"I brought you something," Jean said. Christopher had been in the hotel for days now and still, to wake up every morning and go visit her husband felt, well, she had no category for this sort of thing and Jean preferred things to have categories.

"Oh, thank you," Christopher said, peering into the basket on her arm. "The scones here are terrible."

"So I've heard," Jean said. "But this is sponge cake." She set the basket on the table as she took a seat. She sat up very straight. When she wasn't sure what to do she always had exceptional posture.

"Is the hotel comfortable?" She asked, finally.

"It's fine," Christopher said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Still fine."

Neither spoke for a moment and Jean dropped her eyes but smiled widely to make up for it. She didn't know why it was so awkward to be with her husband. Even after so many years, shouldn't one just pick up where they left off? She wondered if she'd feel awkward around Lucien, should he ever vanish and reappear. My goodness, what a thought. She pulled the cake out of the basket in an effort to pull her mind back to the present.

As she set about cutting slices he put his hand over hers. His fingers were as long and thin and fine as she remembered – perfect fingers for farming. He closed them around the knife. "You know, you aren't just the housekeeper here."

Her eyes lifted to his. "Are you saying you don't want cake?"

"I'll always take a slice of your cake, Jean Mary."

She felt her shoulders straightening farther still, involuntarily. But she regained control of the knife.

"I'm sorry Jack hasn't been by to see you," she said, handing him the cake.

"He was always touchy."

"Life's been hard on him," Jean replied.

"He was difficult before that."

"Full of life," Jean countered, smiling as she handed Christopher his cake.

"How old was he when he climbed the ice box and got stuck on the top?" Christopher asked.

"Eighteen months," Jean said with a rueful smile.

"I can see your eyes like it was yesterday. Like giant frozen lakes. Angry lakes."

"He scared me to death."

"We've been through a lot together," Christopher said just before he put a bite of the desert into his mouth. "It's good cake, Jean Mary."

"Jack's gotten into more trouble than just climbing ice boxes since you've left, Christopher."

"I didn't just leave. There was a war on. One you wanted me to fight." A bit of a growl came through those words and Jean shifted in her seat.

"I never meant for you to… oh, it doesn't matter. I just want you to know – it's been hard on him. I'm sure he'll be by to see you as soon as he can."

"Life's been hard on all of us," Christopher said. "But it could get better. Come with me."

"Come with you? Where, Christopher? How?"

"You could still work for Lucien. You don't have to live there do you? You're not his babysitter. Or… what exactly are you to Lucien?"

Jean felt the flush burn scarlet in her cheeks and turned her face away. The silence fell again.

"I should go," Jean said. "I've got work to do."

"Jean, I'm sorry." Christopher stood up quickly. He towered over her.

She held up a hand. It was fine. She didn't want an explanation.

"I just miss you."

"Where were you? All those years?"

"I told you. I was recuperating."

"For over a decade?"

"I was lost."

Jean looked at him. She could feel the furrow deepening between her eyes. She'd been lost too, for a time. Jack was still. And then she turned to go.

Mattie read the letter a second time. And then a third. The thin tissue-like paper of the airmail letter wouldn't hold up to much more of her incredulity but she just had to look again and make sure she got it right.

Dear Mattie,

I have news from Ballarat. Or from Melbourne, haven't actually made it there yet. Oh hang it all, Jean's husband Christopher came home. Lucien just called to tell me. I know how you care about them and think you'd want to know. By the time this letter arrives I'll know more.

Much love,

Danny

Danny was always fooling with her. Could this be a joke of his? It didn't sound like a joke. And it wasn't like him to make things up wholesale. He'd tease a little, poke a little fun, but this? No, Danny wouldn't make up this.

Mattie knew she should be thinking of Jean and her world turned upside down, but it was Lucien's face that she saw in her mind's eye. His deep blue eyes would turn down at the corners. He'd run a hand across his beard. He'd try to gather himself and be strong for Jean, but he had a way, when he was troubled, of radiating sadness through the entire house. You couldn't be in his presence and not feel his pain. He just couldn't help it, such giant of a man but his heart was so transparent.

Mattie could feel the ache in his heart from here, like a dagger of melancholy that pierced her own heart. And she was so very far away. She tossed the letter aside on the table like it was poisoned. She paced the small apartment. She sat and held her head. She picked the letter up again. But no matter what she did, the pain was the same. Lucien's pain. Jean's pain. They were hers. They were family. And her family was broken. She had to do something. She pulled her scarf from the hat rack next to the door and slipped into her jacket. It may be springtime in London, but her heart was in the damp autumn of Ballarat.

Lucien sat at Charlie's desk in the station, bent over paperwork he just couldn't quite believe. He had Ivy Douglass's medical records file open in front of him. But it wasn't Ivy's records he was looking over.

"Ahem," a throat cleared in front of him and Lucien startled so that he nearly scattered the papers to the floor. He caught them before that could happen, nevertheless, Charlie caught a glimpse.

"Lucien…" he began.

"Listen, Charlie, it's for her own –"

"What did you find?" he asked.

"Ah…" Lucien gathered himself. "Yes, well, something curious indeed. What is it you have there?" He gestured toward the paper in Charlie's hand.

"Sorry – a telegram came in."

Lucien took it. It was from Mattie, bless her perfectly timed heart.

Lucien, I got word about C. On my way home to Ballarat unless you stop me.

"Come with me, Charlie."

"Are we stopping her?" Charlie asked.

"We are. Mattie needs to stay right where she is. We need her help in London."

And as they made haste to the telegram office, he shoved Christopher Beazley's medical records into Charlie's hands.