When Richard and Jane had gone, Verity and Neil went back upstairs to his room. Annie, in her crib, was lying on her back and eating her fingers. She eyed Neil shyly as he stood over her.

"She slept for hours coming up," Verity said wearily, sinking into a chair. "I suppose she wants to play now."

"Can I pick her up?"

"Of course." Verity waited until he was holding her before adding, "She's going to drool all over your shirt though."

Neil winced as Annie began a scientific investigation of his cravat, but made no move to stop her. She gummed it thoughtfully, and then spat it back out.

"A true connoisseur," Neil said drily. Annie looked up at him, but was strangely silent. He jogged her up and down. "No talky?"

"Has she – forgotten you?" Verity said, dismayed. "Oh, Neil."

His face fell. "I suppose – it really has been more than half her life, that I've been gone." He dropped an apologetic kiss on her head, and she at last sputtered a confused syllable, and began to cry.

Verity got to her feet, and hastily took her from Neil, and began soothe her. Neil stood back, his hands hovering awkwardly by his side.

"No, it's your papa, darling," Verity cooed. "He's just your papa."

After a few minutes, Annie began to quieten, and chew her fingers again. She spat some strange, bubbly nonsense at Verity.

"She'll get used to you after a few days," Verity said, kissing her and motioning Neil to take her back. Cautiously, he cradled her in his arms, and this time she seemed a little less shy. She began to gum his cravat again.

He walked slowly about the room with her in his arms. Watching him, Verity felt the noisy misery of the past few months begin to quiet inside her. Neil caught her eye, and smiled.

"I have a feeling..."

"What feeling?"

"It's a faint sort of memory. I think my son would chew my cravats too."

They were very silent for a moment. Only Annie's contented gurgling sounded in the still room. Verity didn't know what to say, whether to encourage him to talk more, or to comfort him. But he didn't look sad. He was still smiling, as he touched Annie's nose, and mouth, and chin with his forefinger, muttering nonsense to her, and receiving nonsense in return. Eventually, he said,

"I don't remember much, you know. A few things. More, since I came here. But I don't think I'll ever get it all back. Do you remember what it was like to be a child? Before the age of six or seven? It's like that. Vast amounts of fog between fragments of memory, some clear, and some faded."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could remember you better. I know so little about us." He tapped Annie's nose. "There, there it is." She squawked with delight and reached for his hand. "I know so little about me."

Neil dressed for dinner that night. Perhaps he had no option, given the state Annie had put his clothes into. Verity, when she came down, felt her heart beat faster at the sight of him in his old dove-grey suit. Had he known it was one of her favourites? He must have forgotten such a benign detail. It was only coincidence. Herself, she was dressed in a staid and practical dark linen. The demand of nursing Annie had forced her to assign all her loveliest dresses to the back of the wardrobe.

It was still light outside, and the curtains were open. Verity stood by the windows and looked down at the view over the valley.

"It's been an age since I've seen this," she said softly, as Neil pulled a chair out for her.

"I remember you standing there once before."

"You do?" She turned hopefully to him, but he was frowning.

"You were very..." She waited expectantly, but he only shrugged. "Pretty. I remember thinking that you were almost too pretty."

The old Neil would have twisted it into a compliment, but the new Neil only held her chair until she sat down, disappointed. He sat next to her, and the footman poured a glass of wine for each of them. She sipped slowly, allowing its strength to seep through her. It was strange, to have so much she wanted to tell him, so many thousands of words clouded in her head, and be unable to utter a single one of them. He was leaning back a little in his chair, his arm on the table, watching her. Perhaps he felt the same way.

They were both on their best behaviour throughout dinner. She found herself laying her fork just so on her plate, and dabbing her lips delicately with the napkin. Neil was very attentive with the wine bottle, and very graceful with his cutlery. There were occasional, brief conversations, and long lapses into silence. She inquired of his health, the town, and the weather. He told her her felt much better, the town was quite as normal, and the weather had been good. She drank too much wine, out of nervousness, and was a little giddy when they finally stood.

"I don't think I shall have coffee," Neil said. "Unless you would like it?"

"No. I am quite done." She took his arm. "Show me the nursery."

The light was fading outside, but not gone. They went upstairs, and he lit a candle against the dimness, and showed her to a room at the very end of the second floor corridor. Once, it had been a guest bedroom. Now, there were bars on the windows, a freshly fitted carpet, and new paper hangings on the wall, in a fir-leaf and sparrow print.

"There's no furniture yet," Neil said apologetically. "I'm having a man make it. I didn't inherit any from my mother, and I didn't dare ask my father if he would send his old nursery furniture down."

"No. He would not have done so." She circled the room. "It is well decorated, and very large – I had thought you might have used the green bedroom. It's a better size for one child, and closer to my room. But I suppose you were thinking of the future."

"The future?" Neil stood by the door with the candle flickering in his hands. "No. I'm afraid I was thinking only of the now. The green bedroom tends to damp. And a nurse would prefer a large room."

"We don't need a nurse," Verity said firmly. "I am quite capable."

"I know you are. But you might want one, one day." He raised his candle, so that the light arced up the walls. "Does it satisfy you?"

She had a feeling he was trying to change the subject. "It's very good. I look forward to seeing the furniture you have commissioned."

They checked on Annie, who was sleeping in her crib, and went down to the library together like usual. Except, it wasn't like usual. They sat down at opposite ends of the sofa. Verity curled her legs up under her, and Neil put his arm along the back of the chair and stretched out his legs. He gave her a wry smile.

"Where do we stand?"

"I don't know." She considered him carefully. "You look very well. You look much better. I'm glad to see that."

She was in the awkward position of being furious with him, and being desperate to please him. The six lonely weeks in Albroke had been intolerably cruel to her, but she was aware of some reserve swelled up between them, and wanted to break it down again. Anger did not seem the answer to that. She swallowed her feelings: anger, and love.

"What have you remembered?"

"Vague moments. Once upon a time, we did not sit quite so calmly on this couch." His lips twitched. "I remembered that – just now."

She could not smile. "Anything important?"

"I think so. Some things. I walk into a room and I remember slips of conversations I had there, or things I saw." He faltered. "It's a strange feeling. Disorienting."

"But you haven't... regressed? You know who you are, who I am? What year it is?"

"Yes. Always. There are things I know here that I don't even remember ever learning. Which pew we always sat in in church. That large house in the valley is your grandmother's. I don't like her – I haven't met her since the accident, but I know that I don't like her. You don't look surprised. You don't like her either. I thought so." He nodded to himself. "And then there are the moments, the things that happened, that come to me, sometimes on no provocation, and I have to decipher why I remembered them. Like the apple trees, which aren't blooming now. I remembered the blossoms and didn't know why. Then I realized - there were apple blossoms blooming outside the church on the day we married. It was a sunny morning, but then it rained, later."

She nodded tearfully. "Yes."

"It wasn't quite a love match." He paused. "I was quite content, the day we were married. I know that, when I think of the apple blossoms. But it wasn't a love match."

"Not then. Later – later it was different."

"I don't remember much of the later. Maybe it will come back, now you're here. I hope it will."

"I can tell you."

"I want to try to remember first. By myself." He shifted, crossed his ankles. "I have remembered from before I met you, too. I was lonely here. I was very lonely. I was grieving Giulia. I've forgotten a lot about her, too. But I remember what it felt to lose her. Raw, hopeless disbelief. I came to this town, hating the entire world, and everyone in it, because the two people I loved most were dead. I think, when I met you, I was still that man."

She was silent for a long time, but he was watching her expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"Yes. You were. And then you changed."

"And now... I have changed again."

"Who are you now?"

"A confused and frightened man, with a wife and child he must look after."

"Then why did you go?" she burst, at last. "Why did you leave us in Albroke and come up here? Neil, I couldn't bear it. I was so alone. Six weeks. I thought you would never-" She took a deep breath. "You abandoned us."

"I didn't." Then, fiercely, "I didn't expect to live – I thought I would die before you had the baby, do you understand? I thought the best I could do was marry you and die. But I didn't die. And then I found myself married, with a baby, and I didn't know how I'd gotten there. And I came here to look, to see if I could find out how. You were quite safe. I was quite safe."

"Safe!?" She was beginning to raise her voice. She forced herself to speak quietly. "Neil, I've seen you nearly dead time and time again this past year. Don't tell me you're safe. And don't tell me that looking after us is keeping us safe. Looking after a wife and child... it takes more than that."

"Richard promised me that he would take care of you two. I needed-"

But she was getting up, and moving to the door. She knew that if she stayed there would be no holding back the flood of anger and hopelessness within her – and she didn't want to unleash it upon him. Not like this. Not the first night of being together as man and wife in nearly a year.

"Verity."

"Later. Later, Neil. Tell me later."

He was up off the couch too, but making no move to come after her. "Don't shut the door," he said urgently. "Don't shut it."

She didn't. Not, because he had asked, but because she was afraid she would be unable to prevent herself from slamming it. She did not think twice about the strangeness of his urgency, either. Not even after, when she had calmed down.

Later that night, after she had changed for bed, and fed Annie and put her to sleep, she was blowing out the candles, when she saw that there was a still a light coming from under his door. Her anger had passed into a sort of prickly heart-weariness. She knocked, and on his answering call, opened it.

He was just finishing washing his face, and turned to her, cheeks still damp.

"I hate when we fight," she said softly. "We do, you know. But I don't want to go to bed without... saying at least, good night, and being amicable."

"We fight." He nodded, his face tense, and dumped his towel on the wash stand. "I have remembered a few arguments."

She shook her head ruefully, came closer, and wrapped her arms around him. After a moment, his arms came up around her in return.

"I should have done this when I first saw you," she said softly. "I missed you. I missed you so much, Neil, I couldn't bear to stay there a moment longer."

His arms tightened on her back, pulling her closer. He said nothing – no word of apology, no argument, no agreement. A moment later, they pulled apart, and his hands slid over her shoulders and down her arms to take her own.

"Welcome home."

~~

A/N: This chapter was a pain in the butt to edit. Hard to make Neil both sympathetic and kind of... well, behaving less thoughtfully than normal, say. At least when we're in Verity's POV.