V:

Anna stirred just a little bit when she felt Jean's hands close around hers, but opened her eyes just a crack when Jean whispered, "Hello, darling." Jean had known a little of what to expect when she'd gone into the hospital room, thanks to Lucien, but even with preparation, her heart had clenched painfully at the sight before her.

"Jean?"

"I'm here, sweetheart," Jean whispered, squeezing her hand gently. "And I'll stay as long as you need me to."

Anna chuckled weakly and murmured, "You never met a promise you couldn't break, Jeanie."

Jean swallowed hard and smiled, remembering better times between them, long before. "I'm so sorry, darling," she said softly, reaching up to gently caress Anna's cheek. "Your husband is lovely – he's been so kind since Lucien and I arrived."

"He's a good sort," Anna whispered. "You know I met him coming home from old Dr. Blake's funeral?"

"No," Jean said softly, "no, I didn't know that."

"I blame you," Anna rasped, leaning into Jean's touch, closing her eyes.

"Of course you do," Jean whispered, "and I'm glad to shoulder the blame. But you've been very happy together… and so have Lucien and I."

Anna sighed deeply, then said, "We were perfect for a bit, you and me, and I was caught up in wanting that."

"I know," Jean assured her in a gentle tone, soothing her. "I love you, Anna. It's all right. I promise."

The distress left Anna's face and she relaxed, closing her eyes and leaning into Jean's touch. Jean stroked her face, her head – left bald from the chemotherapy treatments, and she began to hum softly a lullaby, just like she'd done so many nights before when they had been younger, sentimental, tumbling together in life, in bed, in love, desperate for comfort and shelter in each other's fierce embrace. She ghosted a kiss over Anna's lips and realized that she was no longer breathing, and Jean felt like a piece of her own soul had been ripped straight from her body.

"It's all right, sweetheart," Jean whispered, "no more pain now… I love you, darling. I love you so much." She carefully moved away from the body and went into the corridor to find Lucien and Anna's husband, Walter, waiting for her. "She's gone," Jean said softly. "She was there, and then she just… wasn't."

Walter went into the room, and Lucien wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Jean nestled into her husband's embrace and closed her eyes, trying to remain calm and composed. "I am so sorry, Jean," Lucien said, his voice low and earnest.

"So am I," she whispered, her voice cracking, breaking under the strain.

"Come on – let's go back to the hotel," he said gently. "And you can tell me more about her. I only met her the once at dad's funeral when she stayed with us. She seemed nice enough."

Jean bit her lip and pulled back to look up at him, a thousand memories jostling in her mind at once, finally coalescing into one image of Anna in the darkness of her room one night, naked and blissfully happy, quoting one of Shakespeare's sonnets as she kissed her way up Jean's body.

"I never thought I'd love anyone again after Christopher died," Jean said very quietly. "Not anyone at all." She smoothed her hands over Lucien's back and smiled. "Anna changed that. And then, I met you."

"You didn't love me at first."

"No," Jean acknowledged, "but do you remember telling me that I had to want to reach out and take what I wanted with both hands and not let go? I had to choose: her or you. I could have played it safe and sound and gone with Anna… but I chose to go all in and pray you didn't let me down, Lucien." She leaned back into his arms and closed her eyes. "I don't love her any less because I chose to love you. I just… love her differently now."

And as she began to weep, she mourned not only for her lover and friend… but for that piece of her that had died with Anna. The bit of impulsive, reckless Jean that had sinned with abandon and wantonness and come back for more.

Lucien didn't understand, not really, but one day soon, when she found the right words and the right time and the right dessert and bottle of wine, she would explain it all to him… and he wouldn't think any less of her. Because it was like looking in a mirror, cracked around the edges and reflecting little jagged shards of a bigger story that somehow made sense.

And he loved her anyway.

FIN