Anne sat up straighter. Dawn's icy gust of wind pushed at her face, doing its best to suffocate her. Instead of yielding and heading back inside, she braced herself against it. It made her feel - well, not good. But not bad, either. Alive, perhaps? Whatever it was, it made her feel something other than devastated and that in itself was a welcome change.

Yesterday's events had left her drowning in a sea of her own emotions. Thomas and Dr. Lebrun had stayed with her as she exhausted her tear ducts. This had taken up the better part of the afternoon. When the sobs had been reduced to dry hiccups, Dr. Lebrun had held her shoulders firmly, forcing her to face him, and said: "You were a child. It wasn't your fault."

Two small sentences. Four words each, nine syllables total, that had thrown her completely for a loop. Unable to answer, what with her world being turned upside down, Anne had breathed in and blinked. Young Thomas, sweet, young Thomas felt poorly for not being of much help at all, and asked whether she would care for anything - a cup of tea? Or, if she needed it, he could sneak whatever sacramental wine was left over from the service. His seemingly genuine offer sent her into peels of laughter, which soon turned hysterical, bringing on more tears when she'd thought it impossible.

The deacon had then bolted from the office, and the Doctor waited until she'd calmed down (again) to expand on his former statement. She listened, but even the avid student in her couldn't follow his reasoning. Still, she listened, feeling a bit like a dunce, until Thomas returned with a fresh cloth for her face (she'd already worked through his own and both of Dr. Lebrun's) and asked if there was anything he could do. Both men were taken aback when she asked whether they could still visit the tea room. Was she really up to being in public? Would she not rather lie down for a bit, then hit the road?

"Please," Anne had begged. "This day has been crazy. I've been crazy. Could we please, please do something normal?" The men exchanged skeptical glances, but she'd insisted; they'd taken up nearly all of poor Thomas's free time, and she had interrupted Dr. Lebrun's tea earlier, surely he would need a cup or two before their drive back. She promised to behave, and that she truly was through with crying (for the time being).

And so, short of reasons to decline her request, the trio found themselves seated around a small round table in a parlor downtown. Tea was poured, accompanied by scones and mundane chitchat about the young man's studies and the older man's work. Anne didn't add much to the conversation, but she appeared to be doing well, considering the earlier turmoil. The evening grew darker, Thomas walked his visitors back to their buggy.

Before he could help her up, Anne laid a hand on the young lad's arm, meeting his gorgeous blue eyes with a weak smile, conveying her thanks. The boy shrugged sheepishly - he'd done nothing but prod and poke, and watch her bawl. Still, she was glad to have met him, and grateful for his support. They said their goodbyes and started the buggy. The ride back was mostly quiet, interrupted only twice by Dr. Lebrun's suggestion that they pull over (the first time just to stretch their legs, the second for a meal at a roadside inn).

Anne had taken advantage of the lack of conversation then to try and process what Dr. Lebrun had said, but she couldn't get past the two sentences, eight words.

"It wasn't your fault." But it was, really. She'd knowingly, and by choice, locked the door.

"You were a child." So she was, and when had that ever been an excuse for anything? How did that make this any better?

"It wasn't your fault." If not hers, then whose fault was it a man died in the cold, bleeding out on the snow, alone?

"You were a child." No, she was an orphan. Children were the responsibilities of their parents. Orphans were responsible for themselves.

Even when they'd arrived at his house, and he'd made up the sofa for her (he found it prudent to keep her close, and told her to spend the night in his study instead of in her room at the Ulaafsens'), the same eight words, nine syllables, cycling through her mind.

"You were a child." Let's face it, she was still a child. Denied membership to the great club of Adulthood, always an outsider, a small child in a grown woman's body.

"It wasn't your fault." It was her fault. She didn't want it to be. It was, though.

"You were a child." Or, maybe she'd never really been a child. Just a very immature person, whose stunted development began at infancy.

He'd offered to stay up with her, but she'd declined, told him to go rest, she'd see him in the morning. Hadn't slept.

Sometime before sunrise - 4? 5 o'clock? - other fragments of Dr. Lebrun's discourse started to come back to her, and they started to make sense. So much, that she'd abandoned the pretence of resting, donned her coat, and sat outside wrapped in a blanket. The sun rose to keep her company, the wind kept her very, very awake, and by the time the sky had lightened, she stood up. Abandoning the warmth of the blanket, she walked down to inspect her plot at the sides of the house. A thin layer of frost covered the bare earth. Nothing had grown yet, but her vigilant weeding habits seemed to have paid off. After the winter was over, she would see whether her work might come to fruition.

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Consciousness started nagging at Gilbert, and he did his best to ignore it. But try as he might, his senses were slowly coming back to him. All his muscles ached, the way they might after a full day of rowing. He tried to sit up, but his abdominal muscles seemed to have been overworked as well. Somehow flopping over, he managed to get his sore arms under him and push himself up off the hard wooden surface. The effort of sitting up made him breathe hard through a burning throat.

"Well. Look who's finally up. Have a nice nap, Princess?"

A groan escaped him as his stomach churned. When had he gotten so sick? Sure, he'd been sleeping far too little, and his energy level had been fairly depleted as of late, but this was more than just a few restless nights' toll. Maybe influenza?

Two tight grips around his upper arms tugged him upwards, along with the command: "Come on, off the floor with you!" and he was on his feet (more or less). His head throbbed mildly with every step. He raised a shaky hand to his brow. Clammy, but not overheated. So, not the flu: didn't feel like a cold, either.

"Move, will you? I'm not carrying you all the way. Though, the speed at which you're going, I might be tempted to drag you by ankles."

Finally, Gilbert cracked an eye open - just one - to see who the speaker was, who was still holding him up.

"Urgh, you," he croaked. The sight of Jack Garrison made him cringe and shut his eyes.

"Nice to see your lovely mug as well," said Garrison's sarcastic's voice. "Now let's get a move on."

"Why does it feel like I was thrown off a horse and run over by a carriage?" Gilbert moaned as he was being guided out the door.

"Let's just say that last bit of gin helped you channel your inner grizzly."

Too foggy to make any sense of the Garrison's reply, Gilbert focused instead on getting one feet in front of the other. The cold air on his face felt almost pleasant, but the effect was ruined when the arms supporting him let go without warning: he scrambled for a way to keep his balance, his arms settling on a fence beside him. It seemed he only had enough energy to either move or keep the nausea at bay, so he concentrated on the latter.

"Alright, Blythe, time to wake up." Before he could answer that he was just about as 'up' as he could manage, a wet blast to the face shocked the breath out of him.

"Augh!" Gilbert sputtered as he wiped his eyes clear. Garrison stood smirking at him, an empty pail dangling tauntingly from his hand. "What in the world was that for?!" Gilbert bellowed.

"Figured you could use some help waking up."

"I am awake, you cretin!" He pushed dripping wet hair off his forehead, more than a bit annoyed. The icy water trickled down his neck, seeping into his collar. "You just wanted to throw something at me," he accused, flicking freezing drops from his fingers.

Garrison's infuriating smirk stretched into an unbearably smug grin. "Alright, I did. And now that you're upright, we can get you clean: you smell like something that belongs in a barn."

Humiliating as it was, bathing might have been impossible without help. His entire body was sore and bruised, and the nausea had left of its own accord - all over Garrison's feet (Gilbert did apologize, but saying he didn't find some satisfaction in the accident would be a lie) - only to be replaced by a massive headache. The pounding in his cranium seemed to increase as memories from the previous night returned in short snippets.

Before the haze had descended, Garrison had claimed to know Anne's location, and refusing to disclose it (he'd promised she was still in Canada). Gilbert had pleaded, gotten mad, then begged, and then threatened again, but Garrison hadn't budged, saying he had to 'check with someone' before speaking of her any further, whatever that meant.

After that, his memory was spotty. He vaguely remembered feeling stuck in that awful tavern, in that awful town, and thinking that ordering another drink was the best course of action. Then a third...being shoved, and shoving back...another drink. Chairs scraping the floor...some screaming...had there been a brawl?

"Oh yeah, there was. And you started it." Gilbert paused, the razor hovering in the air as he checked Garrison's sincerity over his shoulder in the mirror. "You bumped into Ike - you know, the big, burly one - and called him a heavy-arsed imbecile."

Though it was completely out of character, he did recall said interaction. He also recalled 'Ike' facilitating the bumping, and paying him a compliment of the similar kind, all but inviting him to throw the first punch. Gilbert had cracked the knuckles on his right hand doing so, and now carried a blueish-purple souvenir of the aftermath on the very cheek he was shaving.

"It turned into a pileup after that," Garrison continued. "Rather trashed the place. I doubt Denny'll let you back in after all that."

"Like I'd want to set foot in a place like that again," Gilbert grumbled, moving his mouth as little as possible, so as not to disturb the blade at his lip. Still, propriety caught up to him. "I'll go over to reimburse him for the damage, when I'm done shaving. And then, you're going to take me to...wherever my wife is." Was it him, or did Garrison actually look sheepish just now?

"About that," he dragged out the syllables, scratching his neck. "I made a telephone call this morning. Things are...she's not ready."

"She said that?" Gilbert set the razor down, stunned, his heart hammering. "You spoke to her?"

Now Garrison looked downright flustered. "Not directly, no. There's - someone - well, it's complicated. She's in good hands," he added hurriedly, even a touch defensively. "In the best place possible. The timing just isn't right."

Gilbert stood straight and glowered as authoritatively as he could while wiping shaving foam from his face with a washrag. He felt just about ready to explode. "I am going to find my wife, with or without you. The best possible place for her is at home, with her husband and children." He couldn't stand the way his own voice wavered at the end of his statement, or the way Garrison's eyes softened with pity.

"Come on, man. You know it ain't so." Gilbert fought against the tears burning behind his eyelids. Vomiting, being thrown across the room and blacking out in front of this man was acceptable: crying wasn't.

"How is this the best for her?" he asked through a tight throat. "How could she just leave our boys without saying anything? Without a single care of what might happen to them? Of what might happen to..."

To Garrison's credit, he kept his averted while Gilbert's misery escaped through his eyes. He was sick of crying. Sick of worrying, sick of doubting everything.

Sick of himself.

"I know it means nothing coming from me, but she felt immense remorse over the children," said Garrison gently. "They never left her thoughts - she was torn up by what she'd done." He sighed, then spoke firmly: "I'll place another call, but I can't guarantee anything. If she's not ready, we will wait. Are your children alright for the present?"

"Of course," Gilbert bristled, blowing his nose in the foamy washrag. "They're with their godmother, who adores them and cares for them."

"Then I'll see what I can do. But we will keep Anne's best interest - and Anne's alone - in mind as we go along. Do you understand?"

"I always have. Or at least, I thought I did."

Garrison raised an eyebrow at his pathetic tone, then nodded and exited the room.