A/N: This Author needs a good dose of Sleep, Johnny Depp, Shantaram, and J-horror. Unfortunately, she probably won't get any. But you all get update, and that's all that matters!!

linalove: Lina! More, as promised, and it's a trifle longer this time! =O

AngelofDarkness1605: Well, if I can make you feel sorry even for Turpin, that is something. =p The last line.....hopefully that'll make more sense in this chap! Good luck with your test!!

MireiLovett1846: I probably don't tell you this enough, but I love your reviews! I think he must *spoiler* love her too, but it really is hard to say at this point *cough author must shutup revealing plot lines* I can't say whether it's Turplovett or Sweenett, it's all up to Nellie now!

nellie lovett gracey: Alex, I just had to stick in a Knave reference, seeing how much I love that pairing!

StrawberryStoleYourCookie: Strawberry! I know, the last line seemed pretty strange, but I hope this chap manages to clear it up better. But I agree, she is insane! ;)

Razorblood: Yeah, Turplovett really is rare (or unfinished, in the case of one of my fav Turplovett fics, hence the reason I'm writing this!) Trust me, I never thought it would make for an acceptable pairing in the beginning, but the characters are just taking over, and they will do what they want, not what I want!

ShadowoftheblackrOsE: OMH Shadow, after what you described to me, I seriously think my complaints are zip. PMS feelings one day makes me ultra ultra grouchy. I could not handle that, I hope you're feeling better this week! I never thought that Nellie would be going through this, I had it all neatly planned (the plot) but she's taking over herself!!

the-sadisticalovett-nutcase: Sorry the chapters are short, I don't have as much time as I would like, but something is better than nothing, I figure! ;)

~Caught~

She never did turn the door handle.

"Eleanor."

Freedom was a fickle creature. When she had needed it most, lying bandaged in the darkness in the prison-room, it had hidden from her. Now that she stood in this limbo land, on the threshold between the realm of the Judge's world and the din of London day, freedom teased her as lightly as the curtains lacing around the curves of light from the windows above.

Nellie could leave now – walk all the way to the countryside if she wanted, and turn her back on London forever. She was skilled enough to bake the sort of cheap pies that families holidaying by the sea would gobble down; it would make for a decent enough living – but her hand wouldn't leave her side, and turn the knob.

She was caught between worlds.

"Did you hear me?" The Judge crossed the room and came to face her fully. He was not the sort to sidle up behind her like the Beadle, and crack her head open like an egg. Nellie studied his unmasked face. Had he changed?

"No," she confessed, turning her head back and forth from him to the door. "I'm unsure, truth be told."

It was hard to look at him for long. A part of her was superstitious. What would happen if she stared into him for uncounted moments, as she had longed to do with Sweeney? Aside from those odd shared moments with her long dead husband, Nellie realised she had never properly held a man's gaze. It was no lie: she had no idea what it meant for two souls to meet reciprocally. Many times she had prepared herself for it; in vain she had cornered Sweeney in his unguarded moments to catch a sigh or shared silence. But she had cheated. Her one near-victory, when she had almost won his soul, counted as a false triumph. Nellie had used Lucy's memory to get his attention, and in the brief flicker of their reading in each other potential salvation – Anthony had burst in, and reminded them both that they were little more than two sad old middle aged dregs. But that slight glimmer of Ben! If Nellie only knew the potion to bottle that memory forever – gone, all gone. She had imagined it many times – the electric minute that the women of London whispered about and knew so well. It would not happen now – even if Sweeney chased her over every hill in England, the magic promise of that time had dulled and flown – how could she get her own burning death out of her head? He, after all, had chosen to stoke the flames.

"Unsure of what?" Lord Turpin took her hand again, and it was not the firm, assured hand she had been expecting. There was lightness there, a slight shaking, and tenderness. She felt all this in a few moments, and let her hand drop. Their eyes met again briefly, and in him she recognised the same mortal gaze. She knew it well. She had worn the same expression for much of her adult life. For now, she was not his victim, his captured creature. He was captured in her, and like two mirrors angled from opposite ends of the room, they each absorbed and reflection each other's essence.

"Who I am, wot I want." She got a half-choked laugh out. Her eyes shot down to the floor, unable to contemplate what she saw there in those muddy mirrors. "And it is right odd. I always knew, ever since I wos a girl."

"Knew what?" The Judge maintained a respectful distance, but his eyes never left her face.

Her voice drew quiet, as if she were that same child again. "That I loved Benjamin Barker. Even when 'e wos a boy."

It was a struggle for the Judge to keep the contempt out of his voice. "I am cursed, then, it seems. The two women I desired, both love the same man." He moved away from her. Not to punish. Not to scold. Not even to call the maids.

He turned the knob swiftly, and pushed apart the entrance doors. "Freedom is out there, my dear," he indicated with a sweeping hand toward the street. "If you still crave it."

She shook her head. "You don't catch me meanin'. I can't love 'im anymore. It ain't possible."

He barely blinked, pretending instead to fiddle with his collar. "It seems," he said calmly, "our arrangements are not suiting each other. I am a busy man, Eleanor. Sentences won't pass themselves. Women and children won't hang themselves, and I will not be your consolation. Good day." He gave the slightest bow with his head, and took to the stairs, moving measuredly with the heaviness of a hunched back.

On impulse, she followed him.

~*~*~*~