It was in Jean's mind to avoid the studio for a while. A few days, at least. She and Lucien had gotten too close to…well, she couldn't even allow her mind put words to what they'd gotten too close to. Only madness lay that direction.

The way Lucien had burrowed his way under Jean's skin was something she never anticipated. She had been confused by him at first. Confused but intrigued. She'd wanted to learn about him, about his past, about what it was that kept him trapped in this way. And then some of her questions were answered and more questions came. And confusion somehow turned to understanding. She actually understood him. This impossible man. The ghost in the attic. And in understanding him, she now felt…

No. None of that. He'd infuriated her, really. He was impossible in a number of regards. Flippant and strangely judgmental and unpleasantly self-involved. But, well, wasn't all of that because he'd been alone for so very long? Anyone might be self-involved if they never spoke to a living soul in fifteen years. It stood to reason.

There it was again. Jean understood Lucien. His way of things made sense to her. She saw much of her own pain and loss and loneliness reflected in his stories.

But all of that just meant that she needed to try and keep away from him. They needed a break from each other. To gain a bit of perspective. Jean would go to church and see some of her friends and do something nice. Yes, that's what she'd do. And when she did go back up to the studio, she and Lucien could start again. Sort of.

Even in her own mind, Jean could not kid herself. Keeping away from the studio wouldn't give either of them perspective. Well, it might for her. But Lucien was all alone up there. No one to keep him company. And he'd told her last night that he didn't want to be alone anymore. And oh but that nearly broke her heart in two. He could be so gentle. So kind and sweet and lovely.

With a huff, Jean forced it out of her mind. She concentrated on making her breakfast and sitting in the kitchen, eating her toast and eggs all by herself. She did not bring any food up to Lucien as she'd done for the last several weeks at every meal. She ate alone in the kitchen. And as soon as she finished, she did the dishes.

She got herself looking presentable and left the house to go to the shops on the high street. She'd make a day of it, perhaps. Now that she had inherited everything from Doctor Blake, Jean did not have to work another day in her life, and she had funds to spare. She'd never really had spending money like this before. And she certainly wouldn't abuse such a luxury, splurging herself into poverty once more. But perhaps she could buy herself something nice. Something she'd wanted that she would have never bought for herself. Yes. That's what she'd do.

First stop was the fabric shop where she found a few yards of things that might make nice blouses and dresses for her later in the year. She might be a woman of some means now, but she'd always made her own clothes and she wasn't about to stop now. If anything, she had more time to devote to sewing than she had before.

After picking out her fabrics, Jean wandered the streets, thinking of where she might go next. She considered getting some new shoes. What woman doesn't like new shoes? That might be a nice treat.

The shoe shop was a few doors down, so she headed in that direction. But then something caught her eye. There was a shop that sold ladies' undergarments and things, and there were some nightgowns in the window. One in particular was quite pretty. White silk, soft and almost sheer, sleeveless, and trimmed with delicate lace across the collarbone. Jean had absolutely no use for such a thing. But it was very pretty. And so she walked into the shop.

Ten minutes later—she wouldn't dare try on such a thing—Jean walked back out of the shop with a box where her new nightgown was neatly folded. She felt like blushing, carrying such a thing around. But oh what did it matter? She had never owned something so beautiful. Even her own wedding dress had been sewed by Jean and her mother and aunts, and while it was lovely, it wasn't something so fine as a store-bought silk and lace thing like this nightgown.

Jean didn't even know if she'd ever even wear it. But she would be happy to own it nonetheless. And she smiled, walking back home with her head held high.

Back at the Blake house, Jean was greeted by eerie silence. All the good humor she'd built up from her little shopping trip flooded right out of her. The house was still and quiet and lonely. All there was for Jean here was a huge, cavernous space to herself and Lucien trapped in the studio. And she could not abandon him. Not now that she knew him and, well, cared for him.

Half the day she'd managed to stay away. She couldn't bear to punish him any longer than that. Punish either of them, really. For one thing, there was nothing really to punish him for. He had the audacity to confess that he liked her company, and she'd run scared. Because that was really the heart of it all, wasn't it? The truth was that she liked his company, too. She liked it so much that it scared her. And the fact that she couldn't be away from him for more than half a day scared her too. But the guilt and loneliness was far bigger motivators than her fear.

Jean went up to her room to put her things away and then steeled herself to venture back into the studio. She marched herself up the stairs with more confidence than she felt and opened the door.

She found Lucien standing with his arms folded in front of him, leaning against the edge of the wall, staring out the window at the garden. As the door opened, he jumped slightly, whirling around. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw her. "Jean!" he exclaimed.

"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I'm sorry I left you the way I did last night. And I'm sorry I didn't bring you breakfast this morning."

"I don't need to eat, you know that," he answered. His eyes were still wide. His steps were cautious as he crossed the room toward her.

"Yes," she conceded, "But I was avoiding you, and I shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry, Jean, that I made you feel as though you wanted to avoid me. I know I crossed a line, and I want you to know that you are safe with me, and I don't want you to ever feel uncomfortable. As I told you, I like when you're here. I like spending time with you. And to know I gave you reason to stay away, I…"

"No," Jean interrupted. "No, you have nothing to apologize for. The truth is, Lucien, that I like being up here with you. I like you, as a matter of fact."

Jean felt her face flush red hot with embarrassment at such a confession.

Slowly, Lucien continued to move toward her. He stopped when he was directly in front of her just a little closer than was really proper. But Jean did not back away. She looked up at him. Waiting. Wanting.

"I like you, Jean," he murmured softly. "Very, very much."

He reached out and lightly stroked her cheek. She gasped at the sensation. His touch was distant and cold and yet she craved it. God help her.

Lucien began to lean in, and once again, Jean did not stop him. She tilted her head up toward him, her lips parted and her eyes fluttering closed.

His kiss was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was cold and distant, like the touch of his hand. But there was a spark of electricity between them that made her tingle from her head to her toes. It was like magic, somehow. Her heart beat like a caged bird desperate to be free. But Jean felt free. She pressed her lips more firmly against his. One of her hands found the back of his neck to anchor him against her. Their mouths began to move. More magic.

Lucien's arms wrapped around her body. She could almost feel the warmth of him, even so far away. But so close. He was so close, kissing her, consuming her.

Jean wanted to drown.