A/N: Well, there goes the two-week update schedule out the window. Sorry this is so late! I definitely underestimated how busy my school and work were going to get haha. No guarantees on when the next one will be, but if you're reading this, you have a little piece of my heart in gratitude.

Thanks so much to everyone who's read and reviewed so far! Hope you like this chapter :)

"Why, whatever is the matter, Christine?" Doris asks.

The dance had gone well — mostly, at least, revelations abut the role of a certain redhead in Gilbert's life aside. Christine had stayed with Gilbert most of the night, and she'd bowed and smiled graciously to his many friends that came to say hello. She'd danced, too — something she never usually found much enjoyment in for fear of looking as awkward as she felt. Gilbert had made it easy, though. He'd somehow made the whole night feel carefree, with a guiding hand on her arm and a lingering smile at the corners of his mouth. She'd completely forgotten about her self-consciousness.

Now, it was Monday afternoon and something in the air seems to have shifted. Maybe it's just her imagination, but Christine swears there are more pairs of eyes following her around the Redmond halls than usual. Hushed whispers crowd the air, but they're rather like Venus's shadow — gone when you try to look at them directly.

"Everybody's whispering about something, no one will tell me what's going on and I bet," Christine sighs in frustration, "I bet it's about me."

Doris makes a face. "Why would people be whispering about you?"

"I don't know. Maybe I did something silly or unbecoming at the dance."

Doris bites her cheek thoughtfully. "I don't think you did, and I don't think the Reds are that cruel. Even if they are whispering about you, it's probably just because they weren't expecting Gilbert to take anyone. You know how people gossip about him."

Christine isn't sure whether that was meant to be comforting.

Doris was right, it soon turned out. Christine had no sooner emerged from her piano lesson than she was intercepted by Claire Hallett. They had never spoken before, but Christine knew full well, despite only being in Kingsport a couple of months, that Claire was one of Redmond's biggest gossips.

"Christine Stuart!", Claire says, falling into step beside her.

"Hello, Claire," she says, cautiously.

"I heard that Gilbert Blythe took you to the Juniors' reception last week."

"He did."

"How very interesting," Claire says, almost in a sing-song voice. "I also heard that he calls on you every week. Is that true?"

Christine blinks. "Well, yes—"

"Oh, indeed!" Claire interrupts, scanning her up and down with a swift gaze.

Christine self-consciously shifts her sheet music case from one arm to the other, the words she'd meant to say — as any good friend might — dying on her tongue.

Claire sighs theatrically and clicks her tongue. "Well, I must say I never thought I'd see the day Gilbert Blythe started courting another woman."

"I beg your pardon?" Christine says, quickly.

Claire gives her a smug smile. "Oh, don't act like you don't know. Why, he's been madly in love with Anne Shirley for years. Any fool who saw them could tell you that. She didn't feel the same way, though. Refused his proposal," she adds, in a stage whisper. "Poor Gilbert was heartbroken. We never thought he'd get over it. Until you, that is."

Christine stares. "I don't—"

"Mmm, you're not much like her, are you?" Claire cuts in again, her eyes still flitting across Christine's face. "I've heard she's got a fiery temper, you'll want to watch out for her."

She realises she is not so much being talked to, as talked at. "I'll... keep that in mind?" She doesn't know what else to say.

"Of course you will," Claire says, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "I really must go now. Ta, darling."

Christine feels rooted to the spot as she watches her leave, her music case still clutched to her side.

So that's what this was all about.

She doesn't go to the football game that week. Jasper keeps her company, curled up near her feet while she plays the piano.

Christine sings softly as she plays. This isn't the Chopin piece she's meant to be practicing, but a song she'd found in a music book Ronald had given her for Christmas.

Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low, and the flickering shadows softly come and go,

Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long, still to us at twilight comes Love's old song,

Comes love's old sweet song.

She sings the words more to herself than anyone else — besides, there isn't anyone around to hear, with Doris having gone to the game and Mrs. Murphy busy at a Ladies' Aid meeting. Jasper hears, though, and snuggles closer, his long ears drooping onto her feet.

She laughs fondly, and bends down to give him a scratch on the head. "You are the sweetest boy, Jasper."

He's the best confidant she has, too — sits obligingly next to her while she complains about her mother's infrequent letters and that confounded Anne Shirley whose name follows her everywhere she goes. His big brown eyes never waver from her blue ones, listening intently to every word. He radiates heat too, which helps.

It's still winter, after all.

The front door creaks as it opens, bringing in the cold air, echoing laughter, and Doris — whose eyes are sparkling far too much for a game of football to be the reason.

Christine grins when she sees her friend's flushed face. "What happened? And more importantly," she glances at the figure now retreating down the driveway, "who's the mystery man?"

Doris giggles. "Barrett," she says, taking off her coat, "his name's Barrett. he noticed I was sitting alone and came to keep me company, that's all."

There is a tell-tale smile that won't come off her face, though. "Is Barrett very handsome?" Christine teases.

She makes a noise that is a strange combination of a shriek and a mumble. "Christiiiiine."

"I'll take it he is, then." Christine laughs. "Tea?"

"Yes, please."

Gilbert takes her to St. John's graveyard on their walk that Saturday. He's unusually quiet, and in a way, Christine is relieved — it's a comfortable silence, and it's nice not to be bothered by other people's prattling questions, for once.

It occurs to her that he might be getting the same questions about her, too. She kicks herself for not thinking of it sooner — why, he looks fairly exhausted. Besides, she has a sneaking suspicion that this — this time he spends with her — is the only break he takes all weekend.

"Are you tired, Gilbert?"

"Hm?" he says, as if snapped out of thought. "No, I can walk."

"That's not what I meant," she says, gently. "You shouldn't be working yourself so hard."

Gilbert laughs. "You know, Christine, some days you sound extraordinarily like my mother. But if it will appease you—" he gestures to a bench under a nearby oak tree, "we can rest here a while and you can see if I regain any strength."

It's a quaint old place, St. Johns. The tall oak trees still hold most of their brown leaves, and their branches arch far overhead in a canopy that almost interlocks, but not quite. The gravestones don't look morbid, either, as Christine had worried when Gilbert had first brought it up to her. The dappled sunlight that falls on them gives them a warm, peaceful look, somehow even now at the end of winter. Gilbert had laughed and said I told you so when she'd admitted it wasn't as gruesome as she'd imagined.

They sit together, watching the shadows on the ground dance as the trees sway. "Feeling better, old man?" Christine jokes.

"It's one of the better days I've seen in the last seventy years," Gilbert says, solemnly.

She bursts out laughing and so does he. He has a lovely laugh, she thinks — full of soul.

"Gilbert!" someone calls.

Christine looks up to find Philippa Gordon coming down the avenue, and — oh. Anne Shirley.

Philippa waves enthusiastically. "Hello, you two! Gilbert, you haven't called at Patty's Place in ages. And you must be Christine. I saw you at the dance last week. Your dress was beautiful, by the way." She smiles, and it's warm and genuine.

"Thank you," Christine replies, as graciously as she can. "It's lovely to finally meet you, Philippa."

"Oh, please, call me Phil. Everyone does. I always say it's easiest to get acquainted in a graveyard — don't I, Anne?", she says, turning to her companion.

Anne smiles, and Christine can't help thinking she looks a little stiff. "It's true. Phil and I met in this very graveyard two years ago. I've heard so much about you, Christine," she says, reaching out to shake her hand.

Christine takes it, as they exchange pleasantries. They make promises to come visit Patty's Place sometime, and Anne insists that she must play for them when she comes. "I hear you are quite the musician," she says.

(She is charmingly sweet, Christine thinks, but there's a faint chill piercing her words.)

After the girls leave, she and Gilbert sit there a while longer.

"You've made quite the impression," he remarks, absentmindedly.

Christine hums. "Maybe," she says. She's thinking about Claire Hallett's comment about Anne's "fiery temper". Less fire, more ice, she concludes. If today was anything to go by.