Much later, with Luke and Flora safely tucked into their own beds, Hershel Layton brews a cup of much-too-strong tea and doesn't drink it.

He sits at a small desk wedged into a corner of the even smaller front room. Perhaps he ought to consider finding a larger flat—Flora is growing up, after all, and it's not quite proper for her and Luke to continue sharing a bedroom…

But, of course, they won't be, not for much longer.

Hershel glances at the tea—still steaming; perhaps he'll let it cool just a bit more—and turns his attention back to the top hat, which he has once more removed and now cradles in his lap.

In his heart of hearts, he knew all along that "Celeste" was mere fiction.

"You might have sought me out," he whispers into the empty circle of lamplight, but he knows that would have done nothing. She must have spent days or weeks in Future London, working out exactly what she must do to save hundreds of thousands of lives—she was where she was needed. And she would have had to go back, either way. His heart would have broken again, either way.

She had tears in her eyes when she kissed him.

"Nothing to be done," he murmurs. Nothing at all except to go on. He reaches up out of habit, for a hat brim that isn't there.

Claire, wait…

Now, true gentlemen most certainly do not bawl like children. But there's no one to see, and perhaps—just this once—she'd understand.

"Do you think we should—?"

"I don't know, I've never seen him like this before!"

Hershel blinks, and lifts his head from the desk. How long have I been here? His eyes are swollen and sore; his breathing comes in ragged gasps that he cannot quite control.

Beside him, his two charges cling together with wide eyes. "Professor?" Luke asks. The boy looks far younger in nightclothes, his favorite teddy dangling from his hand. The unasked are you all right? hovers in the air, but so too does the answer.

"I—" His voice is a rasp. He coughs. "I'm—sorry—"

Flora takes his hand, leads him to the old davenport he bought not long after Luke came to stay with him. She says something to Luke over her shoulder, words that float away before Layton can concentrate on them, and the boy darts away into the bedroom.

"Papa," Flora says, and the new word falls into his mind like a ripple in a still pool. "Papa, come here."

He looks up, half intending to say that he would never presume to replace her lost father and she certainly should not feel obligated to—

His daughter wraps her arms around him, and the thought crumbles away.

Luke emerges from the bedroom shortly thereafter, half-hidden under a pile of rainbow-hued afghan. He breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of the sofa (or perhaps its occupants) and heaves the whole bundle into Flora's arms. "Here, Professor." A small, soft object finds its way into Layton's lap. "You can have Mr. Bear for tonight, okay?"

Not trusting himself to speak, Layton simply reaches out as Luke clambers up beside him. Flora spreads out the blanket such that it covers all three of them. It is deliciously warm, though he should really send the children back to bed. He should at least rise long enough to turn out the lamp…

As if in answer, a light draft caresses his face and the room goes dark.

"She's not gone, Professor," Luke mumbles, already half-asleep.

Hershel wakes the next morning to find a slightly crumpled hat at his side and a cup of stone-cold tea still on his desk. He eases out from under the blanket and goes to check the lamp—he'd thought perhaps the bulb had burned out, but it's perfectly functional. Odd.

He smooths the creases from the hat, leaving it on the desk. He'll put it on again later, when he goes out, but for now there is no need.

Perhaps Luke and Flora would like pancakes for breakfast?

He picks up the abandoned teacup, making his way into the kitchen. His slumbering children have both curled up in the warm place he left on the couch.