Chapter Six

I turn my arm over and study the black thread that was used to sew the wound on my arm closed. Frederick is sitting before me, paper on the kitchen table in front of him, waiting on me to speak again. I have already related to him what I remember of the incident, and he is waiting on me to answer a difficult question he has put to me.

Frederick has asked me if I recognized the man's voice. I hadn't at the time, but now I am beginning to have my doubts. For some reason, the man's voice tickles at the back of my brain, but I cannot place it. The voice itself is rather handsome, with a soft, pleasant quality to the accent, despite the harsh words the man had uttered.

I shake my head and look up at Frederick. "No, I don't recognize his voice," I say, lying somewhat.

"Are you sure?"

I nod. "Yes, I'm sure." At least, until I can figure this out for myself first.

Frederick puts down his pencil and sighs. "Your room is too far away from mine," he says suddenly, bringing up an argument from the day before. "I want to put you closer to my room."

"I'll be fine," I say. "I can take care of myself."

"The way you took care of yourself this morning?" he asks pointedly, reaching out to begin gathering his papers.

I grimace at his reference to the attack but remain silent as he continues.

"I just don't want you in a room so far away from mine. If he can get in once, he can get in again, and I don't want to take the risk that I'll sleep through your murder."

"Frederick--"

"William, please. At least for my piece of mind."

I bite my lip and look down at the tabletop. "Fine. Move me wherever you'd like."

Frederick gives me a gracious smile that I almost overlook. "Thank you, William. Your agreement gives me some relief, at least at some levels." He stands and motions towards the living room. "Go get your thinks, then come in the living room. We'll figure out where to put you from there."

***

"I still don't think this is right," I say, standing beside Frederick's bed. "This is your bed. You should sleep in it, not me. I should be the one to sleep on the sofa."

"No, I'll be fine," Frederick insists. "Anyway, you're injured. You need the bed more than I do."

"Frederick, it's just my arm," I say, smirking at his poor reasoning. "My arm won't be affected by whether I sleep on your bed or on your sofa. Besides, that was probably the lousiest reasoning I've ever heard in my life."

Frederick laughs. "It WAS pretty lousy, wasn't it?" He scratches lightly at the back of his head and gives another sheepish chuckle. "I just want you to be comfortable while you're here."

I give him a pointed look. "Frederick, I'd be comfortable sleeping on the floor," I say, motioning to the floor, where large rugs cover every inch.

"There's no need for that," Frederick says. "And anyway, now that I think of it, you could sleep on the bed and I'll sleep at my desk since, according to Peter, I do that so often anyway."

I let out a laugh myself. "Really funny, Frederick."

"I try to be."

I shake my head, knowing that the man standing in front of me is quite possibly one of the most serious, hard-working men I've ever met in my life. "Fine, fine. Have it your way, see if I care."

"You know you do."

I drop my bag on the bed and sit down on the edge of the bed. "So what am I going to do when you're at work? I can't very well come along."

"Yes, you can, and that's exactly what you're going to do."

I open my bag and begin taking a few things out. I gingerly prop the photograph of my parents against the candleholder on the bedside table, and almost immediately, Frederick picks it up to examine it.

"Madeline and your father, right?" He glances up at me for confirmation, and I nod. "What was your father's name?"

"William Turner," I say, placing the paper that had been wrapped around it back in my bag. "I was named after him."

"Your parents were a beautiful couple," he compliments, propping the photograph back from where he picked it up.

"Thank you," I reply.

He looks as if he's wanting to add more, but he stops, shakes his head, and turns to head back into the living room.

I sigh and turn back to my bag to finish unpacking my things. Frederick is just...

Impossible.

***

I wake up the next morning in a foul mood, made even fouler by the fact that the sun is obscured behind thick, heavy clouds and a light drizzle. With a book tucked under my arm, I follow Frederick to the waiting carriage, shielded from the falling rain by a large black umbrella Frederick holds over our heads. I silently climb into the carriage and sit in my seat, slouching down and placing the book on my lap.

"I see you took my advice," Frederick says, after shaking water off his umbrella and climbing in after me. "What book is that?"

"Le Morte d'Arthur," I reply, turning my head to look out the window as the carriage begins to move, bouncing roughly over stones and trash on its way to the Metropolitan Police Station.

"Good book," he comments.

"Have you ever read it?"

"Once. But I found it interesting."

Four hours later finds me sitting in a chair in the corner of Frederick's office, utterly engrossed in Malory's book. Despite the occasional place where the high language seems to go over my head, it is a quick read, and I am just finishing a section called "The Healing of Sir Urry" when Frederick, who has been completely absorbed in his work, clears his throat.

"William, do you want me to send Peter for some supper for you? I was about to do so myself, but I wanted to make sure you wanted something first."

I look up at him and smile. "That would be lovely, thank you." I haven't even noticed my hunger, I'm so engrossed in my book.

"What part are you on?"

"I've just finished the Book of Sir Launcelot and Queen Gwynevere," I say. "It was beautiful. A little too romantic for my taste, but..."

"Your taste?" Frederick repeats, standing from his desk and stretching. "What is your taste exactly?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I've never exactly been in a romantic situation before, so I wouldn't be able to say what I like or don't like."

He comes towards meand leans over my shoulder to take a peek at the book's pages. "'For a year after killing Sir Mellyagraunce in battle, Sir Launcelot, to spite his enemies, adventured forth in a cart as though he were about to be hanged,'" he reads aloud. "Sounds pleasant when read like that, doesn't it?"

I nod commentally, though I know he is being sarcastic, and shiver slightly. I am beginning to become more than a little unnerved by the closeness of Frederick, the scent of him that fills my nose and puts me more than a little on edge. I unconsciously grip the book in my hands harder, and it takes a conscious effort to loosen my grip on it. Frederick has become unnaturally still, perhaps realizing the effect he is having on me--unless, of course, I am having some sort of similar effect on him, which I somewhat doubt.

A gentle hand suddenly touches the side of my neck, and it is all I can do to not jump in surprise. The fingers of that hand lightly trace the tendons in the side of my neck, sliding down into the collar of my shirt to graze my shoulder. I lean into the touch, gasping very faintly, and the book drops from my lap to the floor with a soft, muted thud. I can hear Frederick's breathing; the pause between each breath has grown considerably shorter. I don't dare turn to look at him, because I am afraid he will stop what he is doing, and a part of me wishes he will continue, go further than my shoulder and neck. Most of me wants to feel what it would be like to have him kiss me, instead of the way our one lone kiss had been in November: one-sided and seemingly unwanted.

I do jump slightly when Frederick's other hand comes up to rest on my other shoulder, and an audible gasp escapes my mouth when Frederick gently kisses the side of my neck. My left hand lifts involuntarily to tangle in his dark hair, and I tilt my head to the side to allow for better access. My free hand grips the armrest of the chair firmly enough to turn my knuckles white, and I struggle to stifle another loud gasp as the tip of his tongue flicks out to taste my skin, and my back arches.

There is a rap at the door.

Frederick almost flies backwards from me, thudding into the wall behind my chair; he grabs my book from the floor and shoves it into my hands before practically throwing himself into his desk chair. Clearing his throat, he calls out, "Come in."

The door opens and Peter enters, a stack of papers in his hands. "Frederick," he greets before setting the papers before him. "We've got more letters. These are the ones that survived the gauntlet."

I'm staring down at my book, still trying to compose myself, but I don't even have to look up to know that Frederick's eyebrow has gone up.

"I want to see them all. Those constables haven't been as involved in this case as I have. They don't know what to look for, so why are they eliminating letters from the stack without having me look at them first?"

"I wouldn't be able to tell you," Peter admits. "I suppose they think they know more than you." He takes out his pocketwatch and glances at it. "It's getting rather late. You should be going home soon."

"I need to stay and go through these," Frederick says, and I see him bow his head to begin studying a letter.

"I knew I should have waited to bring these to him," Peter says to me, and I grin. He winks, and it is then that I have a revelation.

Peter knows. He knows what Frederick and I were doing before he knocked, and he knows that I hold some sort of intense attraction for Frederick, and he knows of the possibility of Frederick having the same.

I give him another smile, this time uncertain and faint, and bite my lip as I turn away. I look down at the book in my lap. Poor Launcelot and Gwynevere. I definitely know how they feel.

A Fairy-Tale Interlude

Once upon a time, there was a rich man named William Turner who was unhappy with his lot in life. He had a loving mother, a stern but well-meaning father, a rebellious but kind older brother, and a gentle, quiet younger sister. But that was just how things looked on the outside.

William's father was abusive, constantly berating William for things outside his control. He was very close to his older brother, who eventually was forced to leave home after being accused of immorality with another man. His sister was dedicated to helping people, and she spent much of her adolescence and adult life petitioning for monetary and humanitarian aid for the Whitechapel and Spitalfields areas. William's mother, the lone driving force of love and caring in the home, died when William was seventeen, and his father only became more violent.

One day during his eighteenth year, as he walked through the outskirts of the slums of London with his sister, and as she prattled on and on about the area's poor conditions, William spotted a very beautiful woman outside a rundown house, tending a small flower garden. He stopped mid-step, completely awestruck by the sight of the radiant beauty in her simple clothes. There was nothing entirely special about her--in fact, most men would be more likely to find her plain than particularly beautiful. But with that one sight, William vowed that she would be the woman he would marry.

For weeks afterwards, William would spend all his spare time walking by the house, hoping to get another glimpse of the unnamed object of his affections. With each sighting, his heart grew fonder and more desirous for her. But soon, after becoming more and more enamored, all he had was an intense desire to learn the name of the woman who had captured his heart.

One evening, as he walked once more in front of the woman's house, she looked up from her gardening and smiled at him as he passed. The sight of her radiant smile was enough to make his step falter.

"Good evening," she called. "May I inquire as to why you've spent the past four weeks walking by my house as you do?" She stood and brushed dirt off her hands onto her already-dirty apron.

"I am only walking, Miss..."

"Madeline Washington," she supplied. "And you are?"

"William Turner the Second," he answered, the title seeming distasteful and condescending to him. But she only smiled. "Do you need any assistance?" He motioned towards her flowers.

"In that finery of yours? Perhaps tomorrow, if you decide to take a walk in something a little less expensive."

So the next evening, William showed up at Madeline's home and helped her tend her garden. As they worked together over the next several weeks, they developed an unlikely friendship and soon fell in love.

The year had progressed from fall to winter when William finally approached Madeline, ring in hand. That very day, William's father discovered William's relationship with the poor girl, and he ordered William to break it off. But William refused, threatening to leave if his father did not allow him and Madeline to marry. The father reluctantly allowed it; after all, William was his only heir left. So the young couple was married one month later.

But William's father had his revenge. Once the marriage was finalized, William's father cut William completely off from the family's finances. But William didn't care, for he had his own money, left to him by his mother, and didn't really need his father or his father's money.

A year later, Madeline had what the young couple hoped would be their first of many children. William decided to name him William, but he called him Will. Will was his pride and joy, the most magnificent and beautiful thing he had ever seen--aside from his wife, of course.

But when Will was only a toddler, he disappeared while playing in the front yard. The opening weeks of searching proved fruitless, and William hired a private investigator, a family friend named Frederick Abberline, who had only been in the business about six months. Frederick was meticulous, going about the neighborhood, inquiring at all the homes--but to no avail. Little Will remained elusive.

And William exhausted all his money. Though no longer able to be paid for his services, Inspector Abberline continued the search, determined to find little Will.

And then he found Will. In the Whitechapel district. He was never able to find who had taken the boy, but since the boy was alive and safe and for the most part healthy, he wasn't exceedingly concerned with it. He returned young Will to his home amid tears and profuse thanks.

William was happy to have his son back, but once he did have him, a stark reality set in: he no longer had money to support Madeline and Will, and he could not find a sufficient job in London. He plead to his family, but received no response. In desperation, he began looking abroad, and found an available position in Germany. Without a word to Madeline, he packed a few of his things and set out for Germany, leaving Madeline and Will without a penny to their names.

Needless to say, Madeline and Will did not live happily ever after.

Chapter Seven

When we return home late that evening, Frederick searches the entire house before allowing me to go further than the foyer. Once he lets me in, the first thing I do is go to his office and place the book of King Arthur tales back on the shelf. I pause, allowing my fingers to dance over book spines and marveling at the wealth that must be had to buy all these books.

"Are you well?"

I turn to see Frederick in the doorway, framed by light from a fire he has stoked. I shake my head. "I'm fine," I say, putting my hands behind my back and carefully leaning against the bookshelf.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Frederick seems to hesitate before walking into the office. He stops a few feet away, looking at me seriously through the darkness. "I'm very sorry about earlier today."

I shake my head again. "Don't worry about it."

"I will," he replies. "Even if I try not to, I'll still end up worrying over it."

"Why?"

He sighs and takes a step towards me. "Because I'm afraid I've messed things up." He takes another step. "William, I..." He trails off, then suddenly grasps my upper arms and presses his lips firmly against mine. I groan and immediately begin kissing him back, my arms immobile at my sides in his nearly painful grip. His grasp on my arm loosens, and both of his hands come up to cup the sides of my face as the kiss deepens, the tip of his tongue teasing my lips. I part my lips to allow him access, and he slides a tongue into my mouth, running a thumb along my jawline as I enthusiastically participate in the kiss. I am beginning to feel heat pool below my stomach when he breaks the kiss, leaving both of us gasping for breath. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. I lean against him, my entire body feeling limp and on edge at the same time.

"William," he murmurs, uncertain.

I kiss him then, simultaneously hooking my right leg around him and drawing him closer. One of his hands hooks around my thigh and with a slight boost and the aid of the bookshelves behind me, i wrap both my legs around his waist and drape my arms over his shoulders. He moans faintly and rests a hand on my hip; his lips find my neck again, and I gasp loudly, letting my head fall back. Both of my hands fly up to grasp the edge of one of the shelves above my head as Frederick fumbles for the buttons of my shirt.

Inexplicably, though, he stops. His hands halt their frantic movements, and I look down at his face in confusion. "What is it?" I ask breathlessly, still hanging onto the bookshelf.

"I...I can't do this," he replies, his grip on me loosening slightly.

"Why?" Oh God, Frederick, please don't do this to me, I mentally whine.

"I just can't."

I try to kiss him again, but he only gives me a light, soft kiss on the side of my face. "But Frederick, I want you to," I say, trying to kiss him yet again. He turns his face away, and I get a faceful of hair. "I want you to. It's not like you'll be doing something I don't want you to do. I want it, more than anything else right now."

"I can't, William," he says softly. "I respect you too much to do this like this."

"Then how? Tell me how, and we can go do it your way."

Frederick shakes his head. "That doesn't matter, William. I would still respect you too much, and I still wouldn't do it."

I slide down onto the floor and glare at him, suddenly angry. "I get it. I understand now. I'm nothing but a whore in your eyes, and you don't want to sleep with me because you're afraid of catching something. I'll have you know I'm clean--I don't have anything!"

He holds his hands up pleadingly. "Will--"

"I don't want to hear it! Damn it, I'm sick of being turned down all the time! First Jack, and now you. Am I not desirable for anyone? Is there something absolutely disgusting about me that I haven't noticed but everyone else has?"

He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

"Be quiet. I don't want to hear it." I turn on my heel and stomp out of the office into the living room.

As I begin to enter the kitchen on my way to my original bedroom, a dark figure appears in my path. I step back and open my mouth to shout for Frederick, my anger quickly forgotten, but I cannot make a sound. I feel short of breath and dizzy, and my hand clutches at my throat. I take another step back, and then everything goes black as I crumple to the floor.

***

I slowly wake to someone gently wetting my forehead with a cool cloth, but I do not open my eyes. I can hear someone moving about the room, and two voices are speaking.

"He'll be all right," Frederick says from a distance from me. "You likely frightened him, and his mind was so overwhelmed, all he could do to defend himself was pass out."

"I didn't mean to scare him," a familiar voice says. In my tired, foggy mind, I try to place the voice. "Poor Will. He's been through more than anyone should have to go through."

"Did you know his mother?"

"Madeline? Yes, I knew her. She was the sweetest, gentlest person I've ever met. It's horrible that such a person should have to die like she did."

"Do you know anything about his father?"

"William Turner? That bastard. He left them alone when they needed him, without a penny to their names."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. Likely dead. It's been almost nineteen or twenty years since anyone's seen him." There is a sigh. "I STILL can't believe Will would sneak away like he did."

With this sentence, I place the voice: it's Jack! I keep myself from opening my eyes, though, wanting to listen to their conversation.

"Jack, he was frightened. Four men had been murdered by an unknown person, and he didn't know if he was going to be the next one. He wanted to come here, because he knew I would know what to do."

"I still don't--"

"Jack, listen to me. This world has become very dangerous for William. There is a killer after him. And it's not just your run-of-the-mill murderer." Frederick pauses, then asks, "Have you ever heard of a man touting himself as Jack the Ripper?"

"That Whitechapel killer?"

"Yes. He has been abnormally quiet around here lately. In fact, as far as I can tell, he hasn't taken the life of anyone in London since the 9th of November. Do you know why I believe he hasn't killed anyone?"

"Why?"

"Because he was on an island in the Caribbean killing sailors. Because he was stalking one William Turner. He followed him back here, Jack, the same as you, and he attacked my maid's daughter and William right here in this home. You asked about the sutures on his arm. He got them in the attack, when his attacker stabbed him in the arm as he was trying to defend the girl."

Jack is silent. His movements, the gentle patting of the wet cloth, have stopped.

"This is a lot worse than I thought," he finally says.

"And it's probably even worse than what you're thinking right now. Jack, do you remember that photograph I showed you in November, before you left with William?"

When Jack replies, he sounds sick. "Yes."

"That is what this man wants to do to William," Frederick says quietly. "Once he gets his hands on William, it will all be over. Along with William's life."

Chapter Eight

"Once he gets his hands on William, it will all be over. Along with William's life."

There is a long silence. I breathe in deeply, smelling the scent of the sea; I shift slightly and finally let my eyes open.

I am laying on Frederick's bed, staring up at his white ceiling. The light in the room is dim, but as I shift my eyes to the side, I can see Jack sitting in a chair pulled up by the bed and Frederick standing near the foot of the bed, arms crossed and head bowed. Jack is visibly upset, while Frederick is merely somber and somewhat melancholy.

Jack is the first to notice I'm awake. He sits up straighter and drops the cloth in his hand. "Will, you're awake!"

I give him a tired smile. "Hi, Jack. What are you doing here?"

"When I realized you had left, I followed you. I don't think I was more than two or three days behind you. When I got here, I went to Frederick's flat but found out he no longer lived there, so I started asking around. I found a young woman named Elizabeth Swann who, after much convincing, finally gave me directions and assured me you were with him. When I got here and no one answered the door, I let myself in; you ran into me in the kitchen, and you were so frightened you passed out."

"Which reminds me," Frederick speaks up, "if you ever just let yourself into my house again, I'll have you arrested."

Jack glares at him and opens his mouth to reply, likely with some snide remark or rude words, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him.

"Please don't fight," I say quietly, drawing both their eyes towards me and, hopefully, away from their anger. "It's not necessary. I think you both have done a fine job at what you've intended to do, and any complications were likely caused by me." I pause before adding, "I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused."

Almost instantly, both Frederick and Jack erupt into babbling, attempting to protest, insisting that I am not any trouble at all and that they don't mind helping me and protecting me. I struggle to a sitting position, wincing as I put pressure on my injured arm. Jack reaches out to help, propping my pillows up so I can sit back against them. I press a hand to my forehead as a bout of dizziness washes over me, then quickly recedes. "Jack, I need to speak with Frederick a moment. Could you..."

Jack hesitates, then nods. "Sure. I'll be in the living room." He stands and, after giving me one last glance and another nod, steps out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Frederick circles around the bed to sit on its edge, gazing at me expectantly, likely wondering what I am going to say.

"Frederick, I apologize for what I said earlier," I say softly. "And I apologize for being such a pain."

"You haven't been a pain," he corrects. "You've been through a lot in the past few months, and I've tried my best to help you through it."

I nod, still not looking up. "I have a confession to make, Frederick," I say, resisting the urge to bite my lip. "I wasn't sure if I should even tell you this, because I'm afraid I'll mess things up. But that's already happened. And anyway, you've probably figured it out by now."

Now he looks really concerned. "What is it?"

"I...I'm attracted to you," I say, pausing before adding, "sexually attracted, that is." When he doesn't say anything, I risk a glance at his face. There is a look of understanding gracing his featurse, and I almost don't know what to make of it. "You already knew, didn't you?"

"You've mentioned something similar before, in November," he says, reaching out and placing a hand over mine. "William, it's all right. I don't hate you for feeling the way you do. Things happen. That's life."

This time, I do bite my lip. "Do you think he'll come back for me?" I know the question has nothing to do with what we were discussing, but I have to ask; I can't help it.

"To be honest with you, William, I would not be surprised if he DOES try again. But because I have been around you so much, he likely hasn't had the opportune moment present itself."

I swallow hard before asking, "You're not going to leave, are you?"

Frederick leans forward and gently hugs me. "William, you have nothing to worry about. I'm not going anywhere."

I smile and sit back against the pillows. "That's really good to hear," I say.

"I sincerely hope it is," he replies. "I have a high interest in what is happening, both professionally and as your friend, because I care about you and I want this man caught before he does something worse to you than what he's already done."

There is a tap at the door. Frederick looks towards it and calls out, "Yes?"

"Are you two finished talking in there?" Jack asks from the other side of the door.

Frederick glances at me, and I shake my head furiously. "Not quite. Give us a few minutes." After Jack retreats, Frederick gives me a confused look. "What's wrong?"

"It's...Jack," I answer hesitantly. "He's up to something, I think. He's been acting strangely, especially after he realized that I knew he has feelings for me--feelings I can't reciprocate."

"What do you mean by 'strangely'?"

I shrug. "Different from the way he used to act. Did I tell you that when the third and fourth victims were found, he made me come with him to see them?"

Frederick looks startled. "He WHAT?"

"He made me come with him to see the bodies. I didn't know the men, so he couldn't really say that he needed me to identify them." I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he WANTS me to be scared. But I can't figure out why."

Frederick slides to sit beside me, leaning back against the headboard. He digs in the drawer of the bedside table and takes out a small gold cigarette case and a matchbook. "This mess is just getting more and more complicated," he grumbles as he begins rolling a cigarette. "Every time I turn around, I find more information throwing itself at me. I'm beginning to tire of it." I watch as his tongue darts out to dampen the cigarette paper, and he rolls the tobacco into the thin tube. "I think I may retire after this case."

I frown a little. "Are you old enough to retire?"

"Almost. At least, I will be later this year." He pauses, putting the cigarette between his lips and lighting it. "I can go back to doing what I used to do."

"What's that?"

"Clock-making." (1)

I almost laugh. "You, a clock-maker?" I ask incredulously. "I can't picture that."

"I can," he says, exhaling a lungful of smoke. "I spent quite a while repairing and making clocks before I joined the Metropolitan Police Force. It wouldn't be so bad going back to that." He offers me the cigarette and I take it.

The taste of him is on the end of the cigarette, and I savor it as I draw in some smoke. I cough slightly as I exhale, and slap my chest to make myself stop coughing. "It's been a while," I comment, handing the cigarette back to him.

Frederick reaches up and gently sweeps a curl away from my eyes. "You should get some sleep," he suggests, looking into my eyes with a soft expression. He helps me slide down to lay on my back, then steps out of the room with one last look before shutting the door.

***

The nightmare I wake up from is so terrible, I let out a near-scream as I sit up straight in bed.

It is still dark, sometime very early in the morning, and the parrafin lamp beside the bed has gone out. I run my hands over my abdomen, sliding them under my shirt to smooth over my unmarred chest, and sigh in relief as I realize that yes, I am still whole and unhurt.

The door flies open and I shriek before realizing it is Frederick, pistol in hand. He lowers it as he sees that I am well and alone, then sets the pistol on the table and sits on the bed. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

"I...I had a nightmare," I explain, brushing my messy hair from my face and feeling more than a little childish. My hands are shaking violently, and Frederick notices this. He catches my hands in his and presses them together.

"Calm down, William," he murmurs, momentarily releasing my hands to relight the lamp before taking my hands back into his. "It was just a dream. It wasn't real."

I lean over against him and try to relax, taking comfort in his presence, which seems to calm me somewhat. Frederick runs his fingers through my hair, combing it out with his fingers, pulling apart the tangles. I rest my head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent deeply. He smells of cigarettes, a not entirely unpleasant smell.

"You've been sleeping on your desk again, haven't you?" I ask, draping my arms on either side of his waist.

"I was working and dozed off," he admits, still combing my hair.

"You need to sleep on a real bed, not on your desk," I say, nuzzling his neck gently. "Sleep in here, on your bed." I hesitate, then add cautiously, "Sleep with me."

Frederick ducks his head back to look down into my face, his eyes wide and hesitant. I look up at him without an ounce of fear or hesitation, because this is what I want, what I need, and I know that this shows on my face. Frederick must see this, because he tilts his head down and gently captures my lips with his.

The hand tangled in my hair threads itself among the strands, and his free hand comes up to gently touch my face. Fingertips glide along my cheekbone, trace the curve of my jawbone, tickle the shell of my ear. His mouth parts from mine, but it doesn't take long for it to return, pressing lightly against my jawbone; I shiver as I feel the tip of his tongue graze my jawbone before he pulls away and returns to lavishing attention on my mouth. My lips part slightly, giving him an invitation I am unsure he will accept, but he does, surprising me slightly. As the tips of our tongues meet, I feel a soft groan reverberate from Frederick's throat; his left hand leaves my hair, and for a second, I fear he is about to stop, about to become self-conscious again, but he braces that hand on the mattress behind me and carefully lowers me onto my back.

The weight of him on me is absolutely delicious, and I sigh softly as his mouth finds my jawbone again, then my throat, and I tilt my head back to allow for greater access. He nuzzles the collar of my shirt aside, and his fingers hover over the top button. His head lifts, and he looks at me uncertainly.

"Please," I murmur, lifting my own head to look down towards him. I give him a lopsided smile. "It's nto like you've never seen that before."

He gives me his own smile, but his is a little uncertain as he begins to unbutton my shirt, his fingers shaking slightly with what could be suppressed nervousness. Just as he did for me, I catch his hands in mine after he finishes with the buttons, pinning them between my hands and kissing them.

"What's wrong?" I ask, sitting up a bit so I can see into his eyes.

He shakes his head, then nods, almost to himself. "I had a dream once, while you were away," he says as he kneels on the bed beside me.

"What was it about?"

"You," he whispers, leaning close so I can feel his warm breath brushing my face. As he speaks, he gently begins to remove my shirt. "In it, I touched you like this," and his fingers run over my now-exposed nipple; I gasp. "And you made the most beautiful sounds," he continues before dipping his head to run his tongue along my collarbone. Then he trails kisses from my collarbone down the center of my chest.

"Frederick," I murmur, wanting to say something, anything, to keep him from even considering stopping, but I can't get anymore words out after his mouth closes around my nipple. I whimper slightly as his tongue swirls around the hardened nub, and my fingers tangle into his thick dark hair of their own volition. The thumb of his hand teases the other nipple, and his fingers curl against my ribcage.

"Frederick," I manage again, but now he is moving down, his tongue trailing a path down my abdomen. He stops at my navel to explore the little crevice, his tongue dipping inside and sending tingles through my entire body. His hand rests against the button of my trousers, and once again, he hesitates, obviously uncertain. He glances at my face again; I reach down and deftly unfasten the button. He takes his cue from me and quickly tugs my trousers off completely. Once they are discarded onto the floor, he sits up on his knees and takes in the sight of my full nudity. I flush slightly under his dark gaze.

He presses a hand against my lower stomach, closing his eyes. I close my own to hold back unexpected and unexplained tears as he whispers, "So beautiful," and as he lowers himself onto me once more, I moan softly; the feel of his clothes against my bare skin is wonderful, but I know that there is still the possibility of him stopping, of him leaving me naked, panting, desirous, and unfulfilled on this bed. He could stand up, walk back to his office, and continue on with his work.

I reach up and begin almost frantically tugging at the buttons of his own shirt. He cooperates, rising up once more to help me remove the stubborn article of clothing. Once removed, I drop it over the edge of the bed and run my hands over his chest, sliding my hands down his sides to his trousers. With quick movements, they soon join his shirt on the floor, and I take a moment to look him over as he had done with me.

The inspector definitely hides an amazing body underneath his clothes. He is lean yet muscular, not as thin as I am, but I am too thin anyway; and he has beautifully-colored skin, slightly tan but not very dark. I run my hands over his shoulders, gently gripping the muscles there, and tug slightly. He nearly collapses on top of me, his mouth devouring mine.

I don't think he'll stop now. We've both gotten entirely too far.

The feel of his skin on mine is far more pleasant, and I arch up, attempting to press as much of myself as I can against him. A hand begins sliding down my side, slowing down at my hip, feeling the curve of the bone there. His hand then moves on to my hard cock, his finger running gently up the vein on the underside. His hand wraps around it and begins to lightly run up and down, from base to head, the thumb brushing the tip each time it passes near it. My hands have moved to grip the sheets beneath me, and I arch my back, gasping loudly. When he removes his hand, I latch back onto him, my arms circling around his shoulders again. He kisses my shoulder, gently sucking on it, as I slide against him, desperate for release.

"Frederick, please," I whimper.

"Yes, William?"

I love the way he says my name. I want him to say it again, but I don't have the presence of mind to ask.

"Need you," I manage, catching one of his hands and sucking three of the fingers into my mouth.

"I'm not entirely sure how to go about this," he admits only slightly sheepishly.

I take his fingers out of my mouth. "I'll guide you," I say, bringing his hand down and nudging his fingers towards my entrance. His breath audibly catches in his throat as I press the tip of the first finger into me. He gasps aloud as he pushes it in further, and I let out a long, slow sigh. He curls the finger slightly and inadvertently brushes against something, sending a burst of pleasure through my whole body. He soon catches on by himself and adds another finger, trying to prepare me for something much larger, though I am not sure if he realizes this yet. But I can't take much more; I need something more substantial before I absolutely explode. I catch his wrist and tug, pulling his fingers from me, and he sits back on his knees, obviously confused.

"What's wrong?" he asks me.

"Absolutely nothing," I manage, crawling up into his lap, strattling his thighs. I press myself against him as close as I can, and he embraces me, his lips locking against mine as his hands hook under my thighs and help me lift up. Then I slowly, carefully, lower myself down onto his cock, my eyes closed and my teeth biting into my lower lip.

"Oh God, William," Frederick breathes, burying his face into my neck. We sit like this for long moments, the silence punctuated only by our heavy breathing.

Frederick grasps my hips and lifts up, and the drag of his cock inside me is torturously slow. I cry out once he lets go, allowing me to slide back down. I allow him to repeat his actions a few more times before beginning to take the lead myself, rolling my hips at a much faster pace. Frederick almost falls backwards, catching himself with a hand braced behind him. Our sweat-slickened bodies glide against each other, and with each stroke, my breaths have become soft cries, and past my own sounds I can hear faint grunts coming from Frederick's throat.

With the brisk pace I've set us, I am not far from release, and Frederick's simple touch on my cock is enough. There is the wet feel of my seed splattering on our stomachs, and it almost seems as if I lose my vision for a moment--everything whites out. With a few more strokes, I feel Frederick's release inside me and hear the cry torn from his throat.

We sit still once again, trying to catch our breaths. Frederick lifts me up, and the feel of him sliding out of me leaves me feeling empty and cold. Carefully laying me down, he uses a corner of the bedsheet to clean himself off before gently drying my stomach and dabbing at the sweat on my face. When he finally stretches out beside me, I slide up against him, feeling incredibly drowsy. Without another word spoken, we both drift off to sleep.

Author's Endnotes:

(1) Yes, it's true; the real Frederick Abberline was a clock-maker before he joined the Metropolitan Police Force.

Chapter Nine

Hours later, I awake to find that it is pouring buckets of rain outside and my head resting on Frederick's bare chest. I inhale, quietly and deeply, the unusual scent of Frederick. I prop up on my elbows and look down at him. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake up.

Frederick looks so peaceful in sleep, nothing like the stern, overly-observant man he is in the waking world. His face is relaxed, his features smooth. There are very, very faint lines in the corners of his eyes and faint frown-lines near his mouth. I wonder just how old he is. He said he was close to retirement age, so that puts him somewhere between forty and forty-five. He sure doesn't look that old.

I reach up and lightly brush his hair back a bit. He stirs again and sighs, then slowly opens his eyes.

"Good morning," I greet softly, giving him a light kiss on the jawbone.

"Morning," he replies, stretching. He arches his back, lifting me up a few inches, and I grin. "I won't ask how you slept, since I already know the answer to that."

I giggle, then let out a sigh of my own as I stretch out over him. He gives me a tired smile, and I feel his hand slide down my side. We share a deep, breath-taking kiss; then Frederick begins fumbling for his pocketwatch, which had been left on the bedside table. I see it a few inches to the left of his hand and reach over to guide him to it. He looks at the watch face and groans.

"What?" I ask, wondering why he's upset.

"I'm two hours late for work," he replies. "It's ten in the morning."

"You're not going to get in trouble, are you?"

He shakes his head. "Likely not. This is the first time this has happened. I don't think any of my superiors will say anything." He drops the pocketwatch among the sheets and curls his fingers into my hair. "Thank you, William," he murmurs after a moment.

"You're welcome," I say into his shoulder before nuzzling his chin and kissing his throat. I laugh as he suddenly rolls over to lay on top of me, pulling the bedsheet over both of us and creating a fluffy white tent above us. He wraps his sheet-covered arms around me, and I shiver as he presses his lips against the underside of my jaw.

"Mm, Frederick," I say softly when his hands start roaming. He is beginning to get obviously excited--and me along with him--when the bedroom door flies open and someone rushes in. Frederick's head lifts from my chest, and he flips back the top of the sheet to reveal Peter standing just inside the room, looking down on us in obvious amusement.

"Frederick, you're late for work," Peter wittily observes.

Frederick sighs and buries his face in my shoulder. "I know that, Peter. I won't be there today. I was thinking of catching up on my rest and working on the case from my office here."

"As you wish," Peter replies. "You're only the one leading the investigation of this case--I figured you'd want to review the newest batch of letters received at the station, one which mentions Mr. Turner here."

This catches Frederick's interest, and he sits up in bed. "What did it say?"

Peter grins. "I figured you'd be interested, so I brought it with me." He holds out a piece of crumpled paper, and Frederick takes it eagerly. I look over his shoulder to read it as he does, and my eyes widen.

"The time draws near for the tears to begin. You will not be able to protect William Turner for much longer, Inspector Abberline. The blood of the 'merchant' staying in your home will run in fountains down your walls. Your own blood will spill on the streets of London.

"Beware!

"Jack the Ripper"

I gasp, my eyes widening as I finish reading the letter. Frederick puts a hand on my arm for comfort, but he looks completely unmoved by the threats in the letter. I can almost see the wheels in his mind turning as he examines the letter.

Frederick looks up at Peter questioningly, his free hand gently squeezing my arm. "When did you get this?"

"It was on your desk this morning. I saw it and brought it to you."

Frederick nods and leans over the edge of the bed, retrieving his trousers. I watch as he slides to the edge of the bed to pull them on. "Peter, I'll meet you at the office," he says, motioning for the constable to leave. Peter and I exchange a glance, then he retreats. Moments later, I hear the front door close.

The bedroom door is open, and it doesn't take long for Jack to appear in the doorway. Nor does it take him long to observe the scene and guess what Frederick and I did the night before. I ignore him, though, focusing instead on Frederick, who has gotten up to search for his shirt.

"You're leaving?" I ask, my eyes wide with concern.

"I have to go to the station and go through the newest information," he says, finding his shirt. He scoops it up, steps into the washroom, and shuts the door.

I slap both my hands down on the bed in irritation, then grab my own trousers and pull them on angrily before getting up and heading for the door.

"Are you all right?" Jack asks, moving aside as I shove past him.

"Leave me alone," I mutter, throwing myself down on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Jack stands, still near the doorway, for a long moment before shrugging slightly and moving towards the kitchen, presumably towards the room he is staying in.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is on the end table by the sofa, and I wonder how it got there. Then I notice another book underneath it and pick it up. Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll. I curl up on the sofa, page through it a little, then decide to read it.

I am at the end of the first chapter and thoroughly engrossed in the story when there is a knock at the front door. I don't hear it at first, but when I do realize someone is there, I set my book down and get up. Peering through the bedroom door, I see the washroom door is still shut. Grabbing my shirt, I pull it on and button it as I walk to the door to answer it.

"It's probably Peter," I mutter as I cross the cold entrance hall. "He likely forgot something." I unbolt the door, grasp the cold doorknob, and pull the door open.

A tall, dark figure stands in the doorway, accompanied by a blast of freezing January air and rain that is quickly becoming sleet.

"Hello, dear William," a familiar voice says before a hand snakes out and seizes my wrist. I manage to let out half a shriek before a strong, firm hand clamps itself over my mouth and the hand on my arm wraps around my midsection, pinning my arms to my sides. "Don't struggle, and things may go well for you."

I struggle anyway, my body bucking and straining against my attacker almost involuntarily. My screams for Frederick are muffled, and I know the chances of him hearing are highly unlikely, but I try anyway.

I am being pulled backwards, out the door and into the rain, and I go into a near-frenzied panic, throwing myself with all my strength against my attacker's grip, but to no avail. I catch a glimpse of a carriage near the gate, and I realize what is about to happen.

I am about to die.

I manage to free my mouth enough to bite his hand, and he yanks it back impulsively. "Frederick! Help!" I yell out as loudly as I can before the man's hand grasps my mouth again. Something then strikes my head, and I sag limply in the man's arms, dazed.

An elegantly-dressed man climbs from the carriage, and I look up at him, but for some reason, I cannot focus on his face, except to notice that he also wears a mask.

"Put him in the carriage," he orders, and I am shoved unceremoniously into the carriage. I lunge for the door the second I touch the carriage floor. The elegantly dressed man roughly pushes me back in, clocking me lightly on the head. He climbs in and shuts the door behind him. I catch a glimpse of Frederick racing out the front door, Jack close on his heels, as the carriage begins moving, gradually picking up speed.

The elegant man stares down at me for a moment, then snaps, "Get up. Sit on the seat. You shouldn't sit on the floor in such an undignified manner."

I slowly and uneasily rise from the floor, sliding onto the seat. I nervously clench my hands in my lap and bite my lip.

The man lifts a carved wooden cane and roughly nudges me with it. "Sit up straight. Act like the family you were born into."

I hesitate, then ask, "What do you mean?"

"The Turners, of course. William Turner the First was a well-bred man, learned in his manners, polite, minded his elders," the man says. He looks at me again and slams the end of his cane onto the floor. "I told you to sit up straight!"

I sit up straighter, trembling with suppressed fear.

"That's better." The man sits back in satisfaction and continues. "William Turner the First was the perfect son, very obedient. Until he met that bitch Madeline Washington and until he sired that little bastard son of his."

With his words, which grow angrier with each syllable, I feel a cold rock settle into my stomach. As realization begins to dawn on me, his hateful words begin to sink in, and I find myself becoming angrier. I clench my fists tighter, trying to suppress my anger. But it overcomes me, and I grow through clenched teeth, "My mother was NOT a bitch!" I lunge forward across the carriage towards him. My unexpected movement gives him no time to react as I slam full-force into his chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him reeling to the side.

I myself am flung back across the carriage as it turns a corner sharply--too sharply. I can feel the wheels skitter sideways as the entire carriage begins tilting, and I look around for something to brace myself on, but there is nothing to hold on to.

The carriage lands heavily on its side, shattering glass sent spraying through the interior of the carriage. I fall onto the broken glass with a cry of protest, and the other occupant of the carriage lands nearby. Once the carriage skids to a halt, I quickly scramble to my feet, ignoring the trickles of blood on my back and side from the cuts given to me by the broken glass.

It does not take long for the other man to gain his own feet, and I find myself a cornered, weaponless animal in a small cage as he pulls a wickedly-sharp knife from underneath his coat. Simultaneously, his other hand reaches up to remove his mask. Once I get a look at the face behind the mask, my suspicions are confirmed. He looks suspiciously like myself, but he also looks like Jack, with Jack's dark eyes and dark hair, though this man's hair is streaked with gray.

"Hello, Grandfather," I say as calmly as I can, watching the man's reaction. He shows no surprise whatsoever; indeed, he doesn't say a word as he moves slowly towards me, his knife held with wicked intent.

Another knife suddenly slices into the canvas covering of the carriage, and both of us turn in that direction. The canvas parts to reveal the driver of the carriage, the man who dragged me from Frederick's home, standing in the gap, a knife in his own hand. I tense as I stare at the man, noticing his mask has gone askew; his gaze darts back and forth between me and the other man.

My grandfather, seeming to come to some sort of realization, lunges towards me, wielding the knife to give me a fatal blow.

"No!" the other man shouts. He throws himself into the carriage, catching me by the shoulder and shoving me aside as he grabs the other man and slams him back against the floor of the carriage, which is now acting as the wall. Without any hesitation, he brandishes his knife, then drives it into the other man's throat.

I stumble away as blood fountains forth from the man's mouth, spilling over his chin and down his front. The man pulls the now-dripping knife from the man's throat and glances at me.

"My apologies," he murmurs, backing out of the carriage's shredded top. As the canvas parts once more to allow his exit, I see Frederick and Jack finally arrive, Frederick's pistol out and aimed. He has noticed the bloodied knife in my savior's hand, and he aims the pistol straight at him, perhaps thinking this man has killed me.

The man seems to realize the same thing and moves as if to come back inside the carriage and do the thing that he will likely be killed for.

I see Jack throw himself on Frederick's arm, knocking the pistol from his grasp, but that is the last I see for a long moment as my world explodes in pain.

A gunshot rings out. Then silence.

I slowly open my eyes, turning my head to the side to find the man's knife embedded deeply in my shoulder. I wince as I turn my head back. The man is lying nearby, half inside the carriage, half out. He looks up at me. "My dear Will, I'm so sorry," he murmurs. I do not respond, not trusting my voice. He sighs and looks up towards the sky. "We were Jack the Ripper," he adds in a soft whisper before his eyes close and he goes still.

Frederick suddenly appears over me, worry written all over his face. Knowing that Frederick is there, I smile faintly, then allow myself to be taken into blessed unconsciousness.

Chapter Ten

When I awake, it seems like many days have passed.

I hesitate to open my eyes; I am unsure where I am, though I can guess it is the hospital--a sharp, antiseptic smell tickles at my nose. I do not hear any movement in the room, so I assume I am alone for now.

My aching head twinges at me as my eyelids flutter slightly; I must have taken a knock to the head amidst the chaos lingering in my memory, though I can't remember when I could have struck it against anything. A much sharper twinge vibrates through my shoulder, sending reminders of the attack slamming violently to the forefront of my mind. I gasp, and my eyes fly open, replacing the images with a view of the ceiling, a white-washed, rough surface. I lift my free hand and rake stray curls from my face.

I slide my eyes to the side and see that my shoulder is tightly bound in stiff, rough white strips of cloth, the arm held close to my body by a sling that is apparently meant to restrict unnecessary movement.

I realize I am not alone in the room when I hear a soft sigh to my right. I turn my head slowly in that direction, blinking a little hazily and wincing at the slight headache I seem to have. It takes me a moment to recognize Frederick, slumped over in his chair with his head resting on the edge of the bed, deeply asleep. An arm is flung above his head, his fingers resting casually near my hand. To an outside observer, it would apear that the inspector, presumably guarding an important witness in his case, had mistakenly fallen asleep on the job. I could understand why Frederick would want to keep any sort of relationship between us a secret--despite the new ideas often tossed around by many scholars, sexual acts between two men are still considered "immoral deeds" against the supposed code of morality and society; and that isn't some fancy little charge that comes without consequences. I know of several people who have been arrested for similar acts.

I lift my hand again and gently brush my fingers against his hair. He stirs slightly and opens his eyes.

"You're awake," he comments, blinking a little blearily at me.

I smile. "So are you."

He sits up and rubs at his eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Like I have been dragged behind a carriage," I say, sliding up to an uneasy sitting position. My head spins, and I sit perfectly still until things slow to a stop. Then I cautiously turn my head in Frederick's direction, a million questions forming on my lips.

Frederick must be able to read the question on my face, because he begins to speak before I've even asked it. "It's been two days since the attack," he says. "You've been unconscious for most of it."

"And my grandfather?" I murmur.

Frederick looks at me sharply. "What does he have to do with this?"

I look at Frederick in confusion. "I thought you..." I shake my head to myself, then say, "The first man, the one the man you shot killed--he was my grandfather."

Ever the professional, Frederick pulls out a small notepad and writes this down.

"What about the man you shot?" I ask curiously. "Is he dead?"

"Last I checked, no," Frederick answers. "Jack and Peter are keeping a close eye on him."

There is a long, uncomfortable silence. Frederick sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers under his chin. "The man seems half insane. He strikes me as being somewhat traumatized by certain events and frequently goes into tangents." The inspector pauses, his face lined with concern. "William, he's mentioned your mother...and you."

The sinking feeling I'd gotten when my second attacker's mask was kncoked askew returns--along with the stomach-churning moment when I thought I'd somehow recognized the man. It is impossible, I know, but the suspicion remains until I speak it aloud. Then the feeling intensifies.

"Frederick...what would you think if I told you that I think I recognized my attacker?"

"I guessed you would have your own suspicions," he says after another pause. "Who do you think it was?"

He asks this like he already knows who the other person is, and I do not doubt that he does--he's likely already repeatedly questioned the man. I answer anyway, wondering if I'm right yet hoping that I'm wrong. "I think it was my father."

Frederick hesitates, and I find myself holding my breath, wondering what he will say, half fearing it. "William, it WAS your father."

I let my breath out explosively in a gasp of air and slump slightly. "I thought so." I blink back irrational tears threatening to spill out of my eyes. My own father tried to kill me? For some reason, I had difficulty wrapping my head around the idea. But I should have expected this. I don't know how or why--especially the why of it--but I should have somehow expected this.

"Do you want to see him?"

"No!" I say bluntly. "I never, ever want to see that man! He wasn't there when Mother and I needed him, and he took my mother away when I needed her! I can never forgive him for that!" With that statement, I can't help but burst into tears.

Frederick, seeing my tears, sits up on the bed and embraces me tightly, rocking me back and forth while gently rubbing my back. I hook my free arm around his shoulder and hide my face in his shoulder as I sob.

***

Frederick's home still looks the same as he helps me in through the front door. I don't know why I expected things to look any different.

After feeding me a very filling meal of beef stew--courtesy of Peter's wife--Frederick helps me into the bedroom, where I sit down in complete exhaustion. Frederick crawls onto the bed behind me and gently begins to remove what remains of my shirt. I sigh as it slides off my shoulders and falls to the floor. "You need rest," he says in my ear. "You look absolutely exhausted."

I wordlessly allow him to ease me back on the bed to lay comfortably against him. He threads his fingers through my hair, raking my hair back from my face. "How do you feel?"

"Fine."

"I mean mentally."

I let out a long, shuddering breath. "I'm not sure. So much has happened. I just need some time to cope, I guess."

Frederick gently kisses me on the neck. "Did I ever tell you that I think you are a very beautiful man?" he asks quietly, looping a curl around one of his fingers.

"Not that I can remember," I reply sleepily, resting my head back against his chest. Within moments, I am asleep, and I do not hear the words he says to me after that.

***

I open my eyes to find myself standing in the bright sunshine, surrounded by flowers of all kinds: daisies, tulips, roses, snapdragons; flowers that usually grow in fall or winter seasons, like chrysanthemums, sprout alongside spring and summer flowers. I think this odd. ONLY odd.

A woman is standing near the massive stone fountain not too far away from me. My breath catches in my throat as she turns to face me. It is my mother.

We embrace, and she tells me that she is very proud of me for all I have done to help her.

"What have I done?" I ask bitterly. "I didn't solve your murder--I wasn't some brave hero."

She tells me that that is not what she means; she is proud of me for surviving.

I grin. "I couldn't have done otherwise. Frederick wouldn't let me."

Frederick is a good man, she informs me, and an honest man. He will take good care of me, and she approves highly of him. She says that Frederick is in love with me but will not confess it for fear that I do not feel the same. She says that he has been in love with me since he found me, bound, gagged, and bloodied, in the linen closet those months ago.

I do not know what to say to this, so I keep silent.

Mother takes me by the hand and leads me through the garden that, she says, she created with her own hands. She points out several flowers and tells me about them, and I listen carefully, determined to emblazon every single one of my mother's words into my memory. But I know that, upon waking, I will forget all of them, as I do with every dream.

And so, as my body slumbers peacefully in the bed against Frederick, my dream-self walks alongside my mother amongst the flowers and trees of her garden.

The End

Author's Notes:

Dear readers,

Warmer Waters and what I privately call the Whitechapel Duology are now complete, and there will be no further stories involving Will and Frederick (with the exception of a few "lost chapters" that I'm considering posting). I realize that I left many loose threads in the tale and its predecessor To Heaven, some intentional, most not; but life is full of loose threads and questions that never get answered, and this piece of writing, portraying real life, is no different.

I would like to take a moment to thank all my readers, those who sent me feedback and those who did not. Your feedback kept me going at times when I wanted to quit, and for that, I am grateful.

No worries, though! I have several ideas stirring in my head, along with the completion of the second part of "The Parable of Piraeus." Upcoming stories include one taking place during the Civil War, another about two men and a night club, and a third that involves a supermarket. ^_^

See you for my next story!

Jessie-chan

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