corasorangejuice

My entry to the Cobert Winter Fanfic Exchange has just been posted to Ao3 and ff.net as well as on here for anyone who might want to read. Thank you @bella-caecilia for organising this event, this was great fun and I’m so looking forward to reading what everyone wrote!

I chose the Hurt/Comfort category and my prompts were “You don’t have to be so brave with me” / laceration

Without further ado, this is set after S6E5 (the bloody dinner episode)

Future

February, 1890

Despite the cold chill of a winter’s night, and the way it seeped into the cracks of stone and the gaps in windows, the roaring fire and his mother’s words had him sweating. Robert licked his lips, a dry mouth unable to soothe the chapped flesh. He stood and went to the table behind him, a small bottle of brandy and an empty glass waiting to help him. Or distract him. His mother seemed to read his thoughts.

“That won’t solve your problem.”

Robert closed his eyes briefly, her words continuing the argument they’d had all day. Pitiful, he thought, watching his hand shake lifting up the crystal bottle. It had been days since he’d had a good night’s sleep, the upcoming wedding only half of his worry. He rubbed at the twitching muscle above his eye before bringing the cup of amber liquid up and taking a sip. The burn filled his nostrils and his throat, and the liquor momentarily did what he hoped it would do, take his mind off of his parents, the barrister that had just left Downton, and his fiancee. 

“You’re going to have to answer your mother eventually, son. The wedding is in two days.”

Robert kept his back to his parents, one of the only times he could remember not pivoting and looking them in the eye during a conversation. But it had all been too much already, the push and pull between his past and his future. It had started the moment she’d stepped off of the ship, back in England and ready to prepare for their marriage day and it grew more keen and achy, like a sore tooth, each day after. 

“Will she be well enough by Friday?”

Violet asked the question again, as if it hadn’t been asked in several different ways already. Robert placed his cup down and braced the sides of the table, the Cora of a few hours ago in his mind. She had taken to her bed in Crawley House six days prior, a footman sending a note in her place, excusing her from their scheduled ride to the northern gardens. He’d been mildly annoyed, but then one absence turned to two, turned to a week’s worth and his irritation had been replaced by a confounding mix of emotions he couldn’t quite remember feeling before. He’d grown so used to her presence in the two months she’d been back, her curious questions, her unique voice.

Fueled by his parents feelings of frustration and urgency, and the growing desire to see her, he’d finally found the courage that morning to push into Crawley House unannounced. He’d been prepared for her mother to order him away, but she’d allowed him in, despite the frown lining her face. She’d watched him with a cold look, a scrutinizing glare, that made him feel as though he’d failed some test.

“I don’t know.” 

In reality, he’d found her pale as paper, coughing and glassy eyed. Though her maid had dressed her and placed her on the chaise in her bedroom in an attempt to make her look fresh and ready for company, Cora had barely been able to keep her head up, sinking further into the lounge the longer he stayed. It seemed only a miracle could make her turn a corner quick enough to be ready for their wedding day. The hours and hours of ceremony and tradition to fulfill was daunting enough to him, he couldn’t imagine her, still sick with influenza, lasting more than a half hour.

“Great. Typical.” His mother’s words came out hard and pointed, as though they should hurt being spoken. Robert dug his nails into the table.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” her voice rose and the quiver in it made him finally turn. Her nostrils flared. “That I wouldn’t expect anything less dramatic from an American.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Robert’s own voice rose to fill the room. “She’s ill, Mama! Or is that not allowed?”

Violet rolled her eyes. “She was ill coming off the ship. She’s ill now. What kind of delicate creature are we marrying you to?”

Robert sighed. “Everyone’s ill after a week at sea.”

“Not I.”

“Well, we aren’t all made of iron.” Robert pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Let’s not do this.” His father, the smooth baritone of his words muffling the harshness of his wife’s, held his hands out as he spoke.

“Can she even bare children?! I’m not convinced she’ll survive-”

“Please stop!” The twitch above his eye returned. 

“Violet!” His father’s eyes were wide and on his mother, and she quieted finally and faced the fire. 

“Robert, there were so many things we needed to do this week. The papers. Can she sign them?”

The inhale Robert took stuttered in his chest and he turned slowly to his father and squinted. The man looked at him blankly, calmly, and Robert felt the brandy in his belly swirl, burning a path up his throat again.

“Are you serious?” Robert took a step back, away from his father. “I’m to bring these to her and have her sign them? Papers signing away her right as a mother. To determine her children's religion. And her fortune. Two nights before our wedding.”

“It isn’t ideal-”.

“No.”

The room went quiet, the air stifled in each of their breasts. Robert was aware of the fan of his mother’s skirts as she turned quickly around to face them. He kept his eyes on his father but the older man’s face was unreadable. 

“No?”

Robert shook his head. “You’ll have to trust that she’ll do it after we are married. When I’ve had a chance to speak with her. Properly. She’s in no condition.” 

Clenching his fists together by his side, Robert waited, his breath feeling shaky and short. He’d never gone against his father’s wishes, the act feeling foreign and uncomfortable, but also freeing, like a weight was was dropping off.

“Think of your future.”

8: Honor

This is inspired by @ladyrosse ‘s cardgame request. Honor - (in whist) an ace, king, queen, or jack of trumps

Robert sighed as he flipped over another card. Three of spades. He surveyed the short lines of cards he’d laid on his bed tray and found he had nowhere to place it—no lonely four of hearts or four of diamonds, no orderly stack of spades resting at the top. He sighed, again, and drew a new card from the deck.

King of hearts. He frowned. Well, he had needed this card but he had no free space to lay it.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered irritably, and Robert drew another card.

He peered up from the new card as the door pushed open, and then he smiled as her face peered around the door.

“Hello, darling,” Cora smiled, and Robert felt all-at-once relieved and envious. She had on her thin summer coat, her gloves, her hat; she moved to him and kissed the top of his head, and she smelled of fresh air and sunshine. He pouted.

“How are you feeling?” She asked with a second kiss, this time to his temple, and he shook his head.

“As if I’ve entered some ring of hell Dante neglected to mention.”

“Oh,” a third kiss—to his cheek—elicited a tiny spark of warmth, “it can’t be so bad.”

“It is.”

Cora’s lace glove pointed at the cards arranged before him. “Your seven of clubs can go here.” And she walked, then, to her dressing table. Robert dropped the cards he held and watched her.

“How is everyone?” he asked as she pulled her gloves from her hands. She glanced at him in the mirror. He continued. “Frederick and Beatrice? I suppose they’re well.”

“They are,” she answered, and he watched, still, as she took the pin from her hat and removed it from her head.

“I suppose Fred’s off somewhere, enjoying the glorious days of summer.”

He heard her grunt of a laugh and a small part of him delighted in the way she rolled her eyes. “The grass is always greener, you know.”

His eyes followed her as she stood to take off her coat and came to sit beside him, near his feet.

“I’m not sure Fred would like to trade places with me. He rather enjoys food.” He paused as she took up the cards from the tray. “And wine,” he added in a soft groan, at which his wife shook her head.

“Well, I like you well.” She was looking at the cards, squaring the corners of the deck. “And not in a hospital bed.”

He hummed, conceding the argument with some reluctance, but with love for the way he’d heard the sincerity in her voice.

“Now,” she was shuffling the cards, “what shall we play?”

“Hand of poker?” he smirked up at her. Cora narrowed her eyes.

“I won’t have my bedroom smell of cigars, thank you.”

He laughed. “Very well. German Whist, then?”

“Alright,” and she began to deal. “Thirteen cards, isn’t it?”

He nodded and watched the way she quickly dealt them out. He watched, too, the way she stood and made herself more comfortable as she put the deck between them, tucking a knee upon the bed. A quick image of her from years and years ago flashed in his mind, and his chest tightened sweetly.

There she was, lovely as ever, and here was he, an old man with a new scar marching across his soft stomach.

“Hearts are trumps,” she said, and she looked up at him.

He laid down a card, she did too, and he took the trick.

They played a few more tricks in silence, Robert glancing up at his wife and finding her prettier and prettier, sweeter and sweeter, until at least he felt the words—I love you—gather on his tongue.

No. He swallowed them down. This too much resting, too little solid foods, it was making him irrationally emotional. And he knew his wife. She wouldn’t know what to do with any of that.

He cleared his throat. “Do you know, this version of the game, of whist, is also called Honeymoon Whist.”

“Oh?” She smiled at him, and she played a card. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. He took up the trick. “But considering the name, I thought you’d find it amusing.”

“Amusing?”

“Yes.” He chuckled a little. “Honeymoon whist.”

She was quieter than he thought she should be, and suddenly he realized she didn’t remember. “Cora. We played whist on our honeymoon.”

She blinked at him.

“On the train,” he rested his wrist in the tray, he was sure showing his hand. “You do remember, don’t you?”

She smiled, her brow furrowed, and then she shook her head. “Did we?”

“Yes!” He nearly shouted. He looked back at his cards and selected one to play. “Honestly, Cora, I wonder about your memory—“

“—in Italy?”

“Not in Italy, no!”

She put down a card and took the trick. “I don’t recall—“

“—in Scotland. Or rather on the train up to Scotland.” He put down a card. “Do you really not remember?”

But when he brought his eyes up to her again, he could see that she did.

Her crooked smile. Her bright eyes. Her tilted head. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Our wedding night.”

“Yes,” he arranged his cards. “Our wedding night.”

“I remember that you let me win.”

“Nonsense,” he laid down a card—king of hearts. “You didn’t have any help from me.”

“Yes I did.”

Robert looked up at her, at her even quieter voice, and found her smiling at him.

“I had plenty of help from you.”

The pink smile she wore felt contagious, and the corners of his mouth tickled upward as he thought of that night thirty-five years before. How young they were, embarrassed and fumbling about. How tender and rose-tinted it all seemed now, nights and nights and nights of marriage softening the sharp corners of that evening.

“We helped one another,” he grinned, his cheeks warming as he watched a small blush rise in his wife’s cheeks.

She nodded, and, reaching his free hand out to the tray, he chuckled softly when she took it in her own. “Yes. We did.”

“And, we will continue to help one another, won’t we?”

She extracted her hand from his, and she pushed the the trick he won towards him. “Yes.” He loved the way her eyes sparkled when she cocked a brow. “Though, you have at least two more weeks before any of that, thank you.”

He laughed at her, unguardedly and, for the first time all day, happily. “That isn’t what I meant,” he lied.

And Cora only glanced up from her hand at him, smirking behind her cards.

Pearl

July, 1891

“Robert, I don’t know what was so important-”.

His lips were upon hers and the rest of her words were swallowed into the depths of his soul as he covered her mouth so completely she gasped for air. Hands, greedy to feel every inch of her, pressed into the tender places that made her squirm with pleasure. Eyes closed, pops of light burst behind her lids as he pinched and caressed and pulled. Her mind spiraled into a dizzying freefall, all thoughts of seating charts and flower arrangements interrupted. There was no longer thinking, just a frenzy of feelings and impulses as her own hands instinctively responded, manipulating him in the ways he liked, making him groan and pant as he backed her into the wall.

She felt the absence of his hand and heard the small click of the lock, the knob secured against intrusion. It was like the release of a dam, both of them becoming more frantic in their movements, tearing at skirts and clasps and buttons. The loss of clothing made her hot skin prickle with gooseflesh and her shiver only fueled Robert’s need as he pushed her onto their bed and topped her. Finally finding the friction she craved as his body filled every blank space on hers, Cora rocked against him, taking him deep and holding him tightly. Their undulating rhythms quickened, and their release crested at the same time, both of them crashing against each other with each pleasurable and delicious wave.

When they’d both stilled, Robert collapsed beside her, his head resting on her sweaty shoulder, is finger tracing patterns above her breast. The tip touched the string of pearls still roped around her neck. She could feel one of the beads cradled in the hollow between her collar bones and that was the one he played with, pushing it back and forth lazily. The jewelry had been a gift from him after Mary’s birth and had quickly become one of her favorite pieces. 

“I should have thought on this more, when I bought it.” Robert leaned upward on his elbow, his face hovering over hers and his eyes directed onto the pearls.

“Hmm?” Cora felt drowsy suddenly, the carnal exertion adding to the almost constant fatigue she felt as the mother of an infant. 

“It covers my favorite spot!” Robert’s pout made her chuckle, and slowly his head dipped lower and he suckled the spot the pearl had occupied. The attention, the lingering kisses that grew more passionate, set her flesh tingling once again. 

“The suprasternal notch.” Cora’s voice cracked as his hand slid up the length of her body, as it cradled the slope of her breast. 

Bewitch

October 31, 1890

Though the rooms and halls of Duneagle were as familiar to him as Downton, on this night the shadows unbalanced his senses, and he felt less certain of his footing. Lit only by the tumultuous fires in hearths and the candlesticks flickering in a hundred jack-o-lanterns scattered about in the rooms, the walls seemed to dance, alive with each turn of air. With a glass of punch cooling his hand, Robert entered the drawing room. He squinted into the hazy darkness, the guests near the fireplace illuminated and orange hued, while those in the farther corners were faceless silhouettes, only a glinting of jewels or the outline of satin truly visible. Sighing, he stepped further in, to where a group of bachelors were pairing apples, looking into mirrors to see the ghostly forms of their future wives appear. Robert shook his head, and passed through the press of people, costumed and draped in elaborate pantomime, living out their fantastical interpretations of Susan’s theme. 

The ruffle of his own sleeve, authentic and smart looking hours before as it flounced from the edge of his cuff, was stained with punch and wilting at his wrist. The brocade jacket, with its golden embroidery and many buttons had grown heavy and wearisome as the night wore on. Robert had consumed enough punch to be tired, and his desire to find Cora compounded his growing irritation. He’d always disliked a masquerade, wondering why people couldn’t just be themselves. But Cora had been so excited at the invitation, looking forward to her first British Halloween. 

He’d been unable to say no. 

In the library, Shrimpie was holding the attention of a large group, telling some ghoulish story that seemed to rely heavily on Bronte’s penned musings. If the listeners suspected the hero bore an eerie resemblance to Rochester, they hadn’t let on. Robert inspected each person’s face, their form, their costume, but none were Cora. It unsettled him that it took him a moment to pass from one party goer to another. It seemed he should know instinctually whether he was looking at his wife or not, even through the veil of darkness blanketing the entire castle.

Robert passed from the library into the music room, a lone pianist playing a doleful tune on the instrument. There were several card tables set up, with a crowd of five or six at each. Instead of playing canasta or spades, however, each table held a woman in robes inspecting an elaborate deck of cards. It took only a moment of scrutiny for Robert to see it was a tarot deck and he frowned. Were people really so silly?

As soon as the thought entered his head, he saw her at the far table. If he had been able to think clearer, he would have been pleased with himself, noticing he had known her instinctually as soon as his eyes took her in their vision. He was too taken by her presence to think such thoughts. She looked as fresh as when he’d gone to her bedroom door hours ago, ready to accompany her downstairs for the festivities. Robert stood and stared at her for a few minutes, waiting, and then finally her gaze darted up and around the room, stopping when her eyes met his. Even far away he could see the crinkle of her skin around her mouth and the uplifting of her lips. She spoke lowly to the others at the table before standing. 

The long blue cape that she wore swirled behind her, the fluidity of the velvet like a living thing. And the sight of her again in her dress, the way the white lace of her bodice quivered as she moved, the angles of her delicate curves, made him choke against the restraint of the jabot around his neck. Sometimes when he saw her, he was again taken aback by her beauty, as though seeing it for the first time. 

Cora’s smile widened as she came closer to him, and she stopped only when their noses were close enough to touch. Robert was mesmerized by the glint in her blue eyes, the shine that rivaled the diamond stars on her tiara. Between them, her hand grazed his chest before it settled back against the bone of her corset, covering the shelter of their secret. When he found his voice, it was high and unnatural.

“What were you doing over there?”

Cora’s eyebrows rose, a playful smirk making her features even more lovely. “Listening to my fortune.”

“Oh?” Robert took hold of her gloved hand and led her to the doorway. “Good I hope?”

“Hmm,” Cora’s throat vibrated with the sound. “I don’t believe in that stuff anyway, it’s just for fun.”

It was Robert’s turn to chuckle. “Is the American more sensible than the British when it comes to the supernatural?”

Cora stopped and Robert turned to her. She lifted herself up on her toes, her mouth just below his ear. “I make my own fortune. Shall I show you?”

Fictober 2023

Category: Fanfiction

Fandom: Downton Abbey

‘What I don’t understand is why she didn’t just marry Gregson when she discovered she was pregnant,’ Mary said, shaking her head.

‘She couldn’t.’

‘Why not? Because he ran off when he found out?’

‘No, because he was already married.’

‘What?’ Mary goggled, shocked. ‘Edith was having an affair with a married man?’

‘I thought you knew that.’

‘Do I look like I knew that?’

‘But how could you not?’

‘Er, perhaps because nobody bothered to tell me!’ Mary cried, annoyed at being left out of the loop again. ‘Why didn't you tell me? It seems you knew all about it.’

‘It wasn’t my place.’

‘Your place? Since when have you been one to know your place?’ she retorted.

Tom narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You’ve spent a lifetime doing things people said you shouldn’t!’

‘Are you saying I should have known my place and not married Sybil?’ Tom asked, sharply.

‘Of course not! I’m saying next time you know a secret, you should share it with me!’

‘But you’d expect me to keep your secrets.’

‘Well, yes, obviously,’ Mary said, looking at him like that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever said.

‘So, why would you expect me to break anyone else’s confidence?’

‘Because you’re my best friend and you should tell me everything.’

Tom grinned at her. ‘I’m your best friend?’

‘Of course, you are. Who else would it be? Certainly not Edith.’

‘Anna?’

‘Anna’s my best Anna.’

Tom chuckled. ‘Well, that’s nice to know.’

Mary rolled her eyes. ‘Like you didn’t already know that. That’s why you should have told me everything. Promise me you’ll tell all next time.’

Tom gave her an infuriatingly noncommittal shrug and smile. ‘Can’t promise that.’

“Is it over? When one loses a child, is it ever really over?”

Eeee! Thank you, my friend! Xoxox

(This gif has nothing to do with shopping, but I love Robert nibbling a cold chicken leg happy as you like.)

8 - Robert & Shopping

This may be the funniest thing I’ve had to imagine in a while.

First of all, Robert doesn’t shop. He can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s been inside of a store. He WILL at Cora’s persistence or occasionally on holidays, but he’d rather not.

His clothes are tailor-made, and he goes to the tailor he’s always gone to in Thirsk for that.

His guns and saddles and wines and books all seemingly come to him thanks to people he employs (and Cora).

But he has shopped alone before. He’s gone inside a London jewelry store for his lovely Cora several times, though as he grew older learned he could have a selection sent from the store to Grantham House (if he was alone) or Rosamund’s house (if Cora was in London) for him to choose from. This was a far more proficient process; he always wanted to get Cora everything he saw for “oh, but this would look quite nice on her, too.” At least when the jeweler brings just a small selection, it’s no big harm done if he chooses more than one piece. (He likes to buy her pearls. Oh! and “those dangling type” earrings — he’s rather proud of the opal and mother of pearl ones he got her after the whole Bricker fiasco.)

He’s also gone into Hamley’s a few times on his own to buy his young daughters’ gifts, most notably a soft, stuffed tabby kitten for his three-and-a-half year old Sybil, a rosy-cheeked curly-haired doll for his newly seven-year-old Edith, and a little stuffed dog for his newly eight-year-old Mary. He gave them to the girls the night before he went off to the Second Boer War. (Cora had to leave the nursery before she cried.)

19 - Jokes & Cora

Cora has a better sense of humor than people think. She loves teasing, especially Robert…because he is pretty easy to tease. She loathes practical jokes for she hates to feel stupid and thinks they can be a little rude.

Fictober 2023

Category: Fanfiction

Fandom: Downton Abbey

‘Mary, would you mind judging the best cake at the parish fair on Saturday?’ Cora asked as she took tea with her daughters one late May afternoon.

‘Me?’ Mary asked, looking distinctly unenthused.

‘Yes, I did ask Sybil to do it, but she’ll be close to her due date by then, so we thought you might not feel up to it, didn’t we, darling?’ Cora said, reaching out to pat her youngest daughter’s arm as Sybil fanned herself.

Edith turned away from the window, looking towards her mother. ‘I can do it.’

Cora exchanged glances with Mary and Sybil. ‘Oh, well, that’s kind of you to offer, darling, but I think Mary can do it, can’t you, Mary?’

‘Yes, of course, I can,’ Mary said, painting a smile on her face but still managing to look less than thrilled at the prospect.

Edith regarded them, taking in the quick looks, the concern and – worst of all – the pity.

‘Mary doesn’t want to do it,’ she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘So, why didn’t you ask me?’

Cora shifted uncomfortably on her chair. ‘Well, you, er, you weren’t supposed to be here for the fair. You were supposed to be on your…’

‘Honeymoon. You can say it, Mama. I was supposed to be on my honeymoon. But I’m not on my honeymoon, am I? So, I can do it.' Edith surveyed her family feeling her temper quicken. 'Unless, of course, only married women are considered capable of judging the quality of cakes. In which case, obviously, I’m not suited to the job.’

There was an awkward silence for a moment until Cora spoke again, adopting a soothing tone.

‘Of course not, darling. I just wasn’t sure if you were ready for…’

‘For what? Facing the villagers after they all saw me being jilted at the altar?’ Edith snapped, perilously close to either losing her temper or bursting into tears. It was a toss-up between which would be most likely to happen.

‘Well… yes,’ Cora admitted, looking at her daughter with sympathetic eyes.

‘They already witnessed the main event, so I daresay the sight of me judging cakes won’t draw too much of a crowd. And I have to make myself useful, don’t I? Isn’t that what spinsters do?’ Edith asked bitterly, watching her sisters and her mother exchange more none-too-subtle glances. ‘Or would you rather just hide me away? The family disappointment nobody wants to acknowledge?’

Mary narrowed her eyes, annoyance overtaking the pity she felt for her sister. ‘Look, Edith, we understand that this is a difficult time for you, but – ’

‘Understand? You think you understand?’ Edith interrupted, feeling everything bubbling up inside her. ‘No, you won’t understand, ever. How could you? Were you humiliated on what should have been the happiest day of your life? No!’

‘Edith, we – ’ Sybil started, a concerned look on her face.

‘No! Look at you! Sitting there all smug because you have husbands! It’s all right for you, isn’t it? You’ve got your lives all sorted out, haven’t you? Mama, married for thirty years, surrounded by her daughters! Sybil and Mary married to the men they love! Sybil about to have a baby, Mary probably going to do the same! How can any of you possibly understand?’

Cora rose, walking towards her middle daughter, her hand outstretched. ‘Edith, my darling.’

Edith stepped away, shaking her head, losing control of all the emotions tumbling around inside her.

‘Every one of you has everything you want! I have nothing! Nothing! No husband! No prospects of getting one now I’ve been jilted! Everyone will think it was my fault! That there’s something wrong with me and that’s why Anthony wouldn’t marry me at the last minute! And if I don’t have a husband, I’ll never have children! I’ll be one of those women that people point at and whisper about! The one they'll use as a cautionary tale! You’d better be good, or you’ll end up like Edith Crawley, all alone without a single person to love her!’

Cora reached out, pulling Edith into her arms as the tears broke free. ‘I love you.’

‘It’s not the same, Mama!’ Edith sobbed, fighting against her mother’s embrace. ‘It’s not the same!’

‘I know, darling,’ Cora soothed, stroking Edith’s hair.

‘I want what you’ve all got! I want someone to love me! Me! I want someone who thinks of me first every day.’

‘And you’ll find him, you will.’

‘No, I won’t!’ Edith cried, crumpling into her mother’s arms.

‘Well, you won’t find him judging cakes,’ Mary put in.

Edith glared at her.

‘Give out prizes to the livestock farmers instead. There are more men there,’ Mary concluded with a smile.

On the Train

The train chugged along, humming its hefty endeavors, and Robert allowed his body to be tossed gently about his seat, his shoulder bumping that of his wife’s. He looked at her, looked at the way her hat was just a touch disheveled from the way she’d rested her head on the chair, looked at the way her lashes fluttered slowly up and down, looked at the way she lifted her chin a touch higher, her pearly throat gleaming in the lamp-stained moonlight, and he frowned. He’d planned! He’d put in such thought for tonight, more thought than he usually did, truth be told, and it had all been thwarted by the gentle pleas of his middle daughter; that and the way his wife had tipped her head indulgently in her favor.

Over the Telephone

He could hear her soft breath over the phone, a strangely soothing mechanical echo, like Cora was somehow within the ear piece he held to his head. She felt so near, listening to the however distorted sound of her sleepy sighs, but in looking around the dark hall, and then back at the speaker piece he held at his mouth, he knew she was not there at all. No. She was miles away, tucked in at Rosamund’s, her journey to see Edith settled in the flat finally at an end and happily so.