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The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher was investigating a case with her favourite Detective Inspector, Jack Robinson, and she was happy. She felt a great satisfaction in working with him; she always did. Waves of pleasure washed over her.
It was not at all clear to her yet who the main players were in this case. She only knew it was very important to discover who was responsible and wring a confession from the guilty party. Justice must be served.
Justice…had she ever thought in those terms before she met the quiet, honourable inspector who now filled her consciousness more often than he did not? During her first few cases, she had loved the puzzle-solving, and she had loved matching wits with this man. Initially she saw it as a competition, but slowly and surely it grew to be a collaboration. Just as slowly and surely grew her attraction to him: first as one more nice-looking man, then as an esteemed partner, then as a cherished friend, and now…And now.
He meant the very world to her. She needed to find a way to tell him, somehow, someday.
She didn’t usually feel as vague about a case as she did about this one. She knew it was very important. She had to find the answer, and yet it felt hidden from her, as if by some unknown hand. It seemed as if all of her usual procedures were useless; the answers wouldn’t come. The answer was there, she could feel it; but it fluttered away from her, as if on fairy wings.
Phryne began to feel the tension of not being able to solve this case. She was filled with frustration. She couldn’t summon any of her trademark nonchalance. The pressure was increasing, and still something skated away from her, something otherworldly—something left undone.
She wandered through one crime scene after another, always searching for the thing that she needed to find, or was it the thing she needed to do? She racked her brain. Nothing seemed to fall into place in the way that it should. Everything was a jumble.
At one crime scene, she looked around and found herself surrounded by unfamiliar faces. She felt as if she should know more about these people, as if they might provide a clue. No one could offer her any help. She had to keep looking for the thing that kept dancing away, just out of reach.
She stepped outside, into the fog. It was thick and it obscured everything. She felt hemmed in on all sides.
Suddenly, she realized she couldn’t find Jack. She wondered where he had gotten to. Had he gone ahead when she didn’t notice? Why would she have let him do that? Working together was what they did best. She should be beside him, wherever he had gone. She needed him. She needed to discuss things with him, because she felt so muddled. She needed to figure this out, and she needed to do it soon.
She turned a corner, looking for Jack, and the sound of gunfire erupted behind her. She threw herself to the ground, hoping she could escape this attack that came from nowhere. She covered her head until the noise stopped.
She raised her head, and found Jack, also on the ground, not far from her. She moved to his side…and saw what she couldn’t bear to see. Her mind would not accept it, at first. He couldn’t be gone. It wasn’t possible. She loved him, had loved him, even though she hadn’t told him. His body, now lifeless, meant more to her than her own. All the shy charm, the ironic humour, the generosity of spirit that filled the empty spaces she hadn’t known to be empty—all that couldn’t have come to an end. It couldn’t. There was so much more joy that she had intended to find, together with him, and so much she had intended to tell him.
It sliced through her like a well-aimed arrow. There would be no more chances. She thought her heart might stop; she thought she might want it to stop.
The cry was ripped from her very marrow. “Jack!”
She shot up in bed, trying to understand what had happened, gasping for breath.
The man beside her fought to drag himself to wakefulness, hearing the distress in her voice. He groaned as he rolled over and sat up beside her. “Phryne. Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” He shook his head a little to try to clear the cottonwool out of his brain. He too had been dreaming, but his dreams had been full of mindless peace and pleasure. He was unprepared for the desperate grasping when Phryne lunged at him.
“Don’t leave me, don’t ever leave me!” she panted, burying her face in his shoulder.
She was quickly encircled by the powerful arms that kept her sorrows at bay. One hand slid up into the silkiness of her hair. He rocked her against him, soothing her with his strength.
“Leave you? Good God. That must have been some dream,” Jack said, sleep still clogging his thoughts. If she could have laughed, she would have. His answer was so fuzzy-headed, so mundane. It was no great declaration of love—although he had declared his love before, to her silence. It gave no credence to the utter misery, the soul-chilling horror of her dream.
Slowly, surely, she let go of her terror. Slowly, surely, the solid certainty of the man beside her eased her fear. He felt the change and asked blurrily, “Better?”
She reached around him, her hands on his flesh now gentled. It was better, it was much better. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
“Good,” he said, and almost immediately returned to that shimmering land of dreams she had pulled him from.
Her muscles, once clenched, relaxed. Her heart beat regularly again. Her respiration calmed. She was safe. All was well. There was no mystery here.
She tried it out. She whispered it against his skin, while he slept. The thing left undone. Unsaid.
Slowly, surely, she was drifting back into a world of dreams, but not the frightening one she had left. Her last thoughts before sleep consumed her were, I must find a way to tell him what he means to me. I must find a way.
Soon. Somehow.