Dependable. Reliable. Stalwart. A pinnacle of fortitude.

Emma clutches the book to her chest and sighs dramatically, reliving the chapter she just perused. If only Marianne were not so foolish to fall in love with Willoughby ― then, perhaps, the author might have graciously introduced more of Colonel Brandon's background, his interests, his pursuits, his thoughts...

"Enjoying your latest adventure?"

Her novel drops to the carpeted floor with a heavy thud. Slowly, she bends down to pick it up, composing her features before facing the person who has interrupted her fantasy world.

"Graham," she smiles, desperately trying to dispel the flush in her cheeks. "What brings you here?"

He gives her a lazy smirk of his own, one eyebrow raised as he glances at the spine of her current read. "May a student not seek out his teacher?" His smile becomes smug. "Though this is my library, you know, and―"

Emma playfully aims at his shoulder with the back cover of the volume, solidly smacking him into silence. "You behave like such a child at times."

"Do I?"

"Yes. And truth be told, you can be very annoying at times. Fortunately, I have enough patience to withstand anything," she counters, tipping her nose into the air with mock regal authority. Repartee with Graham is like a cool glass of punch on a hot summer day. She doesn't have to worry about him hurting her, or breaking her heart ― because she is his tutor, and he respects her, which precludes any nonsense of that kind. Neal taught her very well about matters of the heart. Too well, in fact.

Slowly, her obstinate pupil leans forward, smirking as he bends his head and his forehead nearly brushes hers. For a moment, Emma feels sudden heat from his gaze, his skin exuding a burning wave of warmth that speaks of something other than fever or too much sun. It becomes so hard to breathe when he renders her speechless by dipping down, cheek by hers, and...

He slips his hand among her eager fingers and deftly grabs her book, as quick as you please. Her reflexes are too stunned to act, and she gapes at Graham while he pulls a bookmark from his pocket, affixes it between the last pages she read, and snaps the cover shut.

"Reading, reading, reading ― always reading, Miss Swan," he tsks at her. "Normally, I'd highly approve, but what of the picnic I promised, hmm? Our luncheon awaits, milady."

Pursing her lips, she quietly watches as he puts the novel back in its designated spot, already wondering when she'd have a chance to peek at its contents again. Days were always filled with endless discovery, for this student of hers wants to know everything, motivated beyond the usual. Isolation and neglect ― not to mention ghastly family affairs since childhood ― could do that to a person.

If one could compare the eagerness for knowledge to thirst, then Graham has not drunk his fill since his boarding school days, which he said he hated with a vengeance anyway. He claims she is his first genuine teacher and that he loves taking this journey with her, because he would have no other companion but the one who is devoted to not only being his guide in learning, but also his friend and confidante.

And above all, he values her presence here. The house, in all its vastness, seemed dark and chilly when she first came, hat in hand. Now, the curtains have been lifted, the windows washed, the stuffy indoor air fresh from new wind. Delicious flowery scents drift down from their orchard, and with their fields in bloom, the estate is like a fairy tale land, a wisp of splendor unequaled by anything she has seen before.

Of course, she wants to go on that picnic. Though knowing this young man, who is more of a blushing schoolboy that he cares to admit, they will be gazing at ― and sketching ― quite a few plants, trees, and other botanical wonders before they return to have dinner with his mother.

Instead of questioning her silence, Graham merely offers her his hand. It is so simple a gesture ― amicable, innocent, gentle.

Affectionate.

And that is what frightens her. She hopes she is wrong, that this is just brotherly comradeship, that his eyes don't invite other feelings into play as his soft stare is akin to what she would call "longing."

Longing for what, she knows not. She can only wait and see and pray that she is misreading his intentions, that nothing has changed.

Her hand meets his, sliding into an unbreakable clasp, and then together, they move toward the door.

Out into the great unknown, whose boundaries are their own minds and hearts.

Emma reluctantly sets her wine glass back down, aware that if she plays with it anymore, some terrible accident will happen. Either she'll drop it on the floor, or spill it across the tablecloth, or toss the contents into the face of the person at her right.

Most likely that last option, which is still viable.

It was supposed to be a quiet dinner with only her, Killian, Mary Margaret, and David. Just the four of them, so there would be no unrest, no incivility, no discomfort, no unfamiliarity.

She never expected to be sitting next to August, of all people ― and he is talking incessantly, like a jaybird or raven that won't quit its annoying chatter. He is likeable, agreeable, even. Currently, she can't stand the sound of him. As for her hosts, David tries his best to engage Killian in a heated discussion about off-season farming and the questionable benefits of using fish innards for manure. Meanwhile, Mary Margaret is being the perfect hostess, fussing about her tiny kitchen, ushering plates back and forth, and serving new dishes.

Once she can get her friend alone, she is most certainly wheedling out exactly how August got himself invited.

And as for herself, she is stuck in the middle between two men, one whom she has just met and the other whom she... Well, she doesn't rightly understand what it is that she feels for Killian, but certainly not the irritation springing in her chest as August talks over her for the twentieth time (yes, she is counting). When David finally notices the tension brewing at his fiancé's table, he gets up suddenly and offers her some much-needed aid in cleaning her sink. That leaves Emma alone with her would-be suitor and her secret admirer, who might be her friend and could be much more.

While August eyes the upcoming dessert platter with anticipation, Killian leans toward her, mouth by her ear as discreetly as he can manage in such a small breadth of space. "Dear Emma, I was hoping that tonight, I'd have the opportunity to speak privately with you, but I could not have predicted this turn of events," he whispers. "Perhaps you'd do me the honor of letting me call on you sometime this week?"

She nods her head dumbly, getting more desperate by the minute when the carpenter begins to comment on the quality of Mary's apple pie. It's not that the man is a bore or bad company. It's just that she wanted to be closer to her friends ― and to Killian ― this evening, and August interrupted her plans. She's never liked when her plans were disrupted. Glancing at the both of them, she grits her teeth together and focuses on not cutting her slice of the scrumptious-looking pastry into pieces with her fork.

A trick Emma learned well as a child, shuffling from orphanage to orphanage and from possible home to next possible home, is how to shut out the world from your hearing, blocking out sound and then light until all you can see is a figment of reality. It's like peering through a kaleidoscope, where colors get blurred and everything is muddled ― her secret place, where no one can hurt her.

Unfortunately, that didn't work more often than it did. Usually, her inattentiveness would earn her slapped cheeks and boxed ears from her adoptive parents, or kicked shins and poked ribs from her new siblings. On gazing back into her past, on opening that door and feeling all the moments of pain she'd like nothing more than to forget, she cannot recall any happiness in her life before she entered the boarding school that changed her forever.

"Can I take your plate, Emma?"

Mary Margaret is gazing down at her, warm smile and kind eyes dispelling her current memories. Blinking hard, she tries to recover from the brunt of the blow her daydreaming has given her. "Certainly."

She hates the way her response comes out as a mumble. Have all her trials really beaten out the fight from her, that she no longer wants to war onward, trampling over suffering because she is better at falling and picking herself up than at stumbling down and lying in the dust?

How weak she is. How horribly small and pitiful. Emma lets her hands rest on her lap, fingers clenching into tight fists as loathing and rebuke creep into her veins and roar loudly, drowning out the happy atmosphere around her.

She got herself into this. She agreed to―

"So, how is school, Emma?" David is grinning at her, looking as if he has not a care in the world, eyes bright and clear and expectant. Or perhaps that disarming, charming smile of his is simply natural, uninfluenced by his worries.

Oh dear God. Now all three men are staring at her, August included. They are silent and waiting on her answer. She manages a brief "fine" before she can't take the sudden attention any longer, erupting out of her chair and heading straight for the fireplace.

The bricks' edges, rough and sharp, brush against her palm as she grips the shelf jutting out of the wall. It is topped by Mary Margaret's mementos: a small figurine of a horse, a jewelry box, an apple sculpted out of crystalline glass. There's a small portrait, framed, of her and David, faces pressed together as they stare out at the one who captured them. Even though it is more sketch than finished drawing, she can see love in their gaze, even though the black and white limits of charcoal and pencil cannot do the feeling justice. And then there's a bracelet, hand-woven and whose design can only be Killian's, raw materials and signature wild essence in the craftsmanship, white pearls and black onyx interspersed among wooden carvings and wool yarn.

Another reason why she does not belong here. She was deluding herself, before. Even though this couple has graciously made her a part of their family, welcomed her into their homes, given her their trust. Even though perhaps there are people willing to let her into their lives.

But that's the problem precisely. She can't let anyone in. Not again. Never again. She would rather bury her pain deep in her heart, shut it away so that not even she can find it, and go on without it ― like she has done with all she's had to endure, every last bit of suffering that walked across her path and left its mark. She dares not confront the memories, dares not open the Pandora's box of old that has settled its claws into her. If the box is opened, trouble will come out. That is how it has always been with her: nothing good ever lasts.

David's question comes back to her, and its answer only confirms her doubts. The school is, frankly, a failure. Every minute she is in the classroom is either one where she subdues her reluctant students into digesting their lessons and pretending to listen to what she says, or where they completely ignore her, turning learning time into mayhem. She can't make them obey, can't motivate them, can't connect to them. They judge her an outsider, a stranger, and they see nothing more than a powerless woman trying to instruct them in subjects and topics and undertakings they'd rather not have at all. One rather hurtful example is how she stayed up all last night to copy three different songs onto the sheet paper she bought from Marco and August, transferring the music relentlessly over and over again until she had roughly enough to hand out to every single child.

She'd never forget the sight of the music sheets fluttering to the floor when class was done, call and yells and shouts echoing still in the wake of her students running out the door, a storm of white in their place as the triumphant escape took place. When she had collected all the paper, some had muddy footprints, while the other were horribly bent and illegible. Staring out with the treble clef scale and explaining musical terms was a good beginning, but she might have been speaking about the weather for all they cared. Only the younger ones joined in when she murmured do-re-mi and sang up and down the first octave.

This is a foolish regret, she knows. They are children. Village children, whose knowledge of music is limited to the jigs and tunes and shanties and reels played at the scarcity of events in such a small town. But at least they could try. She wants to educate them, to open their minds to literature and art and everything beyond the town borders.

But she's out of reach. They're out of reach. It seems utterly impossible to get through to them ― and she cannot ask anyone for advice for fear of losing her position. So she is going to keep on teaching the townsfolk's offspring as she sees fit, because this is the end of the line for her.

It is her fault that she didn't accept Graham's offer. It is her fault that she insisted on coming out here, to the middle of nowhere. To have a new beginning, she excused. No ― to be as far from Neal as possible, in the hopes that he would never find her.

It was at times like these that she thought herself a coward. Damn that letter, for making her regret and regret and regret―

A warm palm slides across hers. The soft, warm touch, in contrast to her cold skin, makes her gasp in surprise. "If you want, for any reason, to leave... It would be my pleasure to escort you home." Killian's brogue rolls over the words, ringing with sincerity. "Emma."

The sound of so many people, in such a short while, using her Christian name as if they have known her for years... It is a little overwhelming. The small cottage is too crowded, with so many feelings and thoughts throwing themselves at her head while August tries to get to better acquaint himself with her and Mary Margaret with David try to make her feel at ease and Killian―

Killian.

When she turns, he's looking at her intensely, as if in physical need of her response but still asking for it, with no demands. Perhaps, with the way his own eyes reflect hers, he is seeing her heart in her gaze, where she is as conflicted as a bird caught in a bramble of thorns. To break free always hurts. To stay is safe, but no better than an unspoken gaol.

Then a second voice enters the fold. "Miss Swan, are you all right?" August appears to be very concerned over the spectacle she'd made of herself, and to be honest, she is as well. What does the carpenter's son think of her now? In an instant, she stiffens, and she is certain the man beside her can feel her annoyance through the change of her grip on his hand.

"I―" she begins, but Killian cuts between her words.

"Miss Swan wanted to speak to me about―" He's clearly struggling for an excuse, twitching frantically, scrambling for the right pretext. "About―"

She's all for that worn-out piece adage that says "think before you speak." This evening, her mouth takes the opposite advice into account. "―about my portrait." Flashes of color, the masterly blending of them, the swirls of half-dried pastels and strokes of smooth charcoal, the well polished edges of one particular frame... The images fly past her, so she picks herself up and continues this singular idea that advanced out of nowhere. "I've," she licks her dry lips to regain her speech and her courage, "commissioned Mr. Jones here. To paint my portrait."

No proposal in all the world could render the four individuals before her, master painter included, more aghast or mute or utterly shocked.

One sentence has given Killian Jones the ability to see her often and without qualms. One sentence has altered their fragile relationship, shifting it on its axis again with the tentative hope that her choice wouldn't cause it to crash.

One sentence is all it takes, as she has found out during her life, to make a difference, good or bad.

It is against all propriety. The townspeople will gossip. The minister will reprimand her. People will shun her.

Frankly, she doesn't care.

"Are you sure about this, love?" And so, Killian quickly mentions what she fears to admit.

Her hand is tucked into the crook of his elbow as he guides her back to her house, his bold stare glittering in the dark. His other arm is currently supporting a small lantern, which lights the way so neither of them trip over their own feet.

She peers up at the stars, tired of the beam of golden flame dancing in her eyes. As resilient and aloof as ever, they stand watch over her, the only constant she has. Nothing is impervious to change, Emma, a familiar voice echoes. "I've never been so sure of something in my entire life," she asserts, pleased that her tone is firm and strong and not breaking under the strain of her boast.

Walking up to her door, he releases her hand and raises his to knock, pausing abruptly when he realizes the inhabitant of said residence is right next to him, quite amused and grinning like a fool. She is a fool, for seeing how handsome he looks despite how tired he sounds, bathed in the shadows of the night and candlelight. For wanting to run a hand through his hair and caress his forehead, like she did for Henry and Roland, always disobeying her better judgment in feeling too much and too deeply. But he is not hers. He belongs to someone else.

And she is not his. Though the little girl inside her has desperately wished to be wanted and to belong. For years. Forever.

"I don't have much money." Emma clears her throat, shame rushing through. "But I'll pay you what I can, when I can manage it." Her instincts then tell her he is standing closer to her, leaning in, feet shuffling over her outside mat. Hastily, she opens the door and ushers him inside, sealing them away from wind and cold. The first thing he does is place the lantern down on her table. On top of the letter. Graham's letter. God, she doesn't want Killian to see it.

"Lass, I don't want your money." She opens her mouth to protest, but he is faster. "I will admit that I'd love...that I'd like that." He sighs, as if surrendering to she knows not what. "No matter. I understand why you gave that excuse, so there's no need to hold to your word. If it were I," he grumbles, "I'd sooner tell that wooden puppet to go plant trees then allow him to pry into my affairs."

His charming metaphor provokes a giggle out of her, saddened and agitated as she is. But eventually, she awakens, meditating on his reply. She doesn't have to do this. He was allowing her to exit quietly.

Why then did she not want to?

"Would it...would it be untoward if I said that I do want you?" She gulps when an unnameable emotion flickers in a brief glance from him. "To do my portrait, I mean."

Shaking his head, he shrugs ― a little too nonchalantly, in her opinion. "You would need to sit for me at least twice a week," he says in that husky timbre of his. "And it would have to be in my studio, as I have all my art supplies stored there. You would be spending more time in my company." He crosses his arms over his chest, his stance becoming defiant. "The question is, would you be willing to commit to that?"

Her vision narrows. "You make it sound like a contract, full of obligations."

Cocking his head, he leers at her, his answer an obvious challenge. "For an artist, art is precisely that. It is a bond that cannot be broken."

It is unfortunate that she is hearing beyond that, reading between the lines. "Listen, and listen well," she counters, her temper rising at the thought that he wasn't taking her offer seriously. "You will paint my portrait. I will come to your house and pose for you. I will pay you for your time and work. And you will stop questioning my motives for this."

Huffing, she uses a precious match to ignite her firewood, bringing the glow of heat to the one-roomed dwelling. When she is confident that has been accomplished, she finishes her retort with a decisive flourish. "Killian... I care less about villagers talking, reeds whistling, or stormy days. Don't you see?" she whispers quietly. "I have learned long ago that one's reputation is like a flimsy piece of cloth hung on a clothesline. When it gales and the wind whips it about, that is how secure your name is. You try to protect it, but it's for naught. Only by doing and saying nothing can you ensure that you will be faultless and blameless." How did he manage to be this near, that he could reach out and stroke her cheek, or fan his breath over her lips?

"Aye, that is true." Slowly, he pulls back, his stare unwavering. "You are quite the wonder, aren't you, Swan?"

A bout of shyness causes her to blush, and she peers down at the floor. "I didn't mean to―"

"No, you are right," he interrupts, combing his hair with his fingers. When he scratches behind his ear, she knows whatever he has to state next is difficult for him to reveal. "I have been vexed all too much by what others have thought of me and my actions. My pride..."

"You do not need to explain. Especially not to me." She exhales shakily, worried that he will ask about the true explanation behind her behavior at Mary Margaret's home, that he wants to know why she is insistent about going through with the portrait.

Is it selfish of her to want to return to that haven of his up on the hills and by the cliffs, when pure ocean guards you? Is selfish of her to want to spend some unadulterated time with him, even though he will not be doing her a favor but merely completing an assigned task?

Only time will tell.

Killian seems to concur with her unspoken conclusion, biting his lip and glancing at the door. "Well, then..." He swallows hard. "I suppose I'll be hearing from you soon."

She nods. But as he fiddles awkwardly with the doorknob, letting himself out, she finds she can't respond. Should she respond right now?

"Good night, Swan," he murmurs. Then he faces her, a trace of a smile on his lips. "Oh, and one more thing."

Striding up to her so rapidly that she barely has time to inhale, he brushes one kiss over each of her cheeks, sweetly and slowly and innocently.

One eyebrow raised, his wide grin contrasts with her stunned gape afterwards, especially when her jaw drops open during the realization that yes, he must have felt that morning kiss she gave him all those days ago.

Apparently, he is returning the gesture. With interest.

And when he's gone, a breathless "Oh, I will be seeing you tomorrow, my Swan" and a very cheeky wink later, she is frightened to discover that she never wants him to stop, if that is how he always kisses.

It wasn't a declaration of love, surely.

But it was closest sign of affection that anyone's given to her in months and months and months.

Since before Graham. Since before her whole world tore apart.

These appointments with an adept artist with an angel's smile might prove to be the highlight of weeks to come.

Strangely, she cannot convince herself that this decision is, in any way, wrong.

In fact, it cannot be more right.