"Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving." –A Hat Full of Sky, Terry Pratchett

Chapter 1

e looked up, trying to encompass as much of the white stucco-fronted townhouse as she could in a single glance. Phryne hadn't been to Chester Square in more than two years but everything seemed rather unchanged. As it ought to be, she found herself thinking, perhaps uncharitably.

«Phryne», a familiar voice beckoned from the open door, a strange mixture of surprise and relief tingeing its sound.

Miss Fisher looked at her mother. Given that Margaret had taken after their mother's family looks and Prudence had taken after their father's, their common parentage shone through the perceptive brown eyes and the determination in the set line of their mouths instead of shared physical traits. Margaret was taller and her hair hadn't lightened very much yet - dark grey waves framed an oval face with the regal cheekbones which Phryne had inherited.

Phryne smiled. Their relationship hadn't always run smoothly but she was truly glad to see her mother, particularly after all this time.

«Welcome…», some word seemed poised to follow that but Margaret said «Oh, do come in, Phryne», instead, her right hand motioning towards the hall.

Miss Fisher kissed her mother on the cheek before walking in, a gesture that had first surprised Margaret but made her smile afterwards. At heart, Phryne had always been an affectionate child and it was always pleasant (and pride-inducing, she would confess) to see that life and its sometimes rough course hadn't changed that in her daughter. As if that kiss had carried some implicit permission, Margaret put her hand on Phryne's back and even if there wasn't any reason why she would, not in those circumstances at least and as far as she knew, relief took over her when Phryne didn't recoil at her touch. How could she had been only twenty when Phryne had been born? It all seemed to have taken place many lifetimes ago, and maybe it had.

«We'll have tea now, Hewitt», Margaret said to the man holding the door open, not knowing exactly how to follow up with Phryne – not for lack of words, quite the contrary.

He nodded and wanted for them to be in the hall before he could close the door and have the necessary arrangements made.

Phryne took stock of the hall – the black and white checkered floor, the tasteful medallion on the ceiling, and the wooden polished staircase covered by a well-maintained burgundy runner that led upwards. She didn't exactly mean to, but Phryne knew that most steps taken in that house, and probably most of the steps taken in London even, would be laden with comparisons and memories and meaning, which in some cases could be as simple as 'I haven't been here for two years'. It was a rather odd feeling given that she wasn't sure she would call that house and the places that made up her own map of London 'home'.

Margaret went up the stairs and Phryne followed her to the drawing room. It was a large and airy area despite the many paintings on the cream wallpapered walls and the solid dark furniture, most of it bought specifically for the house when the 4th Baron Fisher had taken the lease of the house from the aristocratic Grosvenor family.

Her mother sat on the green sofa in front of the lit fireplace while Phryne moved to the twin windows overlooking the garden. She recalled the thrill of getting the key, opening the gate and walking into it as if she were entering some fairly land. At 14, she had felt too old for that sort of musings sometimes, but she did enjoy sitting on the bench by the oldest plane tree or by the central rose garden and listen to the birds flying over her head, reading a book, imaging what she would do in her future or, much to her parents' dismay if not horror, put on a pair of trousers and climb the trees, a feat that had lead a handful of ruffled neighbours to that same drawing room she was standing in. Tree climbing in Chester Square? Not even the gardeners do so – there are ladders, for goodness' sake.

Janey would have loved that garden, its green dome and shrubbery walls, inviting stories of adventures in unknown worlds. If they had been able to come up with them in the dreary backyard of their dreary house in Collingwood, it would have been even easier and more pleasant to do so in such enchanting surroundings. Janey would also have loved the house, the wonderful setting to being a queen, an admiral back home after a long trip, or – particularly inspired by a collection of Gothic literature Margaret had brought from her girlhood house – a rich and mysterious widow. Phryne's eyes started to water. She wiped them with the tip of her gloved fingers and took a deep breath. She always got a bit wistful when she looked at the house like this.

Picture frames dotted the table on her right, moments that had been deemed important or beautiful or happy to commit to something tangible: Margaret and Prudence before they had gotten married, bright and hopeful young girls despite the stiff poses and the frilly dresses; the three Fishers sitting outside of Brentby, the family's country seat; Margaret and Henry's wedding day, a simple but lovely affair that only Aunt Prudence and Uncle Edward had witnessed due to the bride's parents' staunch opposition to the match; Phryne on her 18th birthday, a vision in a Poiret dress which had scandalised the older guests in spite of its streamlined design and because it was black and worn without a 'proper' corset; her parent's silver anniversary; the Stanleys in a visit they had paid to England; the day Phryne had been presented in court. Snippets of the Past within arm's reach.

Phryne picked up a photograph taken when she was twelve and Janey ten years old. She remembered that day well, a treat to celebrate Janey's birthday. They had been so excited – they had never had their picture taken before (while made more accessible over the latter years, theirs wasn't exactly a household with money to spare) and the process seemed wondrous to their curious minds. Taking the few pictures that existed at their house, serious grandparents they had never met and parents they couldn't imagine ever had been young, they trained their poses insistently, just to be disappointed by Mr. Appleton's direct and uninspired instructions regarding how they should position themselves - just standing side by side in front of a white wall. It seemed to lack the dignity they were expecting, despite being clad in their Sunday best dresses with their hair neatly pulled back and tied with ribbons. Phryne slid her thumb over the image. It was the only picture they had of Janey.

«I really wish I had been there», Margaret said, «finally being able to give her the proper funeral we had been wanted for so many years», she sighed. «But the doctor saw it best not to, fearing the bronchitis could turn into pneumonia with the cold sea air». It was her turn to dab at her eyes. She knew it had been beyond her, but Margaret felt tremendously guilty for not having been able to lay her daughter to rest. Guilt and that she had failed Janey once again – first by not having been able to protect her from that monster and then by not being by her side in the end. She had had a Memorial Service held for Janey that day and another one when she was recovered and could attend it but it had felt like such a vacant gesture, sometimes Margaret had even regretted it.

«I know… and if there's any way for her to, Janey does as well», Phryne said, putting the frame back in its place and sitting by her mother, covering her hand with one of hers. «I took some roses from those you planted when you were fifteen to her grave».

«Thank you», Margaret paused. «I can hardly believe those plants can still bear flowers».

«Aunt Prudence wouldn't have it otherwise. She tends to them herself», Phryne said with a smile.

«How is she? I have been getting her telegrams and her letters, but I know her. I'm not sure she's telling me the whole story. Poor Prudence. Arthur was a darling man». Margaret wrote to her sister often, trying to comfort her with the feelings she had gathered from the awful experience they now shared of having lost a child.

«She's doing better. It's all still very raw but little by little she has been able to go back to her life. There was that incident with the house being turned into a clinic, but everything is settled now. Aunt Prudence was lost, but she's back on her feel now. You know she can't be quiet for long».

«Oh, yes. My sister had always seemed powered by some inner train – this sounded so strange, but I guess you get what I mean. Thank you for being there for her. I'm sure Guy loves his mother but he's so scatter-brained, I don't know if he would have been able to handle things like you have. Don't tell her I revealed this, but Prudence is really glad to have you in Australia.»

«Sometimes we can't see eye to eye but we care about each other».

«Indeed. I would have loved to see her face when you told her you'd become a private detective though», Margaret chuckled.

«Shock at first, but my skillset has been very useful a couple of times and I think all is forgiven now», Phryne said with a smile.

«Aren't you ever afraid?», Margaret's tone was much more serious now.

«There's no time for that. Only afterwards. I like what I do. It's not something I sought, but I like to see justice served and to help people. And I'm careful, don't worry», Phryne said, decoding the look in her mother's eyes before she could even say a word.

Hewitt came in with tea. He put the tray on the side console and after laying a pristine cloth on the centre table, proceeded to place the tea set, fine porcelain, and napkins in front of them. In his early-thirties, with dark hair and hazel eyes, Phryne recognised him, but had known him by a different name.

«I hope you still like Black Tea», Margaret said. Her tone had become agreeable and light but she feared she might do something wrong that would drive Phryne away. From what she had gathered, her daughter's move to Australia couldn't be hung on one cause only, yet she didn't want to feel they had drifted so much apart she wouldn't no longer be aware of Phryne's such elementary like and dislike anymore.

«I do, I do… And after such a long day it will taste even more divine», Phryne said with no insincerity on her part. Her mother was doing her best to put on a calm and at ease front but Phryne had been observing people for a long time to be able to read beyond that, a skill fine-tuned by her detective work.

Margaret picked up the delicate porcelain pot. «Would you prefer it strong or weak?»

«Strong, please. And with some milk and two sugars».

She prepared a cup for her daughter according to Phryne's indications and handed it to her and then got one for herself with one sugar instead of two. Meanwhile, Hewitt had returned with a curate displaying finger sandwiches, scones, and chocolate and orange tea biscuits on each dish and a jam and cream silver server embossed with the Fisher coat of arms. Normally, the complete silver tea set only came in full parade when there was certain company, but Phryne wondered if her mother – she doubted her father would want to get included in such procedures – had had to sell them to try to save bigger things like the houses.

«Where's Nicholls?», Phryne asked after a sip of her tea, inquiring about the thin tall man who had always been the Fishers' butler, «Everything is alright with him, I hope».

Margaret put her cup on the saucer, took a deep breath and laid them on the table.

«He's in Brentby», there was no way to escape the matter any further, Phryne would know eventually, « the house has been let to an American family for the shooting season and most of the staff is there as I was able to convince the Stricklands to pay their wages. It's curious how the Americans wanted to be independent from Britain so vehemently but some are willing to come here and pay to play at all they despised», she smiled weakly to try to lighten the situation.

Yet the truth was that every step of the way had pained Margaret immensely: the discreet enquiries for someone interested, the paperwork, the countless meetings with the solicitor, packing the things she didn't want to leave behind but trying to not make it seem she had moved everything to the locked part of the attic to avoid having the tenants think she might not trust them, trying to navigate the situation with the staff in a way that didn't reveal the depths of the troublesome money issues which had led her to resort to such measures, wrapping her mind around the fact that soon there would be strangers in her home and sleeping in her bed. Margaret had changed houses plenty of times in her life but, having left Australia so long ago and no matter how much she enjoyed the time spent in London, Brentby felt like her true home. The big windows facing the garden and letting all that bright, beautiful light in, the comfortable and spacious rooms with their curious trinkets and pieces of art, the curtains, fabrics, cushions, and furniture she had chosen to complement the heritage she had found there, the canopy bed which was the most soft and heavenly she had ever slept in. The struggles, tragedies, and heart-break that had happened in her life brought a layer of guilt when she felt it, but Margaret longed to be back every day. How strange it was not to being able to return to one's home when one simply wanted to.

«So your father and I have moved here for a time. We brought Hewitt – you may remember him from when he was a footman, he got promoted to under-butler some months after you… went to Australia – a cook, and a maid. It will do». Margaret tried to imbue some courage in the tired smile she addressed to Phryne and picked up her tea again.

Phryne looked at her mother closely now. Normally, she cut an effortless stately figure but Miss Fisher could discern how much of a performance her mother was putting on due to the way she held her shoulders and her head and how she controlled the necessary movements to use the teacup. There were more wrinkles around her features than those two years alone could carve and while she had tried to cover them with some make-up as best as she could without looking gauche and inappropriate, there were dark circles under her mother's eyes. For someone wearing a copper silk velvet dress and sitting on a deep green sofa, Margaret seemed to blend with the background instead of standing out, as those colours were bound to do.

«Is there… some way I can help?», Phryne said at last. Part of her didn't want to get embroiled in another mess of her father's making, but she couldn't sit idly considering what her mother had been enduring.

«Oh, no, dear Phryne», Margaret patted her daughter's hand, «That's a very kind offer but everything is settled for the time being. Mr Brooke and Mr Richardson have been very helpful and we have already seen some results of our effort and Aunt Prudence's loan is helping to bridge the most urgent gaps. I want to believe the worst is behind us so far and that I'll be able to pay her back very soon. »

«Aunt Prudence asked me to tell you very clearly that there is no expiration date for the repayment», Phryne said sympathetically, but a wave of rage had exploded in her chest. In the month and half that her father had needed to get to Melbourne escaping his actions and tying even more money he barely had to the McKenzie Cavalcade of Mysteries, her mother had not only been left behind but she also had to attempt to straighten up all the messes her husband had made and to repair their tattered finances.

«Where is Father?»

Phryne had been hungry and looking forward to remedy that with the delicacies on the tray but she was no longer able to summon any appetite.

«Asleep. Leave him be, Phryne», Margaret said. «It's probably best this way. I'll talk to him after dinner».

«He can't go on behaving like this». Phryne hadn't seen Henry since he had rushed through the front door. She could picture him probably nursing some rediscovered bottle of his 'nerve tonic' to make up for the ones she hadn't let him drink during the trip, going as far as throwing them overboard in spite of his 'pleas'. «It's enough. While annoying, his mistakes had been mostly foolish and embarrassing but this is gambling with your lives», her voice had risen almost without her noticing it.

«Don't be so hard on him. I have been giving him several pieces of my mind already. I'll keep an even closer eye on him from now onwards, don't worry». Margaret was trying to be reassuring and while she wouldn't publically agree with Phryne that vehemently, fearing it would only deepen the rift that had always existed between daughter and father, she did concede that Phryne was right to a point.

«I know you love him, Mother», Phryne pre-emptively offered the words she knew Margaret would say, «but that can't mean you give him carte blanche for everything. Since you met him, your life has been riddled with recklessness and financial upheaval. It may sound callous, but I don't know how our family would have managed if this barony and the money that came with it hadn't fallen out of a string of single or sickly children and the Boer War into Father's lap». Miss Fisher took a deep breath to pace herself.

Margaret didn't say anything, remaining still, the teacup and the saucer in her hand.

Phryne put hers on the table and touched her mother's wrist.

«I am not blaming you. I want to make that perfectly clear. You have always done your best for this family, tried to keep the pieces together... I just wish Father would be responsible for his actions, but, as much as it pains me, I'm afraid it may be too late. Besides, isn't there a way you can be in charge of money and all the assets? You clearly mange them much better».

Margaret's eyes brimmed with tears. She hadn't let herself cry over this ever since Henry had turned to her in bed eight months ago and said "Darling, I'm afraid there are some money issues", choosing to keep her head down and focus on what she could do not to revert the situation (that was basically impossible) but to amend it the best she could. After numerous meetings with Mr Brooke, the trusted solicitor, pouring over property and land deeds, asset inventories and documents enough to cover the long dining table at Brentby, they had come to a list of measures they could undertake, property that could be either let or sold, stocks, machinery, jewellery, pieces of art the Fishers could part with without denting the family's heritage and heirlooms more than what was strictly necessary. Henry hadn't exactly been helpful but he hadn't been much of a hindrance either, thankfully, protesting about the sale of some things more out of pride than actual fondness or importance but signing everything he was asked to. Apart from his escape to Australia, obviously. That Margaret hadn't been able to forgive yet and she wasn't sure she would in the foreseeable future, despite her love for him. Henry had always been flighty but he had been by her side when it truly mattered, like when Janey had disappeared, Margaret had had to deal with the death of her estranged parents or when they had been mad with worry as Phryne had gone to war and were unable to locate her. Otherwise, his charm and the love that linked them would probably not have been enough to keep them together for so long; this had been the most terrible blow to her trust. At first, while they didn't talk about it more than necessary, Margaret had been able to draw some comfort from having Henry nearby, but when he had absconded to Australia she had felt disposable, lost, adrift, and angry.

Out of shame, she hadn't been able to talk about the full extent of what was bothering her with anyone. Her friends had tried to cheer her up and be as supportive as best as they could in light of that they did know, but something was lacking and while he was informed of the whole scheme and had been their solicitor for ages, Margaret wasn't exactly going to confide her most inner thoughts to Thomas Brooke.

Margaret had received the news of Henry's return with a mixture of longing and bitterness. She loved him but that anger hadn't subsided yet. She had been obviously glad to see him again, hold him, and hear his voice but she also had had to make a great effort to welcome him without snapping until they were alone.

Henry had seemed happy to meet her again, embracing and kissing her tenderly, his 'better half', as he called her sometimes, yet apart from a gentle twinge of regret, he didn't seem particularly repentant or fully aware of what had happened while he had been gone and that had hurt her even more. Fifty years with him had shown her Henry's incredible power of compartmentalisation but he couldn't be that oblivious, could he? She wanted to believe that his reticence to look directly at their daughter meant that he was ashamed of the terms of his return at least and not simply because he was "so tired, I think I'll fall face first in bed without even knowing how", that the bath she had had drawn for him could provide him with some time to think things over.

Lady Fisher took a deep breath that was meant to help her gather her bearings but she couldn't avoid the tears that kept rolling down her face.

«I am sorry», Margaret said, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of the napkin. It was hardly polite and even less lady-like but her fingertips were no longer enough.

Phryne shook her head. Not at all. She patted her mother's shoulder tenderly.

«Thank you for being here and for bringing your father back home. I truly appreciate it and it can't have been easy for you». Margaret wanted to add that Phryne didn't have to, even if only out of politeness, but both knew that it had been the only way. Otherwise, Henry would have probably jumped ship in the first port where it had docked and they would still be searching the world for him.

«I am glad to have been able to help you», Phryne said, discovering that it was so indeed, in spite of soulfully missing Melbourne and everyone and everything she had left behind.

A/n: This is my contribution to April's Challenge of MFMM Year of Quotes.

Thank you for reading the first chapter of this fic. I hope you enjoyed it. I have to confess I don't know how many more there will be but I think it isn't going to be novel-length. Given that April is basically over, you have the first two chapters and then I'll continue writing it and posting it in May (two simultaneous fics, yay/not yay). For some reason, this fic hasn't been very easy to write and has even thrown me into a particular pit of frustration I don't think I had been in since 'Angry, Half in Love, and Tremendously Sorry', in spite of all the work put into the other fics that came between them.

I think I had mentioned previously that while I know that book!Phryne is 20 years-old or something, I cannot picture her so in the current universe I'm familiar with because in my head Phryne looks like Essie Davis (which doesn't mean that I can't picture a young Phryne but it takes place earlier than 1929). In light of this, I adjusted the timeline and, as presented, these Fishers inherit the title and the money not in the aftermath of the Great War but of the Boer War. Technically, it should be called The Second Boer War, since there was a first, but given that it is much less known, the later takes 'precedence' and has come to be known simply as that. It took place from 11 October 1899 to 31 May 1902 and «was fought between the British Empire and two Boer States, the South African Republic (Republic of Transvaal) and the Orange Free State over the Empire's influence in South Africa». (Let's give it up to wikipedia for this brief synopsis).

Chester Square is one of the three garden squares built by the Grosvenor family when they developed the main part of Belgravia in the 19th century. The Grosvenors still owned (and own many of) the houses and let them under long-term leases. It is and was an upscale area and the garden isn't open to the public. You have to live there to get a key and there's a strict set of rules one must obey.

I know there's a mention of the 'Norfolk House' in the show, but I'm afraid I tinkered with things a bit and that's why I ended up giving the Fisher's both the London house in Chester Square and Brentby (name of the house) as their country seat.

You may have gotten more Margaret than what you were expecting, but so did I. As I wrote, I just found myself slipping into her perspective and what she might have felt among all that turmoil. (Also: Henry is still the worst).

I must also make a note about the title. I don't think I had ever heard that word until I read it a couple of days ago in one of Zelda's letters that feature in «Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda - The Love Letters of F. Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald», edited by Jackson R. Bryer & Cathy W. Barks (which I fully recommend btw, particularly as, so far, it has much more letters by Zelda than by Scott and it's a very interesting insight into her personality and life as well as her writing, and her perspective of their relationship).I had been struggling with a title basically since the beginning but when I read that word it was almost like the proverbial lightning thing.

P.s: In case you're re-reading the story, I did edit the type of tea after a pertinent note I received in a review.

Thank you again for reading this and the following chapter. Your feedback is appreciated as always.