2 September 1946

It had been a long day, not quite hot, not yet, but the weak winter sun was slowly gathering strength as spring approached, and he had enjoyed every moment of his labor. Once the children came home from school Lucien took it upon himself to entertain them outside, as he did on fine afternoons, so that Jean might be allowed a few moments peace while she set about putting together their supper. They played a brisk, somewhat muddled game of two-on-two; Jack being the smallest was paired with Lily, who was the best player of their foursome, and Lucien played alongside Christopher, knowing that despite the fact that he was a grown man he was more hindrance than help to his young teammate. To form makeshift goals two large sticks had been laid flat on either end of a patch of bare grass to give them somewhere to aim the somewhat lopsided ball they kicked so exuberantly between them. It was a pleasant way to pass the time; Christopher was somewhat quieter than his more boisterous siblings, but he played a fair game, and he was not so serious as to deny his little brother the chance to put the ball passed him, just to give young Jack the opportunity to score at least once. They were sweet, the three of them, and any time spent in their company warmed Lucien's heart immensely.

But then Jean was leaning through back door, shouting that supper was ready, and they abandoned their ball at once to make their way inside, eager to wash their hands and sit down to whatever lovely meal she had prepared for them. As Lucien walked along the grass behind the children, watching the sunlight fade, watching Jean smiling at the four of them so fondly, listening to the sound of the children's gentle laughter, his heart ached, for a moment, for a life that could never be. This was what it felt like, he thought then, to belong to a family. This moment, this joy, this affection, this easy familiarity, was a family, but it was not his. He had only borrowed the Beazley family, only had them on loan, until Jean came to her senses, until the whispers became too much to bear, until he mucked it all up, as he eventually must. He could enjoy it for this moment, but he tried to remind himself that it would not do to get too comfortable here, to presume to take from them more than Jean was willing to give, to try to usurp the place of the brave young man who'd died holding his hand. It was a sour thought, and nearly enough to ruin his day.

Nearly, but not quite, for Jean was the very picture of loveliness, still wrapped in her soft floral apron, cheeks pink from standing over the hot stove, a smile on her full lips. Perhaps she would not ever be his, not in the way he wanted her to be, but he could enjoy her for now just like this, her friendship, her smiles, her beautiful face, her company, and so he only smiled back at her, and ducked his head as he slipped into the house.

The routine of it was comforting, jostling with the children by the sink as they washed their hands, Jean chiding Jack gently, herding him towards the table. Lucien took his turn last, dried his hands on a towel and tossed it to the side before making his way towards his own seat. He stopped dead in a moment, however, for beneath his empty plate there at the head of the table there lay a single white envelope.

In the beginning, when he was receiving regular dispatches from Derek, Jean collected the mail each afternoon, and should a letter arrive for Lucien she would lay it in the same spot each evening. It had been months since Lucien had received any sort of correspondence from anyone, and the sight of that letter, half-hidden beneath his plate, sent a shock straight through him. His hands began to tremble, and he struggled to draw in a breath.

"Lucien," Jean said softly, reaching out to lay a gentle hand against his arm. He turned towards her, agony stabbing at him like knives, fear and hope so fierce and so unrestrained swirling through him that it was a wonder he remained on his feet. In the beginning Lucien always forced himself to wait to read his letters until after dinner, to be courteous to his hosts, to remind himself that whatever information they contained there was little he could do in response, and so waiting might perhaps be for the best. Now, however, starved for news of his child, with a hefty reserve of bills piled up in the bottom of his trunk thanks to his work on the farm and with Mark Dempster and Matthew Lawson, in this moment when Jean was watching him with a boundless depth of compassion swirling in her glorious eyes, he could not bring himself to wait a single second longer.

Carefully he reached out and retrieved the letter, and Jean stepped away from him at once. Perhaps she felt it, the rippling uncertainty that tore through Lucien as he gazed down upon the envelope, the undercurrent of electricity rolling off of him in waves. Perhaps she felt as he did, that a terrible storm was brewing. Dark clouds were gathering outside and in Lucien's heart, for the return address on the envelope identified its sender as a government official in Shanghai. This was it, he knew. This was the moment when everything would change, when he would learn at last what had become of his precious Li, and his very life seemed to hang in the balance. If the news was good he would be overcome with joy, and if it was bad he would be utterly, completely shattered.

"Mum?" Lily asked in a timid little voice, her blue eyes bouncing and forth between her mother and Lucien like a spectator at a tennis match. Quite suddenly Lucien realized where he was, realized that he and Jean had been standing still and silent for far too long.

"It's fine, love," Jean murmured, jumping into action at once, helping to serve the food and stealing glances at Lucien out of the corner of her eye as at last he began to open that fateful letter.

If asked about it later, Lucien would not be able to recall precisely what that letter said. Phrases jumped out at him; dear Doctor Blake...Major Alderton...pleased to inform you...alive and well...come at once.

Come at once.

A single, strangled sound escaped Lucien's lips, and then he was moving, adrenaline thudding through his veins, his vision clouded by tears, with only one thought swirling through his mind. Get to Li. Get to Li. Get to Li.

Without a word he tucked the letter in his pocket, turned, and ran out the door as fast as his feet would carry him. He did not even bother to close the door behind him, Jean's shouts echoing ineffectually in the crisp evening air. Lucien did not hear her, could not have stopped for anything. Though he would later admit that his actions were in no way rational, he nonetheless continued, racing as fast as his feet would carry him down the long dirt drive out to the road, turning towards Ballarat, towards his father and a telephone and the chance to set a course for his daughter. He had to bring her home; nothing else mattered.

Thomas Blake appeared quite shocked when he opened his door at 6:30 in the evening to find his son standing there, wild-eyed and sweating despite the relative chill in the air, gasping like a fish. Lucien thrust the letter at him, too winded to speak. Perhaps it was strange, that his path had taken him back to his father's door, after all the years he had spent hating the man, all the pain and misunderstandings between them, but in that moment he knew that he would find aid and comfort here, and he had gone to Thomas gladly. Over the course of their many quiet Saturday chats they had mended most of the fissures between them, had come to understand one another now as they never could have done when Lucien was young, and he was grateful, so grateful, for the ties that bound them together.

As Lucien stood gasping in the doorway Thomas devoured the letter hungrily, and then uttered a single phrase.

"Good god, Lucien," he breathed, stepping aside, his eyes wide and hopeful.

"I need your help," Lucien answered, panting as he accepted his father's silent invitation to step into the house.

"Of course, son," Thomas said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come and have a cup of tea and we'll work this out."

And so they did, together. Thomas arranged their tea and then placed a call to a friend in Canberra, who despite grumbling about being disturbed at home nonetheless agreed to help him. They worked it out together, sitting there at the kitchen table that had been the scene of so many of their desultory weekend conversations, though now it seemed more like a military briefing room than anything else. Arrangements had to be made, to get Lucien from Ballarat to Melbourne, and from there to Shanghai. There were no civilian flights to be had at that time, but Thomas's friend in government believed he could pull some strings to arrange transport for Lucien as part of a diplomatic mission, and instructed him to present himself at the old familiar Army base in Melbourne at the first possible opportunity. They discussed what he ought to pack, rummaged through the house in search of important papers he might need, laid out a rough itinerary and planned how much money he would require to see him through. For a moment Lucien agonized over whether or not to accept the funds his father offered; in the end, however, he had to admit that his savings might not be sufficient, and that any charity he accepted from his father would be for Li's benefit, and not his own, and therefore could not be turned away. He would do anything, anything, to hold his child again.

When at last it was settled, or as settled as it could be, it was nearing 10:00 p.m. Despite the lateness of the hour Lucien insisted on returning to the farm; he needed to gather his belongings into his pack, and write a letter for Jean. He intended to leave again at first light, to make his way to the train station and from there on to Melbourne, and he was certain that she would be asleep when he returned, and asleep still when he left. Rather than disturb her he intended to write to her, though he knew that this time his letter would reach its intended recipient. Thomas had offered to drive him, but Lucien's father was not as young as he once was, and his eyesight was failing, and Lucien felt he had already asked too much of the man. He did however accept one final piece of assistance from his father, when Thomas handed him the keys to his old Holden.

"I don't want you to walk all that way again, Lucien," Thomas said seriously. "Drive it to the train station in the morning, and I'll pick it up there. You go home now, and try to rest, if you can."

Home, he'd said, and dimly Lucien realized that for the very first time his father had acknowledged that sticky truth that had so troubled him for these last few months, that Lucien had willfully and with open arms embraced his life on the farm and with the Beazleys, that he counted that little house and the beautiful souls who lived there as his home. Thomas had reached that conclusion with neither malice nor regret, and was in fact now encouraging his son where before he had only tried to steer him away. It would remain, for the rest of his life, one of the strangest and most emotional nights Lucien ever experienced.

Lucien pocketed the keys and then extended his hand, reaching out to shake his father's hand for the first time in recent memory. There was no sign of the man who spurned him once, who had bitterly told him you are no son of mine; Thomas Blake had turned a corner, and so had his son, and they accepted one another now as they never had before. For the first time since his mother's death, Lucien felt a surge of affection, of warmth, of love for his father, for this man who had so earnestly helped him in every way, who accepted him now. Losing one another had taught them both how precious their bond truly was, and now they were each determined to build a future that was brighter than their past.

"Thank you," he said earnestly.

Thomas beamed at him. "Go, Lucien," he said gruffly, trying to hide how moved he was by his son's words. "You bring my granddaughter home."

To hear his father so openly and earnestly accept his child as part of their family shredded the last of Lucien's already frayed nerves, and quite before he knew what was happening, he had caught his father in a fierce embrace.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."