Lucien pulled back with a gasp. Her hand fell away from his face, and he shivered at the loss of her. All of her. He had not touched anyone in so long, never mind kiss anyone. And he could feel her. Through the veil, to be sure. But she was there. Warm and soft and beautiful. Her lips had welcomed him. Imagine that! She had let him kiss her, and she had even kissed him back.

Jean's eyes opened and looked up at him when he ended the kiss. Her pupils were blown wide and dark, making the turquoise-gray of her eyes look a brilliant blue in a way he'd never seen. She wanted him, it was plain to see. Lucien could hardly fathom such a thing.

He felt a blush creep across him cheeks as a smile invaded his features without his consent. Lucien took a step back and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, suddenly feeling quite sheepish for what had just transpired between them. "Jean, I…" he choked out awkwardly.

"I suppose it was a matter of time," she said with her matter-of-fact practicality.

Lucien turned back and stared at her. How was it that every time he thought he knew what to expect from this woman, she surprised him again? She fascinated him. She was very much the very picture of her Catholic farm upbringing with her rigid morals and her earnest, hardworking ways. But she had a kindness that seemed borne from tragedy and grief. The loss of her husband, her home, her family, none of it had broken her. She was caring and concerned about others around her. There was a hope and an optimism in her heart that floated to the surface in the most unexpected ways. Like here and now. She was direct and honest and beautiful and somehow perfect.

The fact that he was a ghost—or not quite, whatever he was—and she was a widow who had inherited his father's house, she was unbothered by it all right now. She saw their coming together this way as some kind of inevitability. As though it were as plain as the delicate button nose on her pretty face. Lucien may have been the one to kiss her, but he in no way thought it inevitable. He was quite shocked that such a wonderful thing had happened. That someone as wonderful as Jean could possibly want a cursed soul like him. And yet here she was.

"Was it?" he breathed, almost afraid to say anything to cause her to change her mind and leave him alone again for the audacity of his kiss.

Jean lifted her hand and hesitated for a moment before continuing on, reaching out to him. She took one of his hands in both of hers. "Yes," she answered quietly. "I think it must have been. I couldn't have spent time like this with you if I…if I didn't like you so much. And I do. Very much."

Maman's words echoed in Lucien's head suddenly as he recalled how she had told him that Mrs. Beazley was important. And she was. She had thawed a heart that had been cold and lonely and unused for all these years. She had transferred some of that impossible hope onto him.

Lucien did not really have words, just then. It was unlike him, usually far too full of words and thoughts and everything else. Maybe all these years alone had tempered him. Whatever it was, he didn't have anything he wanted to say. Jean was holding his hand and he wanted to hold all of her. He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again.

This time, there was nothing tentative about it for either of them. Their lips moved together with abandon. Lucien wrapped himself around her lithe body. His two hands splayed over the entire expanse of her back. She held him just as tight. The slide of her tongue against his gave Lucien a feeling of electricity he'd not known since his days among the living. Perhaps even longer. Perhaps he had never felt like this before in all his life. All he knew just now was that he never wanted to stop kissing her.

But of course, they had to stop eventually. Jean had a life to live. But she left him only to do what she needed around the house, to do the shopping, to go to bed each night. The rest of the time they spent eating meals together, as before, and now curled up on the old sofa kissing like teenagers in the back of the movie theater.

Lucien had never smiled so much in all his life as he had these last days—weeks?—with Jean.

It was just so nice to hold her. Kissing, of course, but sometimes just sharing the closeness while she did her knitting or reading a book or talking. At this exact moment, they were taking a break from kissing to catch their breath. Lucien sat on the sofa with his legs crossed and resting on the coffee table. Jean sat similarly, though she had her back resting against his chest with his arm around her shoulder and his hand lazily stroking her forearm. She was wearing short sleeves, and he could almost imagine he could feel her bare skin. His imagination was such that he could believe that she was warm and soft, even if the veil prevented him from actually experiencing such a thing. But that was a small price to pay to have her in his arms at all.

"May I ask you something?" she began, breaking their comfortable silence.

"Of course."

"What are ghosts like? I saw your mother. Twice, briefly. But have you known others? What causes a person to be a ghost?"

Lucien smiled sadly to himself. Early on, when she'd first told him of her husband, Lucien imagined this topic might come up. "I've only ever known my mother so far as I know. I only know what I've learned from her."

"And?"

"As I understand it, ghosts are the souls of the dead who have left unfinished business on earth."

Jean hummed. "Yes, that's what your mother told me that night Doctor Blake passed. She didn't explain much more beyond that, only that caring for you and your father was her unfinished business."

He nodded. "So far as I can tell, the idea of unfinished business is one that each soul has for themselves. I didn't get the sense that the souls are tortured and desperate for peace like in some stories. More of…I suppose a purpose would be the word for it. The same way a job is a reason to get out of bed each day, responsibilities to people and family and such, I think some souls are not ready to leave this realm and so they simply don't."

"And no other ghosts have visited you here?" Jean asked.

"Not one."

"So not…"

She trailed off, but Lucien didn't quite know what she meant. "Not…?" he prompted, frowning in slight confusion.

"Not your wife or your daughter?" she asked softly.

It wasn't said in accusation. Jean would never do that, he knew. She was curious, and he did not blame her for it. "No. Neither of them have ever come here. Though I think that may be because they'd have no way of knowing I was here. They never came to this country, let alone this house. And I…well, I don't imagine Mei Lin or Li would have had unfinished business. Li's unfinished business would be the life that was cut so short, and I don't imagine the soul can live on in that way. And Mei Lin…" Lucien paused for a moment, trying to find the words. "She was always very contented in life. Self-assured. She knew who she was and what her life was supposed to be. She gave me a home and a family when I felt I had none. She gave me a structure that the army gave my work but failed to give my heart. And while we loved each other very much, I don't think either of us ever felt the way I came to understand my parents felt for each other. Maman was a ghost because she wanted to take care of me, the boy she left so suddenly, but also because she could not bear to leave my father. It was never like that with Mei Lin and I. All that to say that her soul wouldn't have stayed in the mortal world as a ghost in order to be with me, even if she knew where I was."

"Do you miss her very much?" Once again, her words were not unkind. It was a question from a widow to a widower, which Lucien understood all too well.

"Sometimes," Lucien answered honestly. "I miss my wife and my child so much sometimes that I physically ache. But what I miss is the life we had. I miss our house in Singapore, the way Li would giggle when running across the garden to me when I came home at the end of the day. I miss going to bed each night beside Mei Lin and feeling at peace, knowing where I was and who I was. But I don't have any of that anymore. I haven't had any of it in fifteen years. Most of the time, I've not felt anything at all."

Jean shifted where she sat so she could nuzzle her cheek against his chest and wrap her arms around his waist.

"Ask me what you really want to ask, Jean," Lucien murmured.

She hesitated, but she spoke, "I want to ask about my Christopher, but I suppose you don't know."

"I don't know. I am sorry."

Jean just sighed.

"From what you've told me about your Christopher, I think he wouldn't be the sort to be a ghost."

She lifted her head to look at him, brow furrowed. "But he was taken from me and from our boys."

"Yes. But he died fighting for his country, fighting against the forces of evil in this world. I think he probably came to terms with that possibility before he left Ballarat. And…well…"

"What?"

Lucien probably should have kept his mouth shut, but he'd started it now. "Dad and I needed my mother. And I know you loved your Christopher and you still love him and wanted him, but I think Christopher probably knew you well enough to know that you didn't need him."

Jean took a shuddering sort of breath, and Lucien tightened his hold on her. "I didn't have any other choice."

Too much of Jean's life could be boiled down to that phrase, Lucien thought. He just hoped he was right. He hoped that Christopher passed on knowing that his Jean would be alright, that she was strong and determined and resourceful, and she and their boys would be alright. And maybe he knew what Lucien did know well enough to keep to himself: if Christopher had visited Jean as a ghost and she couldn't touch him of have him with her well and truly, it would have hurt her all the more. And maybe she wouldn't have been able to carry on if he'd been there. Maybe—hopefully—Christopher knew that.

But for the pain that his death so clearly still caused Jean, Lucien felt himself hate Christopher Beazley just a little bit. He'd keep that to himself, too.