One day earlier...
"Damn!" She had tried to wave the car down, and though Constable Collins had shot a brief, apologetic glance her way it was obvious that Jack had no intention of stopping for an unknown woman in a nondescript dress and hat. He must have seen the wreck, Phryne thought. She tried not to reflect on what exactly he must have inferred based on that particular piece of evidence: she only hoped her pursuers had reached the same conclusion. As it was, it was going to be a long walk back to Melbourne, and the clothes, especially the shoes, which she had liberated as a disguise from a nearby farmhouse, were already reminding her that the day was hot, and that they were heavy and not precisely her size.
...
The door to Jack's office opened again, and he glanced up briefly to see a woman in a nondescript dress and hat standing in the doorway. He frowned in irritation: why hadn't she just rung the damn bell if she wanted someone?
"This is a private office," he growled.
"Well in that case, I'd better close the door."
He froze. That voice. Cultured and careless, with just a hint of seduction. He raised his head again slowly, telling himself he was wrong, that grief was playing a cruel trick on his mind, that hope was an indulgence that would only worsen the pain. But then the woman removed her hat and there beneath it, impossible and lovely, was his Phryne.
The room was silent as he looked at her, and after a moment she began to feel awkward. She had had plenty of time to wonder, as she walked the long, hot road, and as she tried to sleep under a concealing bush, exactly how he would respond when he saw her. Sarcasm had been the most likely candidate she had thought – "Miss Fisher. I might have known I couldn't get rid of you that easily" – or perhaps anger – "What the hell did you think you were playing at?" – but his shocked silence frightened her. He wasn't angry, she could tell, but there was no immediate sign of happiness either. He seemed disbelieving, almost scared, as though...
"Now come on, Jack, you've said yourself there's no such thing as ghosts."
The words would have been a lot more reassuring if it hadn't occurred to him that they were exactly the sort of thing that Phryne's ghost would say. He walked towards her slowly, reminding himself that there really wasn't such a thing as ghosts, and that even if there were they wouldn't need to open a door to enter a room. He reached out and took her hands in his, slender and warm, and undeniably alive.
"Phryne." It was a whisper, a mere exhalation as the stone in his chest seemed to dissolve suddenly, leaving him able to draw breath for the first time in a day. Then without further thought he drew her close and did what he should have done a long time ago. He kissed her. He kissed her deeply and passionately and tenderly, feeling her kiss him back just as fervently, not stopping until he felt her suddenly sway in his arms, her weight falling against him as she clutched the lapels of his jacket to keep herself from falling.
"Phryne!" He pulled back, supporting her in his arms as he examined her face closely for the first time. There was dried blood on her temple and her skin was powdered with dust from the road, beneath which her usually fair complexion was warm and clammy with an unnatural pallor.
"Sorry Jack," she murmured, her voice sounding slightly vague, as though she had had a few drinks, "I'm afraid I'm feeling a little light-headed."
"Here." He helped her to the seat opposite his desk. "Sit down; I'll fetch you some water."
He was back again in a moment with a glass and a jug. He recognised the symptoms of heat exhaustion when he saw them and knew she needed fluids, fast. He could only hope that she didn't have a concussion as well: there was nothing he could do about that.
"Phryne?" Her eyes were closed, and he patted her cheek anxiously. If she became unconscious he might still lose her. "Phryne, you need to drink."
"Usually men offer me a drink before they kiss me."
He chuckled in spite of himself, and she accepted the glass, draining it in a moment. Watching her, he reached a decision.
"Explanations can wait. For now, I'm taking you to see Dr. Macmillan."
He expected an argument – normally, she argued with almost anything he tried to make her do – and knew it was a sign of just how exhausted she was when she simply nodded tiredly. "That's probably a good idea. Jack?" She laid a hand on his arm. "The men who tried to kill me – if they weren't convinced by the accident they might be watching the station. It might be better if they didn't recognise me."
"The men who tried to kill you?"
She gave a wan smile. "Did you really think I'd run the car off the road by accident?"
He hesitated, and she gave him an indignant look.
"I'll be taking a full statement in due course," he prevaricated, standing. "For now, are you able to walk to the car?"
He helped her up, and she stood shakily. He wrapped his trenchcoat around her, almost obscuring her smaller frame in its folds, and handed her the hat she had arrived in. She replaced it on her head, and he nodded.
"Keep your head down to hide your face and no-one will have any idea it's you."