A/N: This chapter is pretty dang glitchy. It's been up since two weeks ago, and it's only appeared now. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Autumn of 1870

He would never tell her.

He couldn't ever bring himself to. This was the one thing he would lie to her about. The scars, so numerous and ugly, would forever remain his own secret. He would never subject Anne to that sort of knowledge.

It hurts, though. Knowing that he will bring the weight of all of it to the grave. He knew that those kind of secrets did things to people, but what is he to do? Anne already suffers enough without him. His father suffers enough without him. He refuses to be someone else's burden.

Cursing as the delicate stem of the sunflower between his fingers snaps, he shakes his head. It won't do any good to dwell on such things.

Disturbing the silence of the cool autumn afternoon once more, he sighs, his hand absentmindedly letting go of the flowers to search for Anne's. He has to remind himself that he cannot visit her, and that, given her current circumstances, she would flinch away from his touch.

That would break his heart. Still, his hand roams about the grass, searching for those long, graceful fingers that would entwine perfectly with his. He does not find them.

He pulls himself back together. So what if her mother despises him? He would find a way. He frowns as his skilled fingers weave the autumn flowers together, wondering if he and Anne would ever really be able to live out their plans. This is the first time he has doubted them, and it twists his heart so painfully that another stem breaks. His breath hitches. Had she been there, Anne would have laid a palm over his heart and talked him through being able to breathe again. But she isn't there, and the edges of his vision begin to blacken.

Alone, he struggles. He tries to look at the small pond before him, the blue sky above, but nothing helps. The flowers in his hand suddenly feel too warm, and the wind beating at him too cold. Thoughts- as disassociated as they come, fill his mind, and he cannot see anything. In his mind's eye, he is six summers old, feeling the full wrath of his malformed airways. He expects George to come running, but by the time the worst of it has passed, he is still all alone, with nothing but discarded flowers to keep him company until he finally pushes through it, each breath a knife through the lungs.

He eyes the pond before him, clutching his chest. Swimming is the only thing close to therapy for his ailing lungs. Every breath he has ever taken underwater makes him feel invincible. While Ravensworth Castle's pond cannot compare to the lake back home, it would suffice. Already, he is taking off his shoes.

Fully clothed, he jumps in, embracing the freezing water even as it threatens to strangle him. He feels the chilling autumn wind on his skin, and so he dives under, into a world where there is no cold and only he exists. The blue calms him, wraps around him as he swims about, his thoughts devoid of crushed flower petals, or blood covering his hands. Instead, he focuses only on moving forward. For once in his life, nothing hurts anymore. Not the scars buried under layers of soaked cloth, not the heartache that plagues him whenever he sees Anne.

Tiring, he still swims. The thought of her unnerves him. He remembers one summer day, when they had jumped into Arundel's lake, dressed only in their undergarments. Frenzied, he looks back and forth, trying to find the shimmer of her against the dark water. In a panic, he opens his mouth and water floods his throat.

He tries to find the pond's edge, where the water meets the land, but his lungs seize and he only sinks further. He does not know if the bottom is far, or if he is thrashing without reason, but it does not matter.

As he tries to find purchase at the pond's edge or at its floor, all the air leaves his lungs. As his hand finds something to hold on to, he blacks out.

Raymond does not remember waking up, but he most certainly feels the arms wrapped tight around him. They are the only things keeping him anchored. Without them, he would be gasping for air, choking on the water he has long since been drawn out of.

"I saw you from the window," Anne whispers into his ear, her voice raw and broken. Not just from her injury. He is sure that she has been crying. "I thought you were having fun, then... you ducked under, and you didn't come back up. Scaring people is my job, Raymond!" her voice cracks, and he feels his best friend's heart twist painfully.

He can do nothing but sigh. He turns as Anne's weak sobs reverberate throughout the room. He stares as the wall, hardening his heart, trying to keep it from breaking at the brokenness of Anne's tears. He turns away from her even more. That sound is just something he cannot stand to hear at the moment.

"Say something," she pleads, sounding the most broken he has heard her. Weakly, he takes one of her hands. He does not notice how cold his skin is until Anne's warmth bleeds into him. He leans into her embrace, defeated.

"I felt so free," he says at last, voice just as frail as hers. "It wasn't intentional, but... All the air simply bled out, and I couldn't breathe. I've never been so scared."

"Papa is in shock. He thinks... He thinks... He thinks the worst. Raymond, you were blue! We all worried! You'd stopped breathing, and I didn't think... I didn't think I would ever see you again. Was this how you felt?"

He nods. He feels her curl into a ball behind him. The thing he hates the most is making Anne feel small, but he is too weak to reassure her. He is too weak to say anything.

Instead of apologizing, he feels her tears slowly seep through his shirt.

"It's all right, kataigída. We're both safe now."

His own words trigger those of Margaret's. The pain he feels from the memories is physical. Safe... He would wish for Anne to be safe, but her happiness and his? She would be better off without him, but he thought of her crying the way she did now. He would never be able to live with himself if he knew that she would stay like that. He knew what loneliness felt like, and the last person he would wish it upon is Anne. Anne, who found him sitting alone during parties and whisked him away. Anne, who relished in their stolen moments and slow dances. To see the light fade from her eyes would be like watching her die and knowing he had caused it.

God knew how little he needed the weight of that. How little she did.

"Sleep. Rest. Ray, you need it."

"Kataigída?" he mumbles, eyelids drooping. It feels as if water is dragging him under.

"Yes?"

"Stay with me, please. I need you. Anne, I need you. Please stay."

She presses a kiss against his curls. The scent of the water clings to him, and it causes a tear to slide down her cheek.

"Always."

She does not know how much her lie hurts him.

He dreams of fields of ominous flowers. Huge fields he cannot escape from. And then he is drowned in dark water as their vines clamp on his calves, dragging him down deeper than he ever thought possible. There is no more air in his lungs and he does not remember who he is or why it is so important to swim to the surface. He does not even remember a girl with bright eyes and dark hair. He tries to find something, but he no longer knows what.

It is so dark. The depths hold nothing but death. But anything would feel better than being drowned, not knowing what weighs him down.

And because there is no more sunlight, Raymond lets go.

It is midnight when his fever finally breaks.

Anne carefully wipes his flushed face with a wet rag, careful to adjust the blankets around him, to make him sweat out the last of it. He is still asleep, though. His brows are drawn together in a distinct frown, and though she tries her best to smooth away the creases on his face, they remain.

"What am I going to do with the both of you?" asks Eleanor, tying her hair up into a messy knot. "Wherever either of you go, trouble follows. Besides, why are you even awake? Go sleep, I don't want to deal with two feverish imbeciles. At the very least, make sure you aren't dead when he wakes up. You look like an overworked corpse. You'll likely tear your wounds open with all that worrying."

Weakly, Raymond groans and begins mumbling incoherently. Anne lays a hand on his forehead, then at his pulse. He is sweaty, but not burning. At least his pulse is stronger than it was hours ago.

"Didn't he watch me day and night? This is the least I could do for him."

Raymond begins squirming against the blankets, and Anne pulls the thickest one away. He settles, and suddenly, his face looks much too young to be contorted in that kind of pain. He is only eight months her senior. Agony had no place on any inch of him.

Softly, she begins humming an old lullaby to him. It is something she faintly recalls her mother singing to her whenever she was sick as a child. She only stops when his breathing becomes laboured.

"Will he live? I think he is exerting too much effort to breathe." Anne places her hands on his chest, feeling the beating of his heart along with the hurried rise and fall of his chest. It worries her.

"Left over water in his lungs is a possibility, but it's unlikely. By this time tomorrow, he'd have coughed out all of it."

Anne closes her eyes. Any world without him was unthinkable. If he died in the coming night, she would make sure she followed.

Still, she cannot help but think that this is a test. Survive the night without him by her side, and she would be a little more ready for the day she left him. She pushes those thoughts away. Stay or leave, she would still love him, and she would rather not love a dead man.

"You said so yourself, Ray," she whispers, so softly that not even Eleanor could hear. "We'll live through this." He does not stir. Regardless, she entwines their fingers. Gritting her teeth, she removes the gloves that hide her scars just so that she could feel his skin against hers, no matter how cold it may be.

"I'll watch him until midnight, Auntie. I'll call you if anything goes wrong, God forbid. Does he have to take any medication? Herbs? Any poultices?"

"There's some laudanum beside that flask of ginger tea. Nightstand to the left. You know how to administer it yourself, don't you? But don't use it until you are absolutely sure that either of you need it. As for the tea... if he wakes up any time under your watch, give it to him. It will help dredge out the last of his fever."

But Ray hates ginger, Anne sullenly thinks to herself. Though that matter still stands, she begins to wipe his forehead down with the rag again. His curls are damp with new sweat. Anne frowns. Even if his breathing had calmed down somewhat, his body is still a bit too warm to the touch.

"If he wakes up and tries to expel the water, he might end up having to empty the contents of his stomach. The chamberpot is under the bed. He might be a tad disoriented, so make sure he doesn't fall over and hurt himself. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but if he wakes up sweating and uncomfortable, can I wash him? I can't imagine anyone feeling like rainbows and dandelion fields under all these layers."

"Perhaps it would be best if you just wiped his body down with a wet towel? He might feel jittery around water. I wouldn't want to stress him after that ordeal."

Anne looks at him with the gaze of a longing lover. Her urges to claw at him and make him leave are gone. They are replaced with the insatiable urge to embrace him. It feels as if she could never hold him close enough.

"I understand. Thank you for letting me do this, Aunt Ellie. I feel as if I owe him something. I know how stressed he is, I mean... I've been horrible."

Eleanor gently ruffles Anne's hair.

"We all have our moments of humanity, Anne. It isn't your fault. George... he was far worse. After my sister-in-law died, he went mad. But he's still here. I am glad that Ray had been too young to remember, but, right now? I know what it feels to have someone depend on you. He's strong enough to handle it. One day, all of this will be a memory."

It is a rare occasion, Eleanor being motherly. Still, Anne is grateful for those words. It gives her just a little bit more strength to keep going.

"Why do any of you never refer to her by her name? Papa treats it as if it's poison on his tongue. I know that he misses her, but why does he despise her memory so much? He doesn't like talking about her."

Eleanor shakes her head. "His mind works in a different way. Let's leave it at that. She was a good girl, though. I honestly feel like a traitor right now because I get to stand here and take care of her son while she never even saw him grow up. When Raymond was born, I didn't know anyone had that much love to give, but Emily... She loved him even if she knew that..." Eleanor pauses, then shakes her head. "Never mind, I'm not going to finish that thought."

But Anne knows. Raymond's mother knew that he would eventually kill her, but she still loved him anyway.

Silence. Only the soft whispers of Raymond's breathing are heard. Something tugs at Anne. As a child, she remembers stumbling onto something. Emily hadn't... Somehow, she knew that it hadn't been Ray's fault.

"She did see him grow up," says Anne. "I may be delusional, but I know that she's still here, somehow. I-I'm just happy that there's someone watching over Ray when I... can't." She fears that Eleanor will tell her to go back to her chambers and rest.

Instead, she hears her exhale. Almost in relief.

"For the life she'd lived and all the love she gave away so freely, she deserves to be able to see her son. I loved that girl like she was my own sister, and this world is colder without her." It is the first time that Anne has ever heard her say something so sad, and she wishes that she has the words to comfort her.

"Now, you stay here. For her sake, as much as yours and Ray's, I hope that the two of you live happy lives together. Take care of him."

As she heard the door click shut, Anne lay on the other side of the bed, checking Raymond for any signs of recovery. Or of getting worse. She briefly wonders how painful it would be to eventually have to leave this boy, her pillar for nine long years, before something catches her eye.

It is the journal he had told her to write on.

It lays on his nightstand, face down. There is something wrong about how its leather binding is raised, almost as if there is something beneath it. And it is much too thick, even for all the paper it contains.

Anne opens it, examining the cover. Before the first page, her finger finds a small opening, and as she runs her nail across it, the rest of it raises in a soft ripping sound. Intrigued, Anne pulls at the leather binding until it finally comes off.

Beneath it are scribbled words on yellowed pages. There are only a few of them, though the words cover every line and space there is. Over the margins, on the sides. The handwriting looks like a child's.

Resigned, Anne closes it. She can't understand it, anyway. But then she sees the cover.

It is made out of light wood, the sigil of the Duke of Norfolk seared on it. Beneath that, it reads a name in beautiful, curving letters. Anne swears that she meant for her to find this, right after they had just finished talking about her.

Emily Beaumont

Anne remembers her first words to George as a child. She remembered walking in from the rain into an unfamiliar house and looking the duke in the eye and saying,

"Your Grace, I have reason to believe that your wife was murdered."

After she tries to read through the pages, she sees that it truly is enough reason to think so.

A/N: Don't worry if you can't read what's in the journal! It'll be explained later on.