They did not speak until it was time to sleep and they had exhausted the natural rhythm of changing into bedclothes, slipping beneath the covers, turning the light off.

"I ran into Samuel MacPherson," Harold said suddenly, his voice cutting into the gentle darkness. "From the church," he added.

MacPherson.

Alberta shifted to face him, though in the darkness she could only make out the barest outline of his face.

"Millicent's husband?" she asked.

Nevertheless, I shall be praying for you.

"Apparently they live in the Camden Town, in the same block as Mark," Harold said conversationally (and not really answering her question).

"Millicent MacPherson, from Holy Cross Church?" she prodded again.

She felt, rather than heard, Harold shift.

"What other church have we been to in the recent past, Alberta?" he said, half jokingly, but she heard the deafening emptiness beneath, saw the unfinished drawn-work. "Nice man, for all his oddities. Says that Millicent is still thinking of you, praying for you."

"I don't need prayers," said Alberta automatically, but without vitriol.

"No," Harold agreed, "but it's- nice, I suppose; we don't even know them. It must be their way of caring."

Their way of caring.

Alberta had not, in all honesty, considered prayer in any such light. She had always been offended when Victor had tried to pray for her, angry whenever she had seen Eustace Clarence on his knees. It seemed so- so- subjugating (she could not really think of another word)- and to what, for what?

Their way of caring.

"That's- nice," she said, and once the words rang in the air she was surprised to realise that she actually meant them.

Harold reached out, let his arm fall gently across her left shoulder. She shifted closer, feeling an echo of distant years rustle away, fade into the outside. She'd forgotten how well she fitted against Harold, how right it felt to hide her face in the crook of his neck. Or perhaps she hadn't forgotten, perhaps she was just re-remembering. She breathed in deeply.

"He said that we could visit them for tea, any day except Wednesdays or Fridays," he murmured into her hair. "I declined, but the offer is still open and I have their number. I thought, since I'm back at work this week-"

"Harold," Alberta said, pulling back. "Why are you still talking about the MacPhersons?"

He let out a surprised laugh and- nuzzled her ear with his nose.

"You don't need to be infantile," she said, but he only laughed and kept laughing until she pulled her face away to tell him off, and he leaned over and kissed her as his arms found their way around her back.

(They did not talk about the MacPhersons.)

The morning was a strange light thrown upon a building, the clarity of walking out to the open after hours spent gazing at Matisse, and Alberta realised, when she awoke to an empty space beside her and a short note from Harold explaining that he had gone to work, that somewhere, somehow- time had passed.

And time had passed; she realised with a sudden jolt that, if Eustace Clarence were here, he wouldn't be here, because school had started once more. He would be in science, perhaps, copying more diagrams of transistors, or in mathematics (or writing letters to that Pole girl). His schoolmates would also be in class now- really would be in class, she realised, picking up her watch. In fact, his schoolmates were in class now- and wasn't that just the oddest feeling?

And Harold was at work.

It felt so strange to think of it. Did Harold really have to work? She knew that he worked, of course, and that he was teaching a course with the London School of Economics, and it had felt so natural before- well, before. But now, now it just seemed strange, unreal (cruel).

It is as if we pay to breathe, hadn't she written that derisively in one of her columns?

Oh, yes.

Her columns.

Well, time had passed, and she could not afford to miss another edition (well, technically, perhaps, she could, but it only took a few weeks before her absence would not be missed). She would need to contact Harry; would need to write up an article for next week's paper.

He had contacted her once he heard about Eustace Clarence, had given his condolences- and like that poor young constable, he had sounded sincerely sorry- but what else was there to say? And he had only said that she need not write a column for that week's paper - she knew this was kind, given the late notice, but it had not allowed her to feel anything, she had barely been able to express thanks.

No, she would need to contact Harry, and then she would need to get started on another column (and what on earth she was going to write on she had no idea); and gracious but the time!- and she thought so much she felt she did not think at all as she hurriedly changed into passable day clothes and tied up her hair.

She realised, as the doors began to shut and the engine emitted that particular noise before it began its forward thrust, that she was on a train.

She tried to brush the thought aside, but there was a tightness in her chest, and the sound of the train on the tracks was shrill in her head. She clamped her hand over her nose. Breathe breathe breathe.

"Are you all right, Ma'am?"

She opened her eyes, tried to breathe, saw a youngish woman standing up and gesturing to a seat.

"Thank you," she murmured, and sat down.

Mrs Scrubb, Ma'am, I think it might be best if you took a seat.

There's been a train accident with the British Railways.

- we were whisked away on a train –

She closed her eyes, pressed her palms against her lids.

Susan, why was Edmund at the train station this month? (Why was anyone near that train station?)

"He was there for Narnia," she whispered, tiny dots dancing in her vision as she stared at the window opposite.

And there, a strand- she grasped at it, and she almost had it- or something-

- but then the train arrived at Canary Wharf, and she grabbed her things in a bundle and half ran out of the tunnel and its busy darkness, pushing against people here and there until she breathed the fresh air.

By the time she was standing in the sun, it was falling away- something, there had been something- but really, she thought, glancing at her watch, she should go and speak with Harry. There was always time to think later.

Plenty of time, since she would not be taking the train back.

"I- haven't written for my column," she said, awkwardly, as Harry eased himself into his chair. He glanced up at her, surprised.

"We didn't expect you to, Alberta," he said, half briskly and half gently. "It's all right, you needn't have bothered yourself with the journey here, the Underground is somewhat frightful these days."

She tried not to blanch, but he must have seen her face, for a horrified look crossed his own.

"I mean- oh damn it all. I'm sorry, Alberta."

"It's all right," she said, trying to smile. (At least her lips weren't numb.) "Easy slip."

He cleared his throat.

"Er, yes. Well- take your time, Alberta, there's no real hurry for you to turn in an article anytime soon."

There was something odd about the way he was speaking, and Alberta could not quite place her finger on it. On the one hand, surely what he was saying was comforting- she did not have to force herself to write, to find some topic that only vaguely interested her and pretend that it meant much more than it did- but-

"Are you sure, Harry?" she asked, testing each word. (Are. Are, you. Ewe. You. Are you sure. Sure. Shore. Shore, a shoal- upon this bank and shoal of time, we'd jump the life to come. Shoal. Shore. Sure.)

"Absolutely," said Harry, picking up a pen and twirling it briefly. "You know, there's a fellow who's been sending in a few letters this past year- given himself the name "Cassandra", which is a little bizarre, but it works. I published one of the letters last week and response has been good; I'm happy to run his letters as long as you need some time."

How perfectly comforting.

"I- thank you," said Alberta coolly.

Perhaps Harry heard the resentment coiling its way across the desk, or perhaps he saw it splayed across her face. She hoped that he felt its punctures somewhere. In any case, he added quickly (though not quickly enough),

"We'll always keep a column for you, Alberta. You've been a solid contributor. Everyone- the team- is keeping you in our thoughts and prayers."

"Thank you," she said flatly. "I suppose I have taken up enough of your time. I'll be off, then."

"Not a problem, Alberta," he said, standing up. "And I mean it, we really are thinking of you around here."

She heard the sincerity in his voice, although it did not ease the burn of being cast aside by a man who wrote under the pseudonym of "Cassandra" (and who did that?).

"Thank you," she repeated, unable to quite erase the edge in her voice. "Well, good day, Harry."

"Good day to you, Alberta."

She didn't care to look back as she left the office, but she doubted that he would look at her or try to speak to her, anyway. It was the way Harry worked; she supposed it was the mind of a male editor.

So bitter, Bertha?

But Victor wouldn't understand, had never been able to understand. He was a man in a man's world, a respected professor at the University College London; and even if he had supported the female franchise and Alberta's own decision to enter the workforce, he was a man, and it was different although it oughtn't be; different in a way that galled her, as much as she tried to overlook questions of difference by pretending they didn't exist.

"So I shouldn't treat girls any differently? No matter what Uncle Victor says?"

Eustace Clarence, peering up at her.

"Don't suck your thumb, Eustace Clarence, it's unbecoming. And no; girls are the same as boys, to treat them any differently is degrading." Smoothing out his shirt. "There, now. You're ready for school."

Ready for school! Ready for nothing. Ready to be relegated to the side, without a job- oh, a held position, but how long were positions in newspapers really held? She was dispensable, no matter what Harry had said, and it seemed he had already found a replacement. Cassandra would be usurping Cassiopeia's position.

At least Cassiopeia lived, she thought with sudden vindictive relish.

(I am still alive.)

A/N: Well! There you have it; the choppiest chapter in this entire story. Should it be merged with the previous chapter, or smoothed out? Or is it all right as it is? I really don't know. (The more I write, the more I realise that I don't know, and the more thankful I am to know that God is the perfect author who knows exactly where His story is headed!)

Hang on, folks, the end is (semi) in sight now :)