The whole way from Melbourne to Ballarat people were staring at him. Well, not at him; they were staring at Nemea, for while the bus boasted a host of strange and lively daemons there was none so large, so imposing, so fearsome as his darling lioness. Other daemons sat quietly with their humans, tucked onto laps or into pockets, or sat in their very own seats, purchased special just for them, or in the case of a dog or two curled up at their person's feet, but Nemea would not fit anywhere except the center aisle of the bus, where she lay stretched out on her belly, and every eye was trained on her, some in curiosity, some in anxiety, wondering at this most unheard of creature lying calm and still in their midst. Perhaps, Lucien thought, he ought to be used to such looks by now; Nemea had been padding softly by his side in the form of a lioness since he was twelve years old, her fierce visage a constant in his tumultuous life. If he closed his eyes he could still recall it, being young and lonesome at boarding school, and curling himself up against her soft belly, her chin resting protectively on his head, her gentle voice whispering to him soothingly. There were times when Nemea had been almost a mother to him, and he wondered at that, at the way his own soul sheltered and guided him. Was that Lucien, his natural desire to mend, to heal, manifesting in his daemon, or was it something else; was it only that he looked after himself because there was no one else to do it? Just what was it that separated a man from his daemon, anyhow? Ought they not be the same? Jean was not so very like Halcyon, he mused. Halcyon was eager and curious and lively, and Jean was careful and sometimes severe. Was the daemon the truest expression of the self, or was it only a piece of the self, or was it the self mirrored? Nemea had memories that Lucien did not; there had been those dreadful days when they had been separated in the camp, and he had not seen what had befallen her, and he did not know what course her thoughts had run, then. If a man was shaped by his experiences, ought not a daemon be shaped by their own? Could they be molded in different directions? He knew she had at least once spoken to Halcyon without him present, and he had not told her so, and if she was himself ought she not know already? Could a man keep secrets from his own heart?
Lucien could feel a headache coming on. The sight of the high street in Ballarat had never been so welcome as it was now. The long journey home from China had left his thoughts muddled and his bones weary, but he had an address written on a slip of paper, tucked away inside his wallet. He knew how to reach his Li now, and he would write to her, and she would write back, and they would not be lost to one another. She was happy, and healthy, and well, and loved, and she did not hate him, and his heart was lighter for knowing it. Of course he knew now, too, that his wife had perished, and the loss of her would grieve him, for all the rest of his days, but there was peace in the knowing. He could lay down his arms; his battle was at an end.
As he stepped off the bus he made for the queue of people waiting for their luggage, his eyes scanning the crowd for some sign of them, Jean and Halcyon. He'd rung her from the bus station in Melbourne, told her when to expect him, and she'd breathlessly promised him that she would be there, waiting for him. He could not spot her just now but he felt the nearness of her, felt certain that once he'd retrieved his suitcase from under the bus he would turn, and find her there, waiting for him. When Jean Beazley said she meant to do something, she bloody well did it.
He grabbed his case and straightened his shoulders, stepped away from the throng of passengers and took a step back towards the bus station, but he had no sooner moved than he was struck square in the chest by something small and brilliantly blue, something that was singing.
"Lucien!" Halcyon crowed, bouncing off him and fluttering up to land on his shoulder, little claws digging into the material of his jacket. "Oh, you've come home! Oh, we've missed you so. The house is far too quiet and Jean has been so sad and oh! We have so much to tell you. So much has changed, Lucien! You were only gone a little while but it felt like ages. You simply must tell us everything! Your beautiful daughter and China, oh, what that must have been like!"
"Catch your breath, little one," Nemea told him softly, fondly, and Lucien smiled, for just seeing the little kingfisher, hearing his bright, trilling voice, reminded Lucien that he was home, in the place where he belonged, where he was known, where he was meant to be. Very slowly the three of them wound their way through the crowd, still drawing looks, for Nemea had always been a head-turner but now Lucien had someone else's daemon sitting on his shoulder, preening, and the familiarity of that would not go unnoticed by his neighbors. Not that Lucien minded, so very much. Let them see that Halcyon was fond of him, that he was fond of the little bird, let them see that Jean had come to fetch him, let them see that there was love, still, in the world. Was that not as it should be?
People parted before him like the sea before Moses, and then there she was, Jean, pretty as a picture in her long brown coat, her skirts billowing around her ankles, a smile brighter than the sun itself splashed across her face.
"Lucien!" she called to him, and he grinned. He resisted the urge to break out into a jog, to close the space between them all the faster, but only just. Oh, but she was a sight for sore eyes. Jean, beautiful Jean, all warmth and light and goodness, waiting for him, as she'd said she would, welcoming him at long last. She had waited for a man once before, had Jean, a man who'd not returned to her, but Lucien had come back, and he hoped that she would find reassurance in that.
"Jean," he said warmly as he reached her. "It's wonderful to see you."
"It's good to see you, Lucien," she answered him, and strange, he thought, but it seemed to him that the color was high in her cheeks, as if she were blushing, though he'd no idea why she might be. "You have been missed."
"I told you, Lucien!" Halcyon piped up at his shoulder. "I told you we missed you. We were so lonesome without you."
Jean's eyes fluttered away from Lucien's face, embarrassed, perhaps, by her daemon's effusiveness, and for a moment Lucien himself was left speechless by the very sight of her. From the very first Jean had been lovely and Lucien had been aware of it but she had never, he thought, never seemed so lovely as she seemed now. Never looked so beautiful as this, with that smile tugging gently at the corner of her lips, with her rosy pink cheeks, with her brilliant eyes hidden beneath her soft eyelashes, wearing one of her very best dresses beneath her coat, waiting for him.
"It's good to be home," he said, looking at her, and meant every word of it.
There was work for him to be getting on with, and so no matter how badly Jean simply wished to take him home, to make up a pot of tea and see him settle in at the kitchen table, to sit with him quietly and talk a little while, she was forced instead to bundle him into the car. He was in a fine humor, and she could hardly look at him. Had he always been this handsome? She wondered as she slipped behind the wheel of the car. Had he always been so tall, so broad, so warm? Or was it only that he was smiling, now, smiling openly, kindly, in a way she'd not seen from him before?
"Good old Ballarat," Lucien said, leaning back against the seat and watching the city rolling slowly by them as Jean drove them away from the bus station and towards the offices where the Lord Mayor had been murdered. "I've missed it."
"But you had a nice visit?" Jean asked him carefully. He'd sent a telegram to let her know that he had made it safely to China, and another to let her know that he was on his way home, but neither had spoken of his daughter, of his heart, of what had befallen him in that place, and she did worry for him. It had been such a long time since he'd last seen his girl, and surely they must have both carried more than their fair share of grief. Had the girl been glad to see him? Had he seen her at all? Had he learned his wife's fate?
"Oh, Jean, it was lovely," Lucien sighed. "It's a beautiful country. And my Li, she...she...oh, she is the most wonderful thing, Jean. We have rather a long way to go, I think, but she has asked me to write to her, and I will. And she's married, and expecting a baby."
This last he added with a voice so full of pride, of wonder, of hope, that it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
"Oh, Lucien," she said, trying not weep. "That is...that's just wonderful. I'm so happy for you. Truly, I am."
And she was, for she knew what it was to love a child, to see them grow into their own person, to find love of their own, to start a family of their own. It was a precious gift, and one that Lucien no doubt thought he'd never receive, but it had been given to him, now, and he seemed all the happier for it.
"Thank you, Jean," he told her warmly.
There were other questions she wanted to ask him, about his travels, about his wife, about his plans for the future, and a good many things she ought to tell him, but they did not have so very far to drive, and such thoughts would be best kept for later, when they could speak without an eye on the clock, when Lucien's attentions were not needed elsewhere. He had come home, and there would be time enough for them, she told herself. Surely there would.
She pulled the car to a stop by the curb, and Lucien stepped out, opening the back door for Nemea before reaching for his medical bag. Halcyon had spent their short drive tucked safely between Nemea's paws, and he fluttered up to join Jean in the driver's seat as Lucien and Nemea left them.
"I'll be home quick as I can, Jean," he promised her, but Jean waved him off.
"You have work to do," she said. "Take care of yourself, Lucien. Whenever you get home, we'll be there."
A strange, soft sort of expression crossed his face, and too late Jean realized how familiar her words sounded, as if she were his long-suffering wife, knowing how headstrong he was and promising to keep the home fires burning for her reckless man. Her cheeks promptly flushed scarlet, and she prayed the night was dark enough to hide her face from him.
"Thank you, Jean," he said again, so warmly it nearly made her shiver, and then they were marching away from her, man and lion, and Jean was left watching them go, her thoughts a confusing welter that left her reeling, and neither Jean nor Lucien saw the little stoat hiding in the shadows just down the street, watching them.
