My dearest Henry –

It has all been arranged. After all this time. I can scarcely believe it, and I wish I could tell you in person, but I dare not. This will have to do.

I've left you money for travel in Marion Wood, buried in the usual spot. It is enough to get you there, and to buy you whatever else you might need along the way. Spend it wisely, love, for I've no means of getting you more during your journey. Should you need more before you leave, get a message to M, who will see to it you have whatever else you need.

You know where to go – all but the address. As I write this, I don't know it either; strange to think neither of us will know when you read this. But you will as soon as I do. The message may come to you by other means – be waiting for it, my love, and don't neglect to check the woods. M may leave it there, if no other option presents itself.

All has been arranged in London, but don't tarry there, as it will not be entirely safe. No doubt someone will think to link us, if only for two abrupt disappearances, and we are beyond neither the law nor my father's arm in the city.

When the time comes, do not delay. After eight months, will there really be any need? Even if it were only eight days, I'd be urging you silently to hurry. I would take you with me now, tonight, if I thought it possible, if I didn't imagine for one moment that we'd be spotted and stopped. Better to go alone and be separated now than be torn apart and kept that way the rest of our lives.

Eight months, my love – eight months without seeing you, without hearing your voice, without being able to touch you. I don't know how I can face it, but I must. We both must.

It seems so intangible now, but I will be there soon, and soon after that, there will be a house. A home, Henry. There will be a home because eight months from now, you will be with me.

I must go now; I've delayed almost too long in writing this and mustn't risk being seen or stopped. Eight months, Henry, a mere moment that will feel like nothing at the end of a long lifetime.

Think about me, my love. I will think of you, every day, until you come to me. Until you come home.

– Yours, always,

Avery

The train station was busy enough to support the line of taxis that idled on the street outside. It might have been quicker to catch a cab, but his heart was racing, the tenuous hope caught in his chest, keeping his breathing shallow. He had nothing but a single suitcase and a scrap of paper with a hastily scrawled address.

The rustiness of his French had vanished after the first day on the train; he spoke with an accent but with confidence, and if the smiling woman who gave him directions asked him to repeat himself, it was only because of the rush of the words.

The pavement clicked under his shoes – he'd worn his best suit, the one he'd purchased in London during the single day he'd allowed himself to spend there. Hard to believe it had only been a week; it seemed like a lifetime when he thought of it now, mind racing ahead of his steps as he scanned building numbers and street names.

Time seemed to slow when he turned onto the final street, even as his pace quickened, fingers tingling now with nervous anticipation. The numbers on the houses blurred by; he checked and rechecked the paper, counting up to 519.

It was no different than the rest of them – nestled between two nearly identical homes on either side, although the numbers on the door seemed to gleam more brightly in the Marseille sun, as if they'd been polished so as to be noticeable. He stood on the pavement for a moment, heart in his throat, checking the paper again, just to make sure.

Would there be staff? There was enough money for it and it seemed likely, even if he'd never imagined having people to take care of him or his home. The thought startled him, made him hesitate – he didn't know if he could speak to a stranger.

Not here. Not right now.

He half doubted he'd be able to speak at all.

Steeling himself with a harsh breath, he rapped smartly on the door, the knocker warm against his fingers, heated gently by the sun. The sound of footsteps from inside was almost immediately – someone had been waiting close by. The door was drawn open quickly; he blinked, adjusting to the lower light inside. The relief that it wasn't some faceless French valet made him weak, but he gave himself no chance to waver. He couldn't wait even a single second more.

After all this time, he was here. It was real. The dreams, the plans, the desperate schemes – they'd call collided in this moment and he thought if he didn't step through the door, they'd snap, leave him blinking himself awake into a reality that would be terrible for not being this one.

"You made it," he heard – in English, in that familiar voice he'd imagined and re-imagined for months, training himself not to forget it, telling himself soon over and over until the moment he'd written the letter to Elizabeth with a shaking hand. His hands cupped a well-known jawline as the door was pushed shut behind them, plunging them into a warm semi-darkness.

Henry inhaled a shared breath, erasing the space between them, Avery's fingers fisting into his hair, pulling him closer, mouth opening under his. The relief made his knees weak again, but Avery kept him up, grip sure despite his trembling hands.

"It's all right, Henry." The words were whispered, nearly lost to the frantic joy, the overwhelming relief. "You're home."