Author's Note: Okay, so yeah, I definitely dropped off the face of the Earth with this fic. I know. And oh, the apologies I must beg from all of you. Here's what happened. Game of Thrones S8—that's what happened. I mean, what even was that?

For Dany fans, it was pretty much the worst thing to happen since the beginning of things (subverting tropes by making the girl go mad – mmhmm *heavy eye roll*). And for Jorah/Dany fans, well #stillwrecked #nevergonnabeoverit

Although on a purely angsty/I-love-tragedy level, that particular ship will be sailing in the canon Nightlands until the end of time...so, ya know, small favors :) Anyway, I'm in a fix it mood and that's where I've been diverting pretty much all of my writing energies lately.

Anyway, désolé, désolé! But please know that I have absolutely (cross my heart and hope to die) not abandoned this fic. And to prove my words are true, here's an update. Finally. My updates will likely still be sporadic for a while but this is me trying to get them back on a regular schedule :)

Chapter Ten:

Red returns. And he brings an entire party with him.

Apparently the Pratts had visitors over Christmas and they've decided to stay for an extended holiday. And Reddington, sociable and eccentric as he is, has invited them all to Thornfield. For a week? A month? The time is uncertain.

"When these fashionable people get together, there's no telling how long they'll stay," Mr. Kaplan mutters as she gives Luli an updated list for the butcher. The kitchens at Thornfield are woefully understocked for a party of any size—and we now have the entire Pratt household and their assorted guests staying with us.

There are at least a dozen in the party but I know very few of them by name. Madeline and her mother, Lady Pratt, of course. They're impossible to miss as they carry themselves like ladies at court. I've met Aram Mojtabai, a friendly and inquisitive biologist who's known both the Pratts and Reddington for a score of years. He had introduced himself to me as soon as he entered the house, shaking hands with almost everyone—the servants included—in a familiar, congenial manner that couldn't help but warm my opinion of the man immediately. He's completely without guile, which is refreshing, as this house is filled with it.

And he seems quite taken with one of Madeline's friends, a dark-haired woman from London named "Samar" who I've noticed says very little and isn't forthcoming with personal details. I wonder if that's a choice.

After receiving the list from Mr. Kaplan, Luli bobs her head and immediately sets off for the butcher's. I'm sent to give Dembe more orders for candles and lamp oil before resuming my primary duties, which now mainly consist of keeping Agnès calm and out of sight, as she is in no mood for studies at present. Her fervent desire to join the party and take part in whatever activities they may be playing at has overwhelmed all else. The sight of so much silk and jewelry has turned her little head. She's fallen in love with Madeline Pratt after one glance.

I can't blame her. Lady Madeline is objectively beautiful—tall and elegant, with soft auburn hair and an easy manner. Her eyes sparkle with cunning, feminine mischief and her lips curl on a smile that embodies l'attraction mystérieuse, which is something that a woman is either born with or…she is not.

I've never minded being plain. I've never minded wearing cotton instead of silk or being in service and forced to make a living with my hands. I will always be the woman who works over her needlework behind a screen, silent, alone, easily forgotten, instead of being the woman fawned over in the center of the room, receiving gifts of compliments and favors from her many admirers.

I don't know that I'd want it, even if I had a choice in the matter. But that doesn't mean I enjoy feeling the contrast so acutely, especially when so starkly drawn.

Especially here, in this house that I've grown to regard as my home, with Madeline Pratt as the undisputed belle of the ball, her tinkling laughter mixing with Reddington's lower timbre as they speak of horses and riding and foreign places they've both visited and old jokes they've shared for years. I hear it all, forced to play audience to their revelry, and suddenly realize something that my distracted mind had forgotten in these last, blissful months at Thornfield—this is not my world.

This is not my home. Not really.

This is Reddington's world. This is Madeline's Pratt's world. This is a world of wealth and privilege, neither of which are things I will ever possess. And I…I'm just the governess, pushed away in a quiet corner, charged with keeping the child quiet and her excitement tempered to an acceptable level, so as not to distress or annoy the silk-clad ladies.

This is not your home, Elizabeth. You have no home.

My needle pierces the fabric in my hands industriously, like a knife through warm butter. My hand leads the thread down and then draws it up again, keeping the stitches neat and tight. The motion is rhythmic and nearly allows me to forget my surroundings.

Even if Agnès will not.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Keen, but she is so belle," Agnès insists, pressing nearer to me, leaning up to whisper the words at my ear. We sit perched together on the sofa behind the screen in the drawing room. She fidgets but knows she must remain still if she's going to be allowed to stay in the room with the adults. My hands remain busy at my needlework, my head bent over the silver and green threads, trying not to steal any more glances at Reddington.

Twice, I've looked up and twice, I've been caught in the act. By him. For he's already turned my way both times and when my eyes flicker up, they fall into his instantly.

We haven't spoken since he's been back. He hasn't sought me out, having been fully occupied by his guests. His expression is impassable, as always, not giving himself away. Although his mood seems lighter than it's been in weeks. He's so easily charmed by Madeline Pratt, as Mr. Kaplan had mentioned, it's impossible to miss the difference. He's free with his smiles when around her, whereas I find his smile lessens and nearly bleeds away when he turns that gaze on me.

Is he upset by my presence here? He shouldn't be. He's the one that demanded I be here, sending word through Mr. Kaplan that Agnès should be allowed to sit in the drawing room with the others this evening and that I was to accompany her.

"He says it's his 'particular wish'," Mr. Kaplan had related, with a monotone delivery that said she was overworked, overwhelmed and not particularly interested in his more eccentric requests at present.

But I do as he asks. I dress Agnès appropriately, without the frills and extra violet-colored petticoats that she begs me to let her wear. I keep her well-behaved, within sight of the ladies and lords, without disturbing them.

I listen to their conversations silently and say nothing when I hear one of Madeline's cousins hiss to her aunt with a stage-whisper, "Isn't that the little French girl over there? Mr. Reddington's ward, I mean? Well, isn't she a precious little thing."

Lady Pratt turns our way, her eyes narrowed and her mouth drawn in a grim line. When she was younger, I imagine her natural expression was more akin to Madeline's but time will twist a fixed smirk into a decided frown with little trouble. And Lady Pratt seems to have no love lost on me, for whatever reason. I've only crossed paths with her once in the short while the visitors have been at Thornfield and even then, we exchanged no words, but the haughty lift of her chin and the cold glint in her eyes spoke her feelings well enough.

"Come here, child," Lady Pratt beckons Agnès over with a sharp, decisive flick of her forefinger. She's been lady of her house for more years than I've been alive. She's used to having her orders obeyed, quickly and without question. Agnès's eyes grow wide with anticipation and she looks to me for permission.

"Do as she asks, Agnès," I nod. The French girl doesn't have to be told twice, bounding off the sofa to twirl and dance her way over to the ladies across the room. She curtsies in a somewhat dramatic manner, which would be more appropriate on a theater stage than in an English drawing room.

But she's excited and I can't help but smile at her excitement, though the smile is small and fleeting, bit back quickly, as my ears register the next words out of Lady Pratt's mouth.

"This is what you get when you employ a governess, Letitia," Lady Pratt sighs. "Look at the utter lack of reserve. There's no discipline in the child whatsoever."

"Oh, but she's so pretty, Aunt. What's the harm in a little unbridled energy?" Madeline's cousin, Letitia, tittered on, allowing, "And she's French, so that may account for some of it."

"A good governess should be able to correct these flaws of disposition," Lady Pratt said firmly, her gaze coming to rest on me. I find myself oddly trapped by that glance and I hate that I can't look away from it. It makes me feel weak and small. She continues, "Unless she's slothful or finds herself easily distracted, of course. Falling in love with a tutor or making eyes at the master—the tale is so classic that it's become tiresome."

Madeline and Reddington have been engaged in their own discussion by the fireplace but Lady Pratt's words have caught Reddington's attention fully. There's no smile on his face now but I still can't read his features. Madeline is watching him too, while listening to her mother, her smirk curling a little higher.

"Our governesses were always so terribly distracted," Madeline joins her mother's conversation with a sly smile. "Do you remember the last one, Mama? She was so in love with Mr. Clyde, the music tutor—it was obvious to anyone with eyes. Always following him around, hoping he'd give her the time of day. I always felt so embarrassed for her."

She laughs so lightly, like the bubbles in a champagne glass, and I find her casting a casual glance my way, tipping her head ever so slightly and pursing those rose-colored lips in a telling way. She knows I've heard her mother's words and her own. Is she looking for some sort of reaction? And what has Reddington told her? Why is this coming up?

I finally manage to turn my attention back to my needlework and take a few steady breaths to keep from saying anything stupid. My fingers hold the fabric in a vice-grip and I feel heat on my face. The women across the room move on to other subjects, Letitia's admiration of Agnès's frock and her easy forgiveness of the girl's animated nature smoothing over the rest.

I try to return to the threads. I try to keep my mind clear and uncluttered with nonsense, remembering how many times I was forced to swallow pride and anger at Lowood and just let it pass. I've done it a thousand times before but I suddenly feel like I'm drowning. Like I'm drowning in a vast and unforgiving ocean and there's not a dry speck of land for a hundred leagues.

The feeling overwhelms me. I can't stand it anymore and leave the room. I'll ask Luli or Mr. Kaplan to fetch Agnès when it's time for her to retire to bed. But I can't stay in that room a moment later, setting aside my needlework with as much calm as I'm able, and rising.

I'm halfway up the east wing stairs and have already reached the second floor landing, when I hear a voice call me back, "Lizzie?"

I slow my steps, almost tempted to keep going. He knows his guests better than I. If he knew how they would act, why did he force me to take part in that charade? I run my fingers along the carved wood on the banister, nervously, undecidedly, before finally turning around.

"Yes, sir?" I ask, very demurely, not meeting his gaze. My hands come together, my thumb absently seeking out the scar on my wrist.

"Why did you leave the drawing room?" he wonders, though he knows. He heard Lady Pratt's comments, he saw Madeline's stare. He must know. And I don't like when he pretends he doesn't.

"I'm tired, sir," I answer in a small voice, nearly truthfully. I feel exhausted.

"And a little depressed…," this isn't a question. He just states it plainly, his expression turning soft and a little sad himself. I can't tell if it's pity in his eyes or something else and I'm still unwilling to meet his gaze fully enough to find out.

"No, I'm not depressed," I shake my head, trying to convince both of us. But I'm unsuccessful and feel faithless tears prick at the sides of my eyes. Why? I couldn't tell you why. Not exactly. I'd suffered far worse offense and dismissal under Aunt Keen and Diane Fowler. Lady Pratt's words were just words. I knew better than to listen to them.

But still, the tears threatened to spill onto my cheeks. And such overwhelming loneliness threatened to swallow me whole, even with another person standing a few feet away. Even with Red standing right there, eyes searching mine for the source of my distress.

I couldn't explain it to him, even if I wanted to. Sitting in that drawing room, hearing those women say those things, as if I weren't in the room with them, as if I might as well just fade away into the wallpaper and disappear…I couldn't do it. I can't do it. I feel ready to flee again but my feet refuse to move.

"Come," Reddington climbs the stairs in two steps and pulls me over to the bench beneath the window. He says in a soft, gentle voice, utterly devoid of teasing now, "Sit with me for a minute."

His hand takes my arm before I can protest and I find myself sliding down onto the bench beside him, so close our shoulders graze against each other, before I can tell myself otherwise.

"I haven't seen you since I've been back," he mutters, as if he's upset by the fact. But it's not my fault. He should know that better than anyone. He continues, "What have you been doing while I've been away?"

I shrug, too busy trying to keep those stupid tears in check. I manage, "Teaching Agnès. She's learned her twelve times tables…finally."

"Good," he grins on that. "She'll be able to count the items in her trousseau up to 144."

I try to smile at the simple joke. I do try, but he's right. I am depressed. And I don't even know why. Well…that's not completely true. It's just hard to put into words. I've known the hollow feeling of loneliness. I've lived with it all my life. It never bothered me before I came to Thornfield. And oh, I don't know—I thought this was a place I might belong. I thought it might be home. And now I'm not so sure.

All complicated by the fact that Raymond Reddington is sitting beside me.

And, just as he had in that dream I had the night of the fire, he suddenly but deliberately takes my hand, his own hand briefly trailing up along the inside of my thigh before claiming it. He interlaces his fingers through mine as if we've done this a hundred times before. He keeps my hand captive as we sit together for a long moment, in gentle silence.

His presence is a strange sort of comfort, as it simultaneously serves as the source of my distress and the balm for it.

He doesn't say anything more and I'm glad. Because I don't know that I can hold the tears back if I try speaking again. And still we linger…

"Raymond?" Mr. Kaplan's voice echoes from below.

"Up here, Kate," he answers and soon enough we see her steel-grey head appear on the stairs. As she comes into view, I expect him to pull his hand away from mine but he doesn't. He keeps it close.

Kate Kaplan's eyes narrow slightly, finding us there together, him comforting me, with our hands clasped together. What must she think? But she doesn't say anything about it as she has other news that apparently cannot wait.

"Jacob Phelps is here, Raymond," she says bluntly. "I told him that you had guests and that he wasn't welcome in this house but he says he won't be going until he's spoken with you."

At the name, Red's expression turns dark and his grip tightens around mine, almost as a reflex. The melancholy sadness in my heart suddenly simmers away, replaced by something far worse…something that feels a lot like fear.