In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Edgar Allen Poe, A Dream

Nearly a month after her arrival, she was walking to visit Mary and the children, as had become daily tradition since her return. She enjoyed cooking with them; after Mary worked so hard in the Mill kitchen at lunch, Margaret felt her friend deserved a rest. She told no-one but John where she was going, and although Hannah seemed to be aware, it was never discussed over the wedding planning, which was becoming more and more central to her days as the weeks drifted by. John had suggested she take the carriage, but she had refused, despising any sort of display of wealth in the poorer parts of town – she was not better than them and she would not act like she was. He understood, but made her swear to be careful and asked her to always be back by four in the afternoon if she could manage it. At first she had been disgruntled at what seemed like an instruction, but he promised it was only a request for her safety and she begrudgingly agreed.

She had not seen him anywhere near as much as she would have liked to since her return, and she was beginning to crave his affections. More than anything she missed his presence in the afternoons, which was more than likely why she surrounded herself with things to do at the Higgins's to take her mind off it. Often she pondered how strange it was that she had never required the physical presence of another person before, and yet after having only two days of closeness with her fiancé, it was torture to be so aggressively removed from it. He appeared to be feeling the strain of it as well, despite his constant assurance that he was perfectly fine. Every evening he returned long after night had fallen, exhausted and in need of food, sleep and a stiff drink, but what he desired more than anything else was to hold Margaret in his arms; to make up for all the days they had spent apart, to help them forget what they each had been through, and yet he couldn't. By the time he returned most evenings, she had fallen asleep in a chair by the fire waiting for him, or had written him a note explaining how tired she was and that she would see him for breakfast, having retired to her room. Even when she was awake, all they could manage, exhausted as they were and with Hannah casting her watchful eye from the corner, was a peck on the cheek and an embrace before bed.

What seemed to be the worst for both of them, however, was the half hour they glimpsed each other at breakfast. John would sit at the head of the table as he had always done, and she would sit to one side, his mother to the other, and occasionally Fanny if the whim took her to visit. So for half an hour every morning, they had to sit almost directly beside each other, not kissing, not touching, just eating side by side, and every meal was torment. The few brief times their fingers had intertwined beneath the table had simply made it worse, as they missed the contact yet more once he left for work. Yet from another's point of view, they could have been perfectly content; discussing money and the Mills, Nicholas and the children, the planning of their wedding, they appeared at ease. Margaret wondered how he slept, and how much of his distress he discussed with Nicholas over lunch, and never did she raise complaint at how much he'd been gone. Until Dixon arrived in the next day or two, she had no-one to confide in about her worries, and only making lunch for six hungry children as a distraction. Not that she didn't adore her extended family here in Milton: she loved them exhaustingly. She just wished she had the time to love the other person in her life a little more openly.

That afternoon she walked her usual route to the Higgins' residence, and was just thinking about how little she'd seen of Nicholas since the Mills reopened, when something big and human shaped hit her. She was thrown into the wall by the force of it and was still trying to gather her bearings when someone grabbed her wrists behind her back and held a knife to her throat.

"You make a sound, you die." Bad breath accompanied the voice – so bad she felt it was rotting her own flesh away, and she gagged, but stayed silent.

She was shoved roughly down a side alley and through an open doorway. It was dark and smelled worse than his breath, and she nearly vomited but kept her composure despite the nausea swimming around her gut. He shoved her aggressively into a chair and pointed a long, sharp knife at her. She swallowed, eyeing him carefully.

"I know you." She realised, trying to remain calm despite the fear at her heels.

"You met me not two years ago at Marlborough Mills," his face was sunken and hungry, and his clothes were stained and tattered. His teeth were brown, falling out or missing, which seemed to be the cause of the terrible odour from his mouth. Try as she might however, in the near darkness of the room, she could not ascertain the location of the revolting stench lurching around her.

"Yes, I remember. Stephens, wasn't it? You were smoking and Mr Thornton kicked you out."

"Beat me within an inch of my life more like. You stood up for me," he paused and his eyes glinted, "but you seem to have changed your tune recently. I've been watching."

Margaret was swallowed whole by fear. This man, this clearly deranged man, had been watching her: on her walks to the Higgins, through the window to breakfast, whatever else she could not be sure, but she could not fathom a sane man watching her. She was surely going to collapse in hysterics. "NO," a voice in her head whispered, "you will be fine. Just stay calm."

"I believe you announced your engagement to Mr Thornton over a month ago now." The disgust was unmistakable in his tone and she nodded, unsure if words were safe. "Congratulations."

Margaret swallowed, "Thank you." She said quietly.

"Rescind your acceptance of his offer." He said flatly. An instruction.

"I'm sorry?" Margaret asked, praying she had misheard.

"Call off the wedding."

"Why would I do that?" Her heart was thumping erratically and her lungs weren't taking in enough air.

"Because if you don't I will have to move to the end of the plan a little earlier than I wanted."

"What does that mean?" She asked, frightened.

"Well, it's simple. It is very similar to what happened to Thornton Senior, but this won't be self-inflicted. I believe Mr Thornton is fond of working late, and often forgets to close the Mill door."

He had been watching both of them. Who knew for how long. There was an unhinged way about him and Margaret knew that he would not hesitate to kill her or John. She also knew that even if she broke off the engagement like the man wanted, he still might kill John. Her eyes were adjusting and some of the room was coming into focus, but not enough to figure out where she was or if there was any use screaming for help.

"Tell him that you cannot marry him." He said more forcefully and she balked as the knife swung closer.

"Why are you doing this?" She asked.

"I need to torture him, like he tortured me."

"One beating hardly qualifies as torture," Margaret quipped and immediately regretted it as his scream of anger erupted.

"One beating!?" His face was a twisted mask of fury, "I would have preferred a beating! He fired me! And because I was sacked I couldn't get work ANYWHERE! The neighbours brought us food for a time, then the strike forced them to stop. My wife left me! My son DIED. MY DAUGHTER RAN AWAY AND REFUSES TO SEE ME. My whole life was ruined! BECAUSE OF THAT MAN!" He threw a chair across the room and kicked her in the shin. She buckled over and a tempered whisper escaped her lips. Stephens smashed a nearby bowl on the floor beside her and she flinched. She realised as she did that this must be his house. She saw something in the corner under a sheet and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. No, it couldn't be… she quickly looked away, but he spotted the direction of her eyes and stomped to the far wall. He ripped the sheet away to reveal the body of his dead son, half rotted from six months of decomposition, and that horrendous smell only thickened in the air. Margaret closed her eyes a split second too late and the image of the long dead boy seared itself into her memory.

"I'm sorry!" She gasped, "I'm so, so sorry about your family, but I had nothing to do with that, just –"

"No, but HE did. He needs to feel the same pain I felt when the love of my life left me."

"Please, John didn't do anything –"

"OR, I can kill him and bring you along to watch."

"Margaret's blood ran ice cold. "Please. Please don't hurt him."

"You're going to sit here," He grabbed a swathe of paper from the floor, "and write Mr Thornton a letter. Break off your engagement, and do it convincingly. You will not leave my sight until I know for sure he believes this letter. I will read any incarnations of the letter you write. You will give me the letter when it is finished and I will deliver it to his door. When I am convinced he is truly heartbroken, you will be allowed to leave, only to stay with a friend or move back to where you came from. Do not forget that I will be watching Marlborough Mills and I will know if you return."

Margaret shook her head pleadingly but he stomped on her shin again and she doubled over in agony, "Please. Just kill me, don't hurt him! Kill me, please. Please…" She begged, but he ignored her.

"Start writing. If you do this exactly as I say, no-one will be hurt. If not, you both die. And I promise you Miss Hale – he will go first so you know it was your fault."

Margaret went numb. She had finally found a place where she was safe and equal and loved and it was being snatched away from her again. She nodded silently and found the courage to do what she had to do for John's life. Stephens was still repeating threats but she couldn't hear them: she couldn't hear anything but the sound of her jagged breathing and the scratch of falsehoods being committed to paper. She couldn't see properly either: everything was drifting in and out of focus and even as he directed her to a table she found it difficult to get the words out, found it difficult to lie and cause her love so much pain. She swallowed again but her throat was dry and her tongue felt heavy. For hours or minutes or day or years she wrote, and for eons he stood over her, tearing pages to pieces above her head and smashing plates across the room when she displeased him. She barely noticed. Ultimately, the approach of night was the reason he stopped, as the house was dark even in daylight, and became almost pitch black in the evening, and he didn't want to raise suspicion. So with a final cursory glance the last draft of the letter was approved and Margaret could already feel the effect it was going to have.

The letter was folded and placed in an envelope, and Stephens dragged her into another room and tied her to the bedpost of an empty rusted bed and the bars on the windows beside it. She peered out of the window into the alleyway below but it was pitch black and she had a feeling that no-one would hear her if she called for help. Even if she could get out of the ties, her leg was badly bruised and she was in shock – she couldn't have run if she tried. Stephens left to take the letter to Marlborough Mills and she drifted in and out of icy, numb consciousness until long after his return.

It had been a long day and John was missing his fiancé. He cursed himself for not giving them another day before he started work, but she had encouraged him and for some reason he found it difficult to say no to her. He thought about kissing her, despite the definite presence of his mother, and decided against it. Just another few weeks and they would be married. Just another few weeks and he could kiss her as much as he liked, and he sighed for the slow passage of time.

The last order of the day were a few letters he had not had time to read when they arrived that morning, and he shuffled through them, wondering which he could leave until the next morning. Most were business-like, but one he hadn't noticed earlier was now sitting separate from the pile, perched keenly on the edge of his desk. On the envelope was written, For the eyes of John Thornton.

He seemed to recall now, a young girl from the lunch rotation had timidly approached while he was deep in thought and he'd told her to leave it wherever she could find a space. He unfolded the paper and immediately recognised Margaret's handwriting.

John,

I do not know how to say this. I do not want to hurt you any more than I have done already, but you must know that I cannot marry you. You could not have expected me to live with you and your mother and endure the visits of your sister here in Milton for the rest of my life? While I do not dislike you, I do not love you, and never have.
I am so sorry, but you must have realised by now that I am miserable here? My agreement to your engagement was merely a combination of guilt at my previous behaviour, and shock at your actions in the train station. I cannot fathom what made you act in this way, but if I had not accepted your proposal then, my reputation would have been damaged. I wonder now that it has taken me this long to broach the subject, but it shows just how uncomfortable I have been for these weeks.

I see now that it matters neither way whether I marry you or not, as I am not known in these parts, and the only close witness was Henry – he would not mention it to anyone, as he was deeply upset by it and would not beg a discussion on the matter. As I have resolved myself safe from impairment, I remove myself from your attachment and return to London. You will not see me again. Please, just forget about me. It will serve you well in the future.

Margaret

He sat in astonished silence for a long time, just reading and rereading the letter, as his brain did not seem to be able to comprehend the words laid out before him. How was this possible? What was going on? How could he fix it?

What had he done to hurt her so? He thought back on that day in the train station. Even at the time he had wondered at his actions, cursed himself for being too bold, prayed for a miracle when she had backed away to her train. But she had returned had she not? Perhaps it was as she said - she felt her reputation would be tarnished. But surely... she had kissed him in the carriage, told him she would take care of him, worried about the future. The memory of her tear drifted up from the recesses of his head, now with a new meaning; what if she had not been crying at her past, but at the possibility of a future with him? When he had kissed her he'd moved slowly, pressing his lips to hers only briefly before waiting for her to show him it was okay. He had only deepened the kiss further when she had let go of his hand to tenderly reach for him, gripping his arm on one side and the bench on the other, willing him to kiss her. Perhaps he was wrong, however. Perhaps she had meant to stop him but had never been accosted in such a way before she didn't know how.

He sat frozen, unable to move, as vicious thoughts and retellings of the past month whirled unrestrainedly around his head.

The next morning, a knock came at the door and he was shaken from his depressive stupor long enough to invite the person in.

Nicholas Higgins entered the office, closing the door behind him, "Sir, did you go home last night?"

Thornton shook his head numbly.

"Now, sir, you know how Miss Margaret likes you to be home. I'll bet she's worried sick about you, and you know you'll get a good hiding if you make a habit out of it…" he trailed off when he saw the pallor of his friend's skin. "Sir? Thornton, you alright?"

"Margaret." Was all he could manage in response.

"What's wrong, is she ill? Is she injured? She did not come to see the children for lunch yesterday, Mary was telling me." Higgins asked, worried, but John shook his head again, anger clouding his handsome features. He seemed transfixed by something on his desk.

"She has decided that… that she cannot marry me. As we speak she is presumably packing for the next train to London," he said softly. Higgins' jaw dropped slightly and he blinked slowly, mind reeling from the information.

"No."

"Yes, Higgins." John threw the piece of paper at him and as Higgins' eyes travelled down the page, he only became more certain that it could not be true.

"No." He repeated more forcefully.

"Yes Higgins! She is leaving and I can't do anything to stop her." He was hunched, defeated.

"So, what, someone just dropped this off for you?"

"Yes."

"She wrote you a letter and gave it to someone else to give you it in person?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Higgins –"

Nicholas cut him off, "No, sir, think about it. Our Margaret wouldn't do that. For one, she's far too stubborn – she made her decision and she'll stick to it. For another, when have you ever known her to shy away from conflict? If she were really going to leave for London, she'd give you a proper piece of her mind before she left. And… she loves you Thornton."

"She doesn't love me. She never admitted to it, and any other intimations of affection were lies. She lied."

"No, sir, she didn't."

"How can you be so sure?" Thornton asked disbelievingly.

"Why aren't you?" Nicholas jabbed back, and John glared at him before staring back at the spot on the desk where the letter used to be. He rolled his eyes and drew up a chair, clapping John on the shoulder and looking in his eyes. "Because she couldn't have faked what I always saw; lighting up whenever she looked at you, even when you couldn't see. She watches you – commits you to memory. Back when my wife were alive, I used to do it to her, and when she were dying I did it so much I think she thought I was going round the bend. You do it to Margaret as well, even if you don't realise it, but she does it more fervently, like I used to, because she's lost so many. She's trying to keep you locked in her brain forever, so that if she does lose you, it won't hurt so much. You can fake the words, but you cannot fake that. Who would bother to fake it when no-one's watching?"

John just sat there, unmoved, completely and utterly numb, bereft of joy. Nicholas wasn't even sure he'd heard. He huffed angrily and stomped out of the room to get to work for the day.

John stared at the desk, his mind still reeling, going over every inch of their time together trying to find pieces of the puzzle that didn't match, but unfortunately, as had always been his issue, his brain was his enemy. It was already twisting things around without his notice, finding moments that meant nothing and making them sore, and moments that made him happy and presenting reasons for their inability to be true. He couldn't sleep if he tried, but to the outside world he may well have been in a coma for all the response he gave to its calls.

The next morning Stephens seemed a little more cheerful, a little less deranged, and he brought her a glass of what looked like water taken directly from the gutters. She had not had anything to drink since the day before, but still she did not drink it, just poured little portions into the stained mattress whenever he left the room. He had no food, none even for himself, and she was lightheaded from hunger and dehydration, but she was intelligent enough to know not to complain or ask for anything. She simply sat silently all day as he drifted in and out of her room, occasionally bringing the knife with him as if to remind her she was still in danger, as if the thought had ever left her head.

"What made you change your mind?" He asked her sullenly.

"I'm sorry?"

"About him. What was it that made you want to marry him?"

"I… I do not know. I saw past his first impression and found the man I love beneath it. I love him." She said. A realisation hit her like a brick and she felt a sudden urge to vomit, but not from the smell. She had never said it. She had never said the words. There had never seemed to be the right time for it; breakfast with his mother or evenings of exhaustion hadn't seemed right for a declaration of affection and they hadn't had a moment with just the two of them since those first two days. Why hadn't she said it on the train? Why didn't she say it when Fanny and Hannah left the room? Why was she so afraid of those words?

"What qualities? What exactly is it?" He was becoming agitated at her unsatisfactory answers and she tried again.

"Ah, it is just… I realised how kind he is, and how pained he feels at the conditions of the workers in other Mills, which is why he tries so hard to improve his. I realised what an honourable man he is, and how intelligent and how enjoyable his company is, I realised the many things we share in common. I… I love everything about him."

"Even his temper?" Stephens asked darkly, and she realised that this was what he was really asking; how could she love a man who she had seen beat another?

"His temper has waned in the past months, and he rarely lets it get the better of him anymore. But… surely after two warnings not to smoke-" She bit her tongue too late and he struck her across the face and stormed from the room, smashing dishes as he went. She heard the front door slam and knew that he had gone to get food for the evening. Looking out the grimy window into the empty alleyway, she could see shadows streaking across the cobbles and she knew it would be dark again soon. She wondered if John believed her letter, and it occurred to her that even if he did, Nicholas would not let him – Nicholas knew that she would never leave John, he would set him straight. She hoped.

Stephens returned well after dark with half a loaf of stale bread from a bin in his hand. He ate it as he untied her and she met his eyes in the gloom.

"He believed it. You can go. But don't forget, I'm watching Marlborough Mills, so you'll not get in without my seeing you. Leave town, move to the Americas for all I care, just do not contact John Thornton. Understand?" He was holding the knife menacingly again.

She nodded mutely even as her heart perished at the news and rubbed her wrists as she limped to the door. She tried to ignore the half-exposed corpse on the floor but she couldn't disregard the disgusting odour as it filled her nostrils once more. Stumbling onto the street she started to head to the only place she knew was safe.

Nicholas looked up to Thornton's office as he left for the evening, and saw his light still on and no movement behind the panes. He rubbed his forehead, debating whether or not it was even worth it to go back up there again. All day he'd been pondering the letter – it was definitely Margaret's handwriting and signature, and definitely the turns of phrase she would use, but it just didn't ring true with what he had seen.

"Sir," he opened the door to find Thornton in the exact position he'd left him in. John's eyes flicked tin his direction but he otherwise remained unmoved. "Sir, go home. There's not use staying here. If Margaret isn't there, see that she's packed, or given any indication that she intends to leave. You're no use to anyone in this state. Please just… go home, Thornton." With that, Higgins walked out of the Mill fully aware that John would do nothing of the kind in his mood, and headed home to find a very interesting package on his doorstep.

John barely heard his friend's advice, so deep in thought was he, and so he could not heed it. He sat at his desk, as he had all the night previously and racked his memories for any hint that things had not been as he thought they were.

She had seemed happy. He had been so sure of that. She had invited his affections and even made some advances herself; she had told him how sorry she was for refusing him the first time. She had promised, sworn, she would never leave him, never let him feel that way again. Yet surely there must have been signs: some hint that all was not as it seemed?

He had been far too absent in the last month, and for the millionth time he cursed himself for neglecting his duty to her. Maybe his mother or Fanny had said something to her that made her feel she could no longer stay? He couldn't have put it past them, but the theory held no water, as he had been so certain that Fanny's attitudes had never phased Margaret, and his mother had vowed to be kind to his fiancé. Perhaps she was just afraid of marriage and had reacted in the knee-jerk way she had the first time he'd proposed? But then surely if that were true she would have done this long before now.

Then something clicked rather unpleasantly in his head; "I don't love you and never have," she had never said she had. She had never said the words, never responded to his declaration with one of her own. The dark expression he had permanently worn before her acquaintance had, unbeknownst to him, settled back around his face like an old friend. He stood and began pacing up and down and he continued that way until the sun came up over his despair for the second time.