Epilogue
It should have been a victory. It was a victory. Why, thought Phryne, didn't it feel like one?
She stared at the ceiling, and resolved not to shift about too much, because although she'd awarded herself a day off tomorrow, the Detective Chief Inspector had no such luxury.
Then, of a sudden, realisation dawned; and with it, an involuntary tear stole out of the corner of her eye. Then another. Then the pillow was starting to get uncomfortably damp, and she leaned up, as carefully as possible, to extract a handkerchief from her bedside drawer.
She spoke to herself sternly, wiped her nose and eyes, and eased back onto the mattress.
A hand reached across the bed, grasped hers and dragged it over.
"What is it?" he whispered groggily.
"It's not just Nipper, is it?"
There was a pause for befogged thought, and he pulled her into his arms. The act of tenderness started her tears again in earnest.
"Oh, for heavens' sake," she muttered angrily, "Why have I become a watering-can all of a sudden?" She sat up, reached for the soggy handkerchief and blew her nose with more enthusiasm than elegance, then resumed her spot at the Inspector's side. Her breathing gradually settled to a more relaxed pattern; he was glad that he hadn't bothered pointing out that two days without sleep would sometimes leave defences down. Instead, he hugged her closer.
"Phryne," he murmured into her hair. "You can't save all of them. Nor can I. We can only try to keep the peace and keep them off the streets, one at a time."
She burrowed more deeply into him and he let her. For him, One At A Time was a calculation of faceless statistics; for her, it was already a list of personalities and every last one mattered, almost as much as Jane or Elizabeth.
For more long minutes, neither of them moved nor spoke. Then she lifted her face to his, and her eyes were fierce with a new resolve.
"Jack, Aunt Prudence is going to invite us for lunch. The other guest is going to be the Mayor. And he's going to help them. More than just One At A Time."
A foolish man would have doubted, at that point, that Phryne Fisher had it in her to turn around the political agenda of Melbourne to make mendicants one of the highest priorities.
Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson was no fool.
She dropped her head into the hollow of his shoulder again and, for a while, peace reigned in the boudoir. An innocent observer might have supposed that both occupants of the bed had finally fallen asleep. Closer examination, though, would have revealed that his eyes were wide open and staring at the ceiling; hers equally alert, focussed on the steady rise and fall of his chest under her hand.
"Miss Fisher?"
"Yes, Inspector?"
"You left me."
"Yes, Inspector."
"Don't do it again."
"No, Inspector."
Phryne knew that actions could sometimes speak louder than words, and felt that some acting was perhaps in order.
She had always been a very talented actor.