It was dark when Ruth awoke. Well, 'awoke' was a strong word. 'Awoke' implied some actual sleeping had taken place, when in fact, Ruth had barely dozed. By rights, she should've slept like a log, exhausted as she was. Every sinew of every muscle ached, and every fragile heartstring seemed to have been stretched to breaking point. She'd spent a twenty-four hour flight watching over her daughter, and the last few hours in bed trying to quell the tumultuous torrent raging about her mind. But it was no good. Sleep would evade for as long as she was worrying. And worrying, she was. About Lottie, about Harry and Catherine, about the Horsemen and Ollie Kinkaid, about the home they'd left behind, about Dimitri and whatever had happened to Erin. About all of it.

She sighed and stroked a hand through Lottie's downy hair. The child snuffled softly and burrowed further into Harry's arm. The bed was small – smaller than the King sized one she and Harry had shared at the cottage, making it more than a little cramped. Yet Ruth had insisted that Lottie spend the night with them. She'd played the "I don't want her to wake up in a strange bed" card, which, of course, was true. The second reason, however, was harder to admit. The real reason. The reason that would see Harry staring at her like she was some fragile china doll. The simple and shameful truth that she herself wasn't ready to leave Lottie alone. Not yet. It was excessive and overprotective, and exactly the sort of clinginess she'd tried to avoid. But she couldn't help it. Not now. A sickening dread seized her heart at the mere thought of Kinkaid cornering Lottie, and she realised, almost angrily, that she wasn't quite as 'over it' as she thought.

She vowed to be stronger, braver, smarter. For once Lottie woke up, her own fears, her own pitiful wallowing and frustrating fragility had to disappear. Lottie had to come first. And Harry. Her dear, beloved Harry, who was fighting so hard to stay a beacon of strength, even as he himself was floundering. Tomorrow (or rather today, she noted, as the bedside clock struck 3:15), he'd be seeing his son for the first time in over a decade. He was frightened and confused and the very last thing he needed was her falling to pieces. That wouldn't do. He'd been her rock, from the moment he came for her, the night of the attack, to the instant he wrapped her in his arms just a few short hours ago. He'd held her through every nightmare, soothed her through every flashback, and walked side-by-side with her down the road to recovery. And now that it was he who needed her, she'd be damned if she was going to let him go through it alone.

She slid her hand across Lottie's back and let it come to rest over her love's heart, relishing the way it beat steadily beneath her palm. Harry's face was younger, lighter in sleep. And, oh, how she loved to watch him sleep.

There were times, back in Beechworth, usually after a tender night of making love, when she'd rise in tandem with the mounting sun. The world would be still, silent, and safe; the room bathed in a golden light that cast dreamy morning shadows across the ceiling. And he'd still be asleep, lips parted, hand resting gently over her hip; his body open and naked and vulnerable to her in a way that made her heart squeeze. Carefully, ever so carefully, so as not to wake him, she'd caress the puckered white scars that marred his flesh; press feather-light kisses to each and every blemish, as if to say 'how dare anyone hurt you'. She'd marvel at how blessed she was to call him hers; how lucky she was to love him, and be loved by him in a way she never thought she'd ever be loved. Soul-deep.

She'd wonder at how they'd managed to come together in spite of their mutual stubbornness, and she'd reflect on how privileged she was that she got to see him like this, so light and peaceful and weightless in sleep. Unencumbered by nightmares and liberated from the ravages of life. For within his serene slumber, he was free from the credence of a world that had so often foisted itself upon his shoulders. A world that had beaten, chained and spurned him, time after time. A world that had threatened to drag him under. And yet, there he was – not the leader, not the warrior, not the spook or the soldier – but the survivor, the lover, soft and sleepy and content in her arms. There was a similar tranquillity about him now, as he lay with their tiny daughter curled into his side.

It had been early evening when Malcolm left. He'd accompanied them, along with two nameless, faceless officers, to the safe house, which turned out to be less of a 'house' and more of a 'safe flat'.

"Security's easier to maintain," Malcolm had explained. "The door has three electric locks, and can only be operated either from the inside or with a need-to-know code. Your watchers will take the bottom flat. That way, the four of you can have your space upstairs, and they can be near the door lest any unfriendlies come knocking."

The flat was pleasant enough. Modern, with a spacious open-plan layout, it even had a little balcony overlooking the greater half of Central London. Its three bedrooms all boasted freshly laundered double beds, and they discovered that Malcolm had even gone to the trouble of stocking the fridge.

"It's the least I could do," he'd shrugged with a bashful blush.

They had all thanked him – even Catherine, who appeared to have mellowed, grateful at the prospect of rest after a long debriefing, and an even longer flight. It seemed Malcolm's kindness knew no bounds for, after a while, he popped out and returned with a bag of steaming fish and chips. The alluring aroma immediately set their mouths watering. It had even been enough to rouse Lottie, who had blinked blearily into semi-consciousness – enough for Ruth to get her to eat a few bites of fish and chips before she zonked out again. She must have truly been exhausted, because she didn't even enquire about the strange man sitting opposite or the unfamiliar surroundings.

With a wan smile, Ruth had excused herself to settle her sleeping daughter in the master bedroom. Her meal had gone cold by the time she returned, but she enjoyed it no less, swatting Harry's arm as he teased her for her appreciative groans. She couldn't help it. This was one British delicacy she had missed. Oh, there were takeaways abound in Australia. And Europe was rife with many cultural fusions. But no international takeout could quite rival the home comforts of a British chippy tea.

That night, after Malcolm had left and Catherine had retired to her own room, Ruth had had nothing to do but think. Whilst she had found it difficult to settle, the stress of the last few days had taken its toll on Harry, and he had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. So, in between fitful dozes, and the worries whizzing about her head, Ruth alone continued to lay there, watching her family rest.

It reached four o'clock before she decided that sleep was not forthcoming. Her mind strayed to the instant coffee in the kitchen cupboard. Why not, if she couldn't sleep? Slowly, carefully, she extricated herself from her family, pressing gentle kisses to each of their temples before climbing out of bed and shrugging on her dressing gown.

She hadn't even reached the door when she heard a clattering and the distinct sound of feet scrambling from the other room. Ruth's heart immediately started galloping nineteen to the dozen; a tiny hurricane battering against her ribcage. Her eyes flickered fearfully to her sleeping family. Had someone broken in? Had the Horsemen found them? What about the guards downstairs? If the Horsemen had gunned them down, they didn't stand a chance. They were alone and unarmed.

She frantically scrabbled around in the dark for something, anything she could use as a weapon. God forbid anyone who crossed her when her family were at risk. She didn't care if it was a hopeless fight. She'd scrap with her bare hands if she had to. And Harry – she should wake Harry. He'd want to know. She was just tiptoeing back to the bed when she heard another thump, followed by a long and continuous retching. She paused, straining to listen. Why... why would cold-hearted assailants retch? She released a shaky breath, holding her heart in the hopes that it would calm its frantic escape. Now that she listened, there was a familiar tone to the coughing and spluttering.

Quietly, so quietly, Ruth pulled down on the handle and opened the door to a mere slit. There was no movement; no sound other than that of retching and increasingly pitiful moans. She closed her eyes, swallowing and releasing another trembling breath, fully confident now that she did indeed know the perpetrator. Carefully, so as not to startle, Ruth shut the door behind her and slipped down the hall.

The bathroom door was wide open, revealing the back of a slim, blonde woman, dressed to the knees in one of Harry's old shirts. Her bony fingers bled white as they clung to the toilet bowl, terrible, torturous cries tearing from her flayed throat. The poor girl seemed to be throwing up everything but muscle and bone.

"Catherine?"

The younger woman did not respond, continuing to vomit bile and sputum in alarming quantities, and in every possible colour. Ruth heart ached as she noticed the tears tracking slowly down the girl's pale cheeks. She had suffered so much and to have to cope with this on top of everything else must have felt like some sort of cruel joke. Stumbling over her instincts, and very much against her better judgement, Ruth knelt down by the younger woman and slid a tentative hand up her back. Catherine's tired frame jumped under her touch. Brown eyes flickered to meet hers and Ruth fully expected to be thrown off. To her surprise, all she got was a hoarse, abused mutter.

"I'm fine."

Catherine Townsend was anything but. Ruth was the reigning champion of masking and pretending all was 'fine'. But she knew better than to argue. Instead, she rubbed the blonde's back with the same gentle pressure she knew soothed Lottie when she had a stomach bug.

"You don't have to fuss over me," the younger woman spat, though she was visibly too weary for the statement to hold much fire.

"I know," Ruth agreed softly, tucking strands of hair back behind Catherine's ear as she heaved yet again into the toilet. There seemed to be nothing else coming up now but acid and bile. When she was done, the blonde whimpered pitifully and scrubbed a hand across her damp cheeks.

"Bloody fish and chips," she croaked.

"You've hardly eaten for days," Ruth pointed out gently, switching tactics to knead the back of the girl's neck. Catherine groaned and arched into the touch despite herself. "You actually managed to get something down earlier, but your stomach seems to have rebelled."

Catherine shrugged, but allowed herself to be soothed under Ruth's ministrations. It was a strange, uneasy truce between two women who had yet to find common ground. Once the blonde's stomach appeared to have emptied itself, she collapsed against the toilet seat, burying her head in her arms and shivering wildly. Her body was in shock, overwhelmed by the sudden strain and loss of fluids. Ruth whipped off her dressing gown and wrapped it snugly around Catherine's shoulders. The younger woman raised her head blearily, frowning down at the fleecy garment as if trying to work out how it got there.

Ruth spied a couple of tumblers sitting neatly by the sink and half-filled one with water.

"Here. Wash your mouth out."

For once, Catherine did as she was told. At Ruth's insistence, she then took a couple of small, wary sips before grimacing and handing the glass back. Swallowing after being sick was never a pleasant affair – even when it was something as simple as water. With a sympathetic grimace, Ruth clambered to her feet and offered her hands to Catherine.

"Come on. Let's get you back to bed."

"I'm a grown woman. I can get myself to bed," Catherine grumbled, but her inflections were slurred; her limbs slow and heavy, as if wading through treacle. It was clear the poor woman was beyond exhausted.

"I'm sure you can," Ruth said patiently, refusing to take 'no' for an answer as she slipped her hands into Catherine's and hauled her up. "But there's no harm in asking for help once in a while."

The younger woman tutted. Ruth could practically see the cogs turning as she formulated some sort of argument, but she was forced to concentrate on moving. She swayed slightly on the spot as she was wrenched upright, and quickly clasped Ruth's forearm for support.

"You're alright," Ruth soothed, once more rubbing her back in slow, circular motions. "You're alright. I've got you."

Catherine's eyes suddenly darkened, her mouth twisting into a hard, unforgiving line. Without warning, she snatched her hand away, as if Ruth was molten fire.

"I don't need your help!" she snapped.

And with that, she turned tail and stormed back to her room as fast as her unsteady legs could carry her. Thank God for small mercies: she didn't slam the door.

Ruth sighed. It seemed her relationship with Catherine was destined to be a tale of two steps forward, three steps back. The putrid stench of stale vomit wafted beneath her nostrils, her senses finally kicking in as the adrenaline wore off. Wrinkling her nose, Ruth flushed the toilet, washed her hands and caught sight of herself in the mirror. An old woman with a weathered face and tired grey eyes stared back at her. She felt like she'd aged ten years in the last few days.

On that rather maudlin thought, her mind drifted back the tin of caffeinated goodness in the kitchen cupboard.

Coffee.

She needed coffee.

Harry was roused by the twisting of a warm body up against his. He didn't open his eyes. Not immediately. He was safe in that lovely hazy place between sleep and wakefulness, where everything felt sweet and slow and golden, like drizzled honey. Then he felt tiny twig-like arms dig into his chest, sharp elbows cutting between each rib to wind him into consciousness.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The room was bathed in semi-darkness with just the barest strains of light peering through the curtains. The first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar room. Flashes of panicked plane rides, bastard boyfriends, and estranged daughters shocked his brain into life. The second thing he noticed was that Lottie was pressed up against him, fast asleep with Moo in her arms, whilst Ruth...

Ruth was nowhere to be found.

He sat up abruptly, jolting Lottie, who groaned in her sleep, rolled over, and started snoring softly. He ran a single hand through her downy hair to ensure that she really was asleep, before tucking the duvet around her and climbing out of bed.

It wasn't that he objected to Ruth seeking solace, but given the circumstances, and her own personal turmoil (which she had been trying to hide) following Lottie's encounter, he felt he was entitled to a little worry. He slipped on his dressing gown, snuck out of the bedroom and padded down the hall. All was silent and still, save for the sound of rain pattering a dull, distant rhythm against the bitumen roof.

He checked the bathroom and, coming up empty, continued his trek though the apartment. The kitchen was also deserted, but the tell-tale clue of a cold, half-drunk cup of coffee left Harry with absolutely no doubt that Ruth had been there. He was just running out of ideas when he happened to glance outside onto the balcony. His beloved Ruth was leaning against the precipice, soaked to the skin and dressed only in a sodden nightdress.

"Christ," he whispered, wasting no time in fumbling for the door.

The rain was wild. What sounded like a soft pitter-patter from inside was a torrent outside – perhaps an adequate metaphor for the tumultuous emotions raging about Ruth's head. And his own, for that matter.

He knew better than the call out to her. Even after six years, there were rare moments where Ruth would still get lost in her memories, drown in her own private purgatory. Her body would stiffen, her eyes glaze over and she'd drift to some awful, dark place where Harry couldn't reach. In those instances, Harry had learned to follow Ruth's lead; to let her set the conditions; to show him when she felt safe enough for him to approach. Yelling whilst she was in the midst of her nightmares would frighten her. And touching her could do so much worse.

So, as softly as he dared over the roaring rain, he called her name.

She didn't respond.

"Ruth!" He called again, a little louder.

This time, she jumped, shook herself from her stupor and turned to him with a small apologetic smile. That was all the permission he needed to go to her.

"Sweetheart, come inside. You must be freezing."

He rubbed at her frigid hands, desperate to eke some warmth back into them.

"I'm alright," Ruth murmured faintly. "I'm alright, Harry."

"Come on. Please. You'll catch your death out here."

He made to pull her inside, but she resisted.

"Harry," She repeated, this time stronger and more purposeful. "I'm alright."

He was about to object; to put her decision down to momentary madness – one of those rare, dark turns. But it was the way she met his eyes with clear-headed, steadfast resolve that finally convinced him. She smiled softly, and traced a cold, yet tender palm across his cheek.

"I'm alright. It's okay." He hadn't even known he'd been panting until Ruth hushed him gently. "It's okay."

She rubbed a soothing hand up and down his chest, letting it come to rest just over his heart, and together they felt it thundering beneath his ribcage. It occurred to him for the first time, that maybe he had been just as affected by the incident with Kinkaid as Ruth had. He had never been a worrier, by nature. And yet the first emotion when he'd woken without Ruth had been terror; his first thought when he'd seen her on the balcony had been, "Oh God, not again. Please, not again." He'd recalled finding her unconscious on the Thames House roof after her suicide attempt. His mind had automatically sought out the darkness in a way it hadn't in over six years.

Harry closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, trying to erase his own stupidity. Ruth continued to smooth her hand over his chest, staring at him with poorly masked concern.

"Harry?"

"I thought..." He shook his head again and laughed shakily, humourlessly. "What is it with you and roofs?"

Ruth flashed him a knowing look, but played the game. It was a tactic she herself had employed many times before.

"This isn't a roof. It's a balcony."

"It has the same effect."

His love smiled, sweet dimples blooming in cheeks kissed red by the cool, damp air, "I wanted to the feel the rain. There's something so beautiful about English rain. Can you feel it?"

Truthfully, Harry couldn't. Rain felt like rain to him. But then, Ruth had always been more introspective than him. She was a classicist – a devotee of poetry and art, a lover of romantic ideals, who saw beauty even in the ugly things. It was one of the many reasons he had fallen quite so spectacularly in love with her.

"It's nice weather for ducks," he said mischievously, earning him an elbow to the side and a smile from his beloved.

"English rain feels sort of... clean and... crisp. Like it's washing away the dirt and the pain and leaving something... sweeter, purer." She reflected quietly, turning back to the barrier to gaze out over Central London. "I used to sit at the bus stop in the pouring rain, and, actually, most of the time... I loved it. The sound was like this endless whirr – like... like white noise, numbing the system and drowning out any bad memories of the day. And when the rain calmed, it'd fade into gentle taps and remind me of those musical chimes you find in music boxes. And I'd watch the spray dance off car headlights, and drizzle into perfect puddles and I'd feel this... this joy. It was like beneath all the grief and depravity and bloodshed, there was still this... beauty in the world. A raw, untouched, natural beauty we overlook in favour of all the broken things."

She tilted her head back and allowed the spray to hit her face; to drench those chocolate locks and cascade down her silken skin. Harry's heart stuttered because God, he adored her. He had to forcibly stop the heat from pooling to his groin for in that moment, she looked so wild and unfettered, so achingly, devastatingly beautiful that it left him quite breathless.

He was, for an instant, without words. All he could do was follow her to the railing and fold his arms around her from behind. She was freezing to the touch, but he was determined to warm her. He opened his dressing gown and wrapped each side around her petite frame, drawing her tightly to his chest.

"You'll get wet," Ruth protested, though she nestled into his embrace, letting her head fall back onto his shoulder.

"We're already wet," Harry replied huskily, resting his lips against the top of her head and pressing gentle kisses into her hair.

Together, they looked out over Central London. The dawn was creeping, and soon, morning would arrive. The world would come to life and they would have to face the prospect of reality. He, Harry was going to be seeing both Graham and Jane for the first time in a shamefully long time, and he couldn't tell if he was more anxious or relieved. All he knew was that at least he would have this remarkable woman by his side, fighting his corner, come what may.

"I love you," he breathed against the curve of her neck.

"I love you too," she whispered back, reaching under the flap of the dressing gown to entwine her hands with his. "It's going to be okay. We'll make it okay."

Harry squeezed her hands and wondered just how much she truly believed that. Still, he couldn't help but marvel at her strength. Anyone who'd endured what she had, including being thrust halfway across the world and back (for the second time), would surely have balked at the terrors they faced. But not Ruth. Never Ruth.

He swallowed, hating to bring this up just when she'd reclaimed her fighting spirit.

"Ruth?"

"Mm?"

"About Lottie and Kinkaid..."

She tensed in his arms, and he felt cruel for lulling her into a false sense of security. But he couldn't, wouldn't let the matter drop. She needed to know that she wasn't to blame for the actions of bastard terrorists.

"It wasn't your fault, what happened. You know that, don't you?"

Ruth's reply took too long to ring true, "I know."

Her back muscles were drawn up stiff and tight against his chest.

"Lottie is wonderful and I love her madly, but she is stubborn and single-minded at the best of times. You're not to blame for her wandering off."

"I know," Ruth repeated, though she was no more convincing the second time round.

"And Kinkaid would have found a way to interrogate either one of you, whether it happened the way it did or not. On the whole, we were lucky."

"I know," Ruth snapped.

She made to break free of their cocoon, but he held her fast, kissing her temple and rocking her with him under the canopy of rain.

"Then stop blaming yourself," Harry murmured gently against her ear. "Sweetheart. It wasn't your fault."

It took a beat for Ruth to finally stop struggling. She sagged against him, rendering her whole body limp and pliant in his arms. He turned her round to find tears in her ocean eyes, but just as he was about to embrace her, she gripped onto his soaking pyjama top and heaved into shoulder.

"I thought I'd lost her," she whispered, so quietly Harry almost lost her voice to the rain. "I thought he'd taken her. When I saw she'd gone, I... I couldn't breathe. I couldn't... It felt like I was drowning."

"She's safe," Harry crooned. "You're both safe."

"She could've..." Her voice cracked and she couldn't say any more.

"She's fine. She's alive and healthy. And we're going to keep it that way."

"I'm her mother. I'm meant to protect her," Ruth fretted, and Harry physically ached to see her so distraught.

"You did. You do. Every day."

"Not then. She protected herself. She got out of it herself. She lied to a cold-blooded killer, and if she hadn't..."

"But she did, and she's fine," Harry ruled with finality. Then, seeing the still haunted look in his beloved's eyes, he sighed, tucking her sopping wet hair back behind her ears, "Sweetheart, don't do this to yourself."

"I should've been there. Should've realised."

"You got to her as soon as you could. Thanks to your quick thinking, Kinkaid didn't have a chance to do worse."

"But it should never have – "

"Ruth, it wasn't your fault," Harry said sternly, not even bothering to rein in his Grid voice. "You can't stop the wanderings of a six year-old girl, and you can't stop the actions of a raging psychopath. Sometimes there are things which are just... beyond our control."

Ruth hesitated, then swallowed and nodded. She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead chose to bury her face in his chest, exhaling shakily as his arms came about her.

"I know," she whispered eventually, her tone tentative, tormented, as if trying to convince herself of that fact. "I know."

"It wasn't your fault," he breathed against her temple for good measure.

Ruth nodded, but said nothing more. Harry realised that she was starting to tremble, though he couldn't tell if it was from the cold, or sheer adrenaline withdrawal. She had managed to keep everything – all her anger, all her fear and guilt – locked behind impenetrable walls whilst they fled from Beechworth. Survival Mode Ruth was a force to be reckoned with, and MI5 training had instilled in them a stiff upper lip, do-or-die attitude. They were experts at self-control, self-denial, and they both knew that it wouldn't do to fall apart in a time of crisis. But now... now that they were safe, or at least, as safe as they could be, she was finally allowing those walls to come tumbling down – and in pure Ruth fashion, the results threatened to be catastrophic. Harry had to hold onto her, keep her anchored, before she drifted off on a tide of guilt and pain. It was time to end this frigid tête-à-tête and get her somewhere warm and dry – preferably where he could hold her until the sun came up.

"Sweetheart, let's go inside," he implored, soothing her fine tremors with a careful hand. When Ruth gave no hint that she'd heard, he added softly. "Let's get back to our daughter."

She looked at him then, the mist shifting from her clouded eyes. She blinked once, twice, and Harry could see the steely determination seeping back into to her lax frame. She stood a little taller, a little stronger as she nodded. Perhaps she understood that dwelling on the past was a thing of folly; that their priority now was protecting their family.

Slowly, gently, he guided her inside, locking the door and manoeuvring her back towards their room. Lottie was still sound asleep; didn't even stir as they entered. Silently, and with infinite care, Harry stripped them both of their wet garments, wrapping them instead in fresh, dry clothes. Ruth was still shivering, her teeth chattering a stagnant rhythm into the eerie quiet, so Harry encouraged her under the bedclothes. He lay down beside her and folded his family into his arms, pressing kiss after kiss to her damp face until finally, finally, she fell asleep.

"It's going to be okay," he whispered into the silence, echoing her words from before.

Maybe if they said it often enough, it'd come true.

Maybe.

His own eyelids grew heavy, but still, he found time to smooth the wet hair from his love's face, unable to resist pressing another kiss just above her nose.

"It's going to be okay."

And with that, he too drifted off.

The next time Ruth awoke, it was to the sound of a very familiar humming. She smiled softly, for she had always loved to hear Lottie sing. Her daughter had inherited her love of music, and would constantly bound around the house, humming whatever tune she'd heard during the day. Perhaps if Ruth stayed still and listened, she could decipher today's melody. However, the moment her mind drifted, the events of the last few days came crashing down upon on her like a ton of bricks, and she propelled herself up onto her elbows, wide-eyed and frantically searching out her daughter.

Lottie, it seemed, had long since left the bed, instead choosing to clamber up onto a nearby dresser. With Moo in hand, she was pressed up against the window, humming as she took in the city below.

"Lottie..." Ruth half breathed in relief.

Harry stirred beside her, drifting into wakefulness just as Lottie turned. Her sparkling blue eyes were wide with awe-filled excitement.

"Mummy! Daddy!" she squealed, sliding down from the dresser and bouncing over to her exhausted parents. "There are so many houses!"

"I know, my darling," Ruth agreed quietly, drawing Lottie into her side with one hand, and brushing the sleep from Harry's cheeks with the other. He gave her a soft smile and moved to sit up. "But they're not all houses. There are a lot of shops, and offices, and places where very important people work."

"Like the Queen?"

Ruth smiled, "Yes, but you can't see her from here. The palace is quite far away. London's a big place."

"Oh," Lottie said, her face falling briefly. Her eyes quickly brightened as she asked, "Can you see your school?"

"School?" Ruth frowned. It had been quite a while since she had been at school.

"The school you used to teach at. Where you and Daddy met."

Realisation hit Ruth like a punch to the face. Stricken, she glanced at Harry, whose poker face didn't fare much better than hers. Of course. To Lottie, and Beechworth, and everyone they'd ever met in the last six years, they were Henry and Rebecca Knight, two former teachers. It was a cover that had been necessary at the time, but now the past was finally catching up to them, it felt like an unnecessary lie.

"No," Harry said quietly, no doubt sensing her distress and coming to the rescue. "No, you can't see it, Squirt."

Spurred by her love's courage, Ruth swallowed and added, softly, "Lottie – Daddy and I need to talk to you about something."

Her eyes flickered to Harry's and they silently agreed this needed to be done now, rather than later. Their little girl's face grew sober, the light fading from her sparkling eyes as she nestled further into her mother's embrace.

"Is it about why we left home?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes," Ruth replied, brushing down her daughter's sleep-mussed hair.

"Why we're in England?"

"Yes."

Lottie hesitated, then said quietly, "It's because Catherine's in trouble, isn't it?"

As usual, her perceptiveness took Ruth's breath away.

"Yes," she said, willing her voice not to waver as she silently prayed to whatever deity was out there to get her through this conversation. "And it's about what Daddy and I really used to do, before you were born."

Lottie's brows knitted together in confusion, "When... you were teaching?"

Ruth smoothed the frown from her baby's silk soft face and murmured, "I'm going to need you to be the big girl you are and listen very carefully, okay, darling?"

Lottie's eyes rounded and she nodded solemnly, "Okay, Mummy."

Ruth swallowed again, fighting to keep her breath even, her voice calm. She felt Harry's hand curl around her own. They were so in tune by now, she knew exactly what the gesture meant – 'I'm here. I'll take over if you want me to.' She shot him a sad smile and shook her head. She could do this. Somehow – she couldn't explain why – it just felt like her responsibility. Perhaps because it had been her idea to leave England in the first place. Or perhaps she just wanted to prove to Harry that, after her wobble on the balcony, she wasn't going to fall apart on him.

"Lottie... your Daddy and I..." she began quietly. "We... we weren't teachers. We were never teachers. We actually had very... very dangerous, very secret jobs. And because of those jobs, we were forced to leave England. So to protect us and – most importantly – to protect you, we pretended to be something else. Someone else."

"So... you lied?" Lottie surmised, her expressive face, for once, unnervingly blank.

"Yes."

"But you always say lying's wrong," the little girl accused, a hint of frustration creeping into her steady voice.

Ruth couldn't blame her. She'd be frustrated too if she were Lottie: at the tender age of six; trying desperately to understand the world, and suddenly being told that everything she thought she'd known was, in fact, fiction.

"It is. Lying is wrong. But this time... in this case, it was necessary. We needed to keep you safe, and believe me, my darling, there isn't anything in this world we wouldn't do to keep you safe."

"But why would lying keep me safe?" Lottie demanded, in equal parts curious and frustrated, as she always was when she failed to understand something.

"Because..." Ruth replied slowly, trying to work out how best to explain a complex situation to a six year-old child. "We had many different kinds of people chasing us – some of them very bad indeed."

"Bad like the man asking about Catherine?"

Ruth blinked, once again taken aback by her child's intellect, "Yes. Bad like him."

"He said she stole something," Lottie recalled matter-of-factly. "That's why he's chasing her."

"She did," Ruth admitted. "But she only stole it so that bad people couldn't use it to hurt others. She was very brave. We should be proud of her. Not judgmental."

Lottie considered this, then blinked up at Ruth with impossibly blue eyes, "Did he... did he hurt her? The bad man."

Yes, Ruth thought privately, but thought it best to dull down the specifics to the merely physical.

"No, my darling. She ran before he could hurt her."

"She ran to us," Lottie concluded with a small smile.

Out of the corner of her eye, she felt Harry shift, his expression once again heavy with guilt. She squeezed his hand tightly to will some of the strength he had poured into her, back into him.

"Yes," she agreed softly. "I suppose she did."

"And we took her here, so that the bad man couldn't find her again?"

"Yes. So that the bad man couldn't find any of us."

Lottie nodded, growing silent and thoughtful as she picked at stray strands of Moo's fur. Ruth knew that look; could feel the tension oozing from her daughter's lithe frame. Lottie, like Ruth, tended to keep her worries locked inside until they burst forth into one long tumultuous torrent.

"What's worrying you, my darling?" she asked tenderly, stroking a gentle finger down her baby's cheek.

The little girl was silent for a moment, and Ruth didn't push, giving her time to unpick her thoughts.

"What if... " the girl stuttered slowly, ponderingly, as only a small child could. "What if... the bad man finds us?"

"He won't, Squirt," Harry intoned quietly. "We're well-hidden here."

"But what if he does?" Lottie pressed, a fearful tremble to her voice that Ruth hoped to never hear again. "Will he hurt her? Will he hurt you, and Mummy, and me?"

Ruth's heart constricted as she was struck by a sudden surging grief. Grief that her daughter, who they had fought so hard to shield from the ravages of this awful, brutal world, had been doomed to endure them anyway. They had named her Charlotte – 'free person' – intended to be free of such a life, and yet here she was, panicking that a ruthless man, with a ruthless ideology, would come looking for them; shoot them all in their beds. Maybe they shouldn't have told her. Maybe they should have let her see London as a holiday; allow her to live in blissful, childish ignorance. But Lottie was too smart for that. She had already figured out most of it – and Ruth knew it was better that she hear the rest from them, at a time when they had the opportunity to offer reassurance; to let her know that although they were on the cusp of danger, they wouldn't let any harm come to her.

"We have lots of people looking out for us here, Lottie. People Daddy and I used to work with," Ruth soothed her softly. "They won't let the bad man near us, so I don't want you to be worrying about that, okay? You're safe, I promise."

Could she really promise that? Could she?

And yet, she would, for the sake of seeing her daughter smile again, laugh again. She couldn't bear to see her worry; to watch her live out every hour of every day in fear. That was no kind of life.

Lottie didn't look entirely convinced by her gentle words, but she nodded slowly, "Okay."

Ruth sighed and drew her baby into her arms, planting a big, wet kiss in her downy hair, "You are so very, very loved, my darling. So very loved. Daddy and I won't let anything happen to you – to any of us, I swear."

Lottie paused, then silently linked her pinky finger with Ruth's, "Pinky swear?"

Ruth smiled because Lottie could only have picked that up from Jamie or one of the other kids at school. But she indulged her, gripping her little pinky back.

"Pinky swear."

Lottie promptly stuck out Moo's hoof, "Pinky swear?"

"Moo can't pinky swear, Squirt!" Harry exclaimed suddenly, as if this was the most ridiculous thing in the world. "He hasn't got fingers!"

His eyebrows were waggling in outrage, his voice unnecessarily dramatic, and yet it added some much needed levity to what had otherwise been a dull and depressing morning. Lottie giggled, her worries forgotten as Harry began tickling her bare feet.

"Daddy! Daddy, no!"

She burst out in a fit of high-pitched squeals, leaping off the bed and scrambling back up onto the dresser for safety.

"Can't get me up here!" she declared, making Moo dance a boastful little routine across thin air.

Harry proceeded to show her just how, actually, he could reach her up there. And as father and daughter engaged in a gentle play-fight, resulting in Lottie being flung over Harry's shoulder, the little girl laughing hysterically into his back, Ruth smiled. They might have lost their home, their livelihood. But they still had this.

And she wasn't going to let anyone, anyone take this away. Ever.

A.N. Less plot this time - just angst and softness. Hope you enjoy, even so xx