Jean wasn't sure what to do. She felt herself shaking. Her mind could hardly accept all that had happened, all that she had been told. She was sitting on the sofa in the studio with Lucien Blake beside her. Lucien Blake who, it seemed, had crossed over the veil. He was not dead nor was he truly among the living. He existed apart from the world and yet he was flesh and blood.

Actually Jean did not know if that was true. Could he bleed? Could he be injured or feel pain? Not that she wanted him to experience such things, of course, but pain was a part of living, as Jean knew better than most. If Lucien Blake were not truly alive, perhaps he could not feel pain. From his tale, it seemed he had felt far too much physical pain. Jean hoped that, for that reason, he could not feel such pain now.

Oh, what did all of this mean? And where did it leave Jean? What was she to do?

"I am sorry, Mrs. Beazley," Lucien said quietly.

She looked up at him, curious. "Whatever for?"

"I don't imagine you anticipated inheriting your Doctor Blake's son along with his house."

There was a hint of humor in his voice that Jean did not like one bit. "I did not anticipate inheriting anything from Doctor Blake," she snapped.

He was taken aback by her biting tone. "I beg your pardon," he apologized. "I didn't mean to insinuate anything."

Jean sighed. She was overwhelmed by all of this and wasn't as measured as she liked to be.

"You can just think of me as another fixture to the house, if you like. I never bothered you before, and I shan't bother you again if you lock the door to the studio and never open it again," he pointed out.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You are not a bookshelf or end table. You are the son of a man with whom I lived and worked for many years. A man who grieved his wife and child without knowing that the both of them were in this house. To have you refer to yourself as a fixture of the house to be ignored and stored up here like a box of old linens is a disservice to your father's memory."

Now it was Lucien's turn to turn cold. "The man you knew was not a loving, caring father, Mrs. Beazley. He may have grieved me after the war, but I grieved losing both my parents at ten years old. And only one of them ever found a way to show me an ounce of care after that, and she's been dead for forty years." His words were harsh and almost cruel. The visceral pain emanating off him almost bowled her over.

Jean swallowed back the lump in her throat. "Jean," she said, her voice cracking.

"What?"

"You can call me Jean."

And with that, Jean got up from the sofa and quickly walked out the studio door, closing it tight behind her.

She practically tumbled down the stairs, blinded as she was by her tears. Jean did manage to make it to the kitchen to collapse into a chair. There were no sobs, no desperate heaving breaths trying to withstand the weight of grief, not like there was that day after the funeral. But the tears flowed freely and uncontrollably nonetheless. She could not cry in front of Lucien Blake. She would not allow it. She did not know the man and he did not know her, and no stranger was going to see her cry.

But cry she must. She'd never been weepy like this before in her life, but this circumstance was entirely new for her. Jean was overwhelmed by the tragedy of it all. That Doctor Blake had mourned his son—no matter what Lucien thought, Jean knew that the doctor bore the grief of a parent who lost their child—and yet no mourning need have been suffered. All these years, Lucien had been right there. Only just up the stairs, behind that untouched door. Doctor Blake had never known. He needn't have been alone in the world.

Why had no one told Doctor Blake about Lucien? Mrs. Blake was a ghost and she had appeared to Jean and spoken to her. Twice, in fact. Why had she never come to her own husband? Why had she never led him up to the studio to show him that their beloved son remained trapped there?

That was what hurt the most for Jean, she realized. The idea of that wasted grief. That pain of loss that needn't have been suffered. Her mind cruelly led her to wonder if perhaps her Christopher had suffered a similar fate. After all, he'd died in the Solomons and been buried there with the rest of his fallen regiment. His body was never brought home to Jean. Could that be because there was no body to bring home? Had there been a mistake with the army? Was her Christopher trapped over the veil somewhere Jean hadn't been able to find?

She wanted to think that it wasn't possible, but she hardly knew what was possible now. She wanted to believe that if Christopher could have come home to her in any form, he would have done so. He would not have left her unless he had to. He'd gone to war because she'd told him he had to, and he'd done it. He'd not wanted to go. Jean knew he'd wanted to return home to her and to their boys. He wouldn't have stayed away if he could have visited them.

At some point, Jean's tears had stopped. She stood up, still feeling a bit weak and shaky, and made herself some tea. By the time the kettle was ready, Jean felt a bit silly for having gotten so worked up over everything. She'd been far too emotional lately. Probably not having anything to do. She'd never been an idle person, always having far too much to manage to waste any time being upset and weeping like this.

Yes, that was it. Jean needed something to do. Something to focus on. She no longer had a job and with the inheritance she would be receiving, she did not need to work again unless she wanted to. Perhaps she would want to, though living in this house, she could hardly to be a maid in that new hotel in town as she'd considered last week when she thought she'd have to move out and find work elsewhere after Doctor Blake died. That was not the case anymore. She had a house of her very own, as soon as the probate went through and title was put in her name. She would similarly have more money than she'd know what to do with. She'd kept Doctor Blake's books; she knew exactly how much he had.

Not needing to work was a privilege, but she would not squander her time. Jean wasn't one for leisure. Not that she'd ever had the opportunity for it before now. No, she'd occupy herself somehow.

For now, Jean decided to cook a proper dinner for herself. She might as well get used to making meals without being concerned about getting food on the table for an employer or a family. It was just Jean now.

It was still a bit early in the day to be starting dinner, so Jean decided to do a stew. It would take longer, and she'd be able to save it and reheat it tomorrow.

Cooking gave her something to do. Something to focus on. But try as she might, the fact of Lucien Blake would not leave her alone. The mystery of his existence in that state and in the house like this. The questions she had about his mother and other ghosts. The memory of the faint touch of him through the veil. She couldn't escape any of it.

Dinner was finally ready rather late. Jean had been looking to take up time, and this stew had certainly done the trick. She turned off the stove and oven and put a good helping of piping hot stew into a bowl for herself. It would cool while she set the table. Jean might have been living alone now, but she would not stoop so low as to eat without setting the table for dinner.

But she hesitated. Her thoughts would not quiet and she did not expect them to anytime soon. And so instead of setting the table, Jean got a tray out of the cupboard and put everything on it.

She made her way back up to the studio with dinner. Lucien was sitting where she'd left him when she opened the door. He stood up immediately, staring at her in surprise.

"Mrs. Beazley. Jean," he amended. "Y-you're back."

Jean nodded. "I've made some stew for dinner. Would you like to try some?" she offered.

He smiled, and something fluttered inside Jean's chest. "That sounds wonderful, Jean, thank you," he told her.

With another nod, she came to the table with the tray in hand, and she put out place settings for them both.