September 13, 1943

I'm having a difficult time writing because Edwin won't be quiet unless I'm sitting on his knee, and he keeps on playing with my hair and kissing various parts of my face in a deeply distracting way. Still, I have insisted firmly that I must continue this account so that when I'm old, I can remember every detail.

I thought Stark's plane would never touch down. By the time it did, I felt as if I was spontaneously combusting. We'd barely stopped moving when Edwin was by my side, lifting me out of the plane with his hands around my waist, and kissing me so hard he took my breath away. I cried; he cried. He didn't put me down for ages, but when he finally did, he took of his jacket and put it around my shoulders to keep me warm, and he wouldn't let go of my hand.

"Come on, you two," said Stark, who was standing to the side, clearly delighted. "The backseat of the car is plenty big enough for you to continue." Edwin went toward the driver's seat, but Stark stopped him. "Not this time, Pal. This time, I drive."

Impulsively, I went over to him and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," I said, and I'm happy to say that he blushed.

I was too busy snuggling and kissing and trying unsuccessfully to have a conversation with my husband (too much kissing between the words) to care where we were going, but it was bright daylight when we arrived at a much larger airport.

"It's time to go home, Anna," said Edwin softly. I thought to myself, with my small hand in his large one, that I was already home.

Stark led us past several planes to a much bigger one than the Anna J. He took his place in the cockpit, but this plane was outfitted with a lounge in the back, gleaming and new like the back of a limousine, and Edwin and I curled up together on a plush sofa. I was probably hungry, but I was to happy to notice at first.

"I can't believe you're real," said my husband, cradling me against his chest where I fit very well, being as small as I am compared to him.

"You seem more real than anything in the world," I answered. He'd taken off his hat, and I ran my fingers through his hair, rumpling it across his forehead until he looked boyish and relaxed. "Tell me about everything," I said. So he did.

In his deep, soft voice, he recounted days of questioning, shame, and uncertainty—not regretting what he'd done, but being made to feel as if he should. And he talked about missing his Anna, of dreaming about me in prison and waking up to find himself alone. I cried again and put my arms around his neck and whispered in his ear that we'd never be apart. I wanted him to tell me what he'd done to secure Howard Stark's extraordinary loyalty, but he wouldn't because he was too eager to hear all the details of my escape from Budapest.

When I'd finished my story, we ate the meal Stark had provided for us—steak, somehow still warm, and very welcome to my growling stomach. After that, Edwin and I simply held each other and didn't speak, relearning the feeling of one another

After a long time, my husband put his hand under my chin and tilted my face up to look at him. "Are you still glad you married me, Anna Jarvis?"

"I would marry you again a hundred times," I answered, and the feeling of his arms around me made me feel as high as any drug ever could. He smiled, the light of all the sunrises we'd spent apart filling his wonderful eyes.

Our flight was so sweet and so filled with each other that we hardly felt the hours pass until we reached the private airfield in front of Stark Mansion. "Little Love," said Edwin as the wheels touched down, "we're home now."

He led me across grass and through trees until we emerged into a clearing that contained the largest house I'd ever seen. I hadn't realized they had such huge houses in America. "We have our own suite," said Edwin, opening the oak front door. "It's like a smaller house inside the bigger house, just for us." I stared in awe as we walked on thick carpet through hallways with walls that were filled with famous paintings.

"Here," said Edwin, when we reached a door painted blue, "This is ours." He picked me up, and I squealed because it was lovely and unexpected and because I felt like I was weightless and flying again in my husband's arms. Just as he had when he'd first brought me to our tiny hotel room, he carried me across the threshold of our real, permanent home.

I can't adequately describe our suite. It's beautiful and calming and warm—just like my Edwin. All the colors feel welcoming, and every piece of furniture is perfectly placed. After knowing Stark for a few days, I wasn't surprised by how nice it all was.

There were clothes in the closet in my size and food in the refrigerator in our gleaming, private kitchen. Edwin showed everything to me, and I cried again because it was so perfect, and it was ours.

"No more crying," said my husband semi-seriously, wiping my face with his handkerchief. He ran me a bath in our clawfooted tub, and while I soaked, he cooked a soufflé. He's very vain about his cooking, I'm afraid. (I've just been tickled for writing that.)

We've eaten now, and I'm curled up on Edwin's lap, overwhelmed by the day, but contented and scandalously comfortable. "Are you happy?" he just asked me.

"Happier than I've ever been before."

I once wrote that my husband is not like other men, and I was absolutely right. He's kinder and better and more selfless, and—best of all—he's mine.

"You're my prisoner now," I just said to him, "and I'm never letting you go." He doesn't seem to mind.

A/N: There's another chapter coming; have no fear