It was dreadfully late, when Lucien came home. Matthew dropped him off at the front door, gruff as ever, but kind. Things change, Lucien, that's what Matthew said as Lucien clambered out of the car, as he went to open the door for Nemea. Whether that's good or bad, that's up to us.

It was a surprisingly thoughtful piece of wisdom - or perhaps not so surprising, really, for in truth Matthew Lawson had always been a thoughtful man - but it brought Lucien scant comfort as he and his lioness made their way into their silent home. Danny off in Melbourne, some ill-humored chap come in to take his place, a new pathology registrar on her way to join him at the hospital, his daughter found and safe, his wife dead and lost; who knew what else had changed in the weeks he'd been away.

And funny, he thought, that all these changes bothered him so. When he'd first arrived in Ballarat he'd found the staid, unchanging nature of the town chafing, had been disappointed, in some ways, to find it so much the same as it had been when he was young. Yet somehow along the way he had begun to take comfort in it, in knowing what to expect, in knowing his neighbors, knowing his role. Know your place; how many times had Thomas Blake said that to him when he was young, and how much had he loathed it? And now here he was, wishing everything would stay exactly the way it had been. Perhaps we're all doomed to turn into our fathers, he thought glumly.

The house was still and dark. Well, nearly dark; there was a single lamp burning in the parlor, and so Lucien made his way there. He'd not expected the ladies of the house to wait up for him, but as he walked along he could not help but hope that they had. That she had, that when he stepped into that circle of golden light in the parlor he would find Jean waiting for him. It seemed the sort of thing she would do, stay up to make sure he had everything he needed, to assure herself that he had made his way home safe and in one piece. Or perhaps he only wished that she would; perhaps it was only that he wanted, very much, for her to worry over him. Worry was itself a symptom of care, and it was all the care she could give him, fussing over the state of his clothes and making him up a cup of tea, and that care meant more to him than nearly anything else in the world.

Inside the parlor he did find her, Jean, as he had so hoped that he would, but she was curled into a corner of the sofa, fast asleep. She'd wrapped herself in the thick cream colored housecoat she sometimes wore on cold evenings, and tucked her feet up underneath her. The sight of her, small and relaxed like that, warmed his heart; she was lovely, Jean, was lovely always, but there was something particularly charming about her now, as if she were a child who had been determined to wait up for Father Christmas, and yet had not been able to keep her eyes open past midnight. Had she looked forward to his coming so eagerly? He wondered.

Jean is dreadfully fond of him, Halcyon had told Nemea earnestly, and Lucien had been chewing on those words from the moment he'd heard them. Was she, he asked himself, fond of him, dreadfully fond? Who would know better than her daemon? Was Halcyon not Jean herself? Did some piece of Jean's heart wish to speak those words to him, wish to tell him outright that she was fond of him? What else could the conversation between Halcyon and Nemea have been but a meeting of their own hearts, Jean's and Lucien's? He was fond of her, and he was free, now, to tell her so, though he took no joy in the circumstances that had released him from his marriage vows at last. Was it not crass, cruel, cold hearted of him to turn away from memories of Mei Lin the moment he learned of her death, and pass his affections on to someone else? Then again, had he not been mourning for Mei Lin since that day in 1942 when she and Li sailed away from him? Was sixteen, seventeen years not long enough a time to mourn?

"Lucien?" a small, sleepy voice called, and he watched, smiling, as Halcyon came hopping up along Jean's shoulder, lifted his wings and fluttered to the back of the sofa, cocked his head to the side and looked up at Lucien eagerly.

"Hello, little one," Lucien said very softly. He didn't want to wake Jean just now. Perhaps that was cowardly of him, but it was very late, and it was dark, and it was quiet, and he wanted to speak to her but he feared what words might trip from his lips now, after all the turmoil his heart had endured in recent days. Was it only his longing for comfort, for normalcy, for something dependable to cling to that set his thoughts careening towards her? Even if it wasn't, would she mistake his affection for no more than a tired man searching for stability? He couldn't have that, couldn't have her thinking he wanted her for anything less than her very self. Maybe he ought to tell her so.

"We wanted to wait up for you," Halcyon told him. "But Jean's so very tired. She's not been sleeping well. She doesn't like being alone."

"Has she been alone?"

Lucien had no idea how long it had been since Danny had left for Melbourne, but it wasn't as if he lived in the house, anyway. Mattie did, and surely Jean would have taken some comfort from the girl's presence. Wouldn't she?

"Mattie's been away in Melbourne and Jean's been all on her own," Halcyon told him, and Lucien's heart sank, thinking of Jean rattling around that vast house with no one to speak to, no one to look after, no one but Halcyon. "But you're home now, and she's ever so glad to see you. We're glad to see you both," he added quickly, ducking his little head in Nemea's direction. "You must tell us everything about your travels! Oh, your daughter, Lucien! Is she well? And your wife? Did you learn of her fate?"

"Perhaps we ought to wait until -"

Lucien started to say that it might be best to save those questions until the morning, until Jean woke and was ready to chat with him, but at that very moment she stirred, and let out a soft, warm sort of sigh that made his belly flip in a way that troubled him.

"Halcyon?" Jean called, and her little bird rushed to her, leapt down to her shoulder and nuzzled against her cheek.

"They've come home, Jean!" he crowed happily.

She craned her head to look at Lucien and when her eyes found his face she smiled at him so warmly, so gently, that he could not help but smile back.

"You're home," she said.

Home. The place he most wanted to be, the place where he was happy, and safe, the place where he belonged, the place where his heart was at peace.

"I am, Jean," he told her.

Something flickered in her eyes; recognition, perhaps, of just what it meant, that Lucien should so freely call this place home. Perhaps she understood now, as he did, that he meant to stay in this place, with her, that he had been sad to leave it and glad to return, that he was not running, any longer. Perhaps that made her glad.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he added. "I'll let you get your rest. We can talk in the morning. Good-night, Jean."

He did not want to trouble her, did not want to keep her up so late, did not trust himself in this house alone with her and her pretty, sparkling eyes, had only been trying to be a gentleman, but she heard those words and frowned, as if she thought he was sending her away.

"Lucien, wait," she called to him, and he stood frozen on the spot, held in place by the sound of her voice. "Will you tell me...you said your daughter is well, but did you learn of your wife?"

This night seemed to be growing stranger with each passing second, he thought. It was not strange that Jean, who had lost her own husband in the war, should worry for his wife, but it was strange, to his mind, that she should ask after her outright. Had she been worried about his wife, all this time, worried for him and what would become of him should he find Mei Lin had died? Had she been worried for herself, worried about what the future might hold if his wife was in fact still living? Nemea had told Halcyon that so long as Lucien did not know what had become of Mei Lin he remained frozen in place; had the kingfisher passed this news along to his mistress? Did Jean want his heart to melt, for his feet to move at last towards her? Or was she only being kind? There were too many questions in his mind, and too few answers, and for a moment he just stared at her, wondering how honest he ought to be on this strange, quiet night when it seemed to him that he could feel the very plates of the earth moving beneath his feet.

"I'm afraid my wife has...has died," he confessed. Just speaking the word aloud felt like a betrayal, somehow, as if it were Lucien's voice and not some disease that had killed her. As if he had done this himself. In a way he supposed he had; Mei Lin might not have taken ill if he'd never put her on the boat. But if he'd never done that she might have been killed by the bombs, or languished with the civilians in Changi, been beaten or taken or worse, fallen victim to some other gruesome disease that flourished when people were forced to share such close quarters without proper sanitation or any sort of hope. He felt as if he had doomed her, but it seemed that no matter what choice he made she had been doomed just the same, as if the hand of fate itself had been turned against her. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes as the thought drifted through his mind, the thought that Mei Lin had been fated to die, that she had been denied the chance to watch their daughter grow, to hold their grandchild, to be happy, to live. Mei Lin, who had always been so proud, so strong, so graceful, she deserved better than this end, he thought, but there was no way to rewrite her story. Her story had ended many, many years before.

"Oh, Lucien," Jean breathed, rising to her feet, her eyes never leaving his face. "I'm so sorry."

And he knew that she was, that she was sorry, that she mourned for him, that she grieved for this loss. Jean knew what it meant, better than most; Jean understood. And in her eyes he saw it all, the grief she felt for him, and for her husband, and for Mei Lin, and the sorrow became too heavy for him to bear.

"Thank you, Jean," he said raggedly, and then he turned away, and retreated to his bedroom, with Jean small and lonesome behind him. He did not want to leave her, not truly, but he did not want her to see his tears, and he worried that if he remained where he was, with her thoughtful, sympathetic gaze locked on his face, he would confess the full scope of his guilt, and she would turn away from him. He could not bear it, to lose her, too, and so he hid from her, and from himself.

"Things will look better in the morning," Nemea told him as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

A sob took him, then, for Mei Lin would be just as dead come morning as she was now, as she had been for years, and he had not saved her, and he had never felt quite so powerless as he did now. He sat himself down on the end of his bed, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.