"So, who is she?"

Robin blinks. "What?"

"Who is she?" John repeats, an annoying smirk stretching across his lips.

"I don't know what—"

"Oh, come on," John cuts in, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table opposite Robin. "I've known you your whole goddamn life, and I know that look. So tell me. Who is she?"

For a moment, Robin just stares, not really sure what to say. Of course, there is a she he's been thinking about, but not in the way that John seems to think; and even if he did confide, what is that he'd have to say?

"Is it because I'm Marian's brother? Is it weird to—"

"What? No. No, it's… it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"Other than the fact that I don't know what you're talking about?"

John's eyes roll. "You're pining."

"I'm not pining over her—" His voice halts just a half second too late and he grimaces down at the glass of whiskey he's been nursing as though it betrayed him. "It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?" John asks gingerly, grinning like he picked the winning horse at the track. "And now that we've established that there is a her, who is she?"

Robin hesitates. Before the Blanchards were his customers, they were John's, and unlike Robin, John has no qualms about being friendly with his customers.

"I was thinking about Regina Blanchard."

John blinks. He looks disappointed.

"What do you know about her?"

For a moment, John just stares at him with a hesitant gaze, obviously not wanting to encourage whatever he thinks is going through his friend's head, but clearly already feeling guilty about withholding the information he does have.

"She's… different," he murmurs carefully. "She's got walls up around her, and is very selective of who she lets in, and the rules constantly change."

"I noticed the walls—"

"Mm," John nods, his eyes narrowing. "Don't get too close, you never know when the moat is suddenly going to fill and the sharks start to circle."

"No one keeps sharks in a moat."

"That's not the point."

"I know," Robin murmurs, taking a long sip of his whiskey. "I just… there's something about her…"

"Well, she's gorgeous. That could be that something."

"She is," Robin admits. "But, it's not that. She said something to me the first time we met, and I can't quite shake it."

"What did she say?"

"That she only lets people see what she wants them to see." He looks up, watching as John considers that—and watching as John dismisses it. "It's… more than just... rumor control or whatever, it's… her whole personality." He grimaces as he fumbles with his words, not quite sure how to explain it in a way that doesn't make her seem manipulative or conniving. "Never mind."

"No, I… I want to understand," John says, looking a bit uncomfortable as he offers a shrug and adds, "You… seem to like her."

"I do like her," Robin replies, the ease of that statement surprising even him. "She's like a puzzle."

John's eyes narrow again. "That's… not necessarily a quality you'd want in a girlfriend."

"Who said anything about wanting her to be my girlfriend?"

Suddenly, John's eyes are wide and his brows arched. "That lost puppy dog look you had when I first came in."

Robin frowns. "I like her. I'd like to be her friend, but not only does she live in a world that's completely different from the one you and I live in, she's also married—"

"You sound disappointed."

"What?"

"That she's married."

Robin hesitates, drawing his glass of whiskey up to his lips and taking a long sip. The more he got to know Leopold Blanchard, the less he liked him. He was oblivious to the real world. He was one of the few men who came through the war unscathed. He was too old to fight and too young to have a child who'd have been called up. He went through the war years selling bonds and making a killing off of others' need to do their part, all the while continuing on with his extravagant parties to "brighten up the mood" as if one night of fun could even put a bandage on the stress and worry that came with someone you love being sent to the , when the war ended everything went back to the way it was—the pain and suffering so many faced meant nothing to him.

Then, there was Regina.

Over the course of the last three months, he'd gotten a few rare glimpses into the Blanchards' marriage, and each new glimpse that he got seemed uglier than the last.

Leopold loved to be the center of attention. He loved to be loved. He was good-natured while the booze was flowing and he fawned over his friends and guests, stopping at nothing to ensure they were enjoying himself. He was known to give expensive gifts—one of the house's footmen had hinted that he'd be getting a gold pocket watch that Christmas—and he loved to play the part of the hero, making a big show of giving out loans to people he knew could never pay them back and making large donations so long as his name was prominently displayed in the inevitable thank you that would follow. Some of it was probably genuine—especially where his daughter was concerned—but after getting to know him in a less-than-public setting, he saw another side to him. His was distant, cold, and aloof, and if you couldn't advance his reputation, he had no use for you.

That was his problem with Regina.

She did nothing for Leopold's image.

For so long, the attributes Robin had hated about Regina Blanchard were likely the things she was obliged to do on her husband's behalf—the press, the charities, the opulence—because the more he got to know her, the less fitting those things seemed. Even that first meeting between them when she'd snapped now seemed different. Not only had she offered a profuse and seemingly sincere apology, she hadn't been short or curt since then; and it wasn't until now that he wondered why she, the lady of the house and the supposed hostess, was sent to receive an order in the place of a footman or the butler.

In the handful of times he'd encountered both Blanchards, Leopold barely acknowledged his wife's presence; and when he did and didn't think that anyone was watching, he was cruel. The way he spoke to her that night was likely something of the norm. Regina didn't seem surprised by his tone and the desperation in her voice implied that his reaction was expected. She was used to it.

"You know," John says, looking him square in the eye. "Regina Blanchard is known to have her affairs. I know that's not your style, but—" His voice trails off and he shrugs. "I'm just saying—"

"I don't want to have an affair with her, I just…" His eyes close as his voice trails off and his head falls back. "I was just thinking about her and… I just… I feel for her. She's trapped, and she's lonely…" Again, his voice trails off as he looks up. "Did you know that she has a son?"

"Vaguely."

"Did you ever see him? The Blanchards were your customers for a long time. Did you ever meet the boy?"

John shakes his head. "I think he was already away at school by then."

"He's eight."

"I know."

"I can't imagine having to send Roland—"

"Have is a strong word. They didn't have to send that boy to school an ocean away."

"I said that to her once."

"You said that to Regina?"

Robin nods. "She said she was trying to protect him—and I felt like an absolute heel." John's lips purse as if there's something he's holding back, something he wants to say but isn't sure he should. "What?"

"Well, you know… about the boy…"

Robin's eyes narrow, remembering the rumor about the Major General Regina had allegedly had an affair with. "What about him?"

"His father—"

"Isn't Leopold Blanchard?"

"So, you do know."

"Not really. I heard the same rumors you did. Arthur Pendragon—that was the name of the Major General who turned up in all the sordid stories, wasn't it?—the soldier from the Red Cross—"

"No," John cuts in. "Not him." Taking a breath, he shakes his head and sighs. "Do you remember Tinka? The spunky blonde girl I dated for a while? Just before the war—"

"Yes. I thought you'd marry her. Marian and I really liked her, too."

"Well, that is a story for another time, but… she was a maid at the Blanchards' house for awhile."

"Ah—"

"About nine years ago."

Robin's brow arches. "Oh."

"The Blanchards fought a lot back then, and apparently, Regina was spending a lot of time at the country club."

"That doesn't seem so unusual."

"At the country club... in the stables... with a particular stableboy." John grins tightly. "Regina took riding lessons from him. Jumping fences and going up difficult trails, that sort of thing."

Robin shrugs. That doesn't seem so unusual. "So? Lots of women ride horses competitively these days."

"Except that Regina's been riding horses longer than she's been walking."

"So, you think—"

"I know," John says. "His name was Daniel. He was a nice enough guy, and Tink was one of the maids assigned to Regina's room. She saw and heard things—"

"I can't blame her for having affairs," Robin says, his voice piquing defensively. "Her husband is horrible to her. You should have heard him tonight."

"And I'm not blaming her. I'm just… stating what I know."

"Right—"

"So, it makes sense that she'd send the boy away to protect him. That part of her story checks out."

Robin nods, considering it. It's a story that makes far more sense than the story about Arthur Pendragon, the Major General Regina was friendly with throughout the war and who from the outside looking in, was very happily married to a woman named Guinevere. They had a fairytale-like life together—a nice house, two beautiful children—he'd be an idiot for throwing it all away.

"And, uh… I guess you could say that's why Tink went away, too."

"What?"

"Regina fired her just before she went to Newport. It was the summer her son was born." John smiles, but his eyes seem sad—and finally, it seems like he has an actual concrete reason to dislike Regina Blanchard. "She knew too much."

"Do you ever hear from Tink?"

"No," he says. "The last I heard from her was the day she left. Her parents came over from Norway. They all started a new life in New York, or maybe it was Boston—" He shakes his head. "I was too upset that things ended so abruptly. I didn't really care to listen."

"I'm sorry—"

John sighs and shrugs, brushing it off. "It's how life goes." He pauses for a moment, again hesitating. "You know, uh… Daniel didn't make it home. He was captured and held as a prisoner of war, and… well... he didn't make it. He was a good guy, though. He and I shared a drink or two before shipping out."

Robin doesn't say anything; instead, he finds himself wondering how Regina's life might have been different had Daniel lived, wondering if the two of them had some sort of scheme for after the war, and thinking of how heartbreaking it must've been for her to have it all go up in smoke, leaving her trapped and alone to guard what was left of the life she wanted for herself.

He understands that.

He lived it himself.

"So, she lost her… lover, for lack of a better word, and now she's had to all but give up their son."

John nods. "Seems that way."

Robin smirks. "But you still don't like her."

"You don't have to like someone to empathize with them."

"Fair."

"And as much as I hate to admit this, you and Regina Blanchard aren't so different."

Robin's brow arches. "Oh, no?"

"No," John says, shaking his head. "You're both living in the fog of grief." A smirk edges over his lips. "Who knows? Maybe the two of you could help bring each other out of it."

"I'm surprised you're encouraging that."

John shrugs. "But what does it matter?" His smirk brightens as he stifles a laugh. "You're not interested, right?"

Huffing, he sits back in his chair folding his arms. The sensible response would be to say that he isn't interested in Regina Blanchard because there were a thousand reasons that he shouldn't be interested in her—but he was.

He'd be lying if he said that he didn't think about her often—that after every interaction he played it again and again in his head. That was what spurred him to write that apology to her and now that he considered it, that was what spurred him through the Blanchards' empty house that night. He'd wanted to find her. He'd wanted to see her. Needing to drop off the crates of liquor was just the excuse he'd told himself—and now, he found himself wishing that he'd stayed. After all, Roland was fast asleep when he'd arrived home, cuddled up underneath his blankets and snoring lightly, and the build that began prickling at his core when he'd pulled away from the house, leaving her alone and upset, was practically eating him alive. He should've stayed for that drink, if only to give himself the peace of mind in knowing that she was okay.