The carriage ride back to Mansfield Park was largely spent in a companionable silence. With any other person Mary would have felt an almost irrepressible urge to speak; quiet was not a thing that she was in any way used to and she would not have usually been wholly comfortable with it. But this was different - this was Fanny, and whilst perhaps she began the journey by forcing herself to be quiet, because she recognised that Fanny was in no state for conversation, she soon found herself enjoying it more than she would have expected. There wasn't that uncomfortableness which so often settled over two people in such a situation, where there is nothing much to say and a sort of reluctant embarrassment attached to making an attempt to find something. On the contrary, both of them drew so strong a comfort from the other's presence that, even in better, happier circumstances than those they currently found themselves in, they would probably have felt no overwhelming need to speak.

They had left Portsmouth early the previous morning, the Price family standing outside of their too small home to wave them away. Susan was the only one who looked truly heartbroken; the other children did not know their older sister well enough to regret her departure, her father had probably very little care for any of his children, and whilst Mrs Price was making a valiant attempt to look regretful, she could not quite stop the relief she felt from crossing her expression - it told what she would not say: that Fanny's departure was advantageous for her because it meant one less person to manage.

Mary felt a pressure on her shoulder - Fanny's head falling over as the motion of the carriage sent her to sleep, despite her worries. Perhaps their journey on both days had begun too early.

Mary covertly slipped an arm around Fanny's waist and pulled her ever so slightly closer. Then she let her head rest on Fanny's. She could feel Fanny's breath as it blew on her neck, and the warmth of Fanny's body against her own. If she hadn't known how this journey would end, or had been blissfully unaware of what worry creased Fanny's brow even now, Mary would have said that it was a perfect moment.

Nevertheless, it was over far too soon; there had to be a time when Mansfield Park came into view, a time when Fanny stirred and woke up, embarrassed at the position that her sleep had left her in. And above all there had to be a time where Mary would face a family who no doubt - due to her brother's recent conduct - would not welcome her.

Mary grasped Fanny's hand and squeezed it. She wasn't entirely sure if she did it for Fanny's sake or her own. A few months ago she could perhaps have breezed through the encounter unthinkingly, excusing her brother's conduct with ease, not caring what their reaction to her would be. The problem with a stronger moral compass was that it made experiences like this so much more difficult. (And, of course, there was Fanny to consider; if Mary misbehaved, the blame would likely land on her head for bringing her in the first place.)

"You do not have to -" Fanny began, but Mary waved her concern away.

"I have travelled this far with the intent to stay and provide support - it would be cruel to you to change my mind now."

Fanny looked relieved, and when Mary offered her arm to her she gladly took it. They both steeled themselves, and stepped inside.

"Miss Crawford," Sir Thomas said coldly. "Edmund informed me that you should be accompanying Fanny back." He didn't need to say that he hadn't been happy about the idea; it had been the first news that had greeted him on his return from London, where he had been attempting to find his daughter.

All eyes were upon her: Edmund looked relieved, pleased to see that Mary had arrived; Mrs Norris and Sir Thomas annoyed, no doubt making an unfavourable connection between her and her brother; Lady Bertram worried, perhaps concerned that an argument would break out and disrupt the fragile peace.

Mary smiled. "It was the least that I could do for such a dear friend as Fanny, sir."

Mrs Norris shot her a look of suspicion. "What do you have to say for the actions of your brother, Miss Crawford? I do hope that you have not come here to defend him in some way."

Mary returned the stare evenly. "Not at all. As to your question, I am afraid that I have as much control over my brother's actions as any of you can claim to have had over those of Mrs Rushworth. Henry, despite perhaps some evidence to the contrary, is a grown man, capable of making his own decisions, no matter how ill-advised they are."

Mrs Norris sniffed. "Hmm!"

"Fanny," Sir Thomas said stiffly, "may I speak to you in my study?" There was something in his manner and tone that reminded Fanny of the night of the ball - that sort of barely suppressed anger, doubtless to be released upon an unsuspecting victim at the slightest perceived insult; she agreed only in deference to his position as the head of the house, and perhaps a greater fear of what would happen should she refuse than if she complied.

"Of course," Mrs Norris began, before her niece could have been believed out of earshot by anyone, "if Fanny had only accepted the young man..."

Sir Thomas was thunderous by the time they were enclosed by the four walls of his study; although he did not raise his voice, or at least not so much as to be heard by the rest of the family, his words and the obviousness of his struggle to keep his voice at a normal level soon made the extent of his anger clear. Fanny had to prevent herself from flinching away from him when he spoke.

"I suppose that it did not enter your mind - empty as it has seemed to be lately of any consideration for your family's feelings - that Mr Crawford's sister would not be appreciated here?"

What seemed like a thousand excuses, apologies, and entreaties for forgiveness flashed through Fanny's head in a moment, making her quite dizzy, but she remained silent despite them all.

"Well, girl?" he demanded impatiently. "Do you have an answer for me?"

Still she said nothing. Fanny was a girl for whom this sort of bravery - standing up to the man who had been an authority figure for her for over half of her life - was very difficult, and since in recent memory she had already clashed with Sir Thomas far too much for her own comfort , she took time to speak, and was careful with her words when she did.

"I think...that is, there is a distinct possibility...that you are rather too harsh on Mary, sir. It is, after all, the sin of her brother."

Sir Thomas curled his lip disdainfully. "And are sins not commonly shared within families? Perhaps she has tricked you, foolish as you are, and has come to steal one of my sons away from me, just as her brother has stolen my daughter. Edmund, at least, seems more than willing to submit to her."

Fanny was momentarily silenced. The idea of Edmund and Mary - no, it could not possibly be. And yet...perhaps she was truly that undeserving of love, and they would both abandon her.

"Mary Crawford has been very kind to me," she eventually stammered out.

Her defence did nothing to convince Sir Thomas.

"Are you really so selfish," he sneered, "as to invite this...this woman into my house solely because she has been kind to you?"

"She wishes to help -"

Sir Thomas snorted derisively. "What comfort could she -"

"If you please, sir," Fanny said, quietly but firmly, her courage recovered once again, "I had not finished speaking." Sir Thomas was so surprised at being cut off that he fell silent.

"I am as much hurt by recent events as the rest of the family, sir; Mary, because she recognises that, has come here to support me. Of course, I understand that her presence may not be appreciated by all; I am very sorry if I have caused pain, and I am sure that if you prefer it she could stay with her sister and I could visit her instead. But I will not have her character besmirched - not by you or anyone else."

After this speech, Fanny seemed to deflate, and had to lean on a chair to support herself. It was as though this defence of Mary had taken everything out of her, and, it seemed, to no avail; Sir Thomas still regarded her with cruel eyes, unconvinced.

"How can you say that you are hurt by this," he said coolly, "when if you had only agreed to marry Mr Crawford, as I wished of you, we would not be in this situation at all? Did you know that Julia has also gone, no doubt following her sister's poor example? No, I do not suppose that you were aware of that, or would care if you were. If Mr Crawford had not taken an interest in Maria, if he had been engaged to you as he was supposed to be, then my daughters would both still be safely in London."

Fanny stared at him, wild eyed. All her courage was gone; she had no further defence from his assault.

"I -" she began, but she found that she could not find the words to go further.

"Leave," Sir Thomas said. "Stay out of my sight, or you shall learn just how much I can punish you."

Fanny didn't need telling twice. Almost before he had uttered the last word, she had dashed from the room, back down the corridor.

Back towards Mary.

There were voices raised loud in argument when Fanny returned - Mary, and Mrs Norris, and (quieter, but still there, just barely audible) Edmund. She paused outside the room, unwilling to interrupt.

"I will not stand such - such verbal cruelty!" was Mrs Norris' exclamation.

"With all due respect, Aunt -" Edmund's quiet rejoinder "- Miss Crawford was merely defending your - rather unjust, I might add - comment on Fanny's character."

Was that tenderness she sensed in the way that he pronounced Mary's name? She remembered Sir Thomas' words on the subject - the words that she could not push from her mind despite herself. Fanny entered the room. There was Mary, and Edmund sitting near her, united against Mrs Norris.

Something - perhaps Sir Thomas' recent suggestion about Mary's intentions, coupled with how much her argument with him had shaken her - made the scene uniquely unpleasant for Fanny.

"Fanny!" Mary exclaimed joyfully, almost unthinkingly, as she caught sight of Fanny standing silently, petrified, in the doorway.

Fanny couldn't speak. Edmund and Mary...the more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that it was natural, almost destined to happen. And if Mary Crawford was to wed Edmund Bertram, then it was probably best for everyone if she wasn't in the picture.

She stammered out some excuse - even she couldn't say what it was - and ran upstairs as fast as she could.

Mary was quick to follow her, barely sparing a glance for either Edmund or Mrs Norris, but he stayed for a time still; having assumed that Fanny's rather unusual behaviour was due to some overheard comment from Mrs Norris, he remained to upbraid his aunt. It was of no use - she remained completely shameless as to her conduct towards Fanny, holding that she was perfectly justified in her opinions, and all his fruitless attempt to scold her served to do was delay him downstairs while Mary sought out Fanny.

Fanny was in the East Room, collapsed on the floor in misery, when Mary found her. At the creak of the door, she looked up, startled, and Mary could see the tears running down her face to drip, one by one in quick succession, onto the floor.

"Fanny!" Mary cried out. "Why, what is the matter?"

Fanny forced a smile, but it wobbled so much that it soon collapsed back into tears and she was unable to reply through her sobs.

Mary immediately hurried across the room to her side, and gently put her arms around her.

"Oh...everything that has happened recently!" Fanny finally managed to say through her tears, in way of explanation. It wasn't a very believable one; even she didn't sound wholly convinced of it. But to tell the truth seemed unthinkable to her.

"I cannot help you if you will not tell me your troubles," Mary told her firmly. "I have learned my lesson well enough not to press you, but..." she let herself trail off.

Fanny was silent for a long time. She leant into Mary and stayed there, listening to her breathing.

"Mary," she said at last, "are you in love with Edmund?"

Mary stared at her in disbelief for a moment. When she realised that Fanny was completely serious, she burst out laughing.

"Edmund?" she said incredulously. "Dear me, no; I have never for one second thought of Edmund in that way! Well...perhaps I once allowed myself to consider the possibility, but that was a very long time ago indeed, and not for more than a moment even then. Whatever gave you such an idea, Fanny?"

"Oh, it was only a silly thought..."

"Are you in love with him, Fanny?" Mary had that teasing smile of hers on again, but there was a seriousness in her eyes, a slight sharpness in her voice, that belied it. "Is that why you asked me? To find out whether or not I should be considered a rival for his affections? Fanny! - you surely cannot be jealous?"

Fanny stiffened against her, then stood up. She looked uncomfortable, confused. "I do not think..." she began, "that is...perhaps once I did love Edmund - it feels so long ago that I cannot be certain any more - but now...now there is - has been for some time someone...someone else." Fanny took a deep, shaky breath.

Mary would have felt jealous, had she not already been aware of the names on Fanny's wrists. "Oh?" she said, a note of enquiry in her tone. But the confession had drained Fanny - she only shook her head, as if to say "I cannot tell you."

Mary made a decision.

"Fanny," she said, slowly rolling up her sleeves as she spoke, "I have felt for some time now that I should repay the glimpse I had of your wrists, as unwanted as it was on your part, with a view of my own." In truth, the idea had just occurred to her, to serve as a sort of reassurance for Fanny.

There! The names were out in the open. Mary Crawford ("a relic of my earlier, more selfish days, before I met you," she joked) and Fanny Price.

Fanny's eyes seemed almost transfixed with the sight of her name.

"I see," she said slowly. "It is to show that we are well suited as friends."

"Fanny," Mary replied, "it is not in reference to our friendship."

Fanny's eyes flickered up to meet Mary's - confused, and perhaps (yes!) hopeful. "How are you so sure of that?" she said, overwhelming emotion making her voice practically a whisper.

Mary stood up and took a step towards Fanny. "Fanny, my love," she said gently, "are you really so oblivious?" There was a new look in her eyes - or perhaps it had been there the whole time, only waiting to be noticed.

Fanny was no longer crying - her sadness had all but fled. Instead, she felt scared. To love another woman - she had been dodging around the idea, switching between denial and self-hatred and finally, the hope that she could ignore it. Mary seemed so accepting of it, so sure that it was nothing wrong, but Mary had also, not so long ago, been rather unconcerned about whether or not she was good. A decision had to be made; Mary was standing there, expectantly, possibly even- surprisingly - a little nervously. Fanny knew that she wouldn't force her to anything - that assurance comforted her and made her feel safe, and all at once, with that realisation, the fear washed away.

"I was so frightened," she said, slightly shakily, but nevertheless bravely. "I thought...I thought that there was something wrong with me. Mary, you cannot know for how long I tried to deny my feelings - it was as though, every time I looked at you, I was going through torture. And yet -" she took a deep breath "- I could not ignore it; it pressed upon me until I was forced to acknowledge it, and perhaps...perhaps accept it as part of myself. I do not know in my mind if it is right, or Christian, to love you, or to wish to spend the rest of my time on Earth with you - as you can see, doubts still plague me even now - but it feels so. It feels...good, and it brings me great happiness to know that my feelings are...are reciprocated." She smiled shyly.

Mary's smile had been growing throughout her speech, and as Fanny finished, she encircled her arms around Fanny's waist, pulling her closer.

"Kiss me," she murmured.

And so Fanny did.

Nothing in her life up until that point could have quite prepared her for what it was like to kiss Mary Crawford. All the tension that had been building, almost unconsciously, between them was suddenly released in that one moment; all the passion that each of them had for the other was realised. Fanny threw her arms around Mary's neck and pulled her closer still, a feat which made them almost lose balance, and caused their bodies to brush together. They pulled away for a moment to catch their breath - for even the most passionate of lovers need air - only to lean back in to kiss again.

"Fanny? Mary? What are you doing?" Edmund, suddenly, seemingly come out of nowhere, though in reality it had only been that the two young women were so absorbed in each other that they had not heard the tell-tale signs of his arrival - the creak on the stair, the footsteps, the sound of the door opening.

The scene froze, no more perfect a tableau than if it had been meticulously planned; then fear, pushing apart so quickly it almost beggared belief. Mary cursing herself - she should have known that Edmund would follow them up! - Fanny with her mind so terror filled that she barely had any space left to think.

Edmund, advancing towards them in the same way one might approach a dangerous animal, repeated his question. He did not, for the moment, look angry - only very bewildered. Still Fanny was too paralysed by fear to speak. She opened her mouth, but to no avail; no sound - at least, no intelligible sound - would come out. Mary spoke up in her stead.

"I think, Mr Bertram, that you well could see what it was that we were doing."

Edmund did not have it in him to hate Mary, and so the look he gave her had little more than a hint of reprimand in it. Behind that, though, was clear confusion. "It is true that I could see...but I could not understand the picture my own eyes presented me with."

"You will not tell anyone," Mary told him. It might have been meant as a question, and perhaps from another it could have been, but the tone of Mary's voice, the defiant glint in her eyes as she stared at Edmund, transformed it into a demand.

To his credit, he hesitated for barely a moment, before saying, "No; no-one shall know of this but us." Another pause. "I was, at one point at least, intending to propose to you, Mary. Now I can see just how futile that wish was." His voice was cold, as though all - or most, since he had agreed to keep the secret - of his kindness had gone away.

"Edmund," Fanny said, her voice heavy with all the weight that came with sudden sadness on the heels of great happiness, "Edmund, do you hate me? Please...tell me truthfully; I could not bear it if you hated me, but I could bear it even less if you lied to me."

Edmund looked at her and softened. "No," he said, "I do not think that I could ever hate you, Fanny. But I shall have to think this matter over. If you both could do me the pleasure of remaining here; I may wish to speak to you both." With this, he bowed stiffly and exited the room.

No sooner had he gone, than Fanny's tears finally began to flow. She allowed Mary to gently embrace her and lead her to a chair, leaning her head against Mary's chest as her body shook with sobs.

It was a long time before Edmund came back, pale faced but calm. "Fanny," he said measuredly, "may I speak with you? Outside, if you please."

Fanny looked at Mary doubtfully. She smiled and squeezed her hand.

Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Fanny followed her cousin out of the room.

Edmund looked...well, he looked as though he was trying to emulate his father's sternness, but he cared far too much about Fanny to greatly succeed. Still, it was enough to concern her; she stood there trembling as though she had been caught committing some great crime and was now before a judge.

Edmund took one look at her and all his attempts at strictness vanished. Due, in part, to Fanny's nervousness, he was suddenly reminded of the scared little girl who he had found crying all those years ago; she was all he could see. How could he ever be angry at her? He had been preparing himself to scold her, to hopefully convince her to turn away from...whatever her relationship with Mary was. But now she was here, holding back tears right in front of him, doubt began to seep into his mind.

"Please," Fanny began quietly, "please, I am prepared for any punishment, any at all - I shall submit more than willingly - but please, do not hurt Mary."

Edmund stared at her, all thoughts of the speech he had so carefully planned gone out of his head. And then, very gradually, an idea began to occur to him. He thought of Mary's name on Fanny's wrist, of her original reluctance - bordering on fear, now that he thought back - to befriend Mary, followed by a quickly developing friendship, a closeness that he had not realised was a product of something other than sisterly love. He thought of Mary's bitter melancholy after she had argued with Fanny, and her eager insistence on accompanying Fanny back to Mansfield.

"Fanny," he said, "do you truly love Miss Crawford?"

She regarded him cautiously. "Would you be very angry if I said yes?"

A look of hurt flashed across Edmund's face. "No," he said, more forcefully than he had meant to, "I would not be angry. You must know that I could never truly be angry with you, Fanny."

Fanny hesitated. The idea that she couldn't trust him sent a pang through Edmund's heart. Then, "Yes," she said at last, "I truly love her." With her declaration, the fear he had seen in her when he had first confronted her began to disappear; it gladdened him.

"You may go now, Fanny," Edmund said gently.

Left on his own, he returned to his thoughts. He could not believe, somehow, that Fanny could ever do anything truly wrong. But this? This confused him. For two women to love each other in the same way that a man loves a woman? And yet...there was love there, at least on Fanny's side. Edmund had been so sure of the decision he was going to make, to forbid them from seeing each other, perhaps to find an excuse to send Mary away, but now he was coming to realise that he couldn't bear to take a decision that would so clearly make Fanny unhappy. He wasn't keen for that to happen, particularly since he was acutely aware that of late he hadn't been paying as much attention to her, or her happiness, as he should have.

He didn't know what to do, and that disturbed him; he had always felt himself so sure of the moral choice, the right thing to do, even when others had hesitated. So why was he so unsure of this? It was like his head and his heart were telling him two wholly contrasting things. Of course, he knew what would make Fanny happy -

There was no question, really; he didn't know why he'd ever thought there was.

When Edmund stepped back into the room, he was grave-faced and silent. Fanny still wouldn't quite look at him, but Mary met his eye with a steady gaze, as though daring him to disapprove. Edmund shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, then," Mary said impatiently when he remained silent, "have you come to a decision?"

Edmund looked down at the ground for a moment, as though hoping that it would provide him with some much needed advice. "I have one question," he said, once he had fully observed all of the small details of the floor beneath his feet. "Mary: do you love Fanny, and promise to care for her?" There was a sad sincerity in his eyes as he looked at her in question; he was fully aware of his own recent negligence of Fanny.

"Yes," Mary said. "I do love her, and I do promise to care for her." She couldn't help but add one last bitter comment. "Heaven knows that her own family has largely been rather deficient in that regard."

Edmund didn't try to contest her; he looked more relieved than anything.

"Of course, it would be impossible for the two of you to marry," he said, "which would usually be enough to make me disapprove of any kind of union, even ignoring...other factors. Perhaps in the past I would have been against this match because of that, but in these last days my trust in the sanctity of marriage has been rather shaken. How can it be that someone like my sister, who could so little enjoy her husband's company, and who would willingly commit adultery, is allowed the opportunity to marry, and yet two people who so clearly love each other are not? Still, there is nothing I can do, not without going against the church that I have sworn myself too." He looked guilty. "You must understand me well enough to know that I could never do that. I can only give you my blessing."

Mary was now watching him with a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes. "And is the blessing of a clergyman not the next best thing to a marriage?"

Edmund laughed. It was a welcome sound, after the seriousness of the last hour. "I suppose that it is."

Fanny came to stand next to Mary, who put her arm around her. She looked resplendent in her happiness. "Thank you," she said.

Edmund bowed deeply. "I shall impose on you no longer." He spun on his heel and walked out of the room. They could hear his footsteps hurrying down the stairs.

Mary looked at Fanny. Fanny looked at Mary.

"Now," said Mary, "where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?"

And she kissed her again.

All that remains now is to tie up the loose ends often so thoughtlessly left dangling at the end of such stories. The fates of the Bertram family are, for the most part, common knowledge: Tom recovered, and perhaps gained some maturity from his experience with a life threatening illness; Maria was found and soundly punished - sent away from home, with Mrs Norris rushing to join her (whilst Henry, her accomplice in wickedness, only received slight reprimand - such is the unfairness of the world); Julia, to the surprise of many, not least her own family, ended happily married to Mr Yates. Indeed, they were so happy and full of love that they felt inclined to share this love with others, which (it need not be said) resulted in a rather curious domestic situation. Those who were inclined to gossip shook their heads and tutted, finding it shameful that Mr Yates should be so unaware of his wife's lovers, or that Mrs Yates should be so unsuccessful at keeping her husband by her side; perhaps if they knew the truth - that both acted with the full knowledge, consent, and occasional participation of their spouse - they would have shaken their heads yet more vigorously, tutted louder.

Dr Grant, that man so invaluable to the plot of this story that he has scarcely had cause to be mentioned before this point, soon died; as a result, Edmund was able to take the parsonage as well as the living at Thornton Lacey. He found it to be unusually empty for a place so much smaller than what he was used to, and often found himself staring absentmindedly at the two names on his wrists - Fanny Price and Mary Crawford. He could not believe that he had chosen wrongly, but still, he could not help but wonder how empty the house would have felt with either of them living there with him. Perhaps he learned how to be alone without feeling lonely; perhaps he met someone else to fall in love with. It matters not; that is not the story being told. Already too much time has passed since we last checked on our heroines.

Mary still enjoyed her life in town - nothing could change that - but she had come to appreciate the countryside enough that she easily made the decision to buy a house there - near Mansfield, of course, so that Fanny would not feel too far away from the place she so cherished. For Fanny was soon convinced to join her there ("We are practically married, after all," Mary had reminded her with a smile, "and it is only proper for a married couple to live together.") Occasionally, she was even induced to accompany Mary to London, where they often met the Yateses - that couple was cheerful and friendly with people who they soon understood had similarly unusual soulmate marks to themselves.

Of course, Henry still wrote letters to his sister whenever he remembered to (that is to say, not very often). When they did arrive, they were longer ones than he had used to write when they were still in the habit of seeing each other regularly; his writing was invariably full of affection, occasionally remorse, and often even enquiries after Fanny. From them, Mary learned that the mark of Fanny's name had faded completely from his wrist; she replied with sympathy, but she scolded him for it, and hoped that it had taught him a lesson (although that she doubted, since nothing else had effectively done the job). She rarely brought them up to Fanny, aware that it would cause her pain, but it was not a correspondence she felt any particular need to hide either. She knew that Fanny, of all people, would not begrudge communication with a dearly loved brother, even if Mary had a far more critical opinion of hers than Fanny did of William.

Of course, they sometimes quarrelled, but they made up as people in love do, and always endeavoured to be considerate of each other's feelings, something especially pleasurable to Fanny, so used to having her emotions neglected.

In short, though they did not live entirely happily ever after - a term reserved for those without human flaws, and who never face difficulties - they came as close to that happy bliss as two people very much in love can ever be.