In the dead of night, in a darkened room, Neil lay awake, listening. Sometimes, when he had been dosed with laudanum throughout the day, he would recover at night to lie awake and think. It was hard to think when the nurse was in the room with him, because she was a talker. She talked of her grandchildren, and of the bible, and of the church sermon, and of her grandchildren, and of the bible, and of the church sermon. Sometimes she was daring enough to speak of the weather, but only in connection with the God who made it, and why he had made it so, and why one must be grateful to Him for it. She could be as grateful for thundering rain as she could for balmy sunshine. Neil, in her company, found it impossible to be grateful for anything.

There was, however, one advantage to her chatter. When she was talking, she drove out the voice in Neil's head. He knew it was in his head, and not in the room with him, for there was no one to sing it, and it was Giulia's voice.

Now, as he listened in the silent dark, he heard it again:

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna,

I'm going mad, he thought desperately. No. I arrived at madness long ago.

"Stop it!" he hissed. "You're dead. You're dead and gone!"

Nella braccia della mamma

"I loved another already!"

But the melody in his head would not stop repeating. Again, and again, the first line of the old Italian lullaby repeated itself dementedly in his head, in the singing voice of his wife. Giulia had known opera and orchestra and ballet. The clockwork demon in his head knew only one line of a cheap lullaby.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna

He had heard it when he was at sea too. Clinging to a floating hunk of debris in the Bay of Biscay, his eyes set desperately upon the lights of a shore he could not seem to reach, a cold blackness in his head, the old lullaby had played in his ears. Then, it had seemed to him a beacon, coaxing him towards the lights of the shore. Hold on, hold on, and stay alive. Now it seemed to be taking him the other way, back towards the black, churning ocean – if he followed it. But he must not.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna

It was fading, finally. It never quite went silent. It had been with him all these past few months, he knew. He had tramped through France with the song beckoning him onwards. On the ship back to England, the captain had strapped him, violent and raving, to a bed, with the song urging him to escape. When he had been carried from his father's carriage to his room, the song had quietly, mournfully serenaded his return. Neil had not told the physician who examined him of the singer in his head. He had told no one. The song frightened him, made him angry, drowned out his own thoughts. He could confess it to no one, and only wait, pleadingly, for it to grow quiet, and give him some peace.

"You're dead, Giulia," he said to the darkness. "Leave me alone."

He was quite sure of that tonight. Giulia was dead, long ago. It pained him, but it did not shock him. He had married Giulia, and she had died, and he had returned to England. He knew it to be true though he remembered none of it.

He knew as well, to be true, that he had another lover, and that he had forgotten her too. What had been her name? It eluded him. But her face did not. He could not forget those green eyes, staring tearfully into his own. Who was she? He could not allow himself to forget her. He knew, most definitely, that the child she carried was his. She had told him so, or Richard had, he remembered vaguely, they had said enough, between them, to make him understand it. But it had been the broken-hearted kiss she had given him that persuaded him it was true. The woman had loved him, and he had broken her heart, and left her with child.

He probed, cautiously, the depths of his fragile memories. It was true that they were shallow depths. They seemed to go back only a week or more before suddenly reaching the floor of childhood. But the currents were deceptive. They could drag him under, drown him, until he knew not the true shape of the world, and his place in it.

"Who was she?" he asked himself. "What did I do to make her so sad?"

His head ached. He tried to cast himself back into the past, as he tried so often these past few weeks. Fragments of memories came to him: a naked white body, pressed urgently against his; a cold voice, through a door, barely audible; rain upon his face, and absolute, gnawing desolation in his soul. Then, clearly, as though she was in the room with him:

"I want you. I need you. I love you, Neil."

He cried out, and fell back upon his pillow, his head in flames. Slowly, the ripples of pain subsided, and he was able to breathe again, harshly, clawing for air.

He did not know if he was feeling shame, or only the memory of it, but shame consumed him. Shame, self-loathing, and the horrifying conviction that he had broken something beautiful.

"What did I do?" he begged. "What did I do to her?"

But Memory, having spoken once, had gone to sleep again, leaving Neil awake and without answer.

Days passed. Perhaps weeks. He could not be sure. Some of those days were spent in the past eight years ago. Some of them were spent in the present, locked in fever. Some, few, were clear and focused. Throughout all of them, he was subject to the constant refrain of the Italian lullaby. Even when he knew very well that Giulia was dead, he could not stop hearing her voice. Did not understand why she was singing what she did.

Some days, he was able to tackle the question of The Other Woman. He had forgotten her name, and Richard would not tell him. Most clearly what he could not forget: she loved him, and she carried his child.

It haunted him, so much that at times he almost wondered if it wasn't just some cruel dream he had invented to torture himself with. But at other times, he all too clearly remembered her kiss, and knew she was real.

Neil was not the type of man who could so easily brush off a byblow by a lower class woman. He was a romantic at heart. He believed in a feminine ideal of chastity, purity, and innocence, regardless of whether the femme herself was a dairymaid or a duchess. He believed that he had tainted that ideal, and hated himself for it. It made it all the worse to be certain that she loved him. She loved him, and he could not help her, impotent in his illness.

He wondered if he had loved her, or if he had only been lonely. His memories did not aid him in that regard. He remembered no more than he had that first night, and trying only made him ill. Instead, when he was well, and the nurse had left the room, he tried to get Richard to tell him.

"The woman – her name I can't remember – what did I do to her? She carries my child. I know she carries my child. Tell me who she was."

"She was nobody."

"She loved me. She carries my child. Who was she?"

But Richard would never tell him. Neil could tell that Richard did know. The faint pink blush that stained his brother's cheeks told him that Richard was trying to hide it from him. And that fact alone made Neil suspect the truth to be far more sordid than he could imagine.

He woke from a dream one morning, a dream in which both Giulia and the Other Woman had been there, in a little garden, in the small village on the hill above Florence. What a wonder it was: they were not enemies. Not one word of love or hate was spoken. They drank their coffee and ate their bread, and leaned back under the lilac blooms, dappled sunlight on their cheeks. It was a disappointment to wake and find Richard's ugly face looking dispassionately at him from afar.

"You were moaning in your sleep," he said bluntly. "Squeaking like a dog."

"Was I?" Neil sat up. "Richard, I dreamed of the woman who kissed me. Who is she?"

"She is nobody, Neil."

"That is a lie." Richard looked surprised and guilty. Neil added softly, "She loved me."

"Neil. You had best forget her."

"I must not. Who is she?"

Richard breathed out slowly. "She really was nobody."

"You're lying."

"You should forget her." Richard laid out his trump card. "Giulia..."

"Giulia is dead."

The room was very quiet for some time after that. Eventually, Neil said softly, "I'm dying, Richard. I'm dying too. Dying men get one last request. Mine is simple. It's only information. Why won't you grant it to me?"

"Because it keeps her safe." His cheeks were very pink. Neil waited, not breaking eye contact. Finally, Richard admitted, "Her name is Miss Baker. Don't ask me anymore questions."

It sounded wrong to Neil's ears for some reason. He repeated it, under his breath. It felt wrong too. Perhaps that was why he could never remember it, when he always remembered her face. He tried again, despite the warning throbbing in his head, to remember ever saying that name with fondness. But it did not seem familiar at all. Perhaps he had had a nickname.

"I'm going to London next week," Richard said, perhaps trying to change the subject. "Father is sending me to do business for him. Is there anything you'd like me to bring you?"

"Not particularly. You do a lot of his business, these days," Neil said distractedly. He was still thinking about Miss Baker, trying to remember her. He could, ever so vaguely, remember the feel of her warm weight in his arms, her head against his chest. That had been when she said she loved him. Needed him. A sharp pain hit him in the temple, and he winced.

"I have for some time. It will be my business one day. Are you in pain?"

"A little. It is not so bad." Neil clawed at the blanket, waiting for it to subside. "Miss Baker loved me, Richard."

"Stop thinking about her." And then, quietly, "Loves."

"She is not fickle then." The knowledge was bittersweet. If she loved him still, then she would only be hurting more for it. "I hurt her. I am sure I did. I feel so hollow, so guilty about – about what I do not know." He tried to remember what. He tried, desperately, to decipher where he had been when he felt the pricks of cold rain on his cheek in the darkness. But the memory went no deeper than that, and another stab of pain came at his temple.

"Don't talk about her. I see it is making you pale."

"No!" Neil hit at the bed savagely. "It is not talking that hurts. Not knowing. She loved me. She is to be the mother of my child. And I don't remember – any of it. Did I seduce and abandon her? Did I love her, genuinely?" He slumped back, so heavily a pillow fell to the floor. "I don't know. I feel ashamed. Guilty. I don't even remember why."

"I'll look after her. I'll help her when-"

"When I'm gone." It wasn't enough. Neil knew that it wasn't enough. Richard might mean well, but he was a coward at heart, and so bound by unfeeling propriety. Without being told, Neil understood Lord Albroke to be a threat to Miss Baker. Lord Albroke, who had hated Giulia without even ever knowing her, merely because she was not his plan, would surely hate Miss Baker too. No. Neil had to help her. He could not die until he had come up with a way to protect her, and the baby.

For days, Neil puzzled the matter out himself. Richard would tell him no more, and his memories were vague and painful to seek. But perhaps it didn't matter. The facts were there: she had loved him, and was having his child, and he was dying.

The night before Richard left for London, he had a dream. He was at his wedding, in the little village on the hill above Florence where Giulia lived. Everybody in the village had hung wreathes of flowers on their doors. Petals had been scattered from the cathedral doors to make a path through the village square, around, and back up the hill road overlooking Florence, hazy in the bright sun, in the valley below, leading to to the doors of Giulia's parents' house. They were a popular family. Rich and poor alike cheered and sung behind Giulia and him as they made their way down the rose-covered path. He turned around one moment to look at them, and when he turned back, Giulia was gone.

"Where is she?" he begged. "Where is she?"

And then the hunt began. He knocked on all the wreath-covered doors, he ran back through the pews of the cathedral, he burst through the doors of Giulia's parents' villa.

There was someone talking, upstairs. He followed the sound cautiously, climbing, and climbing endlessly. The house was a maze of stairs, leading higher and higher. Finally he reached the top. It was raining there, snowing. The woman with green eyes – what was her name? – was standing disconsolately in the snow, holding a black-haired baby in her arms.

"Don't come in," she said. "Don't."

And then she was gone, and he was all alone.

When he woke, sweating, dawn was just creeping in over the horizon. He clambered, on heavy legs, from his bed. Conviction, cold as the dream rain on his cheeks, came to him, and with it clarity. He had to speak to Richard before he left for London. He had to. He knew the way they would protect her now.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna, Giulia sung in his ears.

"Don't," Neil said grimly, all but crawling for the door. "I'm not listening, and you're not there."

~~~

A/N: Whew. I had about three chapters of Neil waffling about being confused and Richard waffling about being... Richard. So I decided to condense them all to this one chapter and speed things up a lot, which meant rewriting most of what you see here. I think you can't format font size on Wattpad, or I can't figure out how to, but some of those lullaby lines are supposed to be in a smaller font than others.