The first true, grey light of dawn was seeping under the door when Alistair finally allowed himself to sleep. He did not go upstairs. He dragged a moth eaten blanket from a storage trunk and laid it on the floor beside Clara's table, within arm's reach. The stone was cold and unforgiving against his back, but his body, pushed far beyond its limits, surrendered to an exhausted, dreamless oblivion almost instantly.
He was woken what felt like minutes later by the soft, deliberate sounds of Mrs. Dobbs moving about the basement. She was tidying, her movements quiet and respectful, but filled with a new, purposeful energy. She had changed her dress and wrapped a fresh apron around her waist. The horror of the surgery had been folded away, replaced by the practical business of care.
She saw he was awake and offered a small, kind smile. "She had a good night, Doctor. No fever. The breathing is still clear." She said it with a tone of reverent wonder, as if speaking of a divine event. In a way, she was.
Alistair pushed himself up, his body protesting with a chorus of aches. His first action was to lean over Clara, his fingers instinctively finding the pulse in her neck. Strong. Steady. The rhythm was a balm on his ragged soul.
"Elara?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
"Still resting upstairs," Mrs. Dobbs said, and he caught a knowing, almost maternal glint in her eye. "Let the poor lamb sleep. She was up half the night with worry for you both, I'd wager." She said it with the absolute certainty of someone who had woven a complete romantic narrative in her head. "I've brought a proper breakfast down. You'll eat it, Doctor. You need your strength."
She had. A tray sat on his desk with a bowl of porridge, a slice of bread with jam, and a pot of tea. The normality of it was jarring. The world was continuing on, demanding porridge and tea, even here, in the aftermath of a miracle and a threat.
He ate mechanically, tasting nothing, while Mrs. Dobbs fussed over Clara, smoothing her hair and murmuring soft encouragements.
The creak of the basement door hinge made them both look up. Elara stood on the steps, hesitating. She was wearing another of Clara's simple dresses, this one a faded blue. She had washed her face and tried to tame her hair into a neat braid. She looked like she was trying very hard to look like she belonged in the world of sunlight and porridge, but her eyes were still shadowed with the ghosts of the cellar.
Mrs. Dobbs beamed at her. "There you are, dear! Come in, come in. Don't you worry, she's doing just wonderfully. The Doctor here was just telling me what a help you were last night." She shot Alistair a look that very clearly instructed him to agree.
Alistair felt a hot flush of discomfort. The lie was becoming a living thing, growing and evolving in Mrs. Dobbs's mind without his input. "Yes," he managed, the word sticking in his throat. "A great help."
Elara's gaze flickered to him, a flicker of understanding and shared unease passing between them. She understood the game they were now forced to play.
She came fully into the room, her attention going immediately to Clara. The genuine concern on her face was not an act. "She looks better," Elara said softly, her voice full of quiet awe.
"Thanks to you both," Mrs. Dobbs said firmly, connecting them as a unit once more. She bustled over to the tray. "Now, you sit. You'll have some tea and porridge. You're too pale by half."
Elara obeyed, sitting gingerly on the edge of the stool. She accepted the cup of tea Mrs. Dobbs handed her, holding it with both hands as if for warmth.
A tense, quiet minute passed. The only sounds were the clink of a spoon and Clara's peaceful breathing. Alistair could feel the unspoken words piling up in the air between him and Elara, a wall built of everything they could not say.
Mrs. Dobbs, blissfully unaware, was the one to break the silence. "Well," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'll be upstairs seeing to the shop. I'll leave the closed sign on, of course. We need our peace and quiet." She looked between them, her expression softening. "It does my heart good to see it. Truly. After all his solitude... to have someone to share the burden with." She was looking at Elara with so much warmth and approval that it was almost painful to witness.
She left them then, humming a soft tune as she climbed the stairs.
The silence she left behind was different. It was charged with the things she had implied.
Elara did not look at him. She stared into her tea. "She believes a very specific story," she said quietly.
"She believes what she needs to believe," Alistair replied, his voice low. "It is a shield. For all of us."
"And what happens when the shield becomes a cage?" Elara asked, finally lifting her eyes to his. There was no accusation in them, only a deep, weary sadness. "She looks at me and sees a love story. She doesn't see... me."
The truth of it landed heavily between them. He had been so focused on building a wall against Silas Vane, he hadn't considered the prison he was building within it.
"I know," he said, the words a bare whisper. "I am sorry."
"It is not your fault," she said, though they both knew it was, in a way. "We did what we had to do." She took a sip of tea, her hand trembling slightly. "She is kind. Her care is... it is a foreign country to me. I do not know the language."
Before he could respond, a weak voice from the table interrupted them.
"Alistair?"
Clara's eyes were open again. They were clearer this time, more present. They moved from her brother to the young woman sitting beside him, holding a cup of tea.
Elara froze, the cup halfway to her lips.
"Clara," Alistair said, moving quickly to her side. "How do you feel?"
"Tired," she whispered. Her eyes remained fixed on Elara, curious but not afraid. "You're still here."
Elara set the cup down carefully and rose. She approached the table slowly, giving Clara time to see her. "Yes," she said, her voice gentle. "I am still here."
Clara's faint smile returned. "Pretty," she murmured again, as if confirming her earlier assessment. Then her brow furrowed slightly. "You look sad."
The observation was so simple, so direct, it seemed to bypass all the careful lies and land right in the heart of the truth. Elara's composure faltered. She looked down, unable to hold the sick woman's gaze.
Alistair watched the exchange, his heart aching. His sister, cut off from the world for so long, was seeing things with the clarity of someone who had been away. She saw the pretty dress, but she also saw the sorrow behind the eyes.
Clara's energy was fading fast. Her eyelids were drooping. "Don't be sad," she whispered, her words slurring with oncoming sleep. Her hand twitched on the blanket, a feeble attempt to reach out. "You can stay here. With us."
Then she was asleep again, leaving her breathtakingly simple offer hanging in the air.
Elara stood motionless, staring at Clara as if she had just spoken a prophecy. The kindness, the uncomplicated offer of sanctuary, from the one person in the house who knew the least, seemed to undo her completely.
Alistair saw her shoulders begin to shake. A silent, suppressed sob wracked her frame. She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound, turning away from the sleeping woman.
He did not think. He acted on an instinct deeper than caution, deeper than fear. He stepped forward and placed a hand on her arm. It was meant to be a gesture of comfort, of solidarity.
The moment he touched her, she flinched. But she did not pull away. Instead, she turned into him, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. She did not wrap her arms around him; she simply leaned, as if her legs could no longer hold her up. She cried without making a sound, her entire body trembling with the force of emotions she had been holding back for days, perhaps for her entire life.
He stood there, rigid at first, then slowly, his hand came up to rest awkwardly on her back. He could feel the sharp ridges of her spine through the fabric of the dress. He held her while she wept, his own eyes burning with unshed tears. He held her for the woman in the ground, for the man who had put her there, for the sister in the bed, and for the terrible, beautiful, impossible lie that was now their shared life.
They stood like that for a long time, in the quiet basement, two lost souls clinging to each other in the eye of the storm, while the woman they had saved together slept peacefully beside them.