

After a long while of focusing on little more than breathing, Margaret was able to rearrange her tempestuous thoughts. There was, in any case, some relief in knowing what to expect out of the day. Margaret would comfort her father and they would cling together in their grief. They only had each other, after all. She knew who to expect—or not to expect, rather—for the most part. The letter from Edith still lay upon Margaret's little writing desk, having only arrived the previous evening; her cousin and aunt were abroad and would be unable to make the journey on such short notice. Much to Margaret's surprise, Henry Lennox sent a small note, which was concealed within Edith's; he offered his condolences and reiterated Edith's entreaty for Margaret's return to London. Without much conscious effort, Margaret's mind wandered, once more, to Mr. Thornton. The thought of him in attendance offered comfort and unease in such equal measure that she hardly knew how to feel. Though she had heard nothing of him in five long days, he rarely left her thoughts.

After seeing to Margaret's dress, Dixon flittered about the house worrying, rather loudly, over Margaret. Knowing that there was nothing that she could do to appease her, Margaret waited on her father in the dining room wishing for pen and parchment. Over the past week, she had spent much time with such instruments in an attempt to sort through her thoughts. The letters that she had penned were addressed to no one at all, as Edith could hardly understand, Bessy was gone and—and well, that was the extent of Margaret's acceptable recipients.

There were none in the Hale home who could be remotely uncertain as to Dixon's opinions on whether it was customary for women to attend funerals, whether Dixon approved of Margaret's overt defiance of such customs or whether Margaret was right in flouting her wishes—for certainly the Missus would not have wished it. Margaret would not allow Dixon's words, opinions or advices to sway what she was determined to do. She only wished that it one could truly turn a deaf ear toward adversity, as both of hers seemed to be functioning far too well that morning.

With Dixon upstairs retrieving Margaret's veil and bonnet, answering the knock at the door fell to Margaret herself. Though she had answered the door with no expectation as to the nature of the call, she found herself in complete and utter astonishment at standing face to face with Mr. Thornton. There was not enough air in her lungs and nary a thought in her mind; leaving Margaret to do little more than stare. In all of her musings over their next encounter, this scenario had never entered her mind.

Despite having had the entirety of the ride through the crowded streets of Milton to the Hale home to prepare himself, Mr. Thornton was somehow ill-equipped to be faced with her so suddenly. Dixon had almost always admitted him in the past and, in truth, he had expected Margaret to shy from him, knowing—as she surely must—that he would be accompanying her father to the funeral that morning.

"Miss Hale." Mr. Thornton stiffly bowed, his hat removed. Both were painfully aware of the drastic transformation in formality that had befallen them.

"Mr. Thornton," Margaret responded in kind, her voice carrying an air of breathlessness. "Are you here to see Papa?"

"Yes," He shifted his hat from his right hand to his left, oblivious to the cool air whipping around them. "I am accompanying him to your mother's services."

"Oh." Margaret's confusion was obvious—she had heard nothing of these plans. As the space between them hastily filled with silence and wind and words that desperately needed to be spoken, Margaret had difficulty repressing the undeniable urge to fold herself in his arms. The trouble was that somewhere between leaving her home with Frederick and standing before Mr. Thornton in that very moment, their relationship had altered—perhaps irrevocably—and she suspected that such an act would no longer be welcome. It seemed all the crueler that she knew the comfort and strength that she could find there—and comfort was in short supply of late.

"Miss Margaret, see the man in and close the door! I could feel the draft from your bedroom," Dixon said as she stomped down the stairs. Crossing the threshold and closing the door securely behind him, Mr. Thornton watched as Dixon whisked Margaret to the front window to tie her bonnet. Standing near the door, he attempted to focus his attention on anything but the way in which the streams of light seemed to kiss Margaret's porcelain skin.

Mr. Hale's voice resonated from the kitchen, "Are you ready, Margaret? John is sure to be here any moment now." Margaret's features tightened, her father spoke as though this were a continuation of a conversation that they had had at some previous time—not clearly relaying the fact that he had not spoken of John Thornton at all since Frederick's departure.

"He is here already, Papa," Margaret replied softly.

"Oh, good." Mr. Hale appeared through the doorway, addressing his next words to Mr. Thornton. "Thank you, John. Margaret will be accompanying us, I was sure that you would not mind."

Margaret walked to the hall mirror to lower her veil and ensure that it was straight. Dixon had styled her hair in three thick coils that remained loose at the top to give the effect of curls, much in the way her mother had worn hers in her younger days. In the reflection she could see that Mr. Thornton was watching her, though the instant their eyes met he turned to meet her father near the stairwell. Focusing on her own pale skin through the delicate black lace, Margaret straightened her shoulders and spoke no louder than a whisper, You are braver than you believe. You can endure this.

"Of course," Mr. Thornton replied dryly. No more was said. No more needed to be said, Margaret supposed. Mr. Thornton helped her into the carriage—his fingers remaining on hers for a fleeting moment—and Margaret took the seat beside her father, holding his arm as they rode. When she met Mr. Thornton's eyes she was surprised to find that his had been concentrated on her. This had happened before, though it was so different today. The warmth that she had begun to cherish seemed to have vanished—no, there was no warmth at all. What she saw before her was a hardness that pierced her core. She had suffered more disappointment this year than she had in the whole of her life combined and she could bear no more. Unable to maintain his glare, Margaret closed her eyes and turned them toward the window. It was there that they stayed for the remainder of the journey.

As he watched her eyes shy away from his, Mr. Thornton felt something akin to remorse seep through his being. It was a far different feeling from the resentment that had nearly choked him these past days. He made an attempt to rid himself of the undesirable hint of compassion that began to overtake his better senses, citing her recent behavior—her indiscretion—as reason in and of itself; though the heart can be easily as resolute as the mind and twice as persuasive. He loved her, that was certain—if he could un-love her, he no doubt would have by now—and though she had scorned him twice over, he was man enough to see that she was in need.

When he helped her out of the carriage, Mr. Thornton's hand still did not linger, though there was something less hardened about him that relieved Margaret in some small way. She sat between her father and Mr. Thornton during the service—arm entwined with one, a far too generous divide separating her from the other.

The service was beautifully vague. The minister, stranger that he was, waxed on about the beauty of human life in such an ambiguous manner that it could have been applied to nearly any man or woman in the whole of England. Margaret could hardly blame him, as she could not imagine having the task of comforting loved ones in the wake of their deepest desolation; though she could not help but think that it may have been a touch more personal had the man ever laid eyes upon her mother before this day. Somehow, despite the near-bare church and the rather anonymous sermon, Margaret felt an ease of sorts at having been permitted to offer her final goodbyes at this time and in this place. She could not help but to think of Fred. Though they had not truly expected otherwise, they had yet to receive word of his safety and Margaret's heart ached at the thought of his mourning alone. She calmed herself with the fact that Frederick would have Delores once he was safely back in Spain and though she was nothing if not pleased at the thought of her brother's devotion, something within her felt so bittersweet. She was happy for her brother, of course, but the thought of his looking forward to a love-filled life completely separate from her while she was left to only look back at her losses made her feel acutely the disparity of her situation.

The deep vibration produced by the pipe organ pulled Margaret from her pitiable musings. The hymn was familiar enough to Margaret to forgo the assistance of the hymnal that was draped across her lap. As she sang, her attention was drawn to the space that resided between Mr. Thornton and herself; the slight distance seemed to her like a canyon, a gaping chasm that had been created through misunderstanding and necessary half-truths. Disregarding the music, she tentatively lowered her hand to the velvet cushion, perhaps to see if the rift between them was truly as inaccessible as she felt it to be. Shock and relief were written plainly upon her features when her fingers were met with nothing but fabric; fabric the shade of the evergreens that she adorned with berries every Christmas, fabric that had softened with generations of wear. There her hand remained—awkward as it was—fingers splayed and tense. It was not until they were dismissed by the Parson that Margaret drew her hand away and moved to assist her father.

As the burial concluded and the few friends that they had in Milton were beginning to depart, Margaret left her father to one of his former pupils and ambled about the churchyard with no true destination in mind. There was a generously sized fountain amidst a small copse of well cared for trees in the center of the grounds. Three stone benches, each spaced far enough apart from the others to allow for near complete privacy, acted as a sort of enclosure to the quaint refuge. Margaret took a seat on one of them and watched a little black and white bird, a magpie, jump from branch to branch. One is for sorrow – How true that was on this day!

There had been a rhyme that they had said as children. She could remember her mother pointing out a pair of magpies in the woods alongside the parsonage: One is for sorrow, two is for mirth; today is bound to be filled with merriment! As she recollected the rest of the little saying, Margaret looked through the trees to see if she could spot anymore. The size of the flock—or gaggle or murder or whatever silly name they used for a group of magpies—was said to hold some significance. No magpie was needed to tell her that she was filled with sorrow, so she was determined to discover more. She spotted three more gathered together in some brush. What did four mean? She spoke softly aloud: One is for sorrow, two is for mirth, three is for a wedding, four for death. These did not seem to be the prophetic variety that lived in Helstone.

Two birds more joined the first and a seventh came to rest right beside Margaret on her bench. The seventh bird seemed fascinated by her bracelet; she did not make a move as he pecked and pulled to no avail. Seven did seem far more telling than one or four, but – Margaret's thoughts were disrupted by the stillness of the birds in the little copse that sat before her. A noise from the churchyard caused the six birds along the tree line to fly to the other side of the little wood, leaving only Margaret and her little companion alone on their bench.

"He seems rather taken with your bracelet." Margaret turned, startled at the voice, only to find Mr. Thornton standing closely behind her.

"Are you ready to leave, Sir?" Margaret spoke before Mr. Thornton had a chance. He regarded her with uncertainty for a moment. "I will go and find father if you need to get back to the mill."

"No, no I am at your disposal this morning; yours and your father's." This time, it was Margaret's skeptical eye that was turned onto him. After a few cumbersome moments passed, Margaret motioned toward her bench for him to sit.

"Go on Mr. Magpie, Mr. Thornton would like a seat." The bird made no motion to leave, so Margaret raised her arm—bracelet in tow—"shoo, now." With his object out of sight, the bird flew off to join the others and Mr. Thornton joined Margaret on the stone bench. "Say hello to Mrs. Magpie!" Margaret called as an afterthought.

"There is a Mrs. Magpie?" Mr. Thornton asked, his features softer now than she had seen them all day. With the bird gone, Margaret's free hand went instinctively to her bracelet; Mr. Thornton watched as her index finger moved gracefully between the skin of her wrist and the adornment.

"Well, it is best to assume that there is a Mrs. Magpie when you see only one," Margaret rejoined.

"We would hate to wish loneliness upon a magpie, I imagine." His tone came off as more clipped than he had intended.

"It is something my mother used to say to us." Mr. Thornton's heart stopped at the sight of Margaret's sad smile. "Count the magpies: One is for sorrow, but if we imagine that their mate is just around the corner, then you have two; two is for mirth."

"How many did you see?" The words that Margaret had spoken made little sense there in gruff, industrial Milton; but there was something so enchanting to Mr. Thornton about Margaret in this mood—speaking of some fairy land where magpies brought luck.

"Seven and one," Margaret shook her head at her own ridiculousness. "And four."

"There were twelve, then?" Mr. Thornton confirmed.

"No, just seven." Margaret turned back to the trees. "Magpies were mother's favorite bird. It only seems appropriate that they are here today, does it not?"

"Most people associate a magpie with bad luck," Mr. Thornton commented more to make conversation than to question what Margaret had said.

"Mother was not overly superstitious—unless it suited her, of course." She offered a grin before continuing. "They are among the smartest of the birds—right up there with ravens, I think—even if they are easily distracted by shiny objects." Mr. Thornton reached over to the hand that was closest to himself and lightly grazed Margaret's bracelet with his thumb. She smiled before continuing, "Did you know that the magpie taught all of the other birds to build their nests?"

"Really?" Mr. Thornton asked with the hint of a laugh in his voice.

"It is true, but none of the birds stayed for the whole story and that is why each variety of bird builds a different type of nest." Margaret laughed at her own clumsy attempt at retelling her mother's story. "I wish that you could have hear mother tell it. It seemed so…sensible." She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and sob, but the tear that fell upon the lustrous black fabric was telling enough. He handed her his handkerchief.

"I liked it. I have never thought so much about magpies." The silence sat heavily between them. Mr. Thornton watched as Margaret placed her hand between them, fingers spread, just as she had in the church. Once more he had to will himself not to cover it with his own.

"I am sorry for this morning. I was not expecting you." He watched her hand ball into a fist. "I was not expecting anyone for that matter, it is only—you have been missed, sorely missed." Margaret stumbled over every word with a very uncharacteristic sort of inelegance.

Mr. Thornton did not understand any of what she was saying. Certainly she did not wish him to believe that she missed him—not after what he had witnessed all too clearly only days before. There was something about this setting—the two of them sitting together—that made him almost forget that there was another man. He could almost imagine that that evening had never happened. Almost.

"I know the pain of losing a parent and hate that you are having to suffer thus." He could not address his pain, but perhaps he could hers.

"Will it always hurt this badly?" Margaret asked, unable to keep her lip from quivering.

"It will always hurt, but in time, the pain gets-" he paused, trying to conjure up the right word, "-softer, somehow." Her eyes glistened and met his. "There will come a day—it will be some time from now—but that day, you will think of your mother and you will realize that the memories of what you had together will have started to outweigh the soreness of what you have lost." Mr. Thornton had to clear his throat.

"Thank you-" She stopped abruptly. All thoughts were lost and Margaret's blood ran cold as a man approached them. All that she could think of was Frederick and danger and death—four was for death! Mr. Thornton read the fear in Margaret's features and stood, instinctively placing himself between her and danger. When he was faced with nothing more than a young officer Mr. Thornton's concern shifted slightly, leaving him to wonder what Margaret Hale could possibly have to fear from the police.

"May I help you sir, we are only just concluding a friend's funeral," Mr. Thornton spoke, attempting to understand the motives of both in his presence.

"I offer my condolences." The inspector removed his hat before continuing. "I do apologize for my intrusion, but if I may have a moment of your time, Mr. Thornton?" As the shock of the moment subsided, Mr. Thornton became aware that he knew this man—knew him well, in fact. Mr. Thornton had indeed secured this man's first position with the police.

"Very well then, Watson, is it?" Mr. Thornton acknowledged. Still sensing her discomfort and imagining that Mr. Hale would be tiring by that point, he addressed Margaret. "Miss Hale, I should only be a few minutes, would you mind seeing after your father?" Margaret did not move for a moment, aching to know what the man had to say to Mr. Thornton. "Miss Hale?" He said once more, this time, offering his hand. Margaret took it with some reluctance and stood, bowing her head to both Mr. Thornton and the inspector before making her way through the church yard.

Not wishing to hold up so important a man, George Watson relayed the matter quickly and concisely. A man died last night after several nights in the infirmary. He was found on Holcomb street, half of a mile from Outwood Station on the evening of the twenty-sixth. The man had a history of drinking and the doctor is fairly positive that it could very well be from the disease of the liver. The only crux is that it looks as though he was involved in a scuffle prior to his being unconscious in the street. This man, George Leonards, was known for starting brawls and often ending up with the brunt of the punishment.

"What did you say the man's name was, again?" Thornton had no more than half-heard the beginning of the story, but the name Leonard's had pierced his ears. The impetus behind Margaret's strange behavior was bitterly coming to light.

"George Leonards, Sir. He has not been in Milton long, though long enough to make a name for himself; and not of the good sort." Watson continued on about Leonards' follies and vices and Mr. Thornton attempted to wrap his head around the situation at large.

"I was actually at Outwood on Thursday last. Sending my Irish hands back." He swallowed before finishing, "I saw this Leonards." Mr. Thornton's composure did not betray his lingering doubts.

"Well, it is fortuitous that I came here first."

"Indeed." Mr. Thornton returned.

"Saved me quite the hassle, I would imagine. What happened at the station, if you don't mind my asking?" Watson asked.

"There was a scuffle and it was instigated by Leonard's. The man was drunk, as you had assumed. I heard a—a scream and responded. He assaulted a lady with a young man about to board the six O'clock train." Mr. Thornton cleared his throat. "When I addressed them, as to what was going on and gave my credentials, this Leonards ran off and fell down the stairs. If the fall hastened his demise, then, sad as it is, it was of his own doing."

"Did you get a good look at the man?" Watson asked.

"A very good look."

"Would you mind coming to the station—anytime today—to make an identification? Then we can close this one right up." Mr. Thornton attempted to mimic the excitement that Watson appeared to have over this case having been so uncomplicated.

Inspector Watson thanked Mr. Thornton and once more apologized for the intrusion. Sitting on the bench that he had shared with Margaret not ten minutes previous, Mr. Thornton attempted to convince himself that he had done the right thing. It was true that the man had attacked Margaret and her companion, but why? Even a indigent drunkard would not just attack couple for no reason; moreover, Margaret knew of the man, knew his name. Then there was the fear that the mere sight of Watson had stricken. .

Thoughts of that ill-fated evening were pushed aside when he saw Mr. Hale and Margaret walking his way. After meeting them, he led them to the carriage, allowing Mr. Hale to escort his daughter.

"Is everything alright John, I saw an inspector?" Mr. Hale said when they reached the carriage.

"Yes, I do have some business to tend to in town. I will have to send you two home and call on you later." The men parted on a hand shake. Once she insured that her father was comfortable, Margaret stopped Mr. Thornton.

"Is everything alright?" Margaret asked. Mr. Thornton could see her hands tremble.

"As I told your father-"

"Tell me," Margaret interrupted. "Please."

There was nothing that he could deny her and he hated himself for that. "He was here about last Thursday night at Outwood Station." The little color that had been left in Margaret's face had gone and for a moment, Mr. Thornton worried that she would faint. Gripping her forearm, he continued. "That man who attacked you, Leonards-" Margaret nodded. "He died due to a complication of his fall."

Margaret raised a hand to her mouth attempting to cover the whimper that escaped. "Your business in town?" She managed to get out.

"I am to identify him."

"Oh." The plea in her eyes was desperate, but neither knew what she was asking. "You only saw him for a moment. Will you be able to-" Feeling responsible in some way, Margaret could not help but offer what she could. "Would you like for me to come?" Looking away from Mr. Thornton, he heard her nearly breathe the words "Poor man."

"That won't be necessary, Miss Hale." He watched her features flitter between distress and relief. "You and your father have been through quite enough for one day. Besides-" His brow furrowed with a loud exhalation of breath, "I have a very good memory of that evening."

She turned from him and tried with all of her might to bury the tears that threatened to spill. Mr. Thornton walked around her and made a move to open the carriage door. Stopping him with her hand on his, Margaret said "I'm sorry; I'm so dearly sorry for all of this." She lifted his hand to her cheek, where his thumb caught a tear. She then pulled it away, smiled and let herself into the carriage, leaving Mr. Thornton in utter bewilderment.

Once in the carriage Margaret prepared herself for her father's questions. She had never thought herself overly versed at lying, but was somehow becoming rather proficient.

"I saw two magpies, Margaret," Mr. Hale said solemnly.

"I saw them too, papa." Margaret forced a smile.

"Maria would have liked that." His smile was not as easy as his daughter's. "Good things are coming our way, child. Just wait and see."

"Good things," she repeated, before turning toward the window and allowing her tears to silently fall.

After dinner, Dixon walked up the stairs and handed Margaret a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"This came with the dinner that Mrs. Thornton sent, the boy said it were for you." Dixon said casually.

"What has Mr. Thornton sent us this time? He is such a thoughtful man, a true friend." Mr. Hale was peering over the rim of his glasses in anticipation of Margaret's gift, though she was hesitant to open it, fearing that the contents would be too telling—though of what, she could not say.

Untying the twine, Margaret sighed in relief at the sight of the lovely cerulean cover of the Count of Monte Cristo. She had so wanted to see how it ended. Perhaps this was a peace offering, though it could just as well symbolize a cut of ties. Nervous, Margaret thumbed through the book to see if he had left any sort of note, though it seemed to be utterly devoid of correspondence. It was then that she made it to the inside cover, only to find it to be nothing but a solid off-white surface, a blank slate. There was no drawing, no evidence of a drawing either. This was not her book.

With a smile—a true smile—Margaret turned to her father, "He has returned my book, Papa."

The evening after the funeral, Mr. Thornton, having taken the majority of the day off, had quite a bit of bookkeeping to take care of. Feeling in the want of company for whatever reason, he decided to work in the sitting room where his sister and mother often spent their evenings. While combing through that week's figures, Mr. Thornton allowed his mind to wander. How he had dreaded this day for nearly a week, so much so that he had begun to pen a letter to Mr. Hale twice over in order to plead off the obligation. He was glad that he had seen to it. Fully disregarding his pen, he wondered about the more pleasant points of the day; of Margaret and magpies. She had seemed rather preoccupied with the number of them.

"Fanny, do you know a saying about magpies: One is for sorrow, two is for-" he gestured with his hands, showing that he did not know any further.

Tossing aside the latest issue of Beeton's, Fanny eagerly took the chair nearest her brother. "You saw Magpie's today? How many?" She asked, enlivened by her brother's curious interest.

"There were several. Do you know of a rhyme for the number that you see?" He asked once more, attempting to remain composed while wondering why Fanny could never offer a direct answer to his questions.

"Of course I do, but I need to know how many you saw. It only works with a number. There is not some fortune assigned to several." Fanny mimicked him in her most John-like voice. "Roll your eyes if you will, you do not seem to understand how important such a sighting can be. Two years ago I was walking down High Street with Blanche Hightower and in that little grove—you know the one, between the sweet shop and Mrs. Harlow's?—well, there stood six little magpies making all sorts of noise—they are certainly not songbirds, are they?" Fanny laughed before continuing, "Blanche tried to steer us away from them because of the bad luck and all, but I remembered the rhyme and told her that, where one magpie may be horrible luck, six is not at all! Not a month later, when I was on my way home from Avril Long's, I tripped and tore a ghastly hole in my stockings; but there on the ground was half sovereign!" She waited for a reaction, but none came.

Beginning to regret having asked his sister, John rubbed his temples. "What does your finding a coin on the street have to do with Blanche and Magpies, Fanny?" he asked his sister, perhaps harsher than he had intended.

"A half sovereign is gold and there were six magpies; You know, six for gold? Did you see six?"

With a deep sigh and resigned laugh, he conceded, "There were seven, but I only caught a glimpse of them in flight. I only got a good look at one." He could not believe that he was having such a serious discussion over the supernatural abilities of magpies!

"Oh." Fanny sighed sadly.

"Could you tell me the rhyme, Fanny?" He asked gentler this time.

"Of course. I still cannot believe that you don't know it!

One for sorrow,

Two for luck,

Three for a wedding,

Four for death;

Five for silver,

Six for gold;

Seven for a secret,

Never to be told!"

Fanny—who typically had a keen inability to see the world through any other's eyes—saw something in her brother's features change as she ended the little rhyme. There had been so much separation between them in age and struggles that she hardly thought of John as a brother at all. Reaching out to a person when they need comfort was what families were supposed to do, however, they were not that family—it was not that they did not love, only that consolation was not any of their strong suits. Fanny was all weakness and frivolity where her mother and brother were strength and sense. Their roles did not feel so concrete in that moment. It felt as though John were reaching out to her and she wished so badly to console him, she wished so badly for the right words.

"John," Fanny put her hand on her brother's arm. "If you need to talk, I know that I am not normally known for my listening," John could not help but smile at his sister. "-but I am here if you need me."

"Thank you." Fanny sat expectantly, as though waiting for John to confide in her at any moment. After patting her hand, John stood and began to collect his books; but her next words struck him to the core.

"Well, I cannot imagine that you, of all people, have any torrid secrets hidden away-" John cut her off before she could finish.

"I have no secrets, Fanny." His mood had turned sour. He walked to the door before looking down at his sister, who he had clearly wounded. "I'm sorry," John said before turning out of the door. "But I told you, I only saw one."

.