Good evening, everybody. I hope you are still enjoying this story, since there is plenty more to come. I fear that my intentions of keeping this one shorter than the last two, went the way of most resolutions. But then we do have to solve a murder, find a Grog Baron and see if Jack, Phryne and their marriage can survive Collingwood. Amongst other things that I won't share just yet. ;)

I've noticed that there were a few different opinions voiced in the reviews (that I read daily, no matter how much I have on my plate) about Jack and Phryne's argument and can't resist the urge to do something that I usually don't: write a comment on it. Stupid situations like these happen in relationships, as everybody who has spent some time with a partner is probably well aware of. There are days, when you just want to wring each others neck. Resisting this urge and finding love for the person you are sharing your life with, over and over again, is what marriage is all about. Which is actually the very reason I have chosen this setting for our lovebirds.

But that of course, is just my very personal, humble opinion. If you disagree (or concur for that matter) please keep sharing your thoughts. I really appreciate to know what's on your mind. Thank you. :)

Chapter 15: Sirius

Phryne slipped around the corner, careful to keep her boots from clacking on the cobbles. Gabler's Textiles lay quietly in the afternoon. So, maybe she had forgotten to mention this tiny little detail to Jack. Possibly even on purpose. It wasn't a lie as such. Adelheid really had been reluctant to share the origin of the brown bottle, but their neighbour wasn't overly good at keeping secrets and had given the game away without meaning to. And Phryne had intended to tell Jack straight when he got home, but then it hadn't come up – or so she told herself with little conviction. Mrs. Robinson knew that no cold in the world would have kept her husband in bed, had she shared her suspicion.

So, here she was, glancing around a corner near the back gate of the quiet factory. The workers had gone home some time ago, only a man with a dog in tow, was currently wandering over the yard. Phryne retreated behind the wall, when the beast turned a curious nose in her direction, and tried to smell unthreatening.

"Come on, Bessie," the guard grumbled, when the dog halted, before obediently hurrying after his owner. Phryne sent a silent thank you to the animal. Both disappeared around the corner and silence settled back into the Saturday afternoon. Mrs. Robinson waited. For a long time, nothing happened – nothing at all.

Phryne battled down her boredom. Maybe, she should have brought a book. Truthfully, the detective was quite aware that patience was not one of her many virtues. Her eyes started to wander, searching for some sort of amusement.

The factory was built of the usual red brick seen anywhere in Collingwood. The sky stretching over it had turned a darker shade of blue, and the contrast with the glowing reds and yellows of the trees framing the street, was so beautiful, that Phryne forgot for a moment why she had come. Her attention was drawn straight back to the job on hand, when a wagon approached. She ducked deeper into her hiding place, holding her breath. The horses stopped only metres away from her in front of the gate. The driver climbed off, belting against the metal bars. A little later, the grumpy guard reappeared, Bessie hot on his heels.

"Be quiet, will ya?" he called across the yard.

"Let me in then, man. I haven't got all day!"

Grumbling, the guard unlocked the gate and soon the wagon was parked at the back entrance, where the driver left it for the moment, sharing his thoughts on a cup of tea with a third man who was inspecting the goods.

A lady detective looked with some disdain at the guard currently relocking the gate. She had hoped to slip in unnoticed, but that was probably not to be accomplished in the bright afternoon. She needed a closer look at those boxes, she had spotted on the wagon. Retreating, she followed the fence towards the side of the building.

"No, the boss doesn't like us smoking. Too dangerous," the third man currently explained to the driver. "You don't wanna set the whole damn thing on fire."

He had a point, Phryne concluded. If she was correct, he had a very good point indeed. But then, a factory receiving a delivery, even on a Saturday afternoon, was probably not all that strange. She needed to get in there and if there should be spools of thread in that wagon, she would call it a day and go home to crawl under the covers with Jack. Resolved to this, she inspected the fence. It wasn't high, but the spikes on the top weren't particularly comforting. Carefully she pulled herself up and almost slipped, swearing under her breath. Gently, she lifted herself over the dangerous pieces of cast iron, before jumping down on the other side. Her breath was ragged as if she had just run a marathon.

"Bessie, come back! Where do ya think ya're goin'?"

The call startled her. Phryne pressed herself up against the wall, glancing at the fence. There was no way she would be able to climb back over there in time to escape the guard dog, if she decided to come find her. Mrs. Robinson wasn't scared of dogs, and she was quite certain she could deal with the elderly man following, but she didn't feel the need to be discovered snooping around today. Blowing their cover would really not do. Feverishly she thought about her next step, when the dog appeared around the corner. It was of a dirty brown colour, the hair a bit longer than it's breed warranted. Despite it's rather ragged appearance, the bitch had clever brown eyes that currently stared up at Phryne as if the dog was trying to decide, if the intruder was a reason to alert her master or not. The lady detective could hear her heart pound in her ears, as she tried to withdraw into the wall. Seconds later, a wet nose was pushed into her palm. It tickled and Phryne suppressed a giggle.

"Shhhs," she whispered.

The dog looked up at her, tilting her head.

"Don't give me away. I'll bring you some chicken tonight," Phryne promised, smiling.

Bessie whimpered quietly, considering this offer.

"Here, you bloody dog, where the hell are you?" a voice called, coming closer. Mrs. Robinson looked around, but there was nowhere to escape to without exposing herself in the bright daylight. A rough tongue flicked over her palm, then the dog finally seemed to have made up her mind and she scurried off. Fond scolding sounded seconds later and Phryne allowed herself to breath again.

The voice retreated. Little later it was quiet again.

The detective peeled herself off the wall, casually slipping along the red brick and spying around the corner. None of the three men were to be seen. Only the horses whinnied impatiently, where they had been forgotten. Seconds later, one of them looked up startled, as a lady's fingers gently patted its flank. They weren't often handled by soft hands and the mare looked thoroughly confused as the figure, with a quiet curse, climbed up into the back of the wagon. Phryne really longed for her trousers right now. Climbing over fences and boxes in a long skirt was not exactly a match made in heaven. The inside of the wagon was only illuminated by a glimpse of sunlight falling through a slit in the covering and she grasped in the dark for the boxes, she had seen before. They were nailed shut. Listening to the outside that was still suspiciously quiet, she pulled up the hem of her skirt to reach for her knife. It took several minutes until the top finally gave way, but finally she stared at a collection of brown cloth sacks. Carefully, she pierced a tiny hole into one of them and rubbed the brown crystals escaping it between her fingers, before smiling to herself.

"I believe, Mr. Gabler, this is a little more than you need to stir into your employee's tea."

X

The key turned silently in the lock. A pair of sharp eyes glanced into the quiet kitchen, ran a gloved hand over a table that was half covered by a newspaper. A naked chicken lay on a chopping board, waiting for its inevitable fate.

The fat spider hanging in the window frame curiously glanced at the intruder, before deciding that a lost fly was a much more interesting subject. Expensive leather shoes moved over freshly scrubbed floor boards and pushed a door open that had only been pulled ajar. A man was lying on the bed, snoring quietly. He stirred, as if he could feel the pair of eyes lingering on him, coughing in his dreams. The intruder smiled.

Jack started awake, gasping for air, as a nasty cough shook him. His panicked eyes found only emptiness. He was alone. There was a cooling cup of tea sitting on his night stand though and he fished for it, greedily emptying it in one gulp, before pulling a face. Camomile tea. He probably hadn't touched any since he had been about five years of age. But the honey soothed his raw throat and after a minute or two, he sensed that his heartbeat had slowed enough to pull himself into a standing position. He felt dizzy and ragged, if anything worse than before his nap, but his bladder was complaining loudly.

He found his wife sitting at the kitchen table, doing something that looked suspiciously like sewing. Behind her, something was bubbling on the stove, wafting a smell through the kitchen that reminded him of his childhood. When Jack stepped closer, she looked up with a smile.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked. He quietly shook his head, sinking onto a chair. Currently he didn't feel up for walking outside into the freezing backyard.

"I fear, this cold has no intention of retreating in the foreseeable future. But you seem to be finding new hobbies by the day."

He tried a smile, the effect completely spoiled by a sneeze. When he looked up, she had pulled a grimace.

"Hardly. I have ripped my skirt on a fence."

The Inspector eyebrows rose at this.

"And what exactly were you doing on that fence, Miss Fisher?"

"Escaping, mostly."

Mrs. Robinson smiled, returning to threading the needle through the fabric. She had almost been caught, when the men had returned to finally empty the wagon. It had been fun. Even though her blouse now badly needed washing, after she had had to hide underneath the vehicle for several minutes. And the adventure on the fence had almost ended badly, when Bessie's barking had startled her. But the bitch had obviously decided to accept her bribery and instead barked at the driver, who was scared of dogs, as it turned out. In the argument afterwards she had been able to escape with nobody taking any notice at all.

She looked up to find Jack watch her with a fond smile as if he had followed her train of thoughts. Wondering if she should explain, she smiled sweetly, then got up to pour Jack another cup of tea. Obediently he started sipping the hot beverage.

"So, would you like to explain to me, who you were escaping from?" he asked after a long moment of companionable silence. Phryne didn't look up from her needlework.

"The makers of our sly grog of course."

Coughing was the only answer. She wasn't quite certain if due to a cold or a sip of tea going down the wrong throat.

"I am not quite certain yet, if they produce it up there, but there was a rather large delivery of sugar and molasses to Gabler's this afternoon."

"That seems a rather odd component for trousers and curtains," Jack stated dryly, between sips.

"Exactly my thoughts, Inspector."

Happily, Phryne rose to her feet to inspect the stove, giving her husband time to realise that he wasn't only hungry, but also, that he really needed to use the privy if he wanted to avoid any embarrassing accidents. On the way to the door, he glanced into the pot that his wife was stirring in.

"Chicken soup, Miss Fisher? I would have imagined something more unconventional."

"I believe the fact that I am cooking is quite unconventional enough, Jack," she smiled, lifting a spoon to her lips. He watched her frown, then grab for the salt. "And if my mother is to be believed, chicken soup is the only true remedy for a nasty cold."

"It generally pays to not argue with ones mother-in-law, I find," Jack grinned, already with his hand on the door handle.

"I wouldn't know," Phryne mumbled under her breath, distracted by poking the chicken, then started. When she turned, there was no Inspector. Hopefully he had left early enough to miss her insensitive comment about his dead mother. She shook her head. It was almost as if a part of her was yearning for a fight. Maybe if she could yell at someone, the dull pain in her stomach would go away. She would have to find someone else, she decided firmly. Some criminal or other would do. By the time the Inspector returned, shivering, from the backyard, the soup bowls were set on the table. Phryne glanced at Jack briefly, swallowing down a nasty comment about him looking even more rotten than in the morning.

"I believe my nose might be glowing in the dark," Jack joked, while sitting down.

"We shall find out tonight," Phryne smiled, ladling soup into his bowl and resisted the urge to touch his forehead, where pearls of sweat were glistening from the short exercise of crossing the yard. He would be just fine. If he was seriously ill he would be a lot worse than he was, she knew. But the niggling voice in the back of her head just couldn't be convinced to quieten down.

She realised that instead of eating, he was looking at her.

"Thank you," he said, his warm, strong hand grabbing for hers.

Phryne straightened her back, ignoring her throat tightening. It was just chicken soup, for heaven's sake. But her hand firmly held onto his, until she finally managed to convince herself that she would have to let go of him, so he could get some food into his stomach.

"I am merely attempting to be a good housewife," she quipped, taking a spoonful. The soup wasn't terrible, but possibly it was a good thing that her husband likely couldn't taste all that much today. She had been a little distracted pondering the case while massacring the chicken.

"All for the cover, I see," Jack whispered, gently blowing on the surface of his soup, before bursting into yet another cough. When he let his fist sink, Phryne was staring at him, her forehead thrown into a frown.

"You are heading back to bed after tea, Jack," she said in a tone of voice that assured him, arguing was a futile exercise. He glanced at her, his eyes glittering.

"What if I refuse to, Miss Fisher?" he asked casually, lifting his spoon to his lips without tearing his eyes from hers. A split second later he gulped.

"I'd appreciate it, if you didn't make any sudden movements with that foot," he pointed out, trying for a casual tone of voice, which was prevented however by the roughness of his throat.

"Please don't worry yourself, I am rather attached to those parts," Phryne said sweetly, without withdrawing her foot. It had to be said for the Inspector's valour that, despite the obvious threat, he kept eating. After a few seconds, the pointy heel retreated and he dared to breathe again.

"You put forward an incredibly convincing argument," he quipped. "But I will admit that my longing for sleep currently is rather too overwhelming to keep me out of bed for any amount of time."

Phryne smirked at this, emptying her bowl without any further incidents. Her husband had obediently finished his soup and stood, somewhat lost in the middle of the kitchen.

"Would you like a hand with these?"

Mrs. Robinson stared at the empty dishes and shook her head. She honestly despised cleaning up a lot more than cooking. Always had. She set them down and pulled Jack into a kiss, before he could make any attempts at being reasonable, then tenderly stroked his blotchy face.

"You feel quite hot, Jack," she said, after a moment of silence. Gently, he peeled her hand of his cheek and kissed her palm.

"I recall just having hot soup for tea," he smiled, "and a rather nasty threat."

"Yet, you are still standing in my kitchen," Phryne grinned.

"There was also the promise of company in bed, Miss Fisher," Jack whispered, leaning in to nibble on her ear.

"What about the dirty dishes?" Phryne protested, while his hands found the way under her blouse.

"I believe, they will still be there later," he smiled into her neck, weaving his fingers into her hair to grant himself better access to the tender skin he knew to be hiding behind her ear. Phryne moaned, while she felt her body melt into his touch. She knew that she shouldn't allow him to be unreasonable and waste his strength. But she yearned to feel him, hungered for his body and ached for their souls to reconnect. She needed this as much as his roaming hands assured her, he did. Was he worried, she wondered? Could he feel the shadows closing in?

She found herself on the edge of the kitchen table, her husband entangled in her limbs, desperately kissing her with burning lips, all care forgotten. Phryne wrapped her arms around him tighter, deepened the kiss. He smelled faintly of camomile and soap and she just kept wrestling his hot tongue, pushing her body deeper into his that was searing underneath the thin fabric separating them. His hips were firmly pressed into her, rubbing against her in yearning for some sort of relief.

"Jack," she panted, with some effort peeling his chest from herself. He withdrew, reluctantly, trying to hide the disappointment that mixed into the desperate longing in his eyes.

"Bed," Phryne ground out breathlessly, without releasing the iron grip of her legs around his hips, before dragging him into another kiss. Her head was swimming. But a clear voice cut through the fuzziness of her thoughts to tell her clearly that it wasn't the time for a brief, unsatisfying act on the kitchen table, tempting as it might be. Jack seemed to have understood the hint. His arms wrapped around her like a vice he lifted her, not for a moment detaching himself from her lips. He missed the door by an inch, slamming his arm and her back painfully into the door frame.

"Sorry," he panted. Phryne couldn't help but giggle breathlessly into his mouth, then she returned to where she had stopped before wincing, her slim fingers curled around his neck. Seconds later, two entangled bodies crashed onto the bed, his limbs covering her like a blanket. While Jack trailed gentle bites along her neckline, his fingers were nimbly searching access to the treasures still hidden by Phryne's clothes. He started.

"Mrs. Turner, you seem to be missing your undergarments," he whispered, his hips grinding involuntarily against her leg. Phryne grinned.

"I fear they were lost in action, Jack."

In fact, she had disposed of the uncomfortable flannel piece Dot had talked her into, while getting changed after her adventure up at Gabler's, but the glazed look in Jack's eyes currently made her consider abandoning her lingerie more often.

His hand had stilled where he had been thrown by the absence of expected fabric and he, who had touched her a thousand times with little reluctance, seemed now shy of proceeding. She could feel his heart hammering in his chest; his cheeks were flushed, probably from more than the cold and his eyes searching hers as if he wasn't sure what to do. Phryne smiled and dragged him down to kiss her.

Her hands slipped underneath the layers of fabric covering his back to find Jack's scorchingly hot skin and drawing a soft trail along his spine, while pulling his body down against herself. The Inspector moaned in the back of his throat, biting down on her lip. Phryne felt another wave of warmth spread through her stomach. His own hand had come back to life and was currently running up her thigh in a determined fashion. With every centimeter he explored, the urgency of his passion returned. His body was a comforting weight on top of her, and Phryne wrapped her legs around his hips, rendering him unable to escape. But Jack had no intention of the kind. He held her tightly, hungrily kissing her lips, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Her mouth drowned out the desperate groan, when he sank into her. Phryne had her eyes closed, just feeling, hearing, tasting the warm man writhing on top of her. Like seaweed in the ocean, her body moved along with his, allowed him to encircle and swallow her, her lust flowing along with Jack's, until it was hard to tell where he ended and she started. And when the waves finally closed over their heads, his arms still held her tightly, lest she might drown.