Gilbert liked going to church, he always had.

Well, perhaps not as a toddler, when it was so hard to sit still for long. No, his penchant for early Sunday morning service developed when he was ten years old. Terrified and lonely in Alberta, he was separated from his father most of the day (he spent all day sleeping anyway). He missed his mother, and his friends, and his home. He missed his class a lot - the nearest school was beyond walking distance, and there was no one in the vicinity who could spare the time to fetch him.

On Sundays, however, Gilbert would wake up early and run out back to the water pump. There, he would wash his face and teeth, then wet down his hair. Then, he would quietly creep back inside, into his room to dry off and run a comb through his dripping mass of unruly curls. He would don his smartest outfit, scrub the dirt from his shoes, and walk with the caregivers and housekeepers to the chapel. The bright lights, the polished pews, the poignant sermons, the singing...he liked it all very much. He would go to bed on Saturday with excitement bubbling in his stomach, ready for the distraction and peaceful feelings.

Church in Avonlea was less sunny. Old Mr. Bentley's sermons were rehearsed and stiff, and his voice was dry as toast. But Gilbert still enjoyed the psalms, the congregation, the sensation of belonging. He got to sit beside his mother, feeding off on her serenity (Sarah Blythe was not one to let herself rest easily), and give thanks for his father's recovery.

In Glen St Mary, he and Anne had attended a Protestant Temple with ideologies similar enough to the ones with which they'd been raised. Gilbert had hoped that they might be able to bond over their faith, but then again, Anne had never enjoyed anything that required to stay still and quiet. Later, church would become his refuge, a place where he could go to sit in peace, to feel acceptance. A place where it didn't matter whether he was a successful doctor or not, or how nice his house was, or next to whom he was sitting. Every man was equal in church.

Today, Gilbert wasn't focusing on the sermon. He wasn't even thinking of religious matters. Instead, his thoughts kept returning to the seven pieces of wrinkled paper that remained locked in his private document drawer. Each contained more or less the same message, and had been given the same treatment: crumpled, thrown in the waist basket, removed from the waist basket, flattened out and reread a hundred times.

The first one had arrived three weeks after his horrible visit in Kingsport. With Di minding the boys, he was able to throw himself into the search with reckless abandon. The police had reluctantly put out an missing persons' alert, but had advised him against getting his hopes up. Dozens of letters were sent out to every location he could think of, calls were placed, making the telephone ring so much that Susan surely was having fantasies of throwing it off a cliff.

He'd even taken out semi-weekly ads in newspapers across three provinces, keeping nothing but their names private. The ads detailed Anne's physical description, last know locations, and offered a financial recompense for any helpful and accurate information sent to his office under a fake name. This had been a mistake, he recognized too late, as letters piled up. None of them had offered anything substantial, and all had been blatant attempts at redeeming the promised reward.

Disgusted, Gilbert had delegated the task of filtering the answers to his poor secretary. The old woman shook her head with a sad smile whenever he inquired about it, so after a while, he'd told her not to bother anymore, and to feed the responses straight to the fire.

But two things made these messages stand out among the mountains of false leads. First, there was no mention whatsoever of money. This didn't mean that there would be no bartering later - after all, nothing had been divulged about Anne's whereabouts as of yet - but still, Gilbert was inclined to believe that money would not come into play. Second, and most important, the letter was delivered straight to his house. Digging for information J. Gitman, Mr. or Mrs., had proved fruitless. He'd telephoned and wired the Denver Publishing Company, where no one had heard of any employee or spouse under that name.

It became clear to Gilbert that the only way to get a response was to follow the instructions, play the elusive J. Gitman's game and write back. But was it worth getting his hopes up again?

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Davy Keith balanced his ax with his left hand and wiped his brow. He'd been chopping wood for the past half hour, and the frosty air was quickly chilling the sweat on his skin. Green Gables was cold in the winter, and Davy was the only one around up to the task of stocking up on firewood. This had nothing to do with his being the only male around - the women who'd raised him were as strong and unafraid of hard work as they were kind and loving. Rachel Lynde was a force NOT to be reckoned with, and she knew her way around a sharp objects. The woman could kill a chicken without blinking (she'd done so once a week when he was a little boy). Marilla Cuthbert didn't need a knife to be intimidating - that glare of hers was known to send grown men scampering.

Well, it used to, anyway. Ever since the news had come about Anne, Marilla had basically caved in on herself. Grief had turned her into a brittle old lady, and there was a fragility in her eyes that petrified Davy. Unless something changed soon, he didn't think she would stay with them much longer.

In the meanwhile, they needed wood to keep the heating ovens going. Davy got back to work, building up a hefty pile before movement down the road caught his attention. Though the figure was far off, Davy recognized him as Jeb McKinney.

"Davy, I heard you were back in town!" the man called and waved as he let himself through the gate. Davy split the remains of the log, then planted the ax the stump. He'd discouraged visitors at Green Gables as politely as he could, greet them at the edge of the property, thanking them for the tureens full of freshly made stew and the loaves of bread, assuring them that Marilla was doing as well as could be expected, and promising to come to tea as soon as it was manageable. Empty platitudes, the most polite form of sin Davy knew, but it was still a better alternative than letting Rachel run her tongue. Enough well-meaning neighbors and friends had huffed out of the house that Davy had taken it on himself to intercept all unannounced surprisers.

There was no avoiding this one, however. "Hello, Mr, McKinney," he called, trying for an upbeat tone of voice. It sounded fake, he noted disgustedly.

"It's mighty good seeing you here, ol' boy. How are you, eh? All settled in yet?"

"Just about, thank you. Sorry I haven't been to church."

"Please, don't worry," the minister brushed the apology aside. "This is where you're most needed. Everyone was pleased to hear that you'd come back - even though you had to return on short notice. Manitoba?"

"Winnipeg," Davy nodded, impressed despite himself. The man's smile oozed of oily charm, and his mind was sharp as a sewing pin.

"It must have been hard. I know Millie's folks had been trying to get you to move there for quite a while."

"They understand," said Davy. "Millie explained the situation. Anyway, I've been thinking, with the way things are going, we might be looking into moving in here instead."

"How wonderful!" the minister exclaimed genuinely. "And how selfless of you both. I know that Miss Cuthbert and Mrs. Lynde will be very grateful for the help. Speaking of which, I was hoping to pay them a visit. In these times of sorrow and pain, I would like to bring some messages of hope and faith."

There it was - the damned request, the one that Davy couldn't refuse - not politely, anyway. But he didn't want anything upsetting Marilla, and he knew that Rachel would be forced to sit and listen, regardless of how many times she complained about services after exiting church. Mrs. Lynde was fiercely protective of her friends and kin, but even she wouldn't speak over the minister.

"Mr. McKinney..."

Sensing his hesitation, the minister set a hand on the young man's shoulder. "It's alright," he said quietly. "God listens and provides for all his children, especially those who are suffering. Marilla will be alright - she just needs to be reminded." Under the man's hypnotic spell, Davy found himself nodding and opening the front door for him. Still stunned, he went to pile the chopped firewood under the awning. Maybe the minister was right - maybe this was what Marilla needed right now. After all, her faith had always been important to her, but she'd struggled with it - with everything, really, as of late. All she ever did anymore was look out the window during the day, and cry for Anne and night. She didn't eat, she barely slept, the tea trays he brought up to her room remained mostly untouched... Yes, maybe this visit would help Marilla, give her strength.

Done with his chore, Davy took the remaining four pieces of wood and started to bring them inside. He'd barely reached the front door when it flew open, rattling in its hinges as it bounced off the wall, and out stormed a fuming, red-faced Mr. McKinney. The cold air escaping from his nose made him look like an angry dragon, thought Davy as he stepped back. The minister glanced at him, threw a short salutation his way and stomped off into the snow.

"...the nerve of that man!" Rachel was muttering under her breath as Davy let himself in. "Oh - finally, here's the firewood. Put one in the stove now, Davy, quick, before the embers fizz off and become completely useless."

"Nice visit with the minister?" asked Davy, struggling to prevent a smirk from forming on his face.

"That man is no minister - he's a crackpot! A hooligan! Would you believe he-"

Mrs Lynde stopped short, startled by a noise. Davy blinked - he recognized that noise. He knew it well, had even been the cause of it more than his fair share, but had given up hope of ever hearing it again. Both Davy and Rachel rushed to the kitchen to confirm with their eyes what their ears had told them:

Marilla.

Laughing.

Davy dropped the pile of wood and approached the beloved woman. "Auntie Marilla?" he asked quietly, cautiously covering her hand with his.

"She- she called-" Marilla choked between chortles. "Rachel, you - you called him - a heathen idiot! The minister!"

"Well," Mrs. Lynde began carefully - when had she ever started anything carefully? Davy asked himself. "I do pride myself in speaking my mind."

This made Marilla laugh all the harder, and when she squeezed Davy's hand, he joined in as well. Rachel did her best to hide her smile, and announced that she would prepare the tea until they stopped behaving like jungle monkeys, which sent Marilla further into hysteria. Davy wiped her tears of laughter and smiled: the gloom was over. His mother figure wasn't all better yet, but she would be.