30 June 1959

It was a grey, grim day; winter had come for Ballarat, and Jean's heart was heavy, as it often was when she could not see the sun. Oh, her days of being a farmer's wife were long behind her, but though she no longer spent hours toiling in the dirt with green and growing things beneath her hands and sweat rolling down her back still she found her moods waxed and waned with the weather. When the sky was grey and the air turned chill her heart longed to gather in those she loved, to hold them close, to sit round a fire and see those faces dearest to her, and know that they were safe and well. But young Christopher was far from home, caught in a conflict Jean only barely understood, and Jack...well. Last she'd heard of him her wayward boy was in Melbourne, and she hoped, for his sake, that he remained there, that he had at last put down some roots, in his own fashion.

Her boys were gone but her girls were close, and Jean smiled at them fondly as they gathered at the bar, took the steaming bowls of soup she offered them with a chorus of thank you, Mrs. Beazley, each of them bright and beautiful in her own way. Some of them harbored dreams for a better life, saving their shillings for the moment when they'd finally have enough to take them off to Melbourne, or even Sidney, set themselves up somewhere properly and leave this grim phase of their lives behind. Some of them had no plan at all; Sarah had been one of those, but though she had not known her course it had found her just the same, and she was happily settling into her new life in Queensland with her baby girl, whom she'd called Jean, much to Mrs. Beazley's delight. And then there was Maureen, clever, prickly as a cactus, intent on staying right where she was.

There were twelve of them in all, twelve little birds for Jean to feed and nurture, twelve lives whole and distinct. As Jean watched the faces of those who'd gathered to eat the meal she'd made with her own hands her heart sank, just a little; sometimes when she looked at them she felt pride, to see how they flourished, to know that they were safer and better off here than they would be anywhere else. Sometimes her heart was full of love when she looked at them, thinking how each of them was special, a treasure, a joy to know. Now, though, she felt only a sudden rise of sorrow, for each of them was damned, in her own way, on account of the work they did, the work Jean encouraged them to do, the work that earned them the pounds they passed off to her, to keep her pub afloat, to keep a roof over all their heads. They were bound, as Jean was, never to fall in love, each of them tarnished, somehow. They would not find husbands, here, would not find references they could pass on to future employers, could hardly step outside the doors without being met with derision and scorn. Trapped in a cage - a comfortable one, but a cage nonetheless - of Jean's own making. As she watched them eating their lunch she thought of Lucien, and how she longed to hold him, thought of the grief she felt knowing he could never be hers, truly, and wondered about her girls, wondered whether any of them had ever felt the true blush of love, whether any of them had ever lost it, on account of Mrs. Beazley and her rules.

Oh, she could always find justification for her choices. Mrs. Harker hadn't forced her into this line of work; Mrs. Harker had offered her a legitimate occupation, and let her make her own choices about the rest. And likewise Jean had not deceived or entrapped any of her charges; these girls came to her on their own accord, sought her out deliberately, and she kept them safe. If she refused to employ them they'd just find someone else; there was no shortage of young women desperate enough to sell themselves, and no shortage of people unscrupulous enough to profit off that desperation. Much as Jean tried to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing in looking after them, she likewise knew that the Lock and Key was not a place where dreams came true; each day they spent in this place, each customer they took, would pull her girls farther away from the life they wanted, and closer to the life that held Jean captive. No chance for love, no hope for freedom, only this, this pale imitation of independence, this endless turning wheel of money and routine.

It had been a long, long time since Jean had felt so dissatisfied with her work, and loath though she might be to admit it, she knew that it was his fault, that beautiful, wonderful man who had exploded into her life, blown her comfortable world wide open and revealed the wounds that lay festering beneath her facade of contentment. Jean wanted a home, and two arms to hold her, wanted his smiles, wanted the warmth of the sun on her face, wanted a little garden and flowers to grow, wanted a parlor where her sons could visit, and sit beside the hearth, and feel no shame. Jean wanted to believe that whatever news that letter had brought to Lucien he would share it with her, would still be beside her, when the dust settled. She wanted permanence, and love, and until now she had managed to put those wants aside, had found peace in her little suite rooms, in Dimitri's deliveries every Friday, in Maureen's conversation, in the dreams she held for the future, dreams that would never come to be. No more; he had awoken a yearning within her, and she did not know how to temper it.

"All right, Mrs. Beazely?" Maureen asked her softly.

Jean looked up at her sharply; the other girls were talking and eating, but Maureen was watching Jean closely, her brow furrowed with worry.

"Don't frown, sweetheart," Jean answered, reaching out to brush her hand against Maureen's cheek. Maureen jerked back from her, smiling ruefully. "You'll wrinkle before your time."

"Don't tell anyone, but I'm already going grey. Molly at the salon's going to have my business until the day I die."

Jean laughed, but before she could say another word the little bell above the door trilled merrily, announcing the arrival of a visitor. At the sound her heart gave a great leap, wondering if perhaps it was Lucien, already returned to make arrangements for his next appointment, but it was only Danny, looking somewhat uncomfortable the way he always did when he stepped foot in this place.

"Danny!" Jean called to him, delighted to see him as always. In a moment she was stepping out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Auntie Jean," he said as she reached him, bowing his head to kiss her cheek.

"Everything all right?"

Danny was a good lad; Jean had always been close with her sister, and the boys had grown up together. Somehow, mercifully, Eadie had always seemed to believe the stories Jean told her, believed that the Lock and Key was no different from any other pub, and she'd moved to Castlemaine some years before, and Jean had breathed a sigh of relief when she went, not happy to see her go but glad to know that the chances of her learning the truth of Jean's occupation were slim. Danny had found out in his first year as a constable, and though the ensuing confrontation had been terribly uncomfortable for them both the end result had been a bargain struck; Danny was looking to supplement his salary, and Jean was looking for another lad to work security, and they'd both agreed to keep one another's secrets.

"Yeah, fine," he said. That was good news; Danny never came by in the middle of the day, and his policeman's uniform was not a welcome sight. Jean had worried, for a moment, that trouble was afoot, and she was glad to know that she had been wrong on that score.

"I have something for you, though. The Doc asked me to bring it by." Danny reached into his pocket, and withdrew a small envelope with Jean's name written on the front, and Jean stared it curiously, feeling a strange sense of dread beginning to swirl in her belly.

"And now that that's done," he said as he handed it over, "I've gotta get going."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for lunch? There's plenty to go around."

"No, thanks, Auntie Jean," he said, casting his eyes towards the girls with a wary grimace. "Don't want anyone to see me here. I'll be back on Friday."

He kissed her cheek again, and she bid him farewell, and then found herself alone in the center of the dining room, turning that envelope over in her hands. What could it be, she wondered, that Lucien could only tell her in a letter, and not in person? Was it to do with the letter he'd received, some word of his daughter? It would have been more prudent, she knew, to wait and read the letter when she was alone, but she could not find the strength to wait and so tore the envelope open right there.

My dear Jean, it began, I have followed your advice, and read the letter at last. It contained both good news and bad; I know now that my wife has died, but my daughter is alive, and arrangements have been made for me to meet with her in Shanghai. This is the journey that I have longed to make for so many years. You of all people will understand how much I need to see her, to hold her, to tell her I love her. Who knows what will happen, or how it will end? But please know this, I'm coming back to Ballarat, to my father's house, to you. I have found a place of light in the darkness. I have found my home. Thank you for caring, and for being my friend. For the first time in a very long time this feels like the beginning, and not the end.

Yours, with much affection,

Lucien

Tears gathered in the corners of Jean's eyes, and she covered her mouth with one hand while with the other she clutched the letter to her chest. Lucien's wife was dead, but his daughter still lived, and her heart rejoiced for him, knowing that at last his searching was at an end, and he would be able to see his child. It was what she had prayed for, that he would find relief, and not further grief. The loss of his wife was a tragedy he'd spent nearly two decades preparing for, and she hoped his sorrow would be tempered by the joy of seeing his Li at last.

And he had promised to come home, to come back to her. Though she knew it was folly, knew it was not her place to want him, to miss him while he was away and welcome him with open arms when he returned those words had burrowed themselves in her mind, bringing with them peace, and hope. He would come back to her; though she did not know how long he would be away or what would become of them when his journey ended at least she knew that he meant to make his way home, and she could look forward to his homecoming, to the moment when she could look into his eyes once more, and see his dear smile.

"All right, Mrs. Beazley?" Maureen called out from the bar behind her.

"Yes!" Jean answered, trying to contain the pounding of her heart, the sob that wanted to escape from her chest. "Yes."

In the days and nights to come she would pour over every word of that letter, and fret and hope in equal measure, but in that moment she felt only love, and sent up a quiet prayer for Lucien's safe travels. Keep him well, and may his journey be a happy one. Bring him back to me, she prayed.