Closed.

"Of course I tried to get us out. I just... I don't understand. Stupid nobility is what gets people killed. So why on Earth would you distract the men?" Clara shook her head. She'd seen people do those sorts of things, make needless sacrifices that put themselves at more risk than if they had just shared the risk with others. "You might've lasted longer if we'd just shared the load."

"I... had to try." Finch said, voice uncharacteristically husky. He moved a bit back, looking away. "It was less painful than it would have been to listen to them hurt you."

For one moment, his face held an expression of naked vulnerability. And in that instant it was easy for Clara realise - as though a flash of lightning illuminated a darkened plain - this man was in love with her.

- Kiss him.
- Don't risk it, perhaps you are wrong.
- You don't like Finch that way.

Her eyes widened at Finch's vulnerable expression, something so simple that made a floodgate open. Clara had purposefully avoided her feelings since Pierce, and she had suppressed those thoughts to the point that she was merely unaware of others' emotions. Or perhaps she chose to actively ignore them. Clara wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Yet now, here, Finch stripped away that blissful disassociation. She had to confront not only her own thoughts, but his too, and that scared her more than any captor, or one of their many life-threatening scenarios. Did she actually understand what she saw, what she heard?

Despite her swirling thoughts and stirred emotions, her eyes glanced down to Finch's lips, before flicking back up and making eye-contact. She leaned forward to place a short, tentative kiss, with her eyes gently closed. Clara pulled back an inch, lingering for a moment, frozen as she realized what she'd done. Clearly embarrassed, Clara retreated further, her head hanging to look down at her fingers intertwining with one another in her lap. "Sorry. I shouldn't have. I... can be idiotic," she let out a small croak of a laugh as she shook her head, "Just like you." Her tone was critical of herself, though she couldn't have sounded less offensive when referencing Finch if she had tried.

For a moment he was frozen under her lips, making her fear that she misunderstood.

And then as she moved away, he followed her, kissing her again, his hands reaching desperately for her like he had been waiting for this moment for too long. A couple of moments later, the two of them broke apart, breathless. David Finch stared at her.

"I typically see everything, Clara. I thought I saw how you felt on the dirigible." He chuckled nervously. "But I also thought I was seeing what I wanted to see." His hand reached up slowly to stroke her cheek as he leaned toward her for another gentle kiss.

Later, he pulled away again, holding her off. "Listen." he said. "I don't... I don't know what you want, but I..." He took a deep breath, uncharacteristically nervous. "This is not just an amusement, for me. I'm deathly serious. I don't mean to exchange our friendship for a single night between the sheets. But I would exchange it for a... a permanent..." He took another breath. "God, I don't know how to say it. Partnership? If you want that as well."

- Accept.
- Stay friends.

Clara was momentarily fearful she'd made an awful mistake, completely misreading a situation. Suddenly, he surged forward, and instead she was the one frozen in surprise, for the shortest of seconds. His movements were feverish, yet Clara was overwhelmed by how gentle he managed to be and how much she adored his touch.

Clara allowed herself a wry smile at Finch's loss of words, and she grasped his hands in her own, squeezing them in an attempt to soothe his nerves. "You said it just fine. I want that. A permanent partnership, I do want that with you." It seemed all of her trepidation washed away with their frantic kisses, and she was more than certain of what she wanted. Clara had agreed so quickly she didn't allow herself to reconsider, out of fear she'd talk herself out of something she wanted. And she wanted Finch, despite how much she'd suppressed the idea in the past.

He sighed, holding her hand softly. "I wanted to breach this subject for more times than I can remember. I've just never been good with words." He chuckled at the absurdity of his own statement. "I know it's difficult to believe." He stood up, taking Clara's hand and leading her up the stairs. Before they entered his bedroom, he embraced her gently, trailing kisses down her neck. "I would have carried you in like a gentleman, but I'm afraid I would collapse."

They did not speak further that night. Even if Clara wanted to, she could not. Finch barely let her breathe. Their movements were a bit awkward and very careful, due to their injuries, but it did not stop them from taking off their clothes and moving to Finch's bed.

During the following week, they remained at home, convalescing. Though they scarcely left the bedroom.

--

Clara learned that when Woodsworth's team raided the warehouse she was held in - they found nothing. The place had been swept clear of the dead and the instruments of torture.

Chalked on the flagstone floor was this message: "FREE MERCIA DISAVOWS COLONEL FEARNLEY." It was the name of their torturer.

"A dangerous man." Finch observed.

"A dangerous organization." Woodsworth countered.

--

Nothing further was heard of the men who served as guards for the Colonel's warehouse. They disappeared so completely that if it were not for Finch's scars, and Clara's headaches, there would be no proof the events of that night ever happened.

Except that they both had the same nightmares. Clara encountered Finch in the sitting room more than once at three o'clock in the morning. He greeted her with a wry smile, pouring two glasses of brandy, and neither of them talked about it.

The lovemaking that tended to follow the brandy-drinking did help quite a lot, though. Clara generally had better dreams after that.

"When?" Finch asked her once as they both laid drowsing. "I was just wondering... how long. When did you start wanting this?"

- "On the dirigible."
- "In the warehouse."
- "It's been coming gradually for a long time."
- Say something else.

Clara didn't mind not talking, as she felt it somehow made things harder, even though they should be easier. The week after the traumatic event almost made up for their suffering. Though, she couldn't help but feel dread at the fact that no one was caught in the warehouse, let alone any intelligence. All they had was what herself and Finch had observed. Hopefully it was enough to accomplish something in the future.

Despite the consistent nightmares, Clara felt joyful, and was optimistic for her personal future. Currently, she lay beside Finch, surprised he spoke. They typically stayed quiet in on another's company. "It's been coming gradually for a long time, I suppose. I think I rejected those thoughts, tried to ignore the idea, and then, it just clicked, and I couldn't ignore it any longer." she laughed, "What about you? How long? Maybe we could've had what we wanted earlier if either one of us were braver."

"I'm glad we did something about it." He yawned. "For me it was somewhere about the time we almost died on a dirigible." He chuckled. "You had me convinced you weren't interested. But it doesn't matter now, we've got it sorted." And he got up to kiss her on the forehead.

--

"I'm rotating you off active duty." Arthur Woodsworth announced to Clara day in his office.

He wanted her to resign her position in the task force and join a doctor's practice. He had a particular practice in mind. It was in the respectable part of town, but only barely. Operated by a doctor that was Woodsworth's informant already. His patients would be factory workers and shopkeepers rather than high-society ladies and gentlemen. Woodsworth thought that establishing herself as a friend to that sort of neighborhood would best position her to learn more about the Professor, Free Mercia, and their schemes.

- You always wanted to practice medicine.
- After the warehouse business you don't want to do anything dangerous.
- You want to find out Free Mercia's schemes.
- You don't like it, but will follow orders.

The dirigible felt as though it was a lifetime ago. Clara felt terrible she hadn't noticed Finch's feelings for so long, but clearly, he did not mind.

Woodworth's announcement was unexpected. After her success in her work, Clara thought she would be able to be involved more. Instead, she was essentially told to step down. Whilst, perhaps in another lifetime, she would've loved to study medicine, being forced to do it was not how she wanted to go. There was no other option, despite Clara's hopes. Rather than disputing the decision, she could only ask one question, "Why me?"

"Because I need your eyes and ears among the people." Woodsworth responded.

She had no choice, orders were orders. So she settled in to the daily routine of consumption, measles, phosphorus poisoning, child fever, miner's cough, fingers crushed by machinery, and so on in a never-ending procession. The doctor she assisted to was a grumpy old man who did his job well, but had no charisma whatsoever, so it was up to Clara to handle the pleasantries. None of the patients brought information as such, but perhaps information would come with time.

"I sympathise." Finch said one day, making a wry face. "Far be it for me to wish harm upon my city, but it can't be much longer now before Free Mercia puts something big into motion and then we'll be called on to stop it. In the meantime, there are other ways to get your heart racing..."

At least her domestic life was as perfect as it was possible to be.

--


As the months worn on, Clara's regular patients became more open with her. Old Tom Brown spoke of plans to organise into a highly illegal union. Cocky young Jed Baker winked and told her that he and his fellow dockworkers often help themselves to goods left unattended, to supplement their pay.

When she treated Kitty Winters for an injury received at the button factory, she confided that the young women working there have a plan to strike until their demands for a shorter working day are met. When asked, she admitted they got the idea from a pamphlet handed out by some university students. Perhaps of greatest concern, Mrs O'Connor talked of a Loegrian culture club that served as a venue for Loegrian political agitators to recruit newcomers to their cause.

Would Clara report anything of this to Woodsworth?

- All of it.
- Some things.
- Nothing, the people are trying to improve their lives.
- Nothing, you try to make Woodsworth see how the people are suffering.
- All of it and try to explain their suffering to Woodsworth.

Clara couldn't complain, at least she could still will herself to believe the intelligence she may gather could help. All of those thoughts were hypothetical, so Finch and her home life kept her mind grounded.

She worked day by day, and it wasn't atypical for people to chat with her, and perhaps if she had heard about their illegal actions when she was still a detective, things would be different. But as the months had ticked by, Clara understood their problems, and she couldn't care less about people like Jed trying to make their lives better in little ways. Woodworth didn't need to know. He always seemed to think the extreme of small things. Thus, she only reported to him on the things Kitty and Mrs O'Connor had told her about.

Woodsworth was not pleased by the quantity of information Clara passed to him, but his face lit up at the mention of the Loegrian club, calling for an instant raid. Nothing of note was discovered in the raid, however, except some contraband alcohol and cigarettes, which was of no interest to Woodsworth.

"Keep your eyes open, Detective." Woodsworth said to Clara. "I expect you to report even the smallest of events."

Several months passed by in the same manner. Clara spent the majority of the time in the clinic, however she had some free time for other things.

- You focused your free time on Finch.
- You took walks through Kingsford and indulged yourself.
- You worked overtime in the clinic.

As she thought, any mention of something only slightly suspicious, and her superior took immediate, and extreme action. His disappointment did not worry her, but Woodsworth still referring to her as 'Detective' felt like salt in a raw wound. She certainly didn't feel like a detective, as the months passed her by uneventfully.

Clara knew she didn't like to think. Her mind tended to wander into places she wanted to avoid, so instead, she chose to work overtime in the clinic. She stayed back late into the nights, and arrived early in the morning doing, usually, menial tasks.

One evening, to take her mind off of things, Finch insisted they go to the Royal Opera House.

She was sitting in the dress circle next to him, watching the jewels worn by the nearby ladies sparkle in the gaslight. And if there was ever a time for such an indulgence, this was it. Since the Kingsford Royal Opera House opened for the season, the fashionable world had been utterly enamored of the half-Vlaski half-Gorask soprano who had joined the company temporarily as part of her foreign tour. Hearing Madame Adela Albescu promised to be a once in a lifetime experience.


Clara could see the Royal Box from where she sat and it appeared as though it would be in use that night. She had heard it said that the Crown Prince attended every one of Madame Albescu's performances and she had been observed on His Royal Highness's arm on numerous occasions.

Woodsworth was in fact somewhat worried about the friendship between the heir and the opera singer.

Just below Clara was a stir in the Royal Box as the young Crown Prince emerged.


The crowd stood and applauded and His Royal Highness waved a hand before taking his seat.

- You don't like the fact that the singer is from Vlask Empire.
- You don't like Prince's infatuation, but you try to understand it.
- You see nothing wrong with it.
- You think Woodsworth is worrying for no reason.

Despite knowing there was nothing abnormal about her, Clara couldn't help but feel like she stuck out in the crowd - not in a good way. She'd been to events alike this before, albeit not often, but those times she had a purpose which was typically her job. Finch's idea was counter intuitive. Her mind was thinking deeper and harder about things because of their trip.

Clara craned her neck to get a better look at the Crown Prince. "I wonder if he truly has seen Madame Albescu's every performance..." Clara spoke aloud, though it was more of a thought. She sat down along with the crowd. His infatuation was beyond her understanding, but Clara held an unfair resentment against the Vlaski people. And her relationship was anything but typical as well, so she could attempt to fathom the heir's own possible romance.

"Relax, Clara." Finch said sensing her tension, placing his hand over hers as they took their seats. "I can see that you are over analyzing things. I guess some of my traits had rubbed off on you. But, we are here to enjoy ourselves, remember?"

The gaslight lowered into darkness. The chatter around them died down to expectant whispers and rustling.

The curtain rose, and Madame Albescu stood in a spotlight in the middle of the stage.


Her voice was like crystal, she was quite possibly the finest soprano Clara had ever heard.

When the opera crescendoed to its end, the audience leaped to its feet with wild applause. Madame Albescu took bow after bow. A red rose landed at her feet, then another, then a shower of them. Everyone's eyes followed the cascade to the Royal Box. The Crown Prince himself was throwing the flowers. Madame curtsied to him and he actually bowed back.

- Woodsworth was right to be worried.
- It's a bit undignified, but harmless.
- It's not concerning at all.

Finch's touch made her let out a slow breath. "Perhaps they have," Clara smiled, "Of course. So let us enjoy the show." Not a moment later, the room dimmed allowing for Madame Albescu to take center stage, followed shortly by her taking the entire crowd's breath away. Her stunning performance made it immensely easier for Clara to understand the Prince's unsettling affection for the lady. Though the roses were excessive, and their exchanged curtsies and bows could be considered dishonorable, she saw nothing alarming from the gesture.

"This is undignified." Finch said as his upper lip twitched with disapproval while watching the Prince.

Once the show was over, the two of them emerged from the opera house into a jostling crowd all struggling toward the same cabs.

Finch eyed the crowd. "We could walk."

It was a pleasant night for it, damp, but not actually raining and the way wasn't overly far. It might be for some of those young gents and ladies in delicate footwear, but not for the two of them. Under the cover of darkness, Finch's hand found Clara's, fingers tracing a delicate design on the inside of her wrist.

--

A few days later, on the morning of Armistice Day, Clara reached her place of employment early to find a cluster of men waiting for her outside. Two supported a third, well-wrapped in blankets. The fourth, who kept away from the others, was a patient of hers, the dockside laborer Jed Baker.

His face slackened with relief when he saw her and his companions carried the bundled man up the steps.

"Better take a look at this, friend. The Doc is not yet here, but either way I'd prefer it if he didn't know about this." Jed said hoarsely.

The injured man looked ill rather than injured. His skin was pale white, his eyes half-closed, his breathing labored. The torso beneath the blanked was bare - and two large handprints stood out lividly against the skin of the upper arms.

Light eating.

"I did it." Jed suddenly spoke up, swallowing hard.

- Spin around, ready to defend yourself.
- Keep still, stay calm and ask the questions.
- Jed looks terrified, comfort him.

Despite the situation of the prince's infatuation, Clara would be glad to listen to Madame Albescu's singing again. It was truly divine, and she had enjoyed the night with Finch. However, she returned to her work in the clinic, most days typical, until she was surprised to see Jed Baker distanced from who she assumed were people who worked with him one early morning. Perhaps it was a work injury, or someone had done something questionable under the influence of the alcohol, possibly one of the goods Jed mentioned he stole.

She was terribly wrong. The removal of the blanket, and the striking red hand prints made Clara feel queasy, threatening to vomit. She grasped her hands in one another to stop them from shaking, followed by steadying her breath. Maintaining an air of calm. "Talk me through it, Jed. What happened?"

Jed raised his hands. "It just happened! I had no idea I even could..." He exchanged looks with the other two men. "Last night we, um... acquired a couple bottles of wine. Fancy stuff, the sort the rich drink, none of us had ever had the like. We went back to Bill's lodging house to drink it." He shifted his feet, uncomfortable. "And, um, after a bit, Sam over there lost control of his tongue and that's how I found out he'd been spending time with my girl, on the sly. I was that angry, I grabbed his arms and shoved him up against a wall, and then it was like... like being with a woman, or, or a man in your case... miss, you know what I mean, it was warm and good like that. And then..." He looked at the man on the table, swallowing hard again.

"Is there some kind of sickness turns you into a Lighteater all at once?" Bill asked. "And what's the medicine for it?"

"That's not the worst part." Jed interrupted. "When we were getting Sam wrapped up to come here, I reached past Charlie for something and brushed his arm."

"And it felt like I was bleeding." Charlie confirmed. "Only for a second, but I couldn't pull away, then Jed realized and pulled away himself."

"I wasn't angry that time." Jed whispered. "I wasn't trying to hurt Charlie. And it still happened. I... what have I turned into?"

Clara had no knowledge about this situation. There was nothing she knew about medicine or magic that would explain this.

- Jed is too dangerous for the streets now, give him to Woodsworth.
- Place Jed into quarantine in a local hospital.
- Get advice from Christopher Taggart, he knows light magic.
- Suspect that bottle of wine, turn it and Jed to Woodsworth.
- Turn Jed and the wine to the hospital.
- Take Jed and the wine to Christopher Taggart.

Clara knew about her own possible touch, but she'd never spontaneously gain Lighteater abilities involuntarily, let alone when she was angry. The prospect of something unknowingly releasing that side of her was terrifying, and so she couldn't do anything but sympathize for all the men involved. She could feel their eyes looking towards her, pleading for an answer, as her mind ticked away. Mercia's prejudice for possible Lighteaters was extreme, and Clara kept finding herself at one solution - Taggart.

"I think I may know someone who will be able to help you." Clara told Jed, though her tone wasn't confident, as she could already predict his reaction of being given over to other Sun-touched peoples. Yet Jed wouldn't know how much worse Clara expected him to be treated by Woodsworth, or in a local hospital. She willed herself to believe this was the best decision for him.

Taggart listened to the entire story with a look of concern. "Odd doesn't even begin to describe it. This is not how a healer's nature manifests. One must spend a good long while playing about without a mentor to oversee proper training, in order to get anywhere near the sort of uncontrollable draining you describe. We are dealing with a situation unprecedented in my experience and my experience is considerable."

When Clara pointed out the wine they brought, he frowned.

"A chemical that could turn an ordinary man into a monster? That's closer to magic than anything I can do." After a moment he added. "But I admittedly know nothing of chemistry. I think that's better suited for someonr in the medical field."

"Am I going to be like this always?" Jed whimpered.

"No." Taggart looked right at Jed. "Either it goes away as mysteriously as it came, or I teach you how to control it. In no case does this end with you at the mercy of your impulses and no one to help you. Understand?"

Jed eyed him uncertainly.

"I wish I could give you answers, but I don't have any." Taggart continued, looking at Clara. "The only thing I can offer is sanctuary. Well, of a sort. If the authorities come for Mr Baker, I have no power to stop them. But other than that, I can provide a safe place for him to stay, out of the way, where he can't accidentally hurt anyone. Until we better understand the nature of this situation."

Jed jumped to his feet. "Miss, you're not going to leave me here with them!"

Taggart looked at Clara. It was up to her to change Jed's mind.

- Coax him into compliance.
- Tell Jed that if he doesn't comply he'll be handed over to the authorities.
- Persuade Jed that the healers are safe, with intellect and logic.

Clara couldn't contain her disappointment. Taggart didn't know much more than she did, and it certainly played against her features. If only Clara herself was more well versed. Perhaps she could examine the wine in more detail, but her experience didn't provide the skills she thought would be necessary.

"Something that I think, I, better than many would know is that there is a major difference between someone like Taggart," she gestured to him with a nod, "Who is intellectually capable, and logical, and a Lighteater, who uses their... abilities disgracefully. I know you will be safest here. I would trust Taggart with my life, and you can too." Clara knew her last, rushed and added sentence was the icing on the cake of lies she'd made. She didn't trust Taggart anymore than a Lighteater, only because of her overwhelming fear and memories. But she had to help Jed, reassure him in any way she knew how.

Slowly the panic faded from Jed's face. "I suppose you would know. You are not just a normal miss, right? You know about these things." He turned to Taggart. "Fine, I'll take the bleeding... the bleeding.... what did you call it?"

"Sanctuary." Taggart said with a small smile.

"That. I'll take it. Happy?"

Taggart nodded. "Sanctuary is granted, and I am, I suppose, happy to learn you think you can endure my company after all." Then he looked at Clara. "I'll keep you updated on his condition. And, let me know if you learn anything more, will you? This business is deeply troublesome."

She dealt with Jed's issue for the moment, but she still had to do something with the wine, as the priest would not be able to help her. She needed to be discreet about it though, because if Woodsworth caught whiff of her hiding a potential lighteater without telling him... well, things would not turn out good for her.

- Take the wine to the hospital.
- Examine the wine yourself.

Examine the wine yourself​

"I suppose you could say that." Clara replied to Jed's comment on her status with a small grin. She doubted he knew the half of it. At least the younger, confused male was... close enough to willing to stay with Taggart, whom Clara could only respond to his generosity to take Jed in with "Thank you. I'll be sure to inform you if anything arises." she nodded determined, and soon began to return to the clinic. As she walked, Clara juggled the choices in her head. She couldn't take the wine to anyone else - especially not after what she'd done, and she didn't know the extent of Woodworth's reach. Despite lacking expertise, and being afraid of gaining abilities of her own, Clara was more afraid of what Woodsworth would do to retaliate to her actions. It seemed the only viable option was for her to examine the wine herself.