A/N: So. I know that the last chapter was very difficult to read. Believe me, it was difficult to write. Also, believe me or don't, it was not gratuitous. You will see why in time. I must thank all of you that have been so supportive both here and on tumblr, both towards my writing and my personal life. 99.9% of my readers are incredible. You don't always agree with me and that's okay but you are kind and thoughtful and you have been so supportive. Speaking of supportive, I must always thank Faeyero, who you should also thank, because she will be kicking me in the butt to finish this story. She is invaluable, as always.

I always planned on this chapter being dedicated to Kavan–who always, from her very first introduction, understood that Baby was much more than a dog. Kavan was the first one to wear a team Baby t-shirt loudly and proudly, asking for her when she was not included in a chapter. This one was always meant for you, Kavan.


Chapter Fifty Four

The stories all began the same: Once upon a time...

They ended the same way, too: happily ever after...

Yet, Gracie never seemed to tire of them, whether the books were clumsily illustrated or had gilded pages that were heavy to turn in her little hands, sometimes sticky with a recent treat Robert had given her: Shh, don't tell Mama. Even without treats she loved the fairy tales. And Robert found himself tremendously happy, lucky even, that his granddaughter not only liked fairy tales but loved them. Whether he could articulate it or not, his heart burst at the idea that she might always believe in fairy tales–that Gracie's life would be what Mary's should have been but for the villain. Of course, Jack and the Beanstalk remained Gracie's favorite and Robert ended up buying a second copy which he was sure Mary would categorize as spoiling, but a grandfather was entitled. Surely he was. A grandfather was entitled particularly when a little girl smiled up at him with a single dimple and batted her eyelashes. What was a man to do?

She made him sit down in the middle of the bookstore and read Jack to her. He looked highly undignified, of course. His pants wrinkled. But Gracie had pulled at his cuff and implored him with her adorable, "Geepa!" He didn't realize that this version was slightly more violent–fee fi fo fum; I smell the blood of an Englishman; be he live, or be he dead, I'll grind his bones and make my bread–but Gracie seemed unfazed by it because she knew what was coming. Because fairy tales always end the same.

And they lived happily ever after.

"Happy," she told him as he closed the book, giggling a bit, and he thought he'd never been so happy as he was sitting in the middle of a bookstore, looking foolish, than at that moment, that perhaps it was the happiest of his life, actually. It was so strange, to know he had chased the idea of contentment for years in the form of brick and mortar, and now he found it in a bookstore with his granddaughter tucked near him, nearly screeching fee fi fo fum.

I am happy, he thought.

Gracie must have agreed because she said it again–happy–as she leaned into him on the drive home, falling asleep against his side. And for one too-brief car ride, everything in his life made sense; everything had come full circle. For one too-brief car ride, he felt a peace settle around him like the warmest and softest of blankets. For one too-brief car ride, Robert believed in fairy tales again.

When he walked into Crawley house, he paused, his foot in the air, mid step. He was unprepared for the scene in front of him. There was no way to prepare for it. He felt as if someone had punched him the stomach. He could not breathe or move or think.

How could he have known what he would walk into, Gracie tucked into the crook of his neck, sleeping soundly, her breath warm against his neck? The door wide open, a table turned over, Baby on her side, whimpering quietly, as if she did not even want to be heard? Worst of all, of course, worst of all, there was Mary, not whimpering at all but so very still.

Of course, it is always shocking how the eye can take in, processing so much in so little time–Mary, still, so very still, her face purple, puffy, and angry red. There was a handprint on her cheek, though it was distorted by the swelling. God, the swelling. She did not even look like his daughter and yet she was. She was his daughter and he loved her; he had never stopped loving her, even when he hated her. And even when she had told him of Richard and what had been done in the small library he had not been able to, he had not allowed himself to imagine it. Yet, he was looking at it now. For who else but Richard could do something so horrible?

Though he clothes looked untouched, her face looked obliterated, as if the man had wanted to erase her. And she was Robert's daughter and he loved her and he had never stopped loving her, even when he hated her and now she was so still, injured beyond what he could describe. Later, he would think of it and have to close his eyes and turn away from the memory. It was too much for him. And yet now, it was not a memory but his reality, Mary's reality, and he could hear the curl of his daughter's voice, his baby's voice, float towards him in the stillness of the room: "Papa."

Her voice was raw and she could not open her jaw wide enough to say the word fully but he heard it all the same and for a moment the relief that swept through him almost brought him to his knees. He did not realize until she spoke that he had thought she was dead, that some part of him was imagining a world without his daughter in it–Mary, whom he had always loved even when he hated her. And had he told her enough? Though the words often stuck in his throat, had he said, I love you, even when I don't like you? She raised a trembling hand and pointed towards the stairs, very clearly articulating that he should take Gracie upstairs, and then she put that same hand on her stomach, very clearly articulating that she needed a doctor, because of course she needed a doctor. When he saw the effort it took for her to swallow, he realized how much it must hurt to speak.

He took her voice, the bastard. He tried to take her voice. He tried to take her face.

And Robert knew he could kill.

His heart was breaking. He could feel it physically. And yet he could not feel it. He could not feel anything. Even his anger was encrusted in ice because he was holding his granddaughter in his arms, Gracie, who still believed in fairy tales and his daughter, Mary, who knew the truth–every fairy tale has a villain, a giant for Jack to conquer–was imploring him to take care of Gracie and the child she carried. The children had to be in important. Especially now, when he had so often made Mary unimportant. So he brought Gracie upstairs and tucked her into her crib and shushed her gently back to sleep when she stirred. Then he went to Mary. She flinched when he tried to stroke her hair. "Papa," she repeated, again not moving her jaw or opening her mouth, a whispered hiss. "Matthew. The baby. Doctor. Now." He nodded, though only a slit of one of her brown eyes was visible to him. "And Baby," she continued.

He was already standing. "Right. The baby. Don't worry; everything is going to be all right."

Everything was not all right.

He lied to her because that's what fathers do when their daughters ask them if it is a safe world, a good world, a kind world. He lied because he loved her and yet he knew that she had been through this once before and that it would not be all right. He could not know that his own mother had lied in the same way. And he could not know that this time, though it was struggle, Mary kept her eyes open instead of closed.

She struggled to get the words out, struggled to shake her head. Everything was a struggle. "No, Dog Baby. She saved us. You have to promise," she hissed out a wince. "You have to promise that you'll take care of her and make sure she is all right."

"Mary, obviously, yes but the priority is–"

She reached out and tried to grip his hand but she failed and her hand slipped from his wrist. "She saved me," she repeated before losing consciousness again, a mercy against the pain. Only then did Robert lay his hand on her hair, just for half a second, before making his way quickly to the telephone.


Mary woke with panic crawling up her throat, her hands reaching for her stomach. And then she felt Matthew's lips in her hair, as soft as his whisper, "It's all right. You're safe." He always knew how to touch her without hurting her. He always knew. She sagged against him. She knew that she could, that his arms would come around her and he would hold her. Unlike the time in the small library, she did not flinch from his touch. But of course, there was still pain and she winced.

"They can't give you anything too strong because of the baby. I'm sorry–" His voice broke. Mary would never tell him that his pain only multiplied her own. She wondered if loving someone meant taking on their pain and thought that perhaps that was part of it and Matthew...God, Matthew had taken on so much pain that did not even belong to him. As if he could read her thoughts, he went on in a hushed and anguished whisper: "If I could take the pain away from you, I would. Mary, God..."

She felt his arms tighten gently around her, his cheek to the top of her head, and it only made her feel safer. "The baby?" she asked, though it hurt to move her mouth. Not as much before but it still was painful, physically, but the question was hard enough in and of itself.

For a moment, his arms tightened around her again and then unclenched. Tenderly, he took her battered, bruised, swollen face in his hands. She did not realize she was weeping until she saw her own reflection in his tear-filled eyes. She did not recognize herself and perhaps she would have felt unmoored but she saw clearly by the look in his eyes that Matthew recognized her and that was enough. "Doctor George says there is a heartbeat. He says...you'll have to be in bed until she comes."

"He," she replied automatically, but neither of them laughed.

"Mary," his voice broke again. "What can I do?"

"Who is with Gracie?" she asked, leaning her forehead into his arm.

"Sybil," he explained. "All the Bransons are staying over with Mother to distract Gracie...At Crawley House...I knew we would want her routine disturbed as little as possible." Mary squeezed his hand. She loved him. She loved him so much.

"Baby?" Mary asked.

"Doctor George said that there is a heartbeat and that everything should be..."

She stopped him with a simple press of her fingertips against his wrist. "No. Baby, the dog. You asked what you could do for me. I want to hold Gracie but I don't want her to see me like this. I would very much like Baby to share this bed with me."

"Oh, Mary," the anguish in his voice released a wail from Mary, a very real wail that in another time or place would remind them of their daughter.

"She saved us, Matthew!"

"After you were safe, after we knew that you and the baby were safe, your father..." Matthew paused and took a deep breath. "He accosted Doctor George. He screamed at him that he would fix the dog and when Doctor George explained he wasn't a veterinarian, your father said he must...he must fix her...Robert was holding her out to him...They were barely able to keep him out of the operating room but...he kept saying that you had asked him to take care of Baby. He hasn't...He hasn't left his seat near the doors..."

"Matthew," Mary whimpered. "Where is Baby?"

His answer was completely unexpected. Mary was sure the dog had died. Wasn't that how it worked? Baby died in her place. And yet..."Doctor George is in surgery with her now but...Mary, please...You have to understand she was quite injured and that..."

"You have to understand," Mary replied shakily, lifting one of his hands to kiss, "that I would not be here right now without that dog, Matthew, and neither would our baby. He would have killed us." She repeated the haunting words. Of course, it still hurt to talk but these words were so very important. They were more important than talking about the villain of this story. That would have to come later. "He would have killed us."

"Mary," he begged. He would never be able to put into words what the telephone call from her father had felt like, and seeing her so beaten, so still. It reminded him of before. How could it not? But now that she was awake he recognized his wife, her stubbornness, even to keep her swollen eyes open, to push out words over a dog, to accept his embrace. This was not the small library. "Please, try to be calm. For the baby."

"I was so worried before," she wept. "I was worried: will Baby be safe around the baby? Will she hurt him on accident or on purpose? What will Baby do with a baby? Do you know how stupid those questions sound right now?" she sputtered."She killed herself for us."

He held her as she wept. What else could he do?

And she held on. Because what else could she do?


A/N: It is short but hopefully you will understand why in the NEXT chapter. When I write the next chapter. Also, I am very aware that there are questions NOT answered in this chapter. But Lady Mary has priorities, okay? And in my opinion they say a lot about where she is at in life, even after the beating she took. Review away...