A/N: This is the second and final part of ilarual's birthday present. May it be as good as she deserves.

Thanks again to Bendy and Ness for being awesome readers.

It had been a rather long morning. Miss Albarn had been forced by social protocol to breakfast with her father, his betrothed, and their current guest, and Maka found the entire affair absolutely draining. Mrs. Azusa, the woman who was to become her step-mother, was an heiress near Sir Albarn's age who had never married. While Maka did not dislike the woman, the thought of her father moving on was painful. The fact that he had already forgotten her long absent (and recently declared deceased) mother with countless other women notwithstanding, there was something far more final in remarriage than in a thousand thousand fleeing affairs combined, and Miss Albarn wanted no part of it.

Even taking into account her distaste for the situation, however, their awkward, stilted family breakfast was an absolute pleasure compared to what followed. Miss Albarn stifled a sigh, feeling rather put upon at being asked to entertain their guest yet again; he was the second cousin of her father's betrothed, a man who had recently arrived on their doorstep to claim future kinship and hospitality.

Mr. Michael Noah was a haughty, insufferable man, tall of stature with dark features and sharp eyes. Attending Cambridge entirely through the good will of his cousin, he was simpering and meek in her presence, yet superior and demanding outside of it. Miss Albarn had loathed him within an hour of knowing him, and was enthusiastically counting the days until he would finally return to school.

On this morning, it was suggested that after their meal, Miss Albarn and Mr. Noah might enjoy a turn about the gardens together. Maka had agreed because to refuse would have been dreadfully rude, and so she found herself with a reluctant hand resting on his elbow and a polite smile etched on her face that would never reach her eyes.

He was off on a tangent again, singing the praises of his Divinity Master at Cambridge, a man named Markus Eibon about whom Maka had heard vague whisperings of heresy. It did not bode well for Mr. Noah's future prospects that he was so clearly enthralled with such a man, but it was really none of her business, so she remained silent, listening politely to his platitudes praising his teacher's theories on the nature of the soul.

"Professor Eibon is very clear that there are several different types of soul. The high church likes to suggest that all souls are forged of the same substance, all harboring the same taint of original sin, but this simply is not so. There are greater and lesser souls, some much nearer to the light of God than others. And when I find such a soul, far be it from me to deny what is in front of my very eyes or to pretend that a deeper connection is not inevitable. Do you understand what I mean, Miss Albarn?"

Mr. Noah stopped and turned to face her quite suddenly, startling her out of her reverie, breaking her determination to take in the beauty of the gardens rather than absorb his dull, reductive philosophizing. His dark eyes were intent upon her face, and Maka felt rather like a specimen under glass, to be examined and remarked upon, rather than any sort of companion.

"I am sorry, Mr. Noah, but I fear I do not." Truly his meaning was beyond her. She feared it might be beyond anyone.

"Then allow me to speak plain. My cousin and your father are to be wed, cementing our connexion. I simply wish to deepen the bond being forged between our lines by making you my wife."

She blinked slowly, trying to catch the meaning of his words. "You-Mr. Noah, surely you cannot mean-"

Of all the things Maka might have expected from this little walk-boredom and exercise chief among them-what she had most certainly not been expecting, what she could not have seen coming, was this bizarre proposal. She had believed she was done with such nonsense long since. Clearly, she had been mistaken.

"Your soul was meant to be mine, Miss Albarn!" he cried before she could say more, taking her hand forcefully. "Surely you must sense that as I do!"

She wrenched her hand from his grasp, shuddering involuntarily at the feel of his cool skin sliding against her own, before taking a step back and glaring at him, her polite veneer vanishing.

"I do not," she said firmly. "My soul is mine and mine alone, and I have no wish to wed you or anyone. I apologize that you have clearly received the wrong impression of me if you somehow believed that I would welcome your address, but I fear I must refuse your proposal, Sir."

He stood gaping at her for a moment, his mouth opening and closing so comically that Maka might have laughed if she were not so angered by his sheer audacity. Finally, he spoke.

"The advantages of a match between us cannot be lost on you, Miss Albarn, of that I have little doubt, and that this is your best, your only option is equally undeniable, so I will take your refusal as the coy act it surely must be, and rely upon your acceptance in the very near future."

The man was insufferable, absolutely insufferable. He made her time with Mr. Ford several years ago seem almost pleasant by comparison; at least Mr. Ford had not denied the truth when it was so plainly set before him.

"I fear, Mr. Noah, that this future is not near. Nay, it is but a fantasy. My words are not coy- I speak simple truth. I cannot, will not wed you."

The man in question clenched one fist at his side, knuckles going white.

"You speak as though you had other prospects, Miss Albarn," his voice was suddenly tight with anger. Ah, this was much more akin to her past experience! "As if your father's estate were not entailed, as if you will not be destitute upon his demise, as if you, a near spinster, had other marriage prospects. You do not. But if we were to wed, it would ensure our joint future. My cousin has no heir. Our marriage could not but cinch my position as her inheritor, and your father's preferment will take me far within the church. This is your only real prospect, my dear. Even one as headstrong as you must see that. To refuse me would be utter folly, and you are no fool."

"I have refused far better men," she said evenly, carefully composed. The very notion that she would ever accept anyone when she had refused a man like Soloman Evans was absurd, let alone the idea she would accept a self-absorbed, self-serving, absolute bore like Mr. Noah. Her life was her own, and while it might be modest, while it might never be full with her heart, her very soul long since torn asunder, it was not without its merits, nor would she ever stoop to change it. "I will not marry you as I would not marry them, and no words you might speak could ever induce me to do so."

He simply stood for a moment and she could practically feel his rage, his incredulity radiating from him.

"This is not at an end, Miss Albarn. I am not to be denied, and will await a more favorable response when next we meet."

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving her alone amidst the shrubbery in such a wholly ungentlemanly gesture that she could not but feel satisfaction at her refusal. Had he showed even an inkling of hurt or remorse, Miss Albarn might have pitied him and felt something like guilt, but as it stood, she felt only relief that he was, for the moment, out of her presence as she wended her way back to the main house with no real regret.

An hour later, Maka once again found herself among the greenery, this time beyond the walls of her father's gardens. She was ashamed to think that she had come so close to forgetting.

Mr. Noah's completely unexpected proposal had shaken her, and amidst that, amidst the deadlines, amidst the chaos surrounding her father's remarriage, amidst it all, Miss Albarn had nearly, very nearly, forgotten to partake of the ritual that had been hers and hers alone for the past five springs.

As it happened, she did not forget, and noon found her at the doorstep of the little parish house bordering her father's lands, a quilt over one arm and a parcel in the other. Miss Albarn had come to give over her manuscript for Mrs. Starling to set to the post when it arrived later that day as well as to pick up a small luncheon, something her dear friend had begun providing her several years ago so as not to alert Sir Spenser of his daughter's continuing ritual. Mrs. Starling greeted her as warmly as ever, and Maka was glad that Mr. Starling was out making his rounds of the parish that they might enjoy a little tête-à-tête as they had become accustomed to on such days.

"I see you have brought me something for the post," Mrs. Starling said with a look at the parcel clutched in her friend's hand and a knowing smile. "Should I expect, then, that we are to know what happens with the proposal?"

Nodding with mock solemnity, Maka handed the parcel to her closest friend-a tall, exotic beauty-with equally false reverence. "Indeed. This shall answer the questions burning in a thousand thousand hearts."

"And will those hearts be pleased with the answer?"

Mrs. Starling did not ask her friend if she would sit as they conversed, nor did Miss Albarn expect it. Such was their familiarity that the mistress of the little parsonage simply led her guest to the kitchen that she might better supply her for her coming journey.

"I fear not, my friend, and I know yours will be among the tender hearts wounded by this newest installment, for which I am most sorry, but truly, I could not play the story false."

For her part, Mrs. Starling shook her head, her frown deep and troubled.

"But why should it not play out well? Really, Maka, your heroine is in love with the man who left her, he is returning to her out of love, would not a happy ending be most natural?"

"Ah, perhaps in a world where only love mattered, this might be true, but we do not inhabit such a world. There are other things-fortune and status chief among them-which matter too much to ignore. Marcia may still love Cecil, but even five years later, nothing has changed." Maka was surprised by her own vehemence, but this conversation was picking at a wound that would never quite scab over properly.

"But he loves her as well. Is it not the kinder thing for her to accept him?" Her friend's voice was soothing, placating.

"He claims to love her, yes, perhaps even believes that he does-but is that truth? If he loved her, loved her truly, would he not have returned sooner? Would he not have written to her, assuring her of his feelings, of his continued safety and intentions to return to her? Would he have ever left without her to begin with? I think not. No, she loves him too much to saddle him with a lie, to be his burden when they are doomed to failure, when he will one day realize his mistake and blame her for it. She would spare them both that misery. No, Tsubaki, things ended as they must for Marcia and Cecil, then and now. One cannot change what is past, and wishing to amend it in the present is mere folly."

Mrs. Starling was looking at her intently. "They are your creations, Maka. Only you can know what is in their hearts. If you tell me he does not truly love her, that the past is as it should be, then I can only choose to believe you, much as it saddens me."

Maka sighed, forcing herself to smile. "Ah, but Tsubaki, I fear the human heart is something even I cannot know." And if her voice was more than a little sad, well, they both knew why. Miss Albarn had worked hard over the years to put on a brave face for all, including her dearest friend, but early on she had spilt the contents of her soul to Mrs. Starling like so much ink on a page, and no one knew her poor, battered heart better.

Nodding her understanding, the curate's wife handed Miss Albarn the basket she had only just finished preparing for her. "You should not go-it does you no good, and much harm, I fear."

"And yet, I shall anyway," she smiled bitterly.

"Then let this be your last year, Maka. Let this be the year finally you put it behind you, that you finally bid the past goodbye once and for all."

"Perhaps it will be at that, my dearest Tsubaki." The words tasted wrong, but reassuring her friend was far more important than truth in that moment. In her heart, she could but whisper if only I could.

A mere thirty minutes later found her blazing a trail that had become familiar, pushing aside branches and tangling through thick undergrowth to find her way to the top of White Cliff.

Miss Albarn could not have told you why she kept the ritual. Even five years later, the thought of him still gave her more pain than pleasure. Perhaps that was her point, the trek and remembrance her penance for lying to the one who held her heart then, who held it even still, for not believing enough in him and in them together to cast caution to the wind and agree to be his.

For as much as she had thought only of him and his well being, for as much as she had not wished to drag him down and ruin his life, for as much as she still knew it was the best choice she could have made for him, she still regretted it. Five years gone, and her heart was still raw at the merest thought of Solomon Evans, the ache just as acute as it had been on that day so long ago when she told him she did not love him, when she ignored her own pain and the pain in his eyes to do what she must.

That pain had driven him away, Maka still knew not where, although there were many rumors. Even five years later, the Evans family still maintained that their youngest son was partaking of an extended world tour, but there were other whisperings. Some spoke of illicit affairs, of a dissipated life on the continent. Others claimed he had eloped with a tavern wench in Paris and lived in shame and seclusion overseas. Maka had even heard tales of the youngest Evans having gone off to the Americas as he had last told her he would, in what she had believed at the time to be a moment of temporary bravado, a stake claimed in the heat of passion he would never actually take up once cool and collected.

She wasn't sure if it was true, that he had gone to the Americas, but she sincerely hoped that it was, and not a day passed by that she did not wish, ardently wish, that she had gone with him, to make her way in the world at his side.

Not that people would speak to her of him openly, no, never that. Miss Albarn was rumored to be his jilted lover, and what word she got was the barest whispers her ears caught in passing, or the chatter of strangers who knew not better, who knew not that she had known him and known him well.

Real word she had never gotten, not even so much as a letter. When he had first gone, she had waited for the post religiously, hoping for some news, any news. Perhaps it would not be strictly proper for Soul to write to her directly, but he might write to her father, to Mr. Starling, to someone firmly within her inner circle to assure her that he was well.

He never did. So far as Maka could tell, and she had spoken with his elder brother many times in company over the years, Mr. Evans had never even sent word to his family. Of all the rumors she had heard, she knew the grand tour to be a lie, had known it for some time, though where the truth actually lay was hazy at best.

Not that she allowed herself to dwell on it-not anymore. She had, of course she had; for many years, Miss Albarn had done little else. Her father had been quite concerned in the first months after Mr. Evans' departure when his normally active and vivacious daughter became sullen and withdrawn, venturing out only on days she would make the long, lonely trek to the top of White Cliff. In consequence of this drastic change in his beloved only daughter's behavior, Sir Albarn had decided upon sending her to London soon after, wishing her to see something more of society and to put a final polish on what had been a highly unusual and secluded education. He believed that given exposure to a wider sphere of company, Soloman Evans would soon become but a shade within his daughter's past, unimportant and forgotten. He might have known better had he truly considered his daughter's fierce and loyal heart, but he yet wished for the best.

Even still, the plan had some merit. Often had Miss Albarn dreamt of such an excursion, of going to the theater and the gardens, of experiencing more of the world, but somewhere in her vision of such adventures, Soul was always there at her side as he had ever been, and his palpable absence turned her dream to ash when it finally became reality. London was too busy, full of people she could not care for, the theater trite, the parties dull, the gardens overwrought. Nothing suited her tastes, least of all the boorish men who sought to woo her, Mr. Noah only the most recent among them.

Her first suitor was Nicholas Mortimer, the only son of a well respected advisor to the king, a man of humble origins but limitless talent. He was straightforward in presenting his proposal as a business arrangement; her bloodline would help to solidify his family's place in high society, and his fortune would make them both more than comfortable. She was just as straightforward in her refusal, emphasizing her wish to marry for love.

To his credit, Mr. Mortimer had been quite polite and amiable in hearing her refusal to the point that they had remained friends. It was a friendship she had come to value-Mr. Mortimer was intelligent, knowledgeable, and level headed, and became one of her few London acquaintances Miss Albarn could still abide years later. Even then, however, long after she had come to genuinely like him, even had he renewed his advances, she still would have refused. Perhaps Nicholas Mortimer was a worthy, respectable man, but she did not, could not love him. He did not have the reluctant polish, the keen wit that she sought. In short, he was not him.

Mr. Owen Ford, her second suitor, was even less suitable, a merchant's son who had turned a fine inheritance into substantial holdings amounting to an enviable 5000 a year. It was said that the man had been jilted by a woman in Paris, a minor member of the nobility with strong lineage but little wealth-the countess in question was rumored to have refused Mr. Ford after a long courtship in favor of continuing to share quarters with her benefactress, a wealthy heiress of more humble origins.

Maka could not have said if the rumors were true-all she could say with any degree of certainty was that the man was insufferable-callow, superior, and condescending. That Miss Albarn's primary appeal for him was her pedigree was obvious, and she would not stoop to auction herself off to the highest bidder like a piece of cattle, not when her heart so firmly belonged to another.

When she had refused him, Owen Ford was even more incredulous than Michael Noah had proven to be. Mr. Ford was absolutely indignant, and rumors of her crassness, her insufferability, spread quickly thereafter. Miss Albarn could not care; she had no opinion of those who thought ill of her without cause, and would choose to ignore their insolent stares and loud whisperings while in such company.

Sir Spenser sent his daughter to London for two seasons before giving it up as a lost cause, and while other would-be suitors occasionally came to her father's estate, Miss Albarn managed to make herself clear to such mercenary guests long before a proposal could be mistakenly offered. They were all completely coarse in any case, men of middling means who had heard her to be unpolished and thought her an easy conquest, viewing her solely as a way to raise their place in the world through her blood ties. In short, they were all so terribly oafish as to make even a complete lout like Mr. Ford look positively well-bred.

Eventually, as the years passed, even the trickle of unsavory suitors died off as Maka edged closer to spinsterhood. Upon reaching an age when the bloom of youth was considered by most to be fading, she was no longer desirable even to the most grasping of suitors, leaving her finally, blissfully alone.

Well, until this morning, anyway.

Even when she had been left alone, however, it was not as blissful as she had hoped. In truth, Maka found herself increasingly restless as the years passed, increasingly regretful about the choice she had made. On the outside, she became suitably composed, going about her life as if she were not long since broken in order to assuage her father's concerns, but on the inside, she was in turmoil. She missed Soul Evans, felt his loss keenly, wondered often where he was and how he did. Had he moved on? Had he found love with another? The thought pained her, but it was no more than she had expected, wanted even.

She found herself spending more and more time with the curate and his wife, eager to appear normal, desperate for distraction; the one amused her and the other soothed by virtue of her very presence. Maka also continued to lose herself in the many books her father indulged her with, the tales within allowing her small samples of the type of happiness she herself would never find.

It was in her twenty fourth year, three years after he left her, that Miss Albarn first tried her hand as an authoress, deciding suddenly and firmly that she would do more with her life than simply wait for time by to pass her by. She began with short stories submitted to a reputable periodical, thinly veiled tales of her childhood written under a pen name. When those were well received, the publisher begged her agent in London (one Mr. Sizemore, a lawyer she had asked Mr. Mortimer to contract for her) for a longer effort. Thus had begun her first long prose work, Languishing. The novel had been written in serial and, two years later, was nearly complete. The latest chapter was currently awaiting the post in Mrs. Starling's quite capable hands as the authoress herself trekked through the county wilds, her thoughts very far from her writing.

In some ways, observing her yearly ritual was a welcome distraction from the oddity her life had recently become. The scratches on her hand from pushing through branches, the wind on her face, the mud on the hem of her dress, it all made her feel alive, made her feel almost as if the past five years had never happened and he might be just ahead of her, waiting at the top, waiting to tell her how much he loved her for the first time and the thousandth.

If only it were so; if only it were that day again and she could tell him the truth. One could not, however, change the past, so Maka attempted to keep her eyes forward, to remember that five years truly were come and gone and that even if he were to reappear, unaccountably, impossibly reappear here and now to repeat his words, she must still refuse him as she had refused every suitor since, for nothing had changed to make her any more suitable. If anything, she was a spinster now, even less worthy the son of a Duke than she had been before, and she would be no man's burden, especially not his. He deserved better.

No, as she had told Tsubaki earlier, she should not wish to change the past. Things had ended as they must, and it would surely be a mercy if she never saw him again.

Miss Albarn was still deep in thought when she finally crested the top of the cliff, emerging from the foliage to find her sanctuary as mercifully empty as it always had been, ever since the day he had left her.

She breathed a sigh, though what feeling it exprest was unclear, even to the lady herself. Soon after, Maka pawed through the small basket she carried for the quilt she had brought, the same quilt she had kept close since the last day they had sat upon it together, before lowering herself down and spreading out the repast so lovingly prepared by her friend.

Several minutes passed, her meal laid out carefully on the blanket; though she had little wish for food, it was a part of her ritual, her penance, hollow as it was. Miss Albarn stared out at the countryside spread before her so perfectly as she had on that day, and tried not to dwell on his face, his voice, his red, red eyes that still lived so vividly in her memory, the miniature she had stolen from his parent's drawing room a reminder of his visage she cherished in secret, a luxury she allowed herself but seldom.

She missed him so. She hoped he was well. She wondered if she would ever feel whole again and knew it was unlikely, the long fled companion of her formative years having left a gaping hole in her heart that would never, could never be filled.

Lost in her own melancholy, Maka noticed nothing, saw only his face in her mind's eye, until she heard a rustling next to her, the sound of someone intruding upon her solitude, of someone brazenly seating themselves next to her atop the quilt, and started.

Her eyes darted to the intruder and what she saw stole her very breath, an involuntary gasp escaping her lips. White hair, red eyes-the image of her mind's eye made flesh once more. She must be dreaming, or perhaps madness had taken her at last in her standing grief, for surely, surely it could not be him after so many years.

Mr. Evans, or perhaps his apparition, cleared his throat, eyes searching her face. He looked good-more rugged, maybe, less polished, but still, the years had been kind.

"So tell me, Mrs. Marcia Alven, was it?" he began, and her eyes widened at his use of her pen name. "When Mr. Easton returns from the Americas to propose, does Miss Aubern finally agree? I fear I haven't been of able to sleep, the suspense is so well wrought."

Maka could not control herself-she gasped and pulled out a thick tome from her basket to strike the image before her, for surely he could not be real. To be here and know of her life as an author, to have appeared just on the anniversary of his leaving five years ago, to have appeared at all after so very long, he could only be the ghost of her own desires. When her book struck air she would know she had finally lost herself to hysteria, her poised facade over the last several years shattered, and perhaps she would finally see the inside of Bedlam.

The book did not strike air, however, but flesh and bone as it made contact with his head, eliciting a grunt of pain and narrow eyed glare for the barest instant before his expression settled into something like exasperated fondness.

"Hell of a way to greet a friend after five years," he said, and his voice was not tinged in anger, but that same fond exasperation that she witnessed on his countenance.

"Well, perhaps if that friend had announced his arrival and made a house call as any civilized person would, I would not have thought him a ghost after missing him for so long, after not a soul could tell me whence he disappeared or why, after not receiving so much as a line in the post to suggest he was well." She would not cry, though her voice wavered with the weight of her emotion, with the shock of him being here and now.

His exasperation shifted, melted into something like pain, something like guilt. One hand reached for her as he said her name softly, but he pulled it away before it could find her and his face straightened, the unreadable mask he had always worn for others, for everyone but her, suddenly appearing. It made her heart ache.

"I asked a question, Miss Albarn, or Mrs. Alven if you prefer. I was hoping you would answer it." His voice was carefully neutral.

"I fear that is privy information, Mr. Evans. I have only just sent the latest chapter to the publisher; to reveal what it contains would be unfair to my other readers." Her heart raced as she willed her voice not to shake with little success. He was here. He was here, had read her novel, wished to know-to know how it ended, it seemed. Her novel that was the story of what had been and still might be. Her novel that was them.

"Ah, but Miss Albarn, surely you can make an exception for your oldest friend?" He leaned in closer and his very proximity, a bare foot away, had her skin pinking, hot and flush.

"I suppose," she said after a moment, one desperate moment spent collecting her thoughts. "But you must promise not to reveal the outcome to others upon pain of death." She smiled shakily, her attempt at their old banter flat and forced.

"Of course," he nodded, placing a hand over his heart in mock solemnity. "On my word as a gentleman."

"Very well," she sighed, stifling the urge to question him-where had he been and why was he here-or to throw herself in his arms in favor of answering. "When Mr. Easton returns to renew his previous proposal, Miss Aubern refuses him once more."

He frowned at that. "But does she not still love him?"

Maka was fairly certain her heart was trying to escape from her chest. It squeezed painfully, pounded wildly. "She does, yet her reasons to refuse him remain unchanged." The words were like knives through her soul, the truth too painful.

"That doesn't seem right." His frown deepened. "He made his fortune in the Americas, and lack of fortune was her objection."

"No, her unsuitability was her objection." She could not quite meet his gaze, her eyes resting on his mouth instead. "While initially that unsuitability revolved around her lack of fortune, five years later, she is a spinster and equally unsuitable."

"And yet." He had leaned so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, his eyes searching as she lifted her own. "If he loves her, if she loves him, this objection holds no relevance. Why should she wound them both so callously?"

"Because she refuses to be a burden." Maka swallowed the painful lump in her throat. Why was he here now-why-when she had finally accepted his loss, when she had finally made something of herself on her own?

"She could never be a burden." His voice was so soft, his eyes so pleading, that her heart felt as though it might burst.

"Soul," she whispered, closing her eyes, unable to stand the intensity of his gaze a second longer. "Why are you here?"

"To see you," his voice was low and close and so achingly familiar she had to hold back tears for a second time.

"It has been five years. Five years, and I had no idea where-even your own brother, Soul, even he knew not where you had fled." She wanted so much to be calm, but the pain in her voice was audible. She dug her fingers into the fabric of her dress and steeled herself as she opened her eyes to meet his once more.

He leaned back, face carefully neutral. "I told you where I was going and why. You must have known I would return."

Maka shook her head. "Why did you come back?" she repeated her earlier question in a whisper.

"Because I did what I set out to do." He looked so earnest, just as he had on that day five years ago. Why did he have to look so sincere? It hurt. It hurt so very, very badly.

"So you really went to the Americas?"

He nodded and she forced herself to breathe. In, then out, then in again.

"And you-"

"Made my fortune, yes." He took her hand suddenly, clasping it as tightly as he had then. "You told me once that a second son must marry well, and so I intend to. I went to the Americas, I bought a small gun powder factory, and I worked to make it grow. I need no fortune, Miss Albarn, only someone to share it with. Only one person has ever held my heart. She holds it still-she will always hold it."

Maka tried to withdraw her hand just as she had long ago, overwhelmed, but he held it firmly, refusing to let go. She was about to protest but Mr. Evans offered her no quarter; he would say his piece. "Please Maka-please-these five years have been empty without you, I have missed you so, have thought of you every day, dreamt of you every night, longed for the day I might see you once more. Please, for godsake, will you have me now?"

She shook her head, the words caught in her throat. She wanted, oh how she wanted, to fling herself at him, caress him, to be his and only his.

Yet she loved him too much, far far too much to be his burden. It was all so difficult, so very difficult, and she wished he had never returned, had stayed in the Americas to find another.

"You left," her voice was barely audible. "I-I refused you, and you left. You-you cannot-why would you-" She shook her head again. She had burned that bridge long ago, yet he had come back. He had come back for her.

"You never married." He had leaned closer again and again she felt the heat of his breath, his mouth achingly close. "Why? I know you had other suitors, eligible suitors, yet you refused them all." His eyes were searching hers again, imploring, demanding. "Why Maka?"

"Why did you come back?" she whispered for a third time, ignoring his question. She was lost. Utterly and completely lost.

"I was always going to come back. Always. I knew you lied. Did you think I wouldn't? That I didn't know?"

She shook her head, swallowing thickly. For the first time since he had sat down beside her, there was raw hurt, on his face, in his voice. He pulled back again slightly and took in a breath. Her heart pounded, ached, bled. She had caused this pain, her. The urge to fling herself into his arms was strong again, to soothe the hurt she had caused them both. He was so familiar even through the differences, through the tan skin and slight scruff, the gruffness of his speech, the callouses on his hands. He was still Soul, her Soul, and she still loved him so.

She steeled herself, forced down her feelings because she must.

"I knew you lied then, but you're stubborn, so damned stubborn. You always have been." His grip on her hand was hot and so tight it bordered on being painful. "I knew I had to make your reasons disappear if I were to have a prayer of changing your mind-and I have, Maka. I have."

"But-" she was shaking her head again, in denial, in disbelief. It was too much. She could not do this, not here, not now, not ever. She stood, wrenching her hand free, but he stood as quickly and it felt like five years ago all over again as he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. When he took her into his arms she had not the strength to resist.

"No buts, Maka. Please. No more buts, only truth." One hand reached up to stroke her cheek. Lovingly. So lovingly. His touch was warm and light and she never wanted it to end, leaning into his hand instinctually. "I asked you before and I ask it again." He tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Do you love me?"

She shook her head in his grasp, mouthing no-partially in disbelief, denial that this was happening at all, and partially in clinging to her misplaced convictions.

Ignoring her denial, he forged on.

"And will you marry me?"

She began to shake her head again but his free hand moved up to rest on the other side of her face, stilling her, causing her eyes to widen, causing her to color violently as his own face leaned down and close, his breath mingling with hers just before his lips were on her own, slightly chapped and so so warm.

It was forbidden, improper, wrong, to kiss a man who was not her husband, not her betrothed.

It was warm, electric, completely right, to kiss her dearest friend, her soulmate, her long lost Soul.

She could not help it, could not control it-her heart was too full-she returned his kiss, gratefully, eagerly, her hands moving to wrap around his neck, reveling in his closeness after so many years without him.

Several moments later he pulled away and she felt the loss keenly before he rested his forehead gently against her own. His eyes were closed as he took in a deep breath and released it, warm against her skin, before opening them, those beautiful, startlingly red eyes she had missed for far too long.

"Maka please. Please." His voice was soft, reverent and hopeful and broken. "Without you, I have nothing. Please. Marry me."

She should say no. For him, to save him from being saddled with a spinster of no fortune, to save them both from the disaster that might follow, yet her heart would allow it no longer. She wanted this, needed this, needed him so badly that her mouth whispered the word unbidden, yes, before she tilted her face up to meet his lips again with her own, his arms tightening around her, his lips hot and so very eager. This kiss lasted longer, and when he pulled away, they were both panting. He whispered her name reverently, and she echoed his, and when he pulled back to look at her, his smile was so full and beautiful that she could not regret it.

"I love you. I love you so damned much."

She nodded, swallowed, and finally spoke the words she had denied him for far too long.

"And I love you."

That those words were followed by his lips on hers once more was hardly surprising, and they spent much of the remaining afternoon engaging in what had quickly become their new favorite pastime.

They could not linger there forever, however, and eventually they had to face reality. Miss Maka Albarn and Mr. Solomon Evans left the clifftop together as they had five years before, this time hand in hand, both ecstatic at their new understanding. Miss Albarn had begun her day refusing one proposal, only to become engaged to another man, a far better man, and her heart swelled. There were still things to face-obtaining Sir Spencer's blessing, facing Lord -shire's disapproval, arranging their union, arranging to return to Mr. Evans' holdings overseas, and soothing the lingering pain and doubt wrought of five long years apart-but those things could wait, at least for an evening.

Together, they would face them down. Together, they would face the world as they were always meant to. Together, they would find the happiness that both had been longing for those five long, torturous years.