"I didn't say you couldn't leave the room, just please don't leave the building." Elizabeth watched her father's eyes angrily narrow at her in the mirror as he spoke. He stood over the basin, shirt open and untucked, suspenders hanging at his sides, shaving off a weeks worth of facial hair. Even with what little references Elizabeth had, she could tell that grooming wasn't something Booker did often.

"What about just down to the Cafe?" She pleaded.

"No. Not even to the Cafe."

"What if Mr or Mrs Robert invite me out."

"They wont, and no."

Elizabeth scoffed in disbelief as she sat back down on the bed. He had to know that Elizabeth had a particular aversion to being confined. Of all the people in the world, Booker Dewitt had to be the one person who understood that. He broke her out of her tower, out of the hell that was Comstock House and out of Columbia. How could he not see how unfair this is?

"This isn't Columbia, Booker. No one is going to hunt me down."

"No, it's not Columbia. It's New York. And yes, Elizabeth, they might."

"So I'm supposed to just stay here all the time? Never leave here without you to hold my hand?"

"For now, yes."

"Booker, this is not fair. I'm a grown woman."

"Yeah, you are. But there's still a lot you don't know about the world, and I've gotta keep you outta trouble."

Elizabeth couldn't believe what she was hearing. Did she truly not have her freedom yet? Was she being unreasonable, wanting to go outside on her own? She wouldn't get lost, she wouldn't get into trouble. She just wanted to know she had the option to leave the building if she wanted. Normal girls didn't get confined like this, did they?

"How is this better than what Comstock gave me?" She blurted out, immediately regretting it as she saw Booker's reaction in the mirror. His eyes dropped and his brow narrowed in anger. Shit, that was the worst thing to say. Say something to him. Anything. Just make it better. "I'm sorry...I just..."

She stopped when he threw the razor into their new basin where it landed with a splash and a clink. He removed what was left of the lather with his towel and turned to face her. Elizabeth could see him struggling to push the anger below the surface. As he walked over to her she was absurdly reminded of how handsome he was now that he had shaved. He dropped to his knee in front of her, taking her small hands into his.

"Listen..." He started. "I know you still have so much more to experience. But there's a lot going on out there and I would hate for you to get caught up in something you don't quite understand."

"Booker, I just want to go out on my own. Just down the street. That's all."

"One day, you will. Real soon, I promise. But I have to go and take care of some things today, and I can't worry about you. Promise me you will stay in the building?"

"You don't have to worry about me."

"But I will anyway. Promise me?"

Elizabeth sighed at him. She believed he was being unreasonable, but there was a bizarre sort of affection to it. Did Comstock worry like this? Was this his reasoning? She couldn't imagine that it was. She looked into her fathers deep green eyes. There was worry in there all right. She was still learning how to read people, and he had been her first subject.

"I promise." She didn't know if she said it as an apology or as a truce, but she meant it. Booker stood back up, doing up his shirt and adjusting his braces as he crossed the room to use the mirror to attempt to tame his unruly hair into something respectable.

"So...what are you going to go today?" Elizabeth asked, desperate change to subject. She had a vague notion of what her father did for a living, but she was still not entirely sure what it really involved. She guessed it wasn't all rescuing strange girls from giant mechanical birds and religious zealots. She had read about the fictional careers of detectives in her books, but she couldn't trust them to give her an accurate representation of her father's career. They had steered her wrong before.

"Down to the courthouse. I have a buddy down there that might be able to come through with some work."

"What type of work?"

"Surveillance, hopefully."

"Hopefully?" Surveillance did not seem like Booker's ideal career path. Of all the things she imagined him doing, staying still was not one of them.

"Yeah. For clean work, it pays well enough. Boring as shit though, but I'll live."

"How well does the not so clean work pay?"

"Well enough."

"Would you go back to it? If you had to?"

Booker sighed, giving up on his hair. He brushed off a jacket he had draped over the back of his office chair and shrugged into it before crossing back over to Elizabeth and planting a peck on the top of her head. Don't want to answer, huh? That's an answer in itself, Booker.

"I'll be back this afternoon. Don't answer the door for anyone."

"Not even if it's a potential client?"

"Especially if it's a potential client. You don't want to be around those people."

"Ok. Good luck." She said softly, smiling back up at him.

When the door clicked closed Elizabeth looked around the suddenly cold and empty apartment. How could he live here all alone for so long? She supposed he had Mr and Mrs Robert, but it didn't seem like it would be enough. While the pair regarded her with kind words and smiles, she saw the looks they gave him, and it wasn't kind. Elizabeth knew all about loneliness, and in this place Booker had been almost as isolated as she was. He had confined himself up here, just as she had been.

She got to her feet and walked around, listening to the sounds of the city. She still didn't truly understand Booker's concern, but she meant what she promised. She would stay inside for him. She doubted he would have worked so hard to get her out of Columbia just to lock her up again. The very thought of what he went through sent a pang of guilt through her. How could she compare him to Comstock? He was the reason she wasn't lonely any more. But still...he had to understand how badly she despised confinement.

We gotta start healing some wounds, Father. Lets start from the bottom up.

Elizabeth made herself a coffee and rummaged through the trunk to find something suitable to wear. She planned to clean their apartment from top to bottom and she needed to find something that would be easy to wear and easy to clean. She found a handful of dark fabric and rummaged through to find the rest of the garment. Hello, you. She thought as she pulled out a fairly simple looking, calf long black dress. It looked a bit fancy, with a low cut bodice and large collar with black beads sewn in an intricate pattern. But it was dark, and it would be easy to clean in. She quickly dressed, forgoing her corset, as she needed a second person to tie her into it and if she was going to be cooped up all day, she might as well go without the trouble.

She looked out the window and down onto the street as she finished her coffee. She had hoped her days of staring out a window, longing to go outside, were over. She knew he was right, in a way. She was barely a week out of isolation, although it felt like a lifetime ago that she was in that tower and trapped in her fake father's house. There was still so much for her to learn. She just had to trust him. She had to give him time.

Even with what Booker bought the day before there was not enough to clean the apartment with. A quick glance around the apartment and Elizabeth found no broom, no sponge, no cleaning brushes and hardly any towels.

I can't leave the building, but I can go downstairs.

She jumped up and retrieved the bucket Mrs Robert gave her and started down the stairs. Mr Robert was sitting where Booker said he always sat, and he gave her a warm smile when he saw her.

"There she is! How are you sweet girl?"

"I'm doing well, Mr Robert." She replied with a smile. "Got a big day of cleaning ahead of me."

"Yeah, I bet you do." Elizabeth didn't miss the sour note in his voice. "Been on that boy to keep that place clean for years. Gave up somewhere along the line..."

"Yeah, he's not one for cleaning messes. Can I borrow a broom? Maybe something to scrub the floor with?"

"Of course. Ethel keeps all that stuff in the closet next to the washroom. Help yourself to whatever you need."

"Thank you. Where is Mrs Robert today?" She hoped maybe she could see the kind old woman for a bit. Maybe they could have coffee and chat.

"Down at the market. I saw your daddy leave earlier. Where's he off too?"

"Lookin for some work down at the courthouse."

"Down at the courthouse..." Mr Robert laughed as he repeated her. Was that funny? Was Booker not going to find any work down there?

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Ah, it's nothin'. How is your father treating you, anyway?" Elizabeth saw the change in his face as he asked. His eyes narrowed in concern and his mouth thinned out until it was nothing but a straight line.

"He's treating me well. We went out yesterday. He took me all over the city...it was a nice day. New York is amazing."

He smiled again, but it was different than the other smiles he gave her. It was...sadder.

"Well that's good to hear. If you ever need anyone to talk to, me and Mrs Robert are always here."

Why do people keep saying that to me? She gave Mr Robert her thanks and walked back to the washroom. She filled up her bucket and rummaged through the closet, filling a small canvas bag with what supplies she thought she might need. She grabbed the broom and made her way back upstairs. Smiling at Mr Robert as she passed him.

Elizabeth wrestled with the cobwebs that were dominating the ceiling, cleaned down the walls as best as she could and scrubbed the windows until she could clearly see the city below. Her mind wandered all day as she hummed and scrubbed, only stopping briefly to have some lunch. She had to run back downstairs to the washroom once or twice to empty and refill the bucket. She greeted Mr Robert as she hurried past him. Sometimes he replied with a greeting, and sometimes he replied with that sad smile again. Something about it wouldn't leave her as she returned to the room and started to de clutter the floor. It wasn't a false smile, faked for the sake of being polite. It was real, but it wasn't happy. It was something in his eyes.

Elizabeth had swept and started scrubbing the floor before her mind drifted back to Comstock house. She thought of the nurses that used to wheel her to and from her various tests and appointments and she realised what the look Mr Robert gave her meant. It was pity. She saw it every day in the nurses' eyes. She even saw it in Mrs Robert's eyes the day before. This poor girl living this nightmare, it said. Why has she been cursed with this?

Mr and Mrs Robert pitied her. Why? Was Mr Robert simply sad that she had to spend all day cleaning? No. That wasn't it. It was something deeper. Did they pity her for being back in Booker's life? Was that it? She couldn't see what else it could possibly be. They had known her father for years. Mr Robert would know more than anyone what she was getting herself into, and he pitied her.

Actually, she told herself, you knew exactly what you were getting into, didn't you? Back when you could see the doors. You knew how this ended, Elizabeth, and you gave it all up to jump right through that last tear with him. The thought comforted her from Mr Roberts assumptions about Booker. Sure, he knew the man her father used to be. But Elizabeth had seen the man he would become. Even if she could no longer remember what she saw behind the door.

Her mind drifted as she cleaned. Her eyes fell onto the boarded up door. She had already remembered what was behind it. The memory had come back to her last night, before she climbed back onto the floor to be with Booker. Behind that door was the crib she had slept in as an infant. Last night she had the dream again, the one where they were on the First Lady. But instead of Comstock house, Elizabeth ended up in the tiny little room with the crib angled awkwardly in the corner. She had two simultaneous memories of being in this room, both looking up from inside the crib and standing over it as a grown woman. She woke up with the memory still fresh in her mind. Not only the thought of her young self lying alone in the crib, but the feeling from the first half of her dream, when his hands roamed over her skin. That's what you're hiding from me, Booker. You can't look at the crib. You can't look at something that will remind you of my role as your daughter, can you?

The most uneasy sense of guilt had filled her last night after the dream as she looked down at her father. Guilt because she knew she didn't feel nearly as bad about their indiscretion as he did. She had loved the feeling of his hands running over her exposed flesh as he pulled up her skirt. She still got goosebumps when she recalled the feeling of his fingers first touching the outside of her underwear. The heat of his breath on her neck as he held her close and whispered what he was doing to her, talking her through her first sexual experience. Asking her if she had ever touched herself back in the tower. Asking her if it felt good. She had treasured it when it happened and she continued to treasure it now. Elizabeth had had vague, detached experiences with her body back in the tower, but ultimately lacked any extrasensory stimulation to truly fuel her desire.

But with Booker's hands roaming over her, his scent making her feel dizzy and his voice filling her ears, the result had been nothing like she could ever imagine. She vividly remembered how she grabbed at every available surface of him when she approached her peak. She remembered wrapping her legs around him in the most unladylike fashion when she started to cry out. She remembered him gently lowering her back on to the ground as she fought to control her breath. She only wished she had more time to bask in the calm, floaty feeling for a bit longer before Songbird was called and she was dragged back into the hell her reality had become.

It was barely right then, it sure as hell ain't right now. That's what he said. Block it out, he had told her. She had a theoretical knowledge that family members didn't have sexual experience with each other. It wasn't accepted in polite society. But neither was killing people. Neither was gambling your way into poverty. Neither was drinking until you blacked out. While he was not proud of doing any of those things, Booker still didn't try to hide from it. He had been trying to board up that memory of them on the first lady, just as he boarded up her crib. Get it out of the way. Don't talk about it. Don't even look at it. Don't deal with it. But Elizabeth differed from her father in that way. She had to deal with it. She wanted to keep it. It was her first experience with a man, and she loved it.

When she was first taken to Comstock House, they kept her awake for days. Songbird set her down, and the doctors came right out to silently usher her to a small, white cell despite her loud and somewhat violent objections. The lights stayed on all day and night and someone would come and bang loudly on her door roughly every hour, although she had quickly begun to lose track of time. Eventually the nurses came for her and took her to a room where the doctors awaited. One proceeded with a physical exam while the other asked her a series of inane questions. Although she refused to answer any of them, the doctor persisted. All too quickly, the questions started to concern Booker. Have you ever seen him before he came to the tower? Did he force you to leave? Did he ever put his hands on you in a threatening manner? Did he attempt to or succeed in having intercourse with you? Elizabeth very nearly answered him when he asked her that. She nearly told him all about what they had done, purely out of spite. She almost wanted to lie and tell them that yes, he had taken her virginity. Elizabeth knew that it would in no way stop Comstock from whatever he had planned, but she just wanted the lie to get under his skin. The False Shepherd deflowered your fake daughter, your little lamb, and she loved every second of it.
Instead she kept quiet. That memory belonged to her and Booker and these men were entitled to nothing from her. Not a damn thing. Not even her spite. The questions went on for hours, the doctor repeating himself time and time again. Eventually her stubbornness won the day and she was wheeled back to her room. It wasn't until she was returned to her cell that they turned off the lights and let her sleep. It was the thought of him that helped her sleep every night she was there. She would hug herself tightly and remember how it felt to be held by him. Each night she would tell herself that it would not be long before he would hold her again.

And as she scrubbed down the floor, she decided that she wanted Booker to come to terms with what they did. The memory comforted her and saved her, it wasn't fair that he hated it so much over something they didn't even know about. She wanted so badly to help him. To make him open all those boarded up doors and help him put himself back together. That's why she had joined him on the floor after her dream, assuring him that there was no bad blood from her end, and she wanted there to be none on his.

Even now as she looked over the apartment and admired her days work, she thought about it. She hummed while she washed her hands, and thought about how his had worked her body. She was about to strip off her dress and start washing herself when she heard him outside the door.

'We're gonna have to invest in a modesty screen,' she thought. She turned to greet her father, but stopped as she saw the look on his face. His expression turned from neutral to vulnerable to angry in a matter of seconds before he said the last thing she expected to hear come out of his mouth.

"Elizabeth, take off that god damned dress."