It is a rare morning when I wake before Francis does. Typically, I find myself roused from sleep by his way of lazily stroking his fingers back and forth upon my arm, and I often open my eyes to discover him zoned out on something. I've never asked him what he thinks about in those moments between his waking and my own, though perhaps I should.

But the unusual sight before me is something to behold. As I've noticed in my many nights next to him, he has a tendency to sprawl out in the bed, his arms and legs splayed and stretched well beyond his 'half'. I will never complain, however. It is his bed, after all. I have simply become a nightly guest.

Weeks have passed since I last slept alone, that fateful night from which I awoke to a sea of haunting photographs and my heart gripped with fear. The one night I attempted to return to my own bed, to sleeping on my own after nearly a week of waking next to someone else – the night of our dinner with Tomás and Vincent – my feet still brought me to his door, to him.

To my great relief, I don't recall any of my nightmares. Francis tells me I have them, regularly. That partly accounts for why he's normally up before I am – my cries awakening him in the night. He says he doesn't mind, that he'd rather have me here with him, but I love when he has the opportunity to rest uninterrupted and do my best to let him for as long as possible.

As quietly as I am able, I fold over the covers and slip out of them, my bare feet coming to rest on the floor. I move toward the desk and pick up my laptop before returning to the bed. The clock on the bedside table reads 7:12, but Francis has yet to stir. His evening with Bash must have taken more out of him than expected, his breathing still even and slow.

I lift the lid of the computer and determine to type soundlessly for as long as I need to. Opening the word processing document I started a few days ago, I peruse what I've already written.

Dear Dr. Gaines:

I appreciate your tolerance of my paper this last spring but, as it didn't fully address my understanding of social groups and their interplay with my life, I feel I owe you – at the least – a continuation. Since I arrived in New York, my grasp on such things has shifted dramatically.

Three months ago, I stepped off of a train and into Penn Station, not knowing at all who or what I would find. I even re-read my paper from your class in an effort to wrap my head around the enormity of the task before me. The journey itself has held its share of bumps (and I'm sure you've read about some of them in the national headlines) but aside from all of that, surprisingly, my transition into life here has been nearly effortless.

To begin with, I have somehow settled into being 'Mary Stuart'. I'm not sure when it happened, but is has and I am grateful for that. I have people who have known me under other names who now address me as 'Mary' without hesitation and it helps me to think of myself as no one else. The mere idea that what others call me helps define who I am? That idea staggers me, but I find it more and more true as I shed Natalie and Sophie and Amanda and Julia behind me.

It strikes me just how true this is, especially with Francis. Something about how he says my name cuts me to the heart every time. His intonation and affection tell me that he sees me and that he doesn't expect me to be anyone I don't want to be. I smile at his sleeping form, his face smashed against the pillow and his bare back daring to me to reach out and touch it. Our comfort level with one another has always astounded me. Even now, having crossed physical boundaries that often lead to awkward exchanges, it still seems the most natural thing to be together – as if we were always destined for that very end.

Perhaps that is really why I never returned to my own rooms, though I am certain Henry and Catherine won't be as pleased with the development when they return from Montauk next week as we have been. They likely won't appreciate their oldest son co-habitating with me when impressionable little boys reside in the same house. I feel my face's lines shift into a frown and decide to continue with my project rather than mulling over any changes that might loom ahead.

Work has been a challenge, but an enjoyable one. As long as I am able to immerse myself in the details of our corporate communications structure, I find myself content and my time well utilized. It reveals my inner geek in ways I never thought possible! My co-workers are a mixture of friends, both old and new. Some knew me as a girl, as Amanda; others, in college, as Natalie. All of them realize I'm still figuring out the nuance of who I have become. At the end of the day, they just want to be my friends, and it has been wonderful to have that type of support system surrounding me. It is fascinating that these friends – from the opposite ends of my journey through witness protection – recognize the root 'me' that has always been there. For so long unknown to me, every incarnation of myself has held some piece of the real Mary Stuart.

The words end and I start typing, lightly tapping the keys to expand on what I meant when I wrote the sentence yesterday afternoon.

As Natalie, I fell in love with marketing and communication and found good friends who stood by me even when I revealed my chaotic personal history. As Julia, I came to understand my determination to be like my father, to work hard and have control over my own life. As Sophie, I discovered my love of great literature. I still carry each of these things with me today.

But it was perhaps my earliest days, those days when they called me 'Amanda', that stick with me the most. They were my freest days, the only ones where I was willing to embrace a new family and feel safe because I didn't yet realize all that would chase me for another fifteen years.

Even at six, I think I knew there was something unique about Henry and Catherine's son, Francis. Day after day, he exhibited such patience with me as I sought to rid myself of the mental image of my father's lifeless body on the floor of his office in our Sacramento home. Once I emerged from my stupor, he made sure my days were filled with games and treehouses, corny jokes and the sneaking of sweets from the kitchen. He always wanted to protect me, always wanted to be at my side. And he was the only member of the family around whom I felt completely at ease.

It amazed me then, but it floors me in a much different way now.

The bed sags next to me, a groan or two sounding from Francis as he turns onto his side to get away from the light pouring into the room through the windows. I smile, close my laptop and make a mental note to finish my letter later while bending over to set the computer on the floor.

"Morning," I hear him grumble behind me as I sit back up against the headboard. He sounds like he could use some water, his voice raspy and hoarse. "I think I drank too much last night."

I hold back my laughter because I can see he's in pain. Instead, I opt to leave the bed and retrieve some aspirin and a glass of water from the bathroom.

His outings with Bash tend to end like this, but at least the two of them make time to talk and be brothers. It has never surprised me that Francis considers Bash a full brother, given how he has stuck by my side through almost all that has happened since I arrived. He's loyal, this one – fiercely loyal and always wanting to do the right thing.

"What was the occasion this time?" I ask, keeping the volume of my voice low as I move to his side of the bed. He struggles to sit up, but eventually manages it. "Here, take this," I offer him the pill and hold the glass to his lips so he can drink. His hand reaches up to take it from me. I hop up on the bed next to him, my legs draped over the edge, and I lean into him to rake my fingers through his curls – hoping it will soothe the hangover, if only a little bit.

"Kenna," he replies, his eyes still barely open. "I've never seen him so torn up over one of our father's conquests before. Apparently, the two of them went out for drinks the other night and she told him everything and, now, he has some insatiable need to save her from her own choices."

"Insatiable, huh?" I tease, knowing his unusual ability to string together substantial words even with a muddy brain. "I take it you drank more than beer, by the looks of it."

He tries to nod, but winces and stops. "Shots. The stupid man wanted to do shots."

As much as I've tried to keep from doing so, I can't help but laugh aloud. His face, combined with the mental image of the two brothers drinking carelessly at the pub, proves more than my attempts at biting my tongue can handle.

A light growl erupts from his chest as he swiftly pins me under himself. The aspirin not yet having taken effect, I watch him grimace. He needs a moment to recover after the sudden movement, especially as it required a little lifting to knock me off my balance.

"You mock my pain, do you?" He speaks the words forcefully before succumbing to laughter himself. Most mornings, his fingers would be tickling my sides by now, resulting in squeals. I assume the kicking and flailing would be too much today, and I must admit that sometimes it's nice just to see how he looks at me – like there's no one else in the world who can hold his attention.

He lowers his head to kiss me. I can taste the soured remnants of what I suspect was once whiskey in his mouth, but I don't care. I felt his absence too keenly last night to care. My attempt to fall asleep without him was a torturous process, but I must have succeeded. I didn't even hear him stumble in and join me in the middle of the night.

"How was your night?" he asks, pulling his lips away from mine. "I was surprised to find you out cold when I came in."

"It was good," I respond, thinking on my night with the girls. "We stayed in – watched a movie, ate popcorn, drank wine. Your sister wanted some help with wedding things, so we tied bows and stuffed envelopes and affixed seals while we watched."

He settles back onto his side, propped up on his elbow next to me. "Fun," he remarks dryly. I suspect the aspirin has begun to work, with his eyes a little more alert and his sense of humor returning.

I sigh before continuing, not knowing what my problem is. It was an enjoyable evening. It was just decidedly lacking in the one person I never seem to tire of. "Kenna ducked out around 9:30, presumably to meet your father somewhere; Greer talked quite a bit about some guy named Julien, whom her family wants her to get to know better, but then she left around 10:30 and I'm fairly certain she went to see Leith because I know for a fact that he got off early." I know I'm rambling at this point, but I always want to share nearly every detail of any time we spend apart. "I'm not sure who Greer thinks she is fooling at this point – it's obvious she and Leith are together even though she's actively searching for a more 'respectable' husband."

"She knows Leith's family has money, right?" he interrupts. "That he simply decided he didn't want it?"

"Yes," I reply. "But she isn't after money. Her family values respect, remember? And Leith choosing to be a baker rather than following in his father's footsteps is apparently not a 'respectable' life decision." Having answered, I work to trace the conversation back to where I left off with relaying the events of the evening. "Now where was I?" I wonder aloud.

"Oh!" I exclaim, remembering. "After the other two left, Aylee and Lola and I played card games until midnight, when they took off. I really like them, Aylee in particular. There are times when I get the sense Lola is still hung up on you," I tease. "So, you know, I just do my best to treat her as the good friend she is and not hold that against her."

I finish speaking and glance over to find Francis intently staring at me, spying some concern written into his face. When he speaks, his words come out soft but strong.

"You know you have nothing to worry about, right? Lola and I dated so long ago that there is nothing between us. I've never sensed anything, at least." He pauses, gauging my reaction. "I think what she hangs onto more, what she can't quite find a way to express, is what happened with Collin. I'm glad you're her friend."

He draws me into his arms and I nod into his shoulder. I am well-aware that I have nothing at all to worry about, except maybe about how Henry will respond to the revelation that his son and 'the asset' are not merely faking their relationship these days. That could certainly be interesting.

"What are we going to do when your parents come home?" I ask without warning, taking the question from my own thoughts rather than from our conversation. We have avoided talking about the subject as of late, choosing instead to revel in the newness of sharing life together. I realize we might be avoiding it again this morning, as Francis begins to nibble on the top of my shoulder – in time working his way toward my neck and up to my earlobe. My mind already has started to drift with the sensation.

"Let me take care of that," he whispers huskily in my ear. "For now, I want to do something else."

The Valois family is not a perfect family, to be sure. I constantly come across things that aren't pleasant, namely my relationship with Henry. In spite of it all, however, I know that I am loved and that they have welcomed me fully for as long as I desire to stay. Catherine has never faltered in her love for me; Elisabeth continues to be the sister I remember as a child; the young boys have become dear little friends to play games with and tell stories to. For the first time, I feel as if I fit with a family for more reason than because they provide a roof over my head.

When I was younger, this family was the only family I had. The box of letters I received from Henry and Catherine, though they contained some frightful omissions of family happenings, revealed that even more when I read them one by one after the last trial. Today, they are family for another reason – because Francis has become my family in a very different way. Today, I belong to the family because my heart belongs to Francis.

While Elisabeth always seemed a sister, Francis never seemed a brother – something I will forever be grateful for, I suppose. Instead, he was always more than that. I think part of me has always loved him. There is a good chance I sought for him in every city and every name I took as my own, every persona I constructed. Something within me clung to the hope that, someday, I would find my way back to him.

These past few months, he has watched each day yield something new about who I am and as I have embraced those things I once thought were just part of identities discarded behind me as I moved from place to place. The most incredible part is that he loves me more deeply with every discovery. He graciously gives me the freedom to figure out who I am and the person I am when I'm with him is the most natural version of myself I have ever known. I don't have to worry. I can just be.

Sitting in my office, I finish typing the remainder of the letter and print the pages. I fold them and tuck them into an envelope, taking care to seal and address it properly to the department of sociology at UCLA. Lastly, I affix a stamp to the top right corner.

A light knock raps at my door and I look up as Kenna peeks in. "Henry would like to see you and Francis in his office, as soon as possible," she relays. "Francis has already headed over."

I shake my head, annoyed at the request because meetings with Henry never turn out well. "Okay," I agree. Tucking the envelope in my purse, I reach for my sweater and walk out the door. With the labor dispute at Stuart and the incident with Aviz and Tudor behind us, I can't help but rack my brain for his reason to see us. What could he possibly want to talk about?

We walk into the park. Francis holds my hand in his. I feel his eyes on me, trying to figure out if I'm all right. "Are you breathing easier now?" he asks. After Henry announced his latest plan for expanding Valois and its legacy, Francis swept me quickly out the door and downstairs for a walk in the open air. He knows me well. Only with the steps away from the office has my heart rate begun to return to normal, which leaves me to puzzle over how Henry uncovered our sleeping arrangement.

"I still don't want to go back to the office," I express. "He'll want answers."

Ambling along the path, Francis looks at me and speaks. "My father didn't pose our relationship as a question, but I will. Do you want this?"

"I want you!" I insist. "But I'm afraid of your father's expectations that I might actually one day be family. He wants me to start trouble for my father's company before I even inherit it! And what if my efforts fail? We only just got past that nasty labor business! What if no one supports my bid for Tudor?" The frenzy builds, tightening in my chest. "They might be desperate enough to declare bankruptcy but surely they aren't so far gone they would choose a neophyte to run things – particularly one who will soon own a company they have long attempted to buy out and ruin."

"Everyone with half a brain will support you," he counters gently. "They know what happened was wrong and they know that you are incredibly talented. They would be lucky to have you at the helm." He pauses, side-stepping a puddle from last night's storm. "I know you want time to sort this out, to assess what each company has to offer, and maybe we have time before Tudor officially needs to be bought out before you need to give an answer – but we are a separate issue."

His voice grows earnest, eager, and I feel my anxiety recede. "And this is our chance, right now, to be together without anyone or anything standing in our way."

I have to remind myself to breathe when he talks like this. There's something in the way he voices his desire to protect this thing between us that renders me mostly speechless.

"What are you saying?" I manage to mutter. Henry both wants me to make a bid for Tudor and actually marry his son. The only way to describe these two ideas appropriately at this particular moment in time is 'more than overwhelming.' Even with Francis helping to calm me, I can barely think straight. He needs to tell me explicitly what he's considering, what I'm missing.

"Move out with me," he says, our footfalls slowing. "And we will figure out what we should do with Tudor and the whole marriage thing later."

My heart nearly stops at his words, the sensation similar to the rush of adrenaline I felt at his fake proposal nearly a month ago. He doesn't rush into things recklessly, like I do. While the circumstances have again changed, I know that this decision – this thought – must be something he has been mulling over for a while now. Unfortunately, I can't seem to get past the business implications just yet.

"You mean, trick your father, the head of a billion-dollar company – and our boss, by the way – into believing that I agree with him?"

"Yes, we should deceive him," he responds. "It's for a very good cause. He will leave us alone if he thinks we are in agreement."

The idea of being out of Henry's reach at home is alluring, to be sure.

"And you won't pressure me later, about Tudor?" My one lingering fear is that I won't be able to take this back, that my opinion won't matter in the end – especially as Francis has recently expressed his thoughts that acquiring Tudor might be an incredible opportunity.

"Oh, I'll pressure you and listen to you and argue with you and love you until the day I die. I think that's unavoidable at this point, don't you?" He smiles and my insides melt. Every time he tells me he loves me, that he's committed to me, it bowls me over as if it were the first time. "Together, we'll decide what's right for both companies." He stops next to a bench and beckons for me to sit, joining me on the seat seconds later. He picks up my hand and looks into my eyes to make sure I hear what he has to say. "Move out with me. Someplace we can call our own. Something simple, maybe a loft close to the office – not even big enough to entertain because we have my parents' house for that. We won't be interrupted by Stephen in the mornings anymore and we eliminate the opportunity for one of my brothers to walk in on us in a compromising position."

"The doors lock, you know," I mumble under my breath, grimacing in horror at the idea of Charles or little Henry walking in on us. My heart relaxes at his words, however. As he always has, he seeks a means of offering me shelter – even from his father. "I like that word, 'we' – and 'our'." A stupid smile spreads across my face as I see how much he wants this.

"Move out with me," he requests one more time. "Say 'yes'."

"Yes!" I cry out, the answer exploding forth from somewhere within me. "Yes!" I repeat, laughing loudly at my own burst of enthusiasm.

He grins like an idiot and kisses me senseless, there in the park on that bench. The air warms around us as the sun continues to climb into the summer sky and, after a while, it becomes too much for us, so we reluctantly separate our mouths and decide to get lunch.

"What do you say?" he challenges. "Last one to the café pays?" He smirks because he knows that his legs are longer and that, today, his shoes far surpass mine in their sensibility. Heels, no matter how comfortable, are not made to hurry through a busy park – much less as part of a race. Before I can tell him 'no' and that I'll pay regardless, he's running away from the bench and fading into the distance among the masses.

I pick myself up, take a deep breath and test the stability of my heels before I take off after him.

On the way back to the office after lunch, we stop by the mailbox down the block. Francis looks at me questioningly, his eyebrows raised, but he doesn't ask questions. I drop my letter inside and snag his hand while we walk the last steps in a sweet, easy quiet. As we ride the elevator up to the ninth floor, I remember the last section of the letter and smile – every part of it even more true than when I wrote it this morning.

Primarily, I write to tell you that I have found my last harbor. I thought it might be a city, or a family unit, or in the simple act of starting over for the long-hoped-for final time – but I was wrong. My harbor has been the same since I was six. It is the man who now sleeps beside me every night; who comes in jubilantly drunk after a night out with his half-brother; who takes his younger brothers to cotillion and to roam on the beach; who designs bridges though he will never see them built; who loves and respects his parents, whether or not they deserve it; who goes out of his way to make sure I feel safe and secure, protected and loved, on a daily basis – but who also does not fear going a round or two with me when we disagree. He is a dear friend and a man I could easily make a home with for the rest of my life. Francis is my harbor.

Thank you for giving me a language to understand what I lacked, if only so that I could more deeply appreciate what it was like to find and be defined by such social constructs. They have altered the course of my life. Best of luck with the coming term.

Sincerely,
Mary Stuart

Author's Note: In preparing to write the epilogue, I re-read every chapter and it took me several days to get through the whole thing – which left me incredibly grateful for each of you. Thank you all for coming along on crazy, long-winded journey and reading thousands upon thousands (upon thousands!) of my words! I've been blown away by the story's reception and do so hope you enjoyed how I chose to close this part of the Harbor universe. As long as I can hold to it, I'm going to try to take a break from writing for at least the next few weeks (though I may dabble in returning to the 16th century). Perhaps when summer rolls around, I'll have the opportunity to revisit our friends in New York and tell some more of their stories ... You'll have to wait and see! :)

Disclaimer: Quite a bit of dialogue has been taken from "Fated" (108), the words of which are not my own except where they have been altered from the original lines. They belong to CBS/The CW and, of course, Laurie McCarthy. I just like the chance to play!