Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The interrogation room was stifling, the air thick with tension despite Detective Inspector Maine’s carefully neutral tone. Vera had sat stiffly in the hard wooden chair, hands folded tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting sharp shadows against the bare walls. The detective sitting across from her, a man with graying hair and tired eyes, regarded her with an unreadable expression.

"Miss Claythorne," he began, his voice measured, "I understand this is hard for the four of you, but its imperative we get the details of this case right. Let’s go over this again. From the beginning. What happened on Soldier Island?"

She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to stay composed. "I’ve already told you everything."

"Humor me. Please."

Vera wet her lips, her mouth dry. "We arrived by boat. There were ten of us. None of us knew each other beforehand—at least, not well. The invitations were all different. Mine was for a secretarial position. Others were told they were guests of Mr. and Mrs. Owen. But no one had met them."

The detective nodded, making a note in his ledger. "And when did you realize something was wrong?"

"When people started dying," Vera said flatly. "Marston was first, then Mrs. Rogers. The deaths followed the rhyme—'Ten Little Soldiers.' It wasn’t a coincidence. We knew someone was playing a game with us."

"And Wargrave?" the detective pressed. "You told me Dr. Armstrong told you all he was dead when you found him. But then he wasn’t."

Vera clenched her hands tighter in her lap. "None of us suspected. Not at first. We thought he was another victim. Armstrong… he lied to us. Made some kind of deal with Wargrave to throw off the killer, but he realized how ridiculous that was. Realized too late."

"And he told you?"

She nodded. "He ran down the hall banging on all of our doors in a panic. Said Wargrave had tricked us all. That he'd faked his death to play judge, jury, and executioner. We didn’t believe it at first, but then—" She exhaled sharply. "Then we checked Wargrave’s room and it was empty. He was alive and waiting to kill Armstrong out on the cliffs. So we went out to stop him."

The detective’s pen hovered over his notebook. "And that’s when Mr. Lombard shot him?"

Vera’s jaw tightened. "Yes."

"How did he justify it?"

She met the detective’s gaze, her voice firm. "It wasn’t justified, Detective. It was necessary. Wargrave wasn’t going to stop. He would have killed us all."

The detective studied her for a long moment before sighing. "It seems so inconceivable but all the evidence points to your story being the truth. And Blore corroborates your story. Lombard and Armstrong, too."

Vera didn’t respond. She knew the question he wasn’t asking— how did they survive when so many others hadn’t? But she had no answer that would satisfy him. Only the truth: luck, circumstance, and the ruthless will to live.

Finally, Maine closed his notebook with a sigh. "That will be all for now. Don’t go far. We’ll likely need to speak with you again."

Vera stood carefully, willing her legs not to shake. She left the room, her heartbeat a steady hammering against her ribs. In the dimly lit hallway, Philip was waiting for his turn. He caught her gaze, gave her the barest hint of a smirk, and disappeared into the interrogation room without a word.

She waited, the minutes stretching endlessly. The steady hum of voices from other rooms did nothing to ease her nerves. When Phillip finally emerged, his expression was unreadable. He merely gave her another nod, a silent reassurance that everything was under control. 

The moment the detective finally gathered the four of them together again, Vera felt her breath ease just a fraction—but not enough. They were outside but she still felt as if she was in that room with its walls pressing in too tightly, the air too thick with unspoken things.

She barely registered Armstrong and Blore moving toward each other, the way they clung together in quiet relief. She only had eyes for Phillip.

He was waiting for her, hands shoved in his pockets, that same unreadable expression on his face—but the moment she reached him, he was solid, warm. He kissed her forehead, his breath ghosting over her skin, and spoke to her in a voice so low only she could hear.

"You alright?"

Vera nodded, even as her body betrayed her with a faint tremor. Phillip saw through it, of course, but he didn’t push. He never did.

Across from them, Blore cleared his throat. "You alright, Eddie?" His voice was gruff, like he was trying to make the moment something casual, harmless. "They rough you up any?"

"Of course not," Armstrong answered, though there was uncertainty in his voice. "Is that… is that something that happens often?"

Blore laughed, shaking his head. "Just a joke, doc." He hesitated, as if debating whether to keep holding onto Armstrong, then finally let go.

Vera shifted closer to Phillip, drawing some quiet comfort from his nearness. She wasn’t sure what was more exhausting—the interrogation itself or the act of pretending she was fine throughout it.

The officer in charge gave them all a measured look. "I think we’ll need you for further questioning over the next few days. I’d suggest you stay along the coast until the investigation ends. There’s a small hotel in the city—it should be convenient for you all, especially the young lady."

Vera lifted her chin, schooling her face into an expression of polite gratitude. "Thank you, sir. And what time do you need us back tomorrow?"

"We’ll send someone to get you," the officer said. "Don’t wander too far, although it’ll be in the morning so I wouldn’t expect you to be out and about."

Vera forced a small smile. "Of course."

The moment they were dismissed, she exhaled, the weight of everything settling deeper in her bones. She felt Phillip’s fingers brush against hers—just the slightest touch, barely noticeable before they went their separate ways to settle into their rooms.

The hotel was a miserable little place, but it had a bed and four walls, and that was all Vera could ask for. The moment she stepped inside her assigned room, she wanted to turn and leave again. The space was too small, too quiet. The silence pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. The single window overlooked the sea but, mercifully, not Soldier Island. The sight of that cursed place would have sent her over the edge.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, exhaling slowly. The nausea had been constant since they left the island, a sickening anxiety coiled tight in her gut. Everything felt wrong. The land beneath her feet was too solid, the silence in the air unnatural without the ceaseless paranoia thrumming through it.

She flinched at a knock on the door. Too sharp. Too sudden. But she knew it was him.

Philip.

She crossed the room quickly, unlocking the door and pulling him inside in one fluid motion. He said nothing at first, just shut the door behind him and took in her face. His sharp, assessing gaze softened, if only a fraction, and he reached out, his hands settling lightly on her arms.

"Alright?" he asked.

She nodded, but it was a lie, and they both knew it. Her skin felt stretched too tight over her bones, her breath shallow and uneven.

"They ask you anything you didn’t expect?" she asked, voice hushed, as if the walls had ears.

"Nothing I couldn’t handle," he said, watching her closely. "And you?"

She shook her head. "I told them what they wanted to hear. Not a word more."

Philip smirked, though there was little humor in it. "Smart girl."

The endearment made something inside her ache. She had always prided herself on being clever, on staying ahead of the game. But had it really done her any good? She had survived, yes, but at what cost?

She stepped closer, resting her forehead against his chest. He hesitated only a moment before wrapping his arms around her, his embrace warm and steady. She closed her eyes, breathing him in. He smelled of salt and sea air, of something steady and real in a world that had turned itself inside out.

"It doesn’t feel over," she whispered.

Phillip’s grip on her tightened. "It never will."

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His expression was unreadable, but she could see it in his eyes—he understood. The weight of what they had done, what they had seen, would never truly leave them. They would carry it with them for the rest of their lives.

He reached up, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle. "We’re alive, Vera. That’s more than we can say for the rest."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "And that’s supposed to be a comfort?"

"No," he admitted. "Just a fact."

She huffed, shaking her head. "You’re insufferable."

His smirk returned, more genuine this time. "And yet, you let me in."

Vera sighed, turning from him and sitting down on the edge of the bed. It creaked under her weight, the springs old and worn. "I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight."

Phillip sat beside her, his arm resting lightly against hers. "Then don’t be."

She didn’t move away, and neither did he. They sat in silence, the weight of the past days pressing down on them, suffocating and unrelenting. The sounds of the hotel—distant footsteps in the hall, the occasional murmur of voices—felt oddly detached, like the remnants of a world they no longer belonged to.

Vera let her gaze drift to the window. The sea stretched out endlessly, dark and unknowable. For a moment, she swore she could see the outline of the island in the distance, an illusion born of exhaustion and frayed nerves. She shuddered, looking away.

Phillip shifted beside her, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He hesitated, then held it out to her instead. "Want one?"

She stared at it for a moment before shaking her head. "No."

He nodded, tucking it back away. "You should get some rest."

She gave a humorless laugh. "Sleep? After everything? I’ll be lucky if I ever sleep again."

Phillip was silent for a long moment before he reached over, his fingers brushing against hers. It wasn’t a grand gesture, barely more than a touch, but it grounded her. Reminded her she wasn’t alone in this waking nightmare.

"Stay," she murmured before she could stop herself. "Stay. Please"

He didn’t argue. He simply nodded, leaning back against the headboard, his presence steady beside her.

Chapter Text

The night passed in a haze of half-sleep and quiet murmurs. Vera drifted in and out, jolted awake by nightmares she couldn’t quite recall, only the feeling of drowning, of unseen hands pulling her down into the abyss. Each time, Phillip was there, his presence a steady anchor in the shifting darkness. He didn’t press her, didn’t ask what she had seen behind her closed eyelids. He only let her cling to him, his hand warm against hers.

Morning came too soon, the dull gray light seeping through the thin curtains and turning golden as the storm clouds drifted into the distance. Vera sat up slowly, her body stiff and aching, her mind already bracing for the hours ahead. The interrogation had only been the beginning. There would be more questions, more scrutiny, more chances for the authorities to find a reason not to believe them. She pushed the thought away as she ran a hand through her tangled hair.

She turned her head, her gaze falling upon Phillip Lombard's sleeping form beside her. The sight of him, vulnerable in slumber, sent a flutter through her chest. How strange it was to feel safe here, in this nondescript hotel room, when just days ago she had been certain death awaited her at every turn.

Vera's fingers ghosted over the crisp white sheets, so different from the blood-stained linens of the island. The memory of that place, of the horrors they had endured, threatened to overwhelm her. But here, in this quiet moment, those terrors seemed a lifetime away. Phillip mumbled something unintelligible beside her, his hand reaching out instinctively to find hers. She took it, drawing comfort from the simple contact, a reminder that they had survived together, had seen the worst of humanity – and perhaps a glimmer of its best.

A few minutes later Lombard stirred beside her, his dark lashes fluttering as he woke. His piercing eyes found hers, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," Vera replied softly, surprised by the intimacy of the moment. How had they come to this, she wondered, from suspicion and fear to this tentative future shared between them?

"Did you sleep better after that last attack?" Lombard asked, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of her hand.

A shadow of doubt flickered across Vera's face as she nodded, her lips curving into a half-smile. "I went back to sleep... but not well," she confessed, her brow furrowing slightly.. "It feels like our safety is some cruel illusion, too good to be real. It feels strange, doesn't it?"

Lombard's eyes softened, a rare vulnerability shining through his usually guarded expression. "I know what you mean," he said quietly. "After everything..."

His words trailed off, but Vera understood. The unspoken horrors of Soldier Island hung between them, a shared trauma that bound them together in ways she was only beginning to comprehend.

As they lay there, bathed in the gentle morning light, Vera felt a warmth spreading through her chest. It wasn't just the physical comfort of the bed or the room – it was something more, something she had thought lost to her forever. In Lombard's presence, in the quiet understanding that passed between them, she found a glimmer of hope. The events on the island still weighed heavily on her, but here, in this simple moment, there was a brief respite, a sense of normalcy she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in so long.

That feeling carried with them as they moved to the small hotel table for breakfast. The soft clink of cutlery filled the air, the peaceful morning continuing its quiet rhythm. Vera and Lombard sat across from each other, the modest spread between them somehow feeling like the most comforting thing she’d experienced in ages. As they ate, her eyes lingered on Lombard, amused by the way he meticulously arranged his plate, each item spaced just so. She hadn’t really noticed it before, not during that one normal dinner on the island – and after everything that had happened, there had been too much chaos to pay attention to his eating habits. But here, in this moment, it stood out with a strange clarity, making her smile despite herself.

"I never took you for such a fussy eater," she teased, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. “Seems like something Armstrong would do, not you.”

Lombard looked up, his trademark smirk firmly in place. "I prefer the term 'discerning,' my dear. Unlike some people who apparently believe toast is meant to be drowned."

Vera glanced down at her plate, where a small pool of butter had formed around her bread. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks, but refused to be outdone. "At least I don't treat my eggs like some sort of archaeological dig."

Lombard chuckled, a warm, rich sound that sent a pleasant shiver down Vera's spine. "Touché, Vera. I suppose we all have our quirks. Speaking of, I heard a bit of fighting coming from our good doctor and his companion last night. Awfully surprised Tubs isn’t in here with us sulking."

Their laughter subsided and a comfortable silence settled over them. Vera found herself marveling at the ease of it all – how they could find moments of levity after everything they'd endured. It was as if the horrors of Soldier Island had forged an unbreakable bond between them.

As if summoned by their laughter, a sharp rap at the door startled them both. Vera's hand jerked, spilling her tea, while Lombard's fingers tightened imperceptibly around his fork, his eyes darting to his hip where his confiscated revolver usually sat. Old habits died hard, it seemed.

"Come in," Lombard called, his voice steady despite the tension that had suddenly flooded the room.

The door swung open to reveal Detective Inspector Maine, his weathered face a mask of professional detachment. The morning light caught the silver threads in his salt-and-pepper hair, lending him an air of authority that seemed at odds with the cozy breakfast scene before him.

"Mr. Lombard, Miss Claythorne," he nodded to each of them in turn. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I'm afraid I must ask you both to accompany me. There are a few more questions we need to address."

Vera felt her stomach clench, the half-eaten toast on her plate suddenly unappealing. She glanced at Lombard, seeking reassurance in his steady gaze. He gave her a slight nod, his dark eyes conveying a silent message: We've survived worse. We can handle this.

"Of course, Inspector," Lombard replied smoothly, rising from his chair with feline grace. "Though I must say, your timing is impeccable. Any later and you might have missed us entirely."

Maine's lips twitched in what might have been amusement, though his eyes remained sharp. "Yes, well, the wheels of justice wait for no man's breakfast, Mr. Lombard. If you'll both follow me, please."

As they stepped out into the hallway, Vera was struck by the mundane normalcy of it all. The faded floral wallpaper, the worn carpet beneath their feet – it was a far cry from the opulent death trap of Soldier Island. Yet even here, in this unremarkable hotel, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, judged, found wanting.

“We'll need to collect your companions as well," Maine said, gesturing towards the other rooms that made up the hotel. "Dr. Armstrong and Mr. Blore are still here, I presume?"

"Unless they've taken to sleepwalking, Inspector," Lombard quipped, earning him a reproachful look from Maine and a poorly concealed smile from Vera.

The three stepped out into the narrow hallway, the worn carpet muffling their footsteps. Vera couldn't help but notice how the faded floral wallpaper seemed to close in around them, its once-cheerful pattern now oppressive in the dim light. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves as they approached Blore's door.

Inspector Maine rapped sharply on the weathered wood, the sound echoing in the quiet corridor. "Mr. Blore? This is Detective Inspector Maine. I need to speak with you."

Silence greeted them. Maine frowned, his brow furrowing as he knocked again, more forcefully this time. "Mr. Blore, open up. This is a matter of urgency."

Still, there was no response. Vera felt her heart begin to race, her palms growing clammy as she remembered the terror of Soldier Island, where silence often meant death. She glanced at Lombard, seeing her own unease reflected in his dark eyes.

"Perhaps he's still asleep?" Vera suggested, her voice sounding thin and uncertain even to her own ears.

Maine shook his head, his expression grim. "No, I heard movement in there earlier. He should be awake by now." He turned to Lombard, his gaze sharp. "You're sure he didn't mention going anywhere?"

Lombard shrugged, his casual demeanor at odds with the tension in his shoulders. "Not to us, Inspector. Though I can't say I've been keeping tabs on the man's comings and goings."

The detective's frown deepened as he reached for the doorknob, testing it. To Vera's surprise, it turned easily in his hand. The door swung open, revealing a room in disarray. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled as if someone had tossed and turned all night. Blore's suitcase lay open on the floor, clothes spilling out haphazardly.

But of Blore himself, there was no sign.

Vera felt her breath catch in her throat, memories of the island flooding back with terrifying clarity. The nursery rhyme echoed in her mind, taunting her. One little soldier boy left all alone...

“Don’t worry,” Lombard said, his smooth voice stopping Vera’s spiral. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. Man likes nature. Always went blathering on about his garden at home when he panicked on the island. Likely just went out for a walk.” Inspector Maine pursed his lips and moved on to Armstrong’s room, casting one last puzzled look at Blore’s room.

“Bet he’s in Armstrong’s,” Lombard whispered with a crooked grin. “Listen. You can hear voices in there and as odd as he can be, Armstrong doesn’t really talk to himself.” He leaned in a little closer, his grin widening.

Vera’s lips twitched, her eyes narrowing in amusement. She glanced at the door just as Maine knocked loudly, announcing his presence with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. Vera couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, the absurdity of the situation breaking through her tension. God only knows what Blore’s reaction to being caught in Armstrong’s room this early in the morning would be.

“Doctor Armstrong,” Maine began. “It’s Detective Inspector Maine. I’m here to ask you and the other survivors of the Soldier Island case a few more questions. Could you come out?”

The muffled sound of Armstrong’s voice came back, sharp and defensive, as though the detective had just interrupted something of great importance. Lombard's eyebrows shot up in an 'I told you so' look directed at Vera.

“Give me a minute,” Armstrong said, his tone trying and failing to sound casual. “I need to change out of my night clothes.”

Vera raised an eyebrow. Really? Was that necessary? She didn’t exactly think anyone was going to care what the man was wearing, considering the circumstances, but of course that was only a ploy to stall for time. She could hear someone, presumably Blore, in the background, shifting uncomfortably—no doubt trying to find a way to escape the situation by hiding behind Armstrong’s ridiculous insistence on proper attire.

“That’s not entirely necessary, doctor. I’m sure no one will mind if—”

Vera could practically see Blore’s face blanch.

“I will bloody mind!” Armstrong cut him off, sounding absolutely appalled by the very suggestion. “I refuse to be seen in anything but my day clothes, thank you very much!”

“Oh alright,” Maine said placatingly, crossing his arms in frustration. “Just make it quick if you please.”

She heard a muffled clatter, followed by a sharp curse. Blore, no doubt, was struggling to make it out the window. If there was one thing Blore was good at, it was creating chaos without thinking. The man had all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

“I’m going to go look around for William,” Vera announced, squeezing Lombard’s hand momentarily. “I’ll be right back.”

As she rounded the corner to the back of the hotel, Vera couldn't help but smile at the sight that greeted her. There was Blore mid-sneak, likely trying to make his way back to his room. His face was flushed a deep crimson and his eyes were wide and still clouded with sleep. His hair was a mess, his shirt hanging at an odd angle, and she couldn’t even be sure if he had both socks on. Vera fought the urge to laugh as she watched him freeze like a caught rat.

Blore’s eyes widened in that ridiculous way of his as he struggled to think of a good excuse. But whatever it was, Vera could tell it wasn’t coming. She folded her arms and gave him an exaggerated look over, making it clear that she and Phillip both knew the real reason he hadn’t been in his room.

“I found him, Detective,” Vera called out. “He was back here,” she continued, unable to stop herself from enjoying the moment. “Not sure what for, though.”

Blore’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish out of water. But before he could make a complete fool of himself, a figure emerged from the corner. The young police officer, Maine’s assistant, or whatever they were called on the force, quirked an eyebrow and ushered the two back to the front where the rest of the party was waiting.

Lombard grinned wolfishly and removed his cigarette from his lips. Armstrong stood between him and Maine, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

“Well, well! Look who’s up. Didn’t know you were one for sleepwalking, Tubs,” Lombard drawled, leaning casually against the wall, clearly enjoying the other man’s embarrassment.

Blore, predictably, shot Lombard a glare that could’ve set fire to paper. “I told you to quit callin’ me that!” he snapped. “I wasn’t sleepwalkin’. I just… er… I just went for a walk. After I woke up,” he finished lamely, his cheeks turning a shade of red that almost made it impossible for her not to laugh.

Lombard raised an eyebrow. “Without changing out of the clothes you’ve been wearing for the past, what is it, two days now? In one sock and with no shoes on?”

Blore grimaced. “Yeah. Something like that,” he muttered, sounding thoroughly miserable. “Haven’t been thinkin’ straight recently.”

“Oh, we know,” Lombard said, flashing a grin that was clearly too smug for his own good. “Straight is the word I’m least likely to use for the condition of your mind right now, Tubs. Isn’t that right, Edward?” he added, turning to Armstrong with a deliberate emphasis on his name.

Vera could almost hear Blore’s teeth grinding in frustration. There was no escape for him now. Whatever dignity he’d hoped to salvage by sneaking around the back was well and truly gone. Blore was in full damage control mode, but she doubted it would help him. If anything, it just made the whole thing that much more entertaining.

Luckily, neither detective seemed to suspect anything between the two men.

Later, after that day’s round of questions, as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the hotel room, Vera and Lombard sat side by side on the small motheaten sofa. The lightness of breakfast and Blore’s mishap had faded in the hours that followed, replaced by a pensive mood that seemed to settle over them like a heavy blanket.

"Do you ever wonder," Vera began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper, "what might have happened if we'd never received those invitations?"

Lombard's dark eyes met hers, a storm of emotions swirling within them. "I try not to dwell on 'what ifs,'" he said softly. "But I can't help but think... perhaps it was meant to be."

Vera's brow furrowed. "Meant to be? All that death, that fear?"

"No, not that," Lombard clarified, reaching out to take her hand. "This. Us. Finding something... someone... worth fighting for in the midst of all that darkness."

Vera felt her breath catch in her throat. She thought of Hugo, her first love who she had killed for, of little Cyril who had paid the price of her finding someone to fight for the first time, of the guilt that had haunted her for so long. Could she truly move forward? Did she deserve to?

As if reading her thoughts, Lombard squeezed her hand gently. "We can't change the past, Vera. But we can choose our future. Together, I hope. I’ve found myself extraordinarily fond of you."

And that, she thought, was as close to a love confession as a man like Lombard would give. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it side by side.

Vera's gaze drifted towards the window, her attention caught by movement in the hotel's courtyard. She tugged gently on Lombard's sleeve, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Look," she whispered, nodding towards the scene unfolding just outside of their room.

Blore and Armstrong stood awkwardly near a small fountain, their body language a mix of nervous energy and unspoken attraction. Blore was saying something animatedly, eyes darting around to make sure they were alone. Armstrong reached out, adjusting Blore's slightly askew tie with trembling fingers. Blore's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, his eyes darting everywhere but Armstrong's face.

Lombard leaned in close, his breath warm against Vera's ear. "I never thought they’d actually make it off the island," he murmured, amusement coloring his tone. "Thought Blore would clam back up on him but there they are, our stoic detective and the good doctor, fumbling like schoolboys."

Vera stifled a giggle. "They're rather sweet, aren't they? In an utterly hopeless sort of way. They have to know there’s no real future for them, but still… there they are, sneaking glances and little moments."

They watched as Blore, in an apparent fit of nerves, nearly toppled backwards into the fountain. Armstrong's quick reflexes saved him, pulling Blore close in a way that left them both wide-eyed and breathless.

"Ten quid says Blore faints before Armstrong ever asks him to dinner," Lombard whispered, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Twenty says he cries if Armstrong offers him a ride back home in that Bentley of his.”

Vera shook her head, her smile fading as reality reasserted itself with the mention of leaving. "What about us, Phillip?" she asked, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "What happens when we leave this place?"

Lombard's expression sobered. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his dark hair. "I won't lie to you, Vera. The world out there... it's not going to be easy. We both have pasts that will follow us and try as I might, I’m not the most domestic of men."

Vera nodded, her green eyes clouding with worry. "I can't go back to teaching. Not after... everything. But I don't know what else I can do."

"We'll figure it out together," Lombard assured her, though Vera could sense the uncertainty beneath his confident façade. "I've got some contacts, people who might be willing to look the other way regarding our... history."

Vera's stomach churned at the thought. "Nothing illegal, Phillip. Please. I can't—"

"No, no," he quickly interjected. "Nothing like that. I promise you, Vera. We'll do this right."

She studied his face, wanting desperately to believe him. The future stretched out before them, a vast unknown filled with both promise and peril. Vera felt the weight of her past pressing down on her, but also the warmth of Lombard's hand in hers, anchoring her to the present.

"Together, then," she said softly, making it both a statement and a question.

Lombard nodded, his dark eyes holding hers. "Together," he affirmed.

The somber mood hung heavy in the air, threatening to suffocate them both. Lombard's eyes darted around the room, landing on a gaudy floral painting above the bed. A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes.

"You know, Vera," he drawled, his lips curling into that familiar smirk, "if our new life doesn't pan out, we could always become art thieves. Starting with that monstrosity." He gestured dramatically at the painting.

Vera blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips before she could stop it. "Art thieves? Really, Phillip?"

"Why not?" he continued, warming to his ridiculous idea. "We've got the perfect backstory. Mysterious, dangerous... devastatingly attractive." He waggled his eyebrows, earning another genuine laugh from Vera.

"You're impossible," she said, shaking her head, but the tension had lifted from her shoulders.

Lombard's expression softened, his dark eyes warm as they met hers. "Impossible, perhaps. But I made you laugh."

The playfulness faded, replaced by something deeper, more intense. Vera felt herself drawn towards him, as if by an invisible force. Lombard opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace without hesitation.

She pressed her face against his chest, inhaling his scent – a mix of hotel soap and something uniquely him. His arms encircled her, strong and secure, and Vera felt the last of her defenses crumble.

"I never thought I'd feel safe again," she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. "After what I did... I didn't think I deserved to."

Lombard's hand came up to stroke her hair, his touch impossibly gentle. "We've both done things we're not proud of, Vera. But here, now... we can start again."

Vera lifted her head, meeting his gaze. The vulnerability she saw there matched her own. In that moment, she realized that despite the horrors they'd endured, despite the uncertain future that awaited them, she had found something precious – a connection, a lifeline, a chance at redemption.

She reached up, cupping Lombard's face in her hands. "Thank you," she murmured, pouring all her gratitude and newfound hope into those two simple words.

Chapter Text

Vera took a steadying breath before stepping out of her room for the last time. The door swung shut behind her with a sharp slam, and though she knew it was her own doing, she still flinched. The sound echoed in her ears like a gunshot. Like his gunshot.

She forced herself to exhale slowly, smoothing her hands over the front of her coat. Her hair was pulled back into something resembling order, her expression composed. If a stranger passed her on the street, they might never guess where she had been, what she had done. What had been done to her.

Blore was waiting just outside, looking almost surprised to see her so put together. He had always underestimated her. They all had.

“Goodbye, William,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

His brows lifted slightly at the familiarity of her words, but he didn’t correct her.

“It… it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she continued, though she hesitated. How absurd to talk of pleasure after everything. “Though I wish it could have been… well, that it could have been under better circumstances.”

Blore huffed a small, humorless laugh. That was one way to put it.

“The same to you, Vera. Er… Miss Claythorne.” He grimaced at his own slip, as if clinging to propriety could somehow make things normal again.

For a moment, they lingered there, speaking in halting pleasantries, two strangers bound only by shared trauma. Vera nodded along, answering where expected, but her attention was elsewhere. Where is he? He promised we’d go off together.

As if summoned by thought alone, Lombard’s door opened.

The tension coiled in her shoulders loosened at the sight of him, though she wasn’t sure why. He had stayed. That fact alone was almost baffling. He had every reason to disappear, to be long gone by now. She had half expected it, half dreaded it. But instead, he had spoken of plans—places they could go together, somewhere far from the prying eyes and whispered accusations. Somewhere she could breathe.

She found herself moving toward him without thinking, her body drawn instinctively to his side.

Blore was watching them with something unreadable in his expression. Surprise? Maybe. She wondered what he had assumed—that Lombard would abandon her the moment they were free? That she would return to her old life as if nothing had happened? As if she still could?

Lombard’s presence beside her was grounding. He was warm, solid, alive.

“Well, Tubs,” he said as he turned to Blore, his smirk lazy but his voice lacking its usual sharp edge. “This is it. I would say it was nice to meet you, but nothing about this situation has been overly pleasant.”

Vera caught the flicker of something beneath the bravado. Fear, maybe. Uncertainty. It vanished so quickly she almost doubted it had been there at all.

Blore rolled his eyes. “Can’t say I was ever fond of you either, bastard. Now get outta here. I’ve seen enough of you to last me a lifetime.”

Lombard laughed, and Vera almost smiled at the now familiar cadence of their bickering. But there was nothing familiar about this, about any of it.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Lombard called over his shoulder as he turned toward her. He leaned in, his breath warm against her temple as he murmured something too low for Blore to hear. His lips brushed against her forehead—brief, fleeting, but steady—and then he took the suitcase from her hand.

She let him.

As they walked away, she kept her eyes forward. No looking back. No second-guessing.

Soldier Island was behind them.

And whatever came next… at least she wouldn’t be facing it alone.

The train station loomed before them, a cacophony of whistles and steam. Vera Claythorne clutched her small suitcase, her knuckles white against the worn leather. Beside her, Phillip stood with his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes scanning the bustling platform.

"Where to now?" Vera asked, her voice barely audible above the clamor.

Lombard's lips twisted into a wry smile. "I've been living out of boarding houses since Africa. Not exactly the Ritz, but it's a roof."

Vera nodded, her gaze fixed on the ground. "I've been staying with a colleague from the school, but..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"But you can't go back," Lombard finished for her. He understood all too well. The weight of their shared experiences on Soldier Island hung between them, unspoken yet palpable.

Vera lifted her gaze, locking eyes with him for the first time since their departure from the island. "We could... settle somewhere, couldn't we? Together?" Her voice had a hint of uncertainty, not from the novelty of the idea—they had made this decision before—but rather from the enormity of voicing it out loud, so far removed from the hotel and the island.

Lombard's eyebrows twitched upwards in mild surprise at her sudden vocalization of their shared plan, but he quickly composed himself and nodded in agreement. "Singly or in a group, eh?" He gestured towards the train. "Shall we?"

They made their way to the carriage, their movements slow and deliberate. Vera felt as if she were moving through molasses, every step requiring immense effort. As they entered the cramped compartment, she was acutely aware of the other passengers' curious glances.

Lombard helped her stow her suitcase, his hand brushing against hers for a brief moment. Vera flinched at the contact, her nerves still raw from their ordeal. They settled into their seats, careful to maintain a respectable distance between them.

Vera stared fixedly at her hands folded in her lap, avoiding eye contact with the elderly couple seated across from them. She could feel Lombard's presence beside her, a mix of comfort and unease.

"It's strange," Lombard murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "To be surrounded by people again. Normal people."

Vera nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. After the isolation of Soldier Island, the press of humanity felt overwhelming. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the chatter and movement around her.

"We'll figure it out," Lombard said, his tone gentle. "One step at a time."

Vera opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. For a moment, she saw a flicker of vulnerability in those usually guarded eyes. She managed a small smile, the first in what felt like an eternity.

"One step at a time," she echoed, as the train lurched forward, carrying them towards an uncertain future.

The train lurched forward, and Vera's gaze drifted to the window, her eyes following the blurred landscape as it rushed past. She tried to focus on the passing scenery—the rolling hills giving way to quaint villages, then sprawling industrial towns—but her mind kept slipping back to Soldier Island.

"It's just a beach," she whispered to herself, her fingers unconsciously gripping the armrest. "Just sand and rocks and—"

But it wasn't just a beach. In her mind's eye, she saw Cyril's small body floating face-down in the water, his golden curls dark with seawater. The image shifted, and suddenly it was Anthony Marston collapsing at the dinner table, his handsome face contorted in agony.

Vera squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memories away. "I'm safe now," she thought desperately. "It's over. I survived." But the guilt and fear clung to her like a second skin, refusing to be shed.

Lombard watched Vera from the corner of his eye, noting the way her knuckles whitened against the armrest. He recognized that tension, the way fear settled into the bones and refused to let go. He should have ignored it. Should have let it be.

Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, a grimace flickering across his face. "Damn it all," he thought. "Why should I care?"

But he did. And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Detachment had always been his weapon, his armor. It had served him well in Africa, hadn't it? Kept him alive while others wasted away. Yet now, as he glanced at Vera’s pale face, he felt something unfamiliar gnaw at the edges of his carefully maintained indifference.

A memory surfaced—of a starving tribe, of the moment he turned his back and walked away. He'd justified it then, called it survival, but the certainty that had once steadied him wavered now.

His gaze flicked back to Vera. Fragile, perhaps, but she had endured. They both had.

“Quite a pair we make, eh?” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

The rhythmic clatter of the train filled the silence between them, a steady, relentless sound. Lombard’s eyes shifted between Vera and the passing landscape, the tension thick between them, though neither spoke of it.

He exhaled sharply, breaking the silence. “So, Miss Claythorne,” he said, his voice tinged with wry amusement, “what grand adventures await us in the bustling metropolis of London?”

Vera turned her head slightly, regarding him with wary green eyes. He pressed on, smirking. “Perhaps I’ll take up deep-sea diving. And you—lion taming? It’s all the rage these days, or so I hear.”

The mischief in his tone was deliberate, an attempt to cut through the weight pressing down on them both. Yet, to his own surprise, he found himself waiting for her answer, genuinely curious to see what future she’d imagined in the moments she’d allowed herself to hope.

Her fingers tensed around the fabric of her skirt. When she finally spoke, her voice was measured, careful. “I’m afraid my aspirations are far less thrilling, Mr. Lombard.” She hesitated, something flickering across her expression. “All I want is a fresh start.”

The train plunged into a tunnel, swallowing them in darkness. Lombard could hear the sharp intake of Vera’s breath, the way the sudden blackness affected her. He didn’t move, but he was aware of her, the way her body had gone rigid beside him.

He understood. The dark held too many ghosts.

When they emerged into the light, Vera blinked rapidly, momentarily disoriented. Their eyes met, and for an instant, something passed between them—something unguarded. Understanding, perhaps. Recognition.

Lombard’s smirk softened, the usual sharp edges dulling into something else entirely.

The moment was broken by a thud and a string of muttered curses. A portly gentleman struggled with a suitcase that had slipped from the overhead rack. Lombard leaned back, amused. “Careful there, old chap,” he called, dryly. “We’ve had quite enough excitement for one lifetime.”

Beside him, Vera let out a soft, almost hysterical laugh before catching herself. Lombard tilted his head.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice lower now, more serious.

She nodded, forcing a small smile. “Just… adjusting.”

That made two of them.

“We need a plan,” Lombard murmured after a while, his voice pitched low. He scanned the carriage, noting their fellow passengers before settling back on Vera. “London’s a big place, and I don’t fancy the idea of wandering aimlessly.”

Vera glanced at him, something like relief flickering across her features at the shift toward pragmatism.

“I have some contacts,” Lombard continued. “Old friends who might be able to set us up with lodgings. As for work…” He grimaced. “Can’t imagine my particular skill set will be in high demand, but I’m adaptable.”

Vera’s brow furrowed. “I… I don’t think I can go back to teaching,” she admitted, barely above a whisper.

Lombard nodded, unsurprised. “Secretarial work, then. Real secretarial work this time.”

She exhaled, considering it, but then her expression tightened. “Philip… how long can we manage before we need to find proper work? I have some savings, but…”

He heard the unspoken fear in her voice. Not fear of death, but fear of slow, creeping ruin.

Lombard’s jaw tightened. “We’ll make do.”

She looked at him sharply, as if gauging whether she could trust that answer. He met her gaze evenly.

“We’ve survived worse.”

Outside, the countryside gave way to the outskirts of London. Vera pressed her forehead against the window, watching as the landscape shifted.

“It’s like we’re entering a different world,” she murmured.

Lombard leaned back, smirking. “One where we’re not being hunted. An improvement, I’d say.”

Vera let out a breath of laughter, though there was no real joy in it. “Is it terrible that I almost miss the simplicity of it? Of just having to survive, living with one goal.”

Lombard raised an eyebrow. “Survival’s uncomplicated. Failure’s just more… final. Out here we can try as many times as it takes to get it right.”

She turned to look at him, something like understanding passing between them.

For a moment, there was nothing but the steady rhythm of the train and the quiet space between them. Lombard shifted, his hand brushing against hers. He expected her to pull away now that they were back in polite society, to put up a presentable front the way she did when his gaze lingered on her during the train ride to the island. She didn’t.

He glanced at her, something unreadable in his gaze. “We made it, Vera.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I know.”

They both knew survival was only the beginning.

The train jerked, brakes screeching as they approached the platform. Lombard stood first, reaching for their bags.

“Ready?” he asked, voice lower than usual.

Vera nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

They moved together, unspoken understanding guiding them. She held her suitcase too tightly. His grip on his own bag was no looser.

Lombard smirked, but it lacked its usual confidence. “Funny, isn’t it? Facing the unknown is worse than staring down death.”

Vera exhaled, glancing at the crowd waiting outside. “At least on the island, we knew the rules.”

They stepped onto the platform. London stretched before them—loud, indifferent, full of ghosts. Lombard placed a hand lightly against Vera’s back, a steadying gesture more than anything.

“Together?” he asked.

Vera hesitated, then met his gaze. “Together.”

They walked forward, past the remnants of what had been, toward whatever awaited them next.