Harry woke early, his internal clock alerting him to the rising of the sun well before the alarm he'd set on his mobile. He needed to get home, have a shower and change his clothes, but he was loath to move just now. Ruth was warm and soft, sleeping peacefully beside him, the heavy swell of her belly cradled protectively beneath his left hand. As he lay there beneath her sheets, feeling her chest rising and falling gently in time to the rhythm of her deep, steady breaths, he smiled to himself. She had surprised him, ringing him up the night before and inviting him round, but he was grateful to her for trusting him enough to ask. There were still times when he wasn't sure where they stood, what they wanted from one another, but as the days passed he found himself feeling more confident where she was concerned. Last night Ruth had wanted him near her, and when he broached the difficult subject of her miscarriage, she did not run from him. Surely that was a good sign, he thought.

He eased himself away from her regretfully, shuffling around the room in darkness in search of the clothes she'd torn off him the night before. Something had made her bold, last night, something had given her the courage to answer the door half-naked and practically begging him to take her; hormones most likely, he supposed. Dimly he could recall Jane having been particularly amorous throughout both of her pregnancies. Jane had never been a hesitant lover, but she'd been practically ravenous during those months.

As always, thoughts of Jane made him sigh. There was a part of him that was glad, to have her so removed from his life, but in his heart he would always view the ending of their marriage as his own personal failure. He had never been the man Jane needed him to be. Though he supposed she wasn't the woman he needed in the end, either.

There was Jane, petty, and pretty, and brittle as a sheet of glass, and then there was Ruth. Had two women ever been more different? He mused to himself, taking a moment to stare indulgently at Ruth, so peaceful now in sleep. Ruth was introspective where Jane was combative, calm where Jane was practically bombastic, fiercely loyal where Jane was brutally selfish; Ruth was as pale and lovely as porcelain, but with bones of steel. He tried to imagine how Jane might react, had she faced even half of the horrors that Ruth had borne over the last few years, and he shook his head. Jane would have broken beneath the weight of their losses, whereas Ruth held steady. There had been times when he feared for her, times when he looked at her and grieved for the bright-eyed, hopeful girl she'd been, but Ruth was still here, still able to find a piece of happiness in their world of shadows, and in that moment, he was completely awestruck by the truth of her.

"I can feel you looking at me," she mumbled, her luminous eyes still closed but a faint smile pulling at the corners of her full lips.

"Can you blame me?" he replied.

Ruth stretched, catlike, dislodging the thin sheet that had previously hidden her nakedness from him, revealing the sharp points of her collarbones and the smooth curve of her breasts, her soft, dusky pink nipples calling his name as they hardened in the cool air of her bedroom. He was drawn to her as a moth to a flame, leaning over her and brushing her lips with his own almost before he realized what was happening.

"Will you be all right today?" he asked, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, one of his hands reaching out to absently trace the swell of her stomach.

Ruth was going to see her mother this afternoon, and he knew she was dreading it. He supposed that was part of the reason she wanted him near last night; sometimes, they both needed a little help to keep their demons at bay. He couldn't imagine how she must be feeling. Harry had lost his own mother while he was at university, and some days he still felt as if the world had grown a bit darker, in her absence. How could Ruth have willingly kept herself away from her mother for so long? How guilty must she be feeling, his dear sweet Ruth, his Ruth who always blamed herself, even when she'd done nothing wrong? There was a great deal Harry still didn't know about her, about her life before she'd come to Thames House; oh, he'd read her file, seen enough to know, for example, that Ruth's relationship with Peter Haig was the only way to break Angela Wells in half, but he knew he had only scratched the surface of her past. Maybe one day she would trust him enough to fill in the gaps.

She had that faraway look in her eyes, the one he only saw when she was buried deep inside herself, too distant for him to reach.

"I'll be fine," she said softly. Harry didn't believe that for a moment, but he wasn't about to push her just now.

"Ring me?" he asked, reaching out to brush her dark away from her face, hoping that the touch of his hand would bring her back into this moment with him. "When you get home?"

She gave him a little nod. "I will. Do you have to go now?" Her voice was soft and sad, and he dearly wished he had a different answer to give her.

"I do," he told her apologetically.

Before she could say anything else, he leaned over her, and kissed her again, long and slow, their tongues sliding gently together, his hand moving of its own volition to cup her exposed breast, drawn to her skin as if by some unfathomable magnetic force. Tenderly he brushed his thumb across her nipple, and felt her shudder underneath his touch. He did it again, and felt her answering moan vibrating against his lips. Already he could feel himself slowly beginning to harden, the sound of her voice and the warmth of her skin, coupled with the scent of her and the recollections of the frenzied way they'd fallen together the night before overwhelming him, ratcheting up the desire that burned between them.

"I have to go," he murmured between heated kisses.

"I know," she answered. Before he could pull away, she reached out, and dragged the tips of her fingers against the length of his semi-hard cock, and he very nearly lost all control of himself.

"Ruth-"

"I know," she said again, disentangling herself from his embrace and leaning back against the pillows. "It's all right. Go to work. I'll call you later."

I love you, he thought. The words stuck in his throat; why could he not say them? Because she would run, he told himself. Because you can't lose her, not yet, not now.

One more time he leaned across the space between them, and kissed her lips, just because he could, because he wanted to. And one more time she let him, smiling at him as he pulled away. He gave her a quiet farewell, and when he turned to close her bedroom door behind him, he saw her snuggling back beneath the sheets, warm and happy.

Beth rose early on Saturday morning; though she'd been out late the night before, she'd had entirely too much to drink, and she'd woken in desperate need of a piss and a large glass of water. She stood by the kitchen sink, the little clock on the opposite wall proclaiming the time to be just past six in the morning. It's entirely too early for this, she thought to herself, cradling her glass in her hands and forcing herself to take small sips, rather than gulping the whole thing down. Her stomach was in a riot and her head was pounding, and she promised herself two things as she stood there. One, she was never going out with Dimitri and Tariq unsupervised ever again. Two, she was going back to bed as soon as she was finished with her water, and she wasn't going to get up again until Monday morning.

Needless to say, Beth was not at her best when Harry came waltzing down the hall, whistling to himself.

Beth prayed he'd just keep walking past the kitchen, but, ever the spook, he seemed to sense her presence, and turned toward the kitchen doorway instead.

He stopped short the moment he saw her, his happy little whistle dying abruptly on his lips. For a full minute they simply stood and stared at one another like two cowboys facing off in a bad Western. Harry's hair was mussed and his clothes were wrinkled (and, Beth noted, definitely the same shirt and trousers he'd worn yesterday), and for her part Beth was wearing a vest and a very brief pair of shorts, her hair a fright and yesterday's make up still smudged around her eyes. Beth was pretty sure she was still at least a half-drunk, and she didn't trust herself to speak. What could she say, anyway? What was she supposed to do when she found her boss all loved-up and happy in her kitchen at six a.m. on a Saturday, when she was practically sweating vodka and trying valiantly not to be sick all over the floor?

"Good morning," Harry said, managing to somehow still look rather stern, despite the circumstances.

"Morning," Beth croaked in reply.

That seemed to satisfy Harry's sense of propriety, so he simply gave her a little nod, turned on his heel, and walked out of the flat without another word.

Beth downed the rest of her water and shuffled off to lock the door behind him. She was definitely going back to bed, and she was never, ever going to come out again.

David was waiting for her, when she pulled up outside the home where her mother had taken up residence. For weeks she had been dreading this, not knowing what she'd find, but she knew it had to be done. And David would be with her, quiet and supportive as he'd always been.

You can do this, she told herself, taking a deep breath as she crossed the pavement to greet him.

The moment she drew level with him David wrapped his arms around her. They'd never been much on hugging, Ruth and her stepfather, but she knew that her rather miraculous resurrection had shaken him, and she welcomed his affection now in a way she never would have when she was younger.

"You look lovely, Ruth," he told her warmly when they parted.

She never knew how to respond to comments like that; thank you seemed too vain, but if she protested too much, it always sounded like she was fishing for compliments. So she elected not to say anything at all, and gave him a half-hearted smile instead.

"Have you spoken to the doctors today?" she asked as he turned to guide her into the building.

"I have. They've been working with her for a while now, trying to get her ready for this. It sounds like today is one of the good days. It's going to be all right, Ruth."

"What have they told her?" Ruth asked him. She'd been wondering about that for ages; would the doctors use Elizabeth's faulty memory against her, try to convince her that her recollections of her daughter's death were no more than fabrication? That seemed like such a dirty trick, and she fervently hoped they hadn't been manipulating her mother in that way.

"They told her the same thing you told me, that you were gone for a while because you were in danger, but that you're safe now and that you want to see her. They've told her every day, and they seem fairly confident that it's sunk in."

At the front desk Ruth had to show her ID and sign a little book, her hand shaking as she scrawled her name across the page. How did it come to this? She wondered sadly. How had she let things get to a point where it had taken a platoon of doctors and nurses weeks to prepare her own mother to see her again? True, their relationship had always been fraught, but Elizabeth was her mother. Surely she deserved better than a daughter who deserted her, who let her believe her only child was dead for years.

As they walked down a long corridor that stank of antiseptic, Ruth wondered about her own daughter, still safe and sound and sheltered inside her growing belly. Would Ruth's relationship with the peanut fall apart, the way her relationship with Elizabeth had? Years from now, would the peanut quietly resent her, scramble for excuses not to see her, staunchly refuse to explain their troubles to her lover?

I promise to try harder, love, Ruth thought desperately as she walked. I promise to be there for you, if you'll let me.

"Here we are then," David said softly, coming to a stop outside a nondescript door. Just a door, like the dozens that dotted this corridor, and yet Ruth dreaded the discovery of what might wait for her on the other side.

"David-"

"I'll be with you, Ruth. It'll be all right." His voice was warm, but firm, and brooked no argument. With one last glance at her face, he opened the door and ushered her inside.

Elizabeth's room was actually a small suite; the door opened onto a sitting room, with a little bathroom off to the left, and a bedroom to the right. The far wall was given over to a lovely (if heavily reinforced) window, and it was there Elizabeth sat, reclining on the amply cushioned window seat, a book open on her lap but her eyes fixed on the window and the sundrenched world beyond.

It had been nearly four years since Ruth had last seen her mother, and in that time, everything had changed. Elizabeth's once lustrous hair had gone a dull, dingy grey, and her formerly voluptuous frame had shrunken down around her, leaving her small and frail. Her eyes were the same, though; they were the same bright, brilliant blue eyes Ruth saw every morning when she looked in the mirror. Those eyes were the only thing Ruth and her mother had ever shared in common.

"Elizabeth?" David said softly. "Darling, Ruth's here."

At the sound of David's voice Elizabeth snapped to attention, and when she turned to look at them the book slid off her lap and landed in a heap on the floor.

"Ruth?" Elizabeth asked, and for a moment Ruth was horrified, convinced that her mother had forgotten her completely.

"My God, it really is you," she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes as she rushed to her feet, practically running across the room to throw her arms around her daughter. "My darling girl," Elizabeth wept, her whole body shaking. For her part Ruth found she could not speak a word, and so she simply held her mother close.

After several long, increasingly uncomfortable moments, Elizabeth finally drew back, hungrily devouring Ruth's face with her gaze. It was a rather confronting moment for Ruth, standing beneath her mother's scrutiny; she never liked being the center of attention, and she could not begin to fathom what was running through her mother's mind. The woman Ruth had left behind all those years before would not hesitate to offer scathing recriminations, upon discovering that her daughter's death had been a lie, and deep in her heart Ruth had thrown up her defenses, hoping to protect herself should such a thing come to pass.

"Why do you look so sad, my love?" Elizabeth asked, reaching up with one bony hand to cup Ruth's cheek, forcing her to look into her mother's face.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get here," Ruth answered. That was as close to the truth as she might ever come, when faced with such a question. Why do I look so sad? Mother, there aren't enough hours in the day for me to answer that.

With an impatient hand Elizabeth waved her apology away. "Never mind that," she said.

She had her mouth open to ask another question, but it was in that instant that she first registered Ruth's condition.

"My God, Ruth, are you…" her voice trailed away, and Ruth wasn't sure if it was hope or horror she saw in her mother's eyes.

There was no denying it, even if she wanted to, and so she nodded. "I'm nearly seven months gone, now. It's a girl."

Elizabeth's tears started afresh at that declaration. All this weeping was making Ruth rather tired; though Elizabeth didn't seem to care, David did, and, as always, he stepped in to ease the strain he saw on his step-daughter's face.

"Why don't we all sit down?" he suggested, taking Elizabeth by the arm and leading her over to the little table in the corner.

"I just can't believe it," Elizabeth said, wiping at her eyes rather theatrically. "I always told David I feared we'd never have any grandchildren; you were always such a mousy little thing. It's no wonder the boys never looked twice at you."

Ruth just sighed in response. Of course, her mother would choose to focus less on the fact that Ruth had managed to somehow come back from the dead and more on the fact that she had been a constant source of disappointment, ever since she was small. Unless she's already forgotten that I'm meant to be dead, Ruth thought glumly.

"What's his name then, darling? Why isn't he here?" All traces of her tears were gone now, and instead Ruth was faced with the mother she remembered, all sharp glances and cutting words.

"His name is Harry, and he had to work today." Please let that be enough, please don't push…

"Couldn't be bothered to come out and see me, eh? Does Harry have a last name?"

Ruth fought the urge to roll her eyes. David didn't overlook her frustration; he reached out and squeezed her hand while Elizabeth wasn't looking in a tiny gesture of solidarity.

"Pearce, mum. His name is Harry Pearce."

"Harry Pearce," Elizabeth repeated. "And can I expect a wedding invitation any time soon? Or has Mr. Harry Pearce vanished into thin air?"

This felt like some sort of bizarre nightmare, Ruth thought grimly. Terrorists and bombs and hackers she could handle, but her mother on the warpath was a threat she'd never really learned to cope with.

"No," she said, perhaps a bit more sharply than she'd intended. "Harry is a good man, mum, but we're not getting married."

Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up into her hairline, but before she could say anything else, David smoothly intervened.

"We're so pleased for you, Ruth," he said, giving Elizabeth a look that Ruth recognized well from her childhood. It was a look that said plainly, Elizabeth, be a dear and do shut up, please.

Elizabeth made a sort of hmph sound. "Yes, darling, we're very pleased. Now tell me, do you have a name picked out for her yet? Please don't tell me you've gone and chosen something ridiculous like Aphrodite."

In the end, Ruth spent nearly three hours sitting around that cramped table with her mother and stepfather, and though there were times when she simply wanted to stomp from the room like a petulant child, it wasn't nearly as bad as she expected. She lingered by the car, talking to David for a while, and he confessed that Elizabeth had been more herself for those three hours than he'd seen her for some months. Every day was different, he said, but that had been a good day, and he attributed his wife's good humor to Ruth, and to the delightful news about the baby. Ruth hugged him in farewell, with promises to ring, and to come back as soon as she was able.

As she drove, her thoughts wandered. She thought about how she'd cried after leaving London, imagining her mum and David at her funeral, and all the nights she'd spent wondering how her family might react upon her return. Her homecoming had been nothing like she'd imagined it, blood-soaked and drenched in horror as it was, and she knew full well why she had taken so long to come to see her mother. After losing George and Nico and the baby and Jo so soon close on their heels Ruth had fallen into depression, but that was nothing new for her. That gut-wrenching, debilitating numbness was something she'd grown accustomed to, over the years. It was something she shared in common with Peter, their struggle with what Churchill had dubbed his "black dog." It kept her distant from her mother, kept her distant from Harry, kept her stumbling through her life without ever engaging. Would it come back? She wondered. What sort of havoc would that wreak on the peanut, if she woke one day feeling as bleak and as empty as she had when the black dog sank its teeth into her in the past?

I love you, little one, she thought as she drove, and I will do my best for you. I will, I promise.