Anne stood and watched as Jack fastened his traveling trunk to the back of his buggy.

"You're absolutely sure you'll be fine on your own?" he asked her for the fifth time. She attempted a small smile at him.

"Yes. I'll be alright." Although she would miss his presence: Jack had been an unending source of support to her, and a kind friend as well. "You know I'll barely be alone. I'll be seeing Dr. Lebrun until he deems me fit to look after myself. He'll watch me as a nanny minds a child."

Jack grinned half-heartedly at her last comment. "I still don't like the idea of him using you as a lab rat."

Anne shook her head. "I'm not a lab rat: I'm a subject of research. Plus, he promised to keep me anonymous, and all details confidential - all he'll ever share or publish are my state of mind and emotional reactions. Anyhow, it's good for the business."

Jack's face fell entirely. "God, Anne, don't you dare think-"

"I know that's not why you agreed, Jack. But let's be practical for a moment: I can't afford his services, and I can't take anymore help from you - I won't. To receive such care free of charge in exchange for advancing his research is...it's the only way. And if by the same occasion it benefits the publishing house, well, that's just convenient."

She could see by the hard expression in his eyes that while he wanted to agree, he simply wasn't convinced. Filled with the need to prove to him that she was alright, she stepped up to him and grasped his hand in hers. "It's alright, Jack. I'm getting help. I'll be better soon."

His gazed softened a fraction. "You don't have to. I mean - take your time. I know you'll get better, Anne Shirley. Whether it takes a month, a year, or more...just don't rush it. Take however much time you need." He looked down at their joined hands and he sighed. "In another lifetime, Anne, I would have loved a chance to make you happy."

Her smiled was sad. "I suppose there is a chance he won't take me back."

"Of course he will. Don't even joke about it." He couldn't keep the note of bitterness from his voice. "You'll get better and go home, and he'll fall to his knees and beg you never to leave again. It's what any fool with a modicum of sense would do."

"Jack-"

He look up at her pleading tone, and she tried to convey with her eyes what she could not say. With a boldness that was typical of Anne, she stood on the tip of her toes and pressed a clumsy, yet genuine kiss to his cheek. His gasp made her avert her gaze to the buggy.

"I better be going," he muttered when he'd found his voice again.

"Yes," was all she could muster as their hands slid apart.

"I'll be back next Sunday. We'll have dinner and catch up."

The promise of some normalcy in the future made the corners of her lips perk up again. "I'll look forward to it, then. Have a safe trip home."

In one swift movement, Jack eased himself up on the bench of the buggy, turned to wink at her, and clicked the reins, urging the horse forward. Anne gave a small wave in return, and stayed to watch until the buggy was completely out of sight.

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Gilbert couldn't sleep.

To tell the truth, he'd become accustomed to sleeping poorly. Growing up on a farm, he'd gotten the 'getting up early' part down to a T. As a teacher, work kept him up; then, as a student, his own homework and exams. And of course, a doctor's schedule was prone to all and any kind of hours. So, the quantity or quality of sleep was not a given on any night.

Tonight, however, it wouldn't come at all. He'd gotten in bed and waited. Tossed, turned, waited some more. Thrown the blanket off himself: crawled back under it. Try as he might, he simply could not fall asleep.

Giving up, he lit the bedside candle and read the time: half past two. He yawned as he searched for his slippers, donned his robe and stood up. His feet trudged out of the room of their own accord: Gilbert did not consciously know where they were taking him until he found himself standing in front of the largest window of the house - the one with the reading nook.

Its main three occupants had been Anne, Walter, and Achilles, the marmalade cat the young Blythe couple had adopted. The latter had enjoyed sprawling into the sunbeam filtered through the glass, but had died several years ago. Walter would stare out the window endlessly without moving, mouth agape, imagining who-knew-what, but of course he was with the Wrights. As for Anne, she had practically lived in that nook when they first moved in. Every night he came home late, there she'd be: curled up reading by candlelight, or fast asleep despite her efforts to wait up for him.

Eventually, Anne had stopped greeting him downstairs after his long days that had turned into long evenings, preferring to retire upstairs before his return. Gilbert couldn't remember when he'd last seen her in the nook she'd loved so much. It must have predated Jem. Now that he thought about it, he could probably trace it back to...

His heart constricted just thinking about it: the worst time of his life. Those dark days when he'd received a gift so precious, only to have it taken away in the gentlest, cruelest way. When Anne's life had been spared in the end, he'd offered a prayer of thanks above, that he'd been allowed to keep one of the two loves of his life. But the truth was, he'd lost his wife as well as his firstborn child. His tiny baby girl, with barely enough strength to cry at her birth; whose precious little fingers had not been able to wrap around his thumb; who was not meant to spend an entire day on this earth.

It was Providence: he could accept that. It hurt horribly, beyond words, but who was he to question it? Anne, however, would not accept it. She was not grateful to have survived, and had even admitted without shame that dying along with Joyce would have been preferable. This confirmed what he'd always known in his heart: Anne was selfish. The only feelings that mattered were her own, and she wouldn't think twice about leaving him if they overwhelmed her.

Amidst the pain that always accompanied thoughts of his terrible loss, a light switched on in his mind: if her feelings overwhelmed her...

Finally, he understood. She didn't despise him. Her leaving was not because of something he'd done or said. She'd left because she'd felt overwhelmed. This new knowledge was simultaneously a relief and a burden, because while he hadn't been responsible for her running away, he probably could have prevented it.

Easing himself down on the seat, he peered out the window into the frosty, starry night. I'll find your mother, he promised to his beloved daughter, addressing her for the first time in years. I'll bring her back. He propped his feet up in front of him, resting his back on the wall behind him, and stared out the window until dawn.