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Chapter Text

1890

Iris Maplewood sat by the window of her small hospital room, knitting equiptment resting in her hands. She didn't even know how to knit, at least not properly, but after awkwardly asking one of the nurses for instructions, Iris had quickly learned the basics.

It was Thursday - Thursday the 8th of October, to be exact, and it had been 11 days since her arrival in Longharvest Lane, Whitechapel. Iris was relatively certain that she had been successful, in the prison cell - She had spent that entire night talking to Hillinghead, trying to convince him of Mannix's schemes, of the fact that she was an actual time traveler. He did seem to believe her, in the end, and perhaps Hillinghead could somehow change the course of history, in his last hours alive. It must have worked. It had to have worked.

Iris did not regret her decision to come here, to the past. She simply had to act, had to go through the Throat to try to stop Mannix. It was a necessary sacrifice that she had decided to make. But now, now that it was over, it dawned on her more clearly that she would spend the rest of her life in 1890. Well, not exactly 1890, but whatever year it would be when she would eventually pass away.

The doorframe behind Iris creaked before a nurse appeared in the room two seconds later. "Miss, here is your supper.", the middle-aged woman announced, as she dropped a small wooden tray on the night table. "Eat swiftly, or it will cool down."

"Thank you, Ma'am.", Iris replied, looking over at the bowl of watery vegetable soup, and the small piece of bread on the tray. It was not exactly much, but Iris was still grateful to receive any meals, at all. In prison, there had only been one very small meal each day, and the hunger-induced pain in her stomach had been hard to ignore.

"It is only a few days left, I suspect?", the nurse asked, looking at Iris compassionately.

"Yes.", she nodded, trying not to sound too upset. "On Sunday, they will release me, the doctor told me."

The older woman shook her head. "What will you do, have you come to a decision?", she said, looking concerned.

Iris eyed the small piece of knittery in her lap. Honestly, she had no idea what she would do once the hospital released her.

The only reason why she had been brought here, in the first place, had been her odd behaviour in prison.

One of the officers who had found her, back in Longharvest Lane, had believed that she had been robbed, and perhaps poisoned, in some way. "She says she can not remember who she is, Inspector!", the man told his superior, after the arrest. "She only kept talking about Hillinghead, she said she needed to see Hillinghead. Didn't want to say why, just kept asking for him. I find that very odd, Sir!"

"What are you implying, boy?", the older detective had replied, "Do you mean, she was somehow attacked by Hillinghead?"

"I don't know, Sir. But it is odd to be sure, wouldn't you say? She knows Hillinghead's name, but can not tell us her own, or what happened to her?"

The older policeman had laughed, sarcastically. "Oh, I'll tell you what happened to her! She's a lady of the night, that one! Probably mad, and was drunk when you found her in the ally! That's why she barely remembers anything!"

"That wound in her back, Sir, it looked strange, did it not? What if she was attacked by Hillinghead, if he made her a cripple? We know that he is dangerous, Sir. He recently murdered a man, in the very same street where we found her!"

The Inspector had looked annoyed but had simply lit his pipe with a match. The smell of harsh tobacco had filled the narrow corridor leading to Iris' prison cell, as she kept listening to the two men.

"Do what you please, Johnson.", the older detective had finally said. "Send for the doctor. But don't be surprised when nothing good comes of it."

So the doctor had arrived and took Iris away, to this hospital. He had questioned her for hours. Iris was a good liar, and, claiming to be a lost and confused maiden in distress, the physician had listened to her and believed her to have amnesia.

"Perhaps you were struck by some sort of violent attack, Miss." he had said. "We can only hope that whoever is in charge of your protection will be searching for you soon - be it a brother, a husband, or your father. I will prescribe a variety of treatments, which will hopefully aid in recovering your memory within the next fortnight, although I can not make any promises."

Iris had thanked the doctor for his efforts, but had felt a sense of dread at the entire situation. She knew that no male relative - or anyone for that matter - would show up to suddenly rescue her from this predicament. She also was unsure whether it was a good idea to swallow the medication that the doctor and nurses handed to her regularly. Iris kept the pills under her tongue, immediately spitting them out and hiding them, once the nurses left the room. She was not sure whether 19th-century medical services could be trusted...

Now, Iris faced a tough choice. The doctor had offered her a place in a nearby asylum, where they would attempt to help her recover her lost memory. The physician seemed fascinated by Iris and was convinced that, with the right treatment, she would be well, very soon.

Iris knew, of course, that he was wrong - that her memory was not actually lost, and that nothing they could do in such a place would ever really help her. But still, what other options did she have?

Outside of the hospital, she would be homeless. The nurses would perhaps allow her to keep the simple, wooden wheelchair she was currently sitting in, and the clothes she had received - a plain, white gown, an old corset, a petticoat, stockings, and a set of underwear. It was strange to wear clothes like this, but Iris was glad to feel less exposed and to look somewhat similar to the people around her. A maid had pinned her hair up, earlier this morning, gasping in horror when she had noticed the small, shaved spots of skin, close to Iris' ears.

"Good heavens! Someone must have stolen a lock of your hair, Miss! It is dreadful!", the girl had commented, before quickly trying to hide the two spots with two strands of curled hair. "Do not be alarmed, Maam. This will grow out in no time, I dare say."

Iris had not replied, only looked at the mirror in surprise. With her old-timey clothes, her hair up like this, and the knitted piece of wool in her hands, she had truly looked like a woman of the 1890s. If only there was a way to properly fit into this old world and to survive, somehow.

Iris shook her head, letting go of these thoughts. She looked back at the nurse who had just brought her the soup.

"I am uncertain what can be done, in my situation,", Iris told the older woman, seriously. "While I appreciate the doctor's help very much, I can not fathom going into an asylum. Nor a lodging house, for I have no money. Do you think there is a way for me to find work, in London?", she asked, feeling desperate. Iris had started to adopt a more formal way of speaking, since appearing in 1890. Her modern expressions had clearly confused some of the policemen in Scotland Yard, so now she was paying more attention to sound like the people around her.

"I'm afraid it will be hard for you to find employment.", the nurse responded, apologetically. "Normally, there is much work to be found, everyone wishes for kitchen help and housemaids. But given your condition..." She eyed the wheelchair uncomfortably. "There is not much work in London for someone of your infliction, I'm afraid."

Iris nodded, solemnly. "I see. I will do my best to get by, somehow." She said, trying to sound more optimistic than she felt. The nurse looked unconvinced, and left the room, leaving Iris alone with her supper.

Both women knew very well what could potentially happen, to Iris, if she did not find a job quickly. There was almost no place in society for an unmarried woman, alone, with no support through some kind of family member. If she could not work, she would likely have to try to get a spot in some kind of lodging house, where she would be crammed together with many other people, in small rooms - with little food and many sanitary issues, and diseases spreading around. Either that, or she would be homeless. Which was very dangerous, in many ways...

What else was there to do? Iris had thought of the different possibilities, trying to imagine a future that was somehow endurable. Getting back to the 2050s was impossible, of course - Iris had no time machine, no way to reach the Throat, hundreds of meters underground, or any idea how to even control the thing, without any technology or digital equipment. Iris' SPYNE was gone - no way to get it back.

Could she become a nun, perhaps? Or maybe a nurse? Was there a way to avoid the worst evil of all - becoming some sort of mistress, or sex worker? Iris shuddered at the thought. No, no she would never let it come to that, she'd sooner die in this bloody hospital. There had to be some kind of solution. Were waitresses a thing here? Iris wondered. She'd worked as a bartender once, as a teenager, and sitting behind a counter in her wheelchair had been no issue, back then. Maybe she could find work, somehow. She was smart, and hard-working, after all. Perhaps she'd find a solution, a way to get by.

Iris thought of Gabriel Defoe, the man who had started everything. What was he doing, right now, in 2053? Was he even still alive, or had the other timeline completely vanished, when Iris had talked to Hillinghead and thus changed the future? She somehow hoped Defoe - the one that she had met - was still around, and that he still remembered her, in some impossible, absurd way. Hopefully, he had his eye back, somehow... But that was unlikely, wasn't it?

Not that it mattered. She would never see him again, would never find out what had happened to him.

2053 - Defoe

There was a version of reality in which Shahara Hasan, a brave woman in her early 60s, and a former cop, went back to the year 2023 and changed the future. In this version of reality, she talked to the mother of a challenged, traumatised teenage boy, and convinced her to open her door. Hasan managed to get through to the boy and, against all odds, convinced him to not commit a terrible crime, the slaughter of millions.

Everything changed, after this - history changed, the future changed - and the past, too. 2023 as it had been changed, and everything thereafter changed.

But time and space are a funny thing.

And, somewhere, somehow, there was another version of reality that still lived on, in some strange fragment of the universe. It was the version of reality where the old, brave, and wounded Shahara Hasan had come from.

In this version of 2053, Professor Gabriel Defoe stood there, staring at the red light of the Throat with one watering eye. The place where the other eye had been hurt like hell, despite the painkillers and the laser therapy he'd received last night. He'd been shot and traveled through time, and all that within the last 24 hours. Quite a feat.

Defoe had watched Iris Maplewood run into the Throat, and later that same day, Hasan had done the same. Now, he was alone, waiting for his own disappearance. Hoping for it, in fact.

But it never came.

Time went on, in this version of reality - against all logic, against all that Defoe could understand, life kept going on, and he kept existing. 

Commander Elias Mannix was gone, but the Executive remained in power, of course. Shahara Hasan was presumed dead, and Chapel Perilous was pronounced a mostly defeated organization - no longer a major terror threat to the empire. There was no warrant out for Professor Gabriel Defoe since he was suspected to be dead, as well - long dead, shot by a bullet in 1890, 1941, 2023, or 2053, or all of the above.

So no one was looking for Defoe. And time went on.

Weeks and months went by. Defoe spent his time hiding - first in the basement of a friend from Chapel Perilous, who'd luckily not been caught - and then in his grandparents' old house, near Dover. He lived in hiding, rarely setting a foot out of the door, for some time.

Defoe eventually managed to get eye surgery abroad, in Denmark - he scratched together most of his savings to get a new and difficult reconstructive procedure done. The doctors were cloning his functional eye, the one on the right side, and managed to completely replace the missing eye on the left. Based on photos and genetic scans, the hospital was able to completely recreate his former face - each lash, each tiny wrinkle, each hair in his eyebrows looked like it once had, before the bullet. It took Defoe a month of pain and rest, to recover from the procedure, but once the bandages were finally removed, he could see again, on both sides. His face was whole again, as good as new, and he couldn't help crying with joy when he looked in the mirror. This surgery had cost him a fortune, but it had been worth it, in the end.

When he was safely back in England, Gabriel Defoe considered his next steps carefully. He knew what needed to be done - he'd always known, he supposed - but it was difficult nonetheless.

Four and a half months had passed since Iris Maplewood had run into the Throat. Four and a half long months - it was much longer than he had ever even known her for. But Gabriel still thought about her, every day. Each hour, perhaps, on some days. And he knew he'd keep thinking about her, and keep worrying, for the rest of his life. He knew he had to do something.

It was not as though he had anything to lose.

So he started planning.

1890 - Maplewood

Something was odd about today. Iris had felt it, this deep sense of change, immediately when she awoke that morning. Like a current running through her body, vibrating through her veins and skin and hair.

Something had shifted, in a strange way - as if she had been on a boat, for months, and had now finally found solid ground again.

It was absurd. Nothing was different, of course. She was still in the dreadful hospital room, dressed in a long nightgown, about to become homeless in a matter of days. But at least the sun outside was shining - bright autumn sun, seeping in through the thin curtains, and filling her with something like optimism.

Iris sat up when there was a knock on the door.

"Ma'am?" The nurse asked, from the doorway. Her eyes were cautious. "You have a visitor, Ma'am. A gentleman is looking for you. May I send the maids to help get you ready, so you may see him soon?"

Iris felt her stomach drop. Oh no. Oh no, no, no... How had Mannix found her?

Well, of course, it was only a matter of time till he would... that man probably had allies everywhere, who might have found out about Iris' presence in the past...

If Mannix saw her here, he would know immediately that she had been disloyal to him, to the Executive. He would realize that she had switched sides, and had collaborated with terrorists to stop him.

He would kill her, most likely, she realized with a dumb feeling of finality.  And would it ruin the future, somehow, if Mannix saw her here? Would Mannix still doubt himself, after his last conversation with Hillinghead, recently? Once Mannix saw Iris, it could change things drastically.

There was nothing she could do to stop this, if Mannix' was here. Perhaps, she had ruined everything, again. 

"Yes", Iris finally replied, with a dry throat. "Yes, of course. I will see him shortly."

1890 - Defoe

When he stood before the door, he took a deep breath, steadying himself.

He was aware of the nurse watching him - curiously, suspiciously. He smiled at the elderly lady, briefly, before turning back to the wooden door and opening it, with a creaking sound.

Their eyes locked, immediately.

She was here.

She was safe.

Defoe was not sure what he had expected, exactly - whether he had even really believed that he would find Iris, at all. But the feeling of relief, of success that overcame him, when he saw her, was so strong that he felt it like a tidal wave, rushing through him, all the way down to his bare bones.

He saw her eyes first - light brown, large, and shocked, widening at the sight of him. Her mouth, then, was the next thing he noticed - dropping slightly open in surprise, a silent breath got caught in her throat. Her hair, curled and pinned away in an old-timey way that he had not seen on her before... her clothes were strange too, of course, just like his own. Iris wore a dress that fit into the time and place, just like the needlework in her lap - a hobby that almost every lady in 1890 likely shared. If he had not known better, Defoe would have easily believed her to be a regular Londoner of this era.

He could feel his mouth turning into a relieved smile, an incredulous grin, almost. But he caught himself, giving Iris a meaningful look, before turning to the nurse.
"That is her, Ma'am."

"This is your wife?", the nurse asked, skeptically, before turning to Iris with a concerned gaze. "Miss, do you recognize this man? He claims to know you, says that your name is Elizabeth?"

Iris, who was looking more relaxed than a moment ago, and who clearly was trying to seem less shocked than she was, nodded slowly.

"I believe I do know him, Ma'am.", the detective replied, quietly, looking back and forth between the nurse and him. "He does appear familiar."

"Elizabeth.", Defoe found himself saying, stepping forward, closer to Iris. "I have searched for you everywhere... you had an accident, I hear. A bad accident, that affected your head? Do you not remember me? It is me, Gregory."

A part of him was scared that Iris would start laughing, at his silly performance. He knew that he was a horrible liar, and he half-expected what he was saying to sound terribly fake and ridiculous. But to Defoe's surprise, his words did not sound as obviously false as he had feared. Iris did not laugh, at least. Maybe, his performance was more believable than he had thought...

The nurse stared at him, surprised, and her protective stance became a little more relaxed. "Miss, do you know if he speaks the truth? Is this gentleman indeed your husband?"

He caught her gaze and expected Iris to look suspicious, angry even. He knew that he was putting her in a difficult position - he was literally forcing her to agree to pretend to be married to him, for god knows how long - but, Iris' eyes were nothing but alert, and when she spoke, there was no malice in her voice, either.

"Yes... I mean, I do remember him. My head is still so foggy, but, I think he is saying the truth, Ma'am." She told the nurse, calmly.

Something in Gabriel's chest made a small, silent click, at her words. He had been insanely nervous.

"Then," the nurse said, turning to Gabriel with a polite smile. "Thank the Lord that your husband found you, Mrs Winston. I will ready the paperwork, and tell the maids to help you with your departure. It is a long road that you have ahead of you, I take it?"

"Four hours of travel," Gabriel replied, with a nod. "Nothing that a good pair of horses can not handle, in perfect weather as this."

The nurse nodded. "I will thus leave you in the care of your husband, Mrs. Winston."

With that, she left the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Maplewood

Iris could not believe what was happening. A part of her thought that it must be some strange hallucination or dream. But no, Gabriel Defoe, - dorky, brilliant Professor Gabriel Defoe, her date and enemy in another lifetime - was actually here. With two functioning eyes, an elegant, dark blue suit, and a hat. Claiming to be her husband.

Insanity.

But of course, she played along. She was a detective, after all, and she knew that this was her best chance to get out of a difficult situation.

Besides, there must be a reason for him to be here, she thought. Something about Mannix, a new strategy to stop him.. maybe something had gone wrong, with their original plan?

So yes, Iris played along, let the man call her Elizabeth, and told the nurse that he was in fact her husband.

(So what, if she got stupid butterflies in her stomach while saying it. So what, if seeing Defoe again made her feel incredibly excited.)

That was beside the point, obviously.

When they were alone, she cleared her throat and stared at him again full of confusion and shock. "Uhm...", she muttered, dumbly, blinking very quickly. "Hello, I guess?"

Gabriel's mouth spread into a wide, happy smile, and the butterflies were back.

Defoe

He crouched down and dropped to his knees, close to her, and suddenly realized again that she was in a wheelchair, of course. He had momentarily forgotten that part.

"Look, I know you have a lot of questions, and I will explain everything, I swear!", he talked very quietly, and fast, trying not to get distracted by seeing her face, so close to him, after not seeing her for ages... he had thought about this so much, anticipated the moment they'd meet, dreamt about the unrealistic possibilities...

He cleared his throat, trying to focus. "But for now," he continued, looking into her eyes, "Just play along, okay? Please?"

She nodded, looking still a bit in shock. "No games this time, right?", she asked, but her wide eyes were not suspicious.

He smiled, relieved to hear her voice. "God, no. Just trying to get you out of London, for now. I'll answer all your questions along the way, I promise."

Iris slowly reciprocated his smile. "Sure, okay."

A few seconds later, the maids arrived, ready to help Iris pack her things - not that she had many belongings, in the small room. There were a few things that the hospital had allowed her to keep, although not many. The professor donated some money to the middle-aged nurse, before leaving the building - she thanked him profusely for his gesture of kindness.

Defoe couldn't wait for the carriage ride - to finally be able to really talk to Iris, again. They had a lot to discuss. 

He waited outside, by the horses, as bright rays of sunshine broke through some passing clouds.

Chapter Text

They kept the curtains closed, in the carriage, at least while they were still in London. It was safer, that way -the fewer people saw Defoe or Maplewood, the better.

They did not speak much, at first - maybe for the same reason, a strange fear of being overheard by someone on the crowded streets, although both of them had a lot that they wished to discuss.

Defoe was sitting across from Iris, stealing glances at her from time to time. Sometimes, she would look back, silently holding his gaze for a few seconds, almost like a challenge. Then, she'd glance out the window again, through the tiny gap in the closed curtain.

It took them about an hour before they were out of the city. The road became softer, more muddy- bricks of plasterstone were replaced by crunching pebblestone or earth underneath the wheels. The noise of the city had died down, but the sounds of the horses remained, as well as the quiet chatter of the carriage riders. Defoe opened the curtain slightly, letting a small gap of sunshine pierce through the dark interior of the vehicle. He could feel the detective's eyes on him, suddenly very aware of her presence in the small space.

Their gazes locked, and his mouth twitched into a nervous smile. He adjusted his glasses.

"So, professor.", she started, her quiet voice tinged with dry humour. "Are you going to tell me what you are doing here? Or should I rather guess?"

He chuckled. "Oh, I'd like to hear your guesses, of course."

She folded her arms across her chest, smiling at the request. "Really? Let's see", she said, contemplating this. "Well, first of all, I see that you have your own carriage. And a nice hat, as well."

"M-hm.", he nodded, trying not to laugh.

"So I assume you found a way to make some money here, which is definitely convenient."

Defoe nodded, grinning. "You could say so, yes."

She smirked, lowering her voice. "And London in the late eighteen hundreds is pretty interesting, historically speaking."

"Of course.", Gabriel agreed, feigning seriousness. "Especially at this time of year." He pointed towards the beautiful autumn weather outside, through the gap in the curtain. The trees around them were orange and yellow, with some green in between.

Iris snickered."Those are some strong advantages, of course.", Iris nodded. "Really makes you want to come here."

"Definitely.", Defoe grinned, watching her fondly.

Iris continued. "I also noticed that you have both of your eyes back."

The mood between them seemed to shift slightly, at her words, turning more serious. Iris seemed to regret them, suddenly looking apologetic. "Sorry...- I..-"

"Yeah you're right.", Defoe cut in, ignoring her sudden discomfort. "That's a long story, but my eyes are back to normal, luckily." He smiled, trying to make her feel less awkward. "But I didn't have to go through the Throat, for that. It's more of a wonder of modern medicine."

Iris nodded, seeming to have expected this. "Adaptive cloning surgery?", she suspected.

"Yep. But I can tell you all that later. It's not very interesting.", he shrugged.

"But is it safe for you to be here, then?", she wondered, curious. "Aren't you supposed to get your eyes checked every week for a few months after getting that kind of augmentation?"

Defoe lowered his eyes, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, yeah. I did, actually."

Iris seemed surprised by this. "Oh, interesting.", she commented, looking curious. "So you are older than the last time we met."

He laughed. "Well, yes."

"How much time has passed, for you?", she wondered. "Since I went through the Throat, I mean."

He drew in a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat quicken a little. "About a year. Well, a little more than that."

"A year.", she repeated, silently, and he wished he could guess what she was thinking, just then.

"Yes."

"For me, it's about two weeks.", Iris stated, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I know.", he replied, lightly. She cleared her throat - he still could not tell what she was thinking, whether she found it odd, that he was here.

"So... what happened?", she finally asked, all playfulness gone from her features. She looked concerned. "Did it not work? I mean... if you're here - if you exist, and if I exist, and we both still remember everything from before then... it didn't work, did it? Mannix still won, right? Everything is like before?"

He shook his head, leaning forward in his seat, closer to her. He tried not to speak too loudly, although it was unlikely that anyone could hear them, over the sounds of the carriage.

"No, it's not.", he said, holding her gaze. Her concerned eyes were lighter than before, catching the bright sunlight that fell in from the window. "It's not like before, at least not exactly." He sighed. "Do you remember what I told you, the night in the parking lot? About what it felt like, when your bullet hit me."

Iris furrowed her brows. "You said, it felt like you were ripped apart, into multiple different times. And that you couldn't explain it, that there was no logic behind it."

He nodded, glad that she remembered. "Exactly. And now it's... it feels, kind of like this again. Do you know what I mean?"
He felt a sense of desperation, of tiredness, as he talked about it. Defoe hated not understanding things, hated how hopeless he'd always felt when it came to the Throat. No matter how much you try to fix things, to stop events from happening, you never really have any real control. Over any of this.

"I know what you mean," Iris replied, quietly. "I think, I feel it too..."

"You do?" he asked, astounded.

"Yes... it's as if, we don't belong here, in this time, do we? And you can feel it, in a way - as though your body knows. Something is odd. There's a part of me that belongs to another timeline. There's a part of me that knows I shouldn't even exist, logically. So, I didn't disappear, even though I probably should have. Maybe that's why we still remember everything, from before. Maybe that's also why..."- she cut off, shaking her head.

"Why what?", he pressed, interested.

She looked at him, and continued, "Maybe that's also why we can move through time, but foreign objects can't. The bullet in your head, my Spyne... and then there's these lines.", she said, lifting up the edge of her thin, beige glove, showing the tattoo on her wrist. "It's almost like, the Throat is keeping tabs on us, don't you think? Why do we get a mark, when we go through time?"

The professor shook his head, smiling slightly. "I don't know." He replied, honestly. "If there's one thing I've learned from this whole ordeal, it's that I have no clue whatsoever how the universe works. And I'm supposed to research this stuff for a living."

Iris reciprocated his smile. "Hey, you're doing okay. At least you're not like me, complicit in a regime entirely built on mass murder." She shrugged, furrowing her forehead. "I had no idea any of this was going on, a few weeks ago."

"Of course you didn't." Gabriel sighed. "How would you? And it's not like me and Hasan did a great job, explaining it to you."

Iris raised her brows at that, probably remembering the handcuffs, the threats by Hasan, and how she'd sat there, blindfolded in a creepy van. "I mean, you tried to explain it to me.", she admitted. "I just couldn't believe it, right away. Or couldn't accept it, I guess. And then it was too late." She sighed.

"Well, you proved me wrong, in the end.", Defoe commented, trying to sound cheerful. "You managed to change history, you know? Hasan could tell. After you went through the Throat, her memories changed. And then she got a message from Whiteman..."

"Whiteman? You mean, the cop from the 1940s?"

Defoe nodded. "He told Hasan to go to an old bar, in 2023. I'm not sure what happened after that, but..." he stared at his hands, contemplating. "I could feel a split in time, or something. Like things were happening differently, somehow. I got this insane feeling that I shouldn't exist, that our version of reality shouldn't exist anymore, you know?"

Iris nodded. "Yes, exactly. That's the feeling I have, as well."

"So why are we still around, then.", he said, not really questioning.

"You tell me, Professor.", Iris joked, lightly, earning a small smile from the tall man.

They were silent for a few minutes, simply listening to the clicking of the horse hooves on the pebble road underneath, the rolling of the wheels, the movement of luggage in the carriage. Defoe knew that he had to tell her the truth, tell her why he had come here, to 1890.

"After you left", he began, quietly, "I was kind of living in hiding. The executive thought I and Hasan were dead, and Chapel Perilous was mostly resolved. So no one looked for us, or protected the Throat."

Iris nodded, listening intently. He went on. "I had some money saved up, and I ended up getting eye surgery abroad. That took a while." Iris raised a brow but said nothing.

"Then, I started doing some research. I got access to some historical archives. I looked into the different... possibilities, to come here. I had about a dozen different options. In the end, I picked this one, because it seemed the easiest."

"What do you mean, options?" Iris asked. The sunshine outside the window was casting her in an orange light now, the colour of his favourite iced tea. Beautiful.

"Well, I was kind of planning the same thing that Mannix did."

"Impersonate someone else.", Iris whispered, nodding. "Yes, I thought so. So, this Gregory Winston, is he...?"

"Dead." Defoe stated, quietly. "He was presumed to be lost at sea in 1888, but his body was never found. No living relatives, no staff in his household... at the time when he left for the royal navy, he let go of a lot of servants, maids, kitchen staff,... All that."

"So you decided to come here, and take Gregory's place," Iris stated, folding her hands across her kneecap. "But why?"

Defoe chose to ignore the question, for now. "I knew that Gregory was rich. And that his home and wealth would eventually go to some distant relative, who would die alone and without heirs, anyway. So, in the grand scheme of things, taking over his life would not change the course of history, all that much. He also happened to look a bit like me, at least vaguely. So Gregory was my best option."

Iris nodded, still eyeing him a bit suspiciously. She seemed to be anticipating some dark twist, some horrible reason for him being here. He was not sure how he could possibly explain to her that there was no such reason - no proper, logical reason for him being here at all, really.

"And also", he continued, "the Winston property is four hours away from London. Far enough to not encounter Mannix, if we don't want to, but near enough to stay aware of what's happening, and to possibly intervene, if something goes wrong."

"So, that's why you are here?", she asked again, her eyes boring into him. "To keep an eye on Mannix?"

"Not... entirely.", Defoe finally admitted, glancing at her. "I also wanted to see how you are faring, in this kind of environment."

Silence.

Well, not complete silence. The noise from outside, the distant chatter of the horsemen, unintelligible. The leaves that were crushed by the wagon.

And of course, Defoe could hear his rapidly beating heart, as sweat formed along his temples. Too soon, a voice in his head admonished, too bloody soon. You shouldn't have told her this yet, she's going to think you're crazy. Stalking her, even, perhaps.

"You -", she started, eyes wide open in shock, until she swallowed and blinked rapidly, lifting a perfect fingertip in the air between them.

"Wait. You went to 1890, took over someone else's life, and all that, just to see how I'm doing?" She looked completely flabbergasted, and mad, eyeing him like he had just grown a second head. "What?!" Her voice was a low, hissing sound, at this point. "You do realize that you can not go back to the 2050s anymore, right? Literally ever. There's absolutely no way."

"And why would I want that?", Defoe replied, feeling exasperated. "Why would I want to stay somewhere where I live in hiding my whole life, can never get a job again, anyway, and where I am of zero use, to anyone?"

"To not be stuck in the 19th century?", she countered, looking frustrated. "To live in a time with proper hygiene, and medical care, and food security? Would it really have been so bad to stay in 2053, maybe in another country or something?"

Defoe shook his head. "Look. I... I needed to come back. I just felt like I had to. It's difficult to explain."

"Try me.", she demanded, still looking angry. "Seriously, you made a big mistake Defoe. You shouldn't have...-"

He could feel himself getting annoyed. Of course, he'd expected her to react badly to him coming here - and to the cover story that he'd thought of - but he'd hoped she'd at least hear him out first, before getting mad. He leaned forward in his seat, trying to catch her eyes.

"Iris.", he said, and her focus was back on him, their eyes locked. "This doesn't have to be your problem.", he stated, calmly. "If it ends up being a stupid choice I made, then that's how it is. But it was my own decision."

"But why?", she asked again, frustratedly. "Wouldn't it be better for you to stay near the Throat? Make sure that Mannix's people don't follow him here?"

"Oh, believe me, they won't. We know that. Mannix was quite clear, in his memoirs - he never intended for others to follow him."

Iris let out a dry laugh. She still seemed very annoyed.

He moved a hand through his curly hair, feeling tired. "All of this, it's partially my fault, Iris.", he said, quietly. "I just had to do something. There was nothing I could still do, over there, in 2053. I thought, perhaps there's some things I can still do, over here."

When he looked up, a minute later, her gaze had softened a bit. She bit her lip, looking down.

"When we're at the house I'll have to show you something.", he said, trying to lighten the mood. "It's kind of a surprise."

Iris furrowed her brows, looking up at him. "So, this house of yours, it's where you've been staying? For how long, exactly?"

Defoe smiled. "Six months almost. I arrived in April. I couldn't know the exact week you would arrive, in 1890, so I came a few months in advance, to have a headstart. It took some time to get my business in order."

"Your business.", she repeated, drily.

"Yes. You know, the legal stuff, to be able to move into the house without raising suspicions, hiring staff, getting a wardrobe and all that... you know, to keep appearances. I basically had to make a bunch of people believe that I'm the real Gregory Winston."

Iris looked nervous, all of a sudden. "And this wife character, that I'm supposed to play, she's...?"

"Made up.", Defoe explained. "I had to get a legal excuse to get you out of prison, or out of a hospital, or wherever you would be. I thought it would be safest if I just said that Gregory Winston got married to an unknown woman... I faked some documents for you."

Iris nodded. "Wow, you really thought of everything.", she said, calmly, and Defoe wondered if she was being sarcastic, or genuine right now. Her face was unreadable, all of a sudden.

"Look.", he said, feeling anxious. "Like I said, this doesn't need to be your problem... I mean, I just wanted to make sure you're okay, but we don't need to stick to my plan if you don't want to... Just, please, let me show you something first. When we're at the house."

She seemed surprised by his plea, her mouth dropping open, a little bit.
"Yes, of course.", she replied calmly, and in a sudden, smooth motion, she reached forward across the bench, slipping her hand into his bigger palm. Her fingers were soft and cold, and he imagined that he could feel her pulse lightly in her wrist.

He kept holding her hand for the rest of the silent carriage ride, as she leaned back and watched the landscape pass by. The fading afternoon sun painted pictures across them both, and while he still worried immensely, Defoe couldn't shake the relief he felt, at finally having her near him again.

Chapter Text

When the carriage slowed down, Iris Maplewood glanced through the wooden window frame and saw a large, red, brick-stone house. It was surrounded by trees, and dark green tendrils of ivy covered the walls.

It looked beautiful, homely. The brown window sills were all closed, making the house seem deserted, in a way. But when the carriage door opened, Iris saw an elderly woman in an apron standing by the front door. Her clothes were similar to those of the maids that Iris had seen in the hospital.

The young man who had ridden the carriage looked inside, at Defoe. He seemed to ask a silent question. Defoe glanced at Iris, apologetically.
"Uhm, Elizabeth ?" he asked, calling her by the fake name he had already used, earlier, "your wheelchair is outside. May I carry you, or should Herbert do it?"

She was taken aback by the question - of course, she should have expected this. She'd been paralyzed from the waist down for most of her life, after all, and now again, for the two weeks she had spent in 1890. It sucked and made her feel vulnerable in a way that she wasn't accustomed to, anymore. Of course, she was used to being carried, by someone, of needing help with things - it was how most of her life had been. Earlier that day, the nurses had helped her settle into the carriage, as well. But it still felt humiliating in a way, that Defoe saw her in this state.

"Oh.", she said, unsure how to respond. "Yes, I mean, of course."

He glanced at the other man, Herbert, and gave him a nod, and the carriage rider turned away, emptying the luggage compartment of the carriage instead.

The professor knelt down between the two benches, and pushed one hand under both of her knees, lifting her legs. "Careful.", she muttered, like a warning, but Defoe seemed to find this funny. Iris wrapped an arm behind his neck, gingerly holding on to Defoe's shoulder. Then, Defoe's other arm was under her back, his fingertips pressing against her waist, through the layers of fabric. He had stopped holding her hand, a few minutes before their arrival, but Iris remembered how warm they'd been, and now that he was holding her, she felt his warmth again.

She'd thought it would be incredibly awkward, or that he'd struggle to carry her, but to her surprise, Defoe managed to lift her out of the carriage in one swift, easy motion. Maybe he was more coordinated than he appeared, at first glance.
When he let her down, gently placing her in the wheelchair, Iris felt strangely sad to let go of him again. Which was absurd. She was acting a bit pathetic when it came to Defoe.

He cleared his throat, and Iris thought she saw him blushing.
"So, here we are," he stated, pointing at the house in front of her. "What do you think?", he asked her, expectantly.

Iris looked up at him, then back at the house. "It's nice.", she commented, honestly. The house was surrounded by a large garden, filled with high oak trees and thick bushes. All in all, the property reminded her of a small forest, with an old villa in the middle.

"I'll show you around.", Defoe promised, grabbing onto the handles of her wheelchair. He waited a second, perhaps to give her enough time to protest, in case she did not want him to push her chair. But Iris decided she did not mind, and a moment later, the wheels were moving, and they approached the front door.

"Good day, Mrs. Jenkins.", Defoe greeted the elderly woman in the front door, who looked like a housemaid. "This is my wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, this is Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper. She manages most things around here, the kitchen and the stables, and many other matters."

Iris smiled at the woman. "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jenkins."

The elderly woman reciprocated the smile, looking a bit in awe of Iris. "The pleasure is all ours, Maam!" She curtsied. "The staff have been waiting for your arrival for many months. Ever since Mr. Winston hired us, we were hoping to finally meet the house's mistress, as well! But I understand you have visited a relative, all these months?"

Iris briefly shared a look with Defoe and regretted that she had not asked him more questions about their cover story, while they were in the carriage.

"Yes, Ma'am, it was quite a long absence, I admit.", she said, vaguely.

Defoe intervened. "Yes, Elizabeth was with her cousins for some time, in Scotland. It took some time for me to find her again, upon her arrival in London."

Mrs. Jenkins nodded, compassionately. "You both must rest from your travels, to be sure. There will be supper for you, whenever you both are ready to dine Sir."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins.", Defoe responded, friendly. "Could you please instruct the carriage boys to leave Mrs. Winston's luggage in front of her chambers? We will both rest, for now, but I will call, should we need anything."

"Of course, Sir.", the housekeeper replied. "I will see to it immediately."

Defoe gently pushed the wheelchair up a small slope, into the house. The foyer was gigantic, with pretty, blue tiles as flooring, and a large wooden staircase on one side. The stairs were crowned by an elegant lamp, that dangled from the tall ceiling.

"Wow.", Iris muttered quietly. Defoe chuckled.

She half-expected him to pick her up again, as they approached the staircase, but instead, he pushed her chair to the end of the long corridor.

"Where are we going?", Iris wondered, out loud. He opened a double door, revealing what looked like a large, empty wardrobe. "What..-?"

He pushed the chair into the wardrobe, then turned to face her, with a grin. "Don't laugh, but I kind of tried to build an elevator."

She stared at him, once again questioning his sanity. "This... is an elevator?", she asked, mustering the tiny room with concern. Now that she was sitting in it, she could tell that it was essentially a wooden box, with no ceiling. There were large metal strings attached to each corner of the room, leading two floors up, to the roof of the high building. Iris could make out a huge metal wheel, at the top of the strange construction.

"I had some time on my hands, and thought, why not try to build one?", Defoe explained, shrugging, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "The staff don't want to go in it. They're scared of it." He laughed.

Iris raised her brows, hoping the thing was actually safe. "And you're not scared?"

Defoe laughed again, looking smug. "Oh please, Iris. I'm a physicist.", he commented, in a low voice, and turned a large wooden stirring wheel on the side of the elevator. Iris hoped he'd properly thought this invention through, despite his recent state of recklessness. Behind the wood paneling of the walls, a mechanical clicking sound could be heard, like gears snapping into place. Defoe kept turning the wheel, using some force, and Iris noticed how the floor started slowly moving upwards.

"Wow.", she repeated, when the light from the foyer disappeared - they had already moved up by a few meters.

Defoe stopped turning the wheel after about half a minute - on the open side of the small wooden room, another door had appeared. They'd arrived at another floor of the building.

"It doesn't go much higher than the first floor, yet.", Defoe explained and opened the door. "I hope I can add another elevator between the first and the second floor, at some point."

"You are out of your mind.", Iris said, but couldn't help smiling. "Let's hope this does not change history, in some weird way."

"Oh, don't worry about that.", Defoe replied, nonchalantly. He opened the door and pushed the wheelchair into the hallway in front of them. It was a bright corridor, with large windows on one side, and paintings of landscapes on the other. The dark, wooden floorboards were covered with a thin, light green rug, that appeared expensive.

"Elevators already existed in the 1880s and 90s.", he explained, quietly. "They were just not very common. People were too nervous to try them."

"I see.", Iris replied, a smirk tugging at her lips. "So you are not exactly a pioneer, just someone who embraces new technologies."

"Exactly.", Defoe laughed. He opened another door. "Here we are."

The room was the same as the rest of the house, so far - old, full of wooden elements, and beautiful. A round rug matched the dark red colour of the curtain around the canape bed. The window was framed with heavy, dark red curtains, too. On one side of the room was a small desk, on the other a fireplace. Everything looked very neat, and much more elegant than anything Iris had seen in the hospital in London.

"This is your room?", Iris asked, curiously.

Defoe seemed surprised. "What? Uhm, no, this is your room, actually.", he replied, looking nervous, all of a sudden. "But mine is almost next door. See?" He opened a tiny door, which was mostly hidden from view. It had the same wooden pattern as the wall that surrounded it, blending into the background.

Iris rolled her wheelchair further into the room, to see what Defoe was showing her, behind the door. It was a small corridor, connecting her room to another wooden door. He went into the chamber and opened the second door - Iris could see another bedroom, on that side, similar to her own.

"If you don't like it, we can change something.", Defoe immediately suggested, as he walked back into the room Iris was in. He closed the small door behind himself, and then also the door to the hallway, where they had both come from. "There are some other rooms on the second floor. I could definitely move, if you want more privacy.", he offered, looking somewhat shy.

"I don't really know what to say.", Iris admitted, looking up at him.

She felt overwhelmed by the situation - this morning, she had still been in a hospital in London, facing homelessness. And now, suddenly, Defoe was here, - waiting for her, preparing a whole room for her to stay in, talking as if he expected her to stay here a while. Referring to her as his wife, in front of other people. Sure, it was all part of an act, of a facade, but it still felt incredibly odd.

"Do you...", she started, remembering their conversation from the carriage. "Do you have some sort of plan? I mean, to stop Mannix, or to help Hasan, in some way?"
She still couldn't - wouldn't - believe that he had come here just because of her. As nice as this house, and this life he had tried to create, looked, they were still just a big performance. Not reality. He couldn't have done all this, just for her. It didn't make any sense.
She couldn't possibly be the reason he'd thrown his life away, just like that. He was supposed to be smarter than this.

He looked disappointed, somehow, at her question, and she almost wished she could take it back. He sighed and sat down at a chair by the desk, facing her.

"Not really. My main plan was to stay out of trouble and to try to blend in here, for a while. But at some point, it would perhaps be good to find out more about Mannix's followers. To see where he gets them, and who they are. Maybe we could use that information against him, somehow."

Iris nodded. "Okay.", she agreed. It was good to at least have a starting point.

"But Iris.", he said, and the way he pronounced her name made her stomach drop, a little, "I'm not here because of Mannix."

"You said you are here to try to make a difference, somehow," Iris muttered, holding his gaze. His eyes were dark and warm - it fit him well.  "But you don't want to interfere with history, either. So what do you mean by 'making a difference', exactly?", she asked, uncertainly. She trusted Defoe - too much perhaps. But at the same time, she struggled to understand his reasoning.

"Do you really not know?", he questioned, sounding unhappy. "Iris, you...-" Defoe shook his head, averting his eyes and scrunching up his forehead. "You weren't supposed to be dragged into this whole thing. Chapel Perilous, and all that. Hasan made a choice because she lost someone. I made a choice, because I discovered the bloody Throat, and I'm the one who literally let Mannix use it to kill half a million people..."

"No.", Iris interfered, disagreeing. "That was me. I'm the one who led Mannix to the Throat. You couldn't have done anything to stop it."

"I could have.", Defoe argued, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "I could have prevented all this if Lorna and I wouldn't have kidnapped you and brought you to the Throat. You weren't ready to trust us, I mean, why would you? You barely knew me, and it went against your whole worldview - you were on Mannix's side."
"Exactly," Iris replied, drily. She almost smiled. "So, why exactly are you blaming yourself? I'm the one who shot you."

She'd probably never forget that moment, the way her bullet had hit his face, the realization that she'd killed him - killed a good person, to protect Mannix's empire. An empire built on lies and blood. Defoe's blood. Her parents' blood.

"You're also the one who brought me back.", Defoe said, softly, and he looked at her so fondly that she swallowed the disagreeing words that had popped into her head.

"So now", he proclaimed, standing up, "I'm bringing you back, sort of." He went over to the wooden chest near the window and opened a drawer. He paused, turning around.

"Before you see this", he stated, eyeing her seriously, "I just want you to know that it might not actually work out the way I planned. Don't get your hopes up, too much, okay?"

Iris shook her head, confused. "What do you...-" But Defoe had reached into the drawer already, pulling out what looked like a perfect replica of her SPYNE.
Iris breath caught in her throat. No, she thought. This isn't possible.

She shook her head, still staring at the object in his hands. "That's not...- It's not actually...-?"

"It is.", he said, coming closer and eyeing her intently. His mouth formed a smile, but he also looked tense, like he was holding something back. "It took a lot of trial and error, to reconfigure the Throat in a way that let me transport it."

Iris stared at him. "You can do that? Change the way the Throat works?"

Defoe shook his head, a wistful expression in his eyes. "I always suspected there must be a way. In the end, I tried rebuilding a SPYNE using different types of materials. Different metals, natural components, chemicals..." he looked unsure. "It's totally possible that this thing won't work. But it was my best guess - according to the computer testing I put it through, it should work, for someone with your exact parameters. But it's not been tested on an actual person, obviously."

"How did you get my medical file?", Iris suddenly wondered, distractedly. "You needed that, to get the measurements right, didn't you?"

Defoe looked at her, apologetically. "I asked someone to hack into a bunch of your police files. There was a restricted folder, with your personal information...- I didn't look at anything else, I swear!" He quickly added, lifting a hand, defensively. "I only needed the measurements for your SPYNE. I'm 90% sure this thing should work."

"Those are some pretty good odds," Iris admitted, silently. She stared down at the little metal construction, feeling scared. If it worked, this would be the greatest gift anyone had ever given her. If it didn't work, it would still be an incredible gesture, but Iris also knew that she would be secretly very disappointed.

"Do you want to try it?", Defoe asked, in a low voice. She looked up, realizing that he'd been watching her, and probably knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Okay.", she agreed, gingerly taking the metal object from him. She hesitated.

"Could you perhaps do me a favour?", she asked, considering her next steps. He nodded, curiously.

Iris moved her wheelchair around, turning her back to him. "There's a little hook up here.", she said, pointing to the back of her dress, near the neck. "Could you undo it? The rest is easy." She explained. She had constantly struggled with the clothing item, back in the hospital.

"Oh!", Defoe exclaimed, sounding embarrassed. "Of course." His fingers moved across her upper back, fiddling with the tiny metal hook until it fell open. "There you go.", he said, clearing his throat. She could feel the material of her dress fall away from her upper back, revealing a small gap of skin.

"Thank you.", Iris said, simply. She felt embarrassed, but not so much that she regretted asking him for help with it. Besides, she'd accidentally seen him naked before. On multiple occasions.

"I'll, uh, I'll turn around now.", Defoe said, and his voice sounded slightly rougher than before. Iris gulped.

"Okay.", she said, lightly. When she'd heard him turn around, she carefully untied the bow of her corset - just the top, so she'd have enough space to insert the SPYNE in its usual place. She lifted the device up to the correct spot, took a deep breath, and clicked it into place.

It fit perfectly, just like the old one had.

She waited a few seconds, gasping when she realized what was happening. She slowly turned the wheelchair around, facing Defoe. He still stood there, facing the wall, politely ignoring her.

"It works.", Iris told him, her voice coming out as barely more than a raspy whisper. He turned around, his eyes wide. "It works!", she repeated, incredulously. She could feel the blood vessels in her thighs, the muscles that ached in her feet. Her legs were slowly starting to come to life again, and it hurt a bit, but mostly, it felt glorious. How much she had missed the SPYNE, these last two weeks.

She wiggled her toes, then slowly moved her feet, then tried slowly lifting her shaking legs off the seat, a centimeter at a time. "Oh my God.", she whispered, staring down.

He was moving closer, approaching her with a smile. "I'm glad it works.", he said, honestly. He sat down again, across from her. Iris looked up.

"Thank you so much.", she said, sincerely. "You don't know what this...-" she shook her head. "Thank you.", she repeated. "This is amazing, Gabriel."

Something in his face twitched when she called him by his first name.

"I don't know what I can do to make up for this.", she said, thinking out loud.

He furrowed his brow. "Nothing, you don't have to do anything, Iris. Or rather...", he paused, thinking. "You can do me a favour and give this a try. This life, I mean, just for a few weeks, or so. I feel like, this could be good, eventually.", he said, perhaps not sure what he exactly meant by it, himself.

She looked up, watching his warm, uncertain eyes. "Okay.", she said, nodding. "I will."

Chapter Text

"So, what exactly do the staff do, around here?", Iris asked him, taking a sip from her cup. They were sitting in Defoe's room, with a tray of tea and biscuits on the small table between them. Mrs. Jenkins had brought it to them, twenty minutes ago, smiling politely the entire time. Outside the window it was slowly getting darker, the sunset was grey and a muddy, orange colour.

Defoe shrugged, lowering his plate of biscuits. "A bit of everything, really. I didn't really want to hire anyone - I mean, the idea of having people serve you is kind of weird, isn't it?"

She raised a brow, looking amused.

"But it's kind of, expected, in this day and age, for someone like "Gregory Winston" to have at least a few people working for him. It's less... suspicious, and I had the money, anyway. So I hired someone to take care of the horses, the gardens, you know, all that."

Iris seemed to find that funny. "Yes, you mentioned stables, earlier... Didn't really take you for a horse guy, Defoe." She looked amused.

He laughed. "Well, I'm a man of many talents.", he joked, raising his eyebrows with a smirk. Iris snickered.

"But it's odd, no?", she asked, a moment later, contemplative. "Having people around you, all the time?"

He shook his head. "No, no, it's not that bad. The people I picked are all very... discreet. And they are not overly involved, like in some other households. They don't help me dress, for example." He laughed.

Iris nodded. "So you still keep some privacy around here."

Defoe agreed. "Yes, of course. Don't worry, it's not going to be weird. There are only 6 people here, mostly for the garden, and I barely even see them. And if you ever think there are too many people around, I'll just tell them to give us more space. But it's not been an issue, so far."

She nodded again, looking a bit relieved.

The light in the room was slowly dwindling, as the sky outside darkened. Defoe walked over to the gaslamp on the dresser and brought it closer to their coffee table. When he sat back down, Iris' face was brightened by the flickering shine.

She was still sitting in her wheelchair but had folded her legs across each other, gently whipping her left foot up and down. She seemed lost in thought.

"What do we tell the people who work here, about the wheelchair, and my SPYNE?", she asked, uncertainly. "I mean, of course, we can't tell them about the SPYNE. But what do they think is wrong with me?"

Her voice was neutral, but Defoe was surprised by the words she chose. What do they think is wrong with me? That was an odd way of phrasing it, he thought.
He bit his lip. "They think that you had an accident, a long time ago, and that your legs are getting spasms, sometimes. So they know that you can not always walk, but they also think that your health is improving. So if they see you without the wheelchair, no one will be surprised."

Iris nodded, letting out a breath. "Okay, good. So I don't need to pretend to be in the wheelchair, the whole time."

Defoe nodded. "But like I said...-"

"Yes, I know.", she interfered, expecting his next words. "I'll need to charge the SPYNE, often, and it could be difficult to get enough energy for it, sometimes. So I'll still need the wheelchair, every few days."

They had discussed how it worked, earlier - Defoe had told her how he'd managed to transport rechargeable solar batteries and panels, through the Throat, along with the SPYNE. But while they were quite efficient, the small solar panels needed a lot of daylight, to recharge properly. He'd installed about a dozen of them, on the roof, in a hidden plain that none of the staff would be able to spot. Defoe had already charged a lot of the batteries, in the weeks before she'd arrived, but SPYNE's required so much energy - he'd have to recharge the batteries again, in a few days.

"Yes, exactly. So don't get disappointed, if your Spyne suddenly gives up."

Iris smiled, looking somewhat sad. "That's not really how it works," she commented. "It doesn't...-" She shook her head, maybe deciding against saying whatever had been on her mind. She took another sip of tea, instead.

"What do you mean?", Defoe inquired, curiously. She looked up, eyeing him for a second, before responding.

"It doesn't just stop working all of a sudden.", she explained, quietly. "It just starts working less and less, throughout the day. Until you start feeling really tired... it's as if your muscles become very sore. And then you usually get a computer warning, telling you to recharge it. I mean, that's what my old one did. " She shrugged, her voice was a bit raw. "If you don't, then yes, it will slowly stop working. But it takes a few hours. You don't just...suddenly fall over, or something like that."

Defoe thought about this, for a second. "Has it ever been difficult for you, at work?", he wondered. "I mean, being with the police and having a SPYNE?"

Iris let out a humourless little laugh. "I think the most difficult part has always been to hide it from people."

He paused. "Wait, what?"

"My colleagues didn't know.", she said, quietly, looking him in the eyes. "I mean, it's in my file, somewhere. So of course, a few people knew." She smiled, ironically. "Hell, Commander Mannix even knew. But my boss didn't, and no one else in my Unit, either."

Defoe nodded, safely storing this information away, along with all the other small things he'd learned about her, by now. "But why?", he asked, leaning forward and trying to read her face. "What would have happened, if they'd found out?"

Iris sighed, rolling her eyes a little. "Well, for starters, they'd think I'd only joined KWAL to get the augmentation. To be able to get a free medical procedure."

Defoe said nothing, but the silent question in his head was "Did you?" - a part of him had hoped so when he'd first realised that Iris had a SPYNE, that night in her apartment. He wanted to believe it, so badly - that she'd only joined the Executive because she had to.

That she didn't believe any of Mannix's crap.

That they could be on the same team, perhaps...

He cleared his throat. "Would that have been so bad? A lot of people only join KWAL for those kinds of reasons, don't they?"

Iris shook her head, still smiling a little sadly. "Maybe. But not in the police force. At least, people wouldn't admit that sort of thing, openly. But there are other reasons, too. Not just people questioning my motives." She shrugged, taking another sip of her tea.

"Like what?"

She paused, crinkling her forehead. The intricate hairdo that Iris had been wearing all day, since the hospital, was slowly falling apart, leaving her hair in her usual, straight strands.

"A lot of people would have questioned my competencies, probably.", she admitted. "I had a lot of independence, at work, - they let me out in the field on my own, all the time. I was on a pretty good path to maybe becoming "inspector", in 5 years' time. I don't think people would have trusted me as much if everyone knew that I'm disabled."

She rolled her eyes, a small smile on her lips. "It's hard enough to be taken seriously, sometimes. And every interesting case is always classified, for some stupid reason."

Defoe smiled, as well. "So, when you investigated my "murder"", he asked, lifting his hands as if to indicate quotation marks, around the word, "was it classified? Or was the case too boring for that?" He smirked, somehow not feeling put off by the topic, at all.

She raised her eyebrows, looking stunned by his morbid question. Then, she smiled. "Super classified, of course. My boss got mad at me for asking too many questions, as usual."

He laughed, remembering how Iris had been following him like a shadow, around the university. She seemed to be quite intense, about her work. He could relate to that.
"So how come you were put on the case, then?", he inquired, wanting to know more. "What made your boss come around?"

Iris looked a little uncomfortable, all of a sudden. "Well.", she began, tracing the rim of her porcelain tea cup with her fingernail, "I wasn't technically supposed to investigate this, at first." She paused, looking like she was about to laugh. "I kind of have a habit of overstepping, sometimes."

He shook his head, infected by her humour. "What does that mean?"

She bit her lip, still grinning a little. "Sometimes, when they won't tell me what's going on with a case, I start doing my own investigation, so to speak." She shrugged.

"Like a private investigator?", Defoe chuckled, amused by the idea.

She shook her head. "That's your choice of words, not mine."

He laughed. "So, what did you do then?"

"Well, first I had to find out your name.", she said, catching his gaze. "They didn't want to discuss the case at all with me, at work, but I was the one who found your body. So I needed closure, you see. It's not every day that someone gets killed on my patch."

He gave her a pointed look, raising his eyebrows, but the detective just smiled and went on.

"I had a bit of blood from you,", she said, matter-of-factly. "on my shirt. So I thought the best way to move forward was to do some DNA testing."

Defoe was fascinated by this, wanting to ask her a million more questions. However, at this instant, they heard a knock at the door. He turned around in his chair.

"Sir?", Mrs Jenkins voice said, outside of the door, "Sir, supper is ready downstairs for you, whenever you are ready!"

Defoe replied, loudly: "Thank you, Mrs Jenkins! We will be there shortly!"

They heard the housekeeper's footsteps retreat, and Defoe looked at Iris, questioningly. "Are you hungry yet?", he asked, feeling ready for a meal after the long carriage ride. "I could eat something."

"Sure.", she replied, smiling, and stood up from the chair. It was good to see her walk again, he found - Iris' whole demeanor changed, with the SPYNE in her back. She seemed more confident, more at ease, somehow.

"Perhaps hold on to the railing, or onto my arm, when we go downstairs.", Defoe warned her. "Just so the staff don't wonder too much, why you can suddenly walk so well."

She did as he'd advised, gently placing her hand on his lower arm, while they walked downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, Defoe guided her through the foyer, to the large dining room. It was a long room with a huge table, covered in an elegant, white tablecloth. Candles were lit, along the table, and a fire from the chimney warmed the room.

He helped her into her chair, before taking the seat across from her. He'd strategically made sure that they were sitting at the thin side of the table, instead of 3 meters apart from each other.

Mrs Jenkins, who'd been waiting for them, came in from the chamber next door, bringing in two plates of dinner. "Good evening, Mr Winston!", she greeted him, again, and then turned to Iris with a delighted smile. "And also to you, Mrs Winston!" She placed the two plates in front of them both, one at a time.

"Thank you, Mrs Jenkins.", Iris said, smiling politely at the housekeeper.

"My pleasure, Ma'am!", the lady said, and with another bright smile in Defoe's direction, she left the room, closing the kitchen door behind her.

The food smelled good - it included roasted carrots, mashed potatoes, and some type of fish, in a sauce that Defoe could not recognize. He took a bite from the plate.
Iris was still separating the bones from her fish with a fork. "She's nice.", she said, commenting on Mrs Jenkins. "Seems like you picked the employees here, well."

Defoe shrugged, smiling. "I think I did, yes. They're all from the area, around here. If you like I can show you around, tomorrow - there's a village, nearby, where most of the staff are living."

Iris seemed surprised by this. "They don't live in the house with you?" she wondered while taking a bite from a piece of roasted carrot. Defoe shook his head. "No, only Mrs Jenkins, and she has her own, separate part of the house. Separate front door and all."

"I see. You really care about your privacy, huh?" He looked up, seeing a small grin play around her mouth.

"Oh, is that so bad?", he asked, raising a brow.

"No, I suppose it's not. I was just wondering what you need all the space for, in such a large house. Must get spooky, at night, doesn't it?"

Defoe laughed. "Oh, I wouldn't know. I'm sleeping like a stone, at night."

She wordlessly took another bite from her mashed potatoes.

"But speaking of spooky things.", he said, wanting to return to their earlier conversation, now that Mrs Jenkins had left, "I think you were in the middle of telling me a detective story of yours? How you found out the identity of a murder victim, if I recall correctly."

Iris raised an eyebrow, cocking her head to the side, with a smile. "You know, I'm not sure if you want to hear such scary stories, while you're in the middle of a nice dinner." she teased.

"Oh, I think I will manage.", he said, biting his lip.

"Hmm." She seemed to contemplate where they had left off. "Oh, right.", she said, putting down her knife. "So, I needed some DNA testing, to find out the victim's name."

"M-hm.", he nodded, taking a bite from the fish with his fork.

"I did get your name, from the central police databank, eventually."

"From your work? I thought you weren't supposed to be on the case," he asked.
Iris made a vague gesture with her hand. "Not from work, no. I know someone who is good at hacking, who can sometimes help me with this sort of thing."

"Wait", Defoe said, amused. "So you hired someone to hack into the police database?"

She rolled her eyes, dismissively. "No, I didn't hire someone for that. I just know someone who does me a favour sometimes, in this type of situation... That's all." She finished, looking uncomfortable with the direction that the conversation was taking.

Oh. Defoe suddenly wondered who exactly this unknown hacker could have been - an ex, perhaps? Why else would she be so secretive about it?
But before he could really think about this possibility too much, Iris sighed and started stirring circles into her mashed potatoes.

"Sometimes," she started, slowly, not looking at him, "when I'm not sure what to do and need restricted information on a case, I go to my brother Alby's house, and he hacks into high-security platforms for me."

Defoe was stunned by this information, surprised that she seemed to be embarrassed about it, somehow. "And I know,", she continued, in a low voice, "I probably should not be incriminating him, but believe me, he's constantly getting himself into trouble, whether I'm there or not." She sighed, looking up at him. She looked tired, and a bit mesmerizing, in the low light of the fireplace and candles.

"You two don't get along?", Defoe guessed.

Iris seemed to think about it, for a moment.

"It's complicated.", she finally determined, taking a sip from the glass of water in front of her.

"Sounds like a difficult situation," he said, wanting to know more, but not wanting to invade her space too much.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?", she asked, changing the direction of the conversation. "You said your entire family is made up of scientists, no?"

He was surprised that she remembered this - he'd told her about it during their dinner, back in her apartment in 2053, before the night had taken a bad turn, later. He nodded. "Yes, I have two brothers. One younger, one older." He shrugged. "Marcus is a geologist, James is still in university, he's studying political ethnography. My parents want him to become a researcher, as well, - you know, to continue the family tradition." He rolled his eyes, which made her laugh.

"Are you concerned what will happen to them?", she said, after a moment, looking up. "Now that you're here?"

Defoe shook his head, knowing what she meant. "We haven't really been close, the last few years.", he explained. "My research... and then Chapel Perilous.. kind of took up a lot of my time. And after everything went down with Mannix, and you..." he gave her a pointed look, across the table, "In the end, I was already pronounced dead, you see. Even if I wanted to, I could not have approached my parents, or my brothers, to tell them I'm okay. It would have just made them a target... the less they know, the better." He sighed. "So whether I'm here, or in 2053, does not really make such a difference. Everyone believes me to be dead, either way."

Iris looked a bit shocked by his speech, something like compassion written across her features. "I'm sorry.", she said, quietly.

Defoe regretted that the conversation had turned so somber, missing the happy mood they'd both been in, earlier.

"No, no, don't worry.", he waved her concern off, attempting a smile. "I'm not regretting this decision, whatsoever."

Iris raised her eyebrows, looking doubtful. Defoe could practically hear her thoughts: "You will regret this, eventually.", she seemed to think. He wanted to explain to her that this was absurd, that he'd anticipated seeing her again for all these months, knowing it would all be worth it, somehow. That being able to make sure she was okay, and even giving her her SPYNE back, made him proud. But he also felt that he could not be too open with her, just yet. He did not want to scare her off or make her feel uncomfortable.

"You still didn't tell me the end of your detective story, earlier.", he smiled, trying to change the subject. "So, you got my name through a DNA analysis. Then what?"

Iris looked up, a small smile returning to her face, as well. "I was planning to investigate you on my own, without causing any attention. I didn't want my supervisor to find out, she'd given me a direct order to ignore the case."

He nodded, taking another bite from his plate.

"But then", she said, shaking her head, incredulously. "Commander Mannix approached me. We'd never met, before then. He told me that he needed a special ally and that he wanted me to investigate you specifically. He told me about Chapel Perilous, that you are a dangerous terror group, and how you are all out to kill him. So of course, I accepted." She eyed him intently. "Something like that never happened to me, before - getting selected for this kind of high-clearance job, on my own, directly by Mannix. I should have known that something was strange about it."

Defoe nodded. "Did Mannix say why he selected you, for this job?"

A grin flickered over her face. "He said it's because he admires my resourcefulness. And that he talked to my superiors."

He raised his eyebrows. "I thought your superiors told you to stay out of the case?"

"Yes, they did.", Iris confirmed. "But I guess they still gave him a good report, about my work. Like I said, I'm kind of known to... overstep... a bit, when it comes to some cases."

Defoe raised an eyebrow at this. "Overstep?", he wondered, out loud. He took a spoonful of his mashed potatoes.

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Yes, I kind of... take things too far sometimes, and then the Executive reprimands me. Like, investigating cases after hours, sneaking around suspects' workplaces, that sort of thing. I don't always ask for permission from my superiors first, so they find me kind of bothersome, I guess." She shrugged. "But, because of this, I also get a lot done, you see. It's a lot harder to crack cases if you always follow 100% of the rules, and only work from 9 to 5 every day."

"They're probably scared of your ambitiousness.", Defoe guessed, honestly. "I had the same type of issues in academia when I was younger. Some people don't like it when others think outside of the box and still succeed."

Iris nodded, looking relieved that he understood her point of view. "You know, that's what I also used to think."

"What were things like with your coworkers?", Defoe wondered, curiously. "Were any of them involved in the case?"

Iris shook her head. "Oh, no, not at all. I usually work cases alone, these days. Maybe that's why I was getting into so much trouble the last few years.", she chuckled, absentmindedly.

He joined her laughter. "You think?"

Iris shook her head, looking at him conspirationally. "My colleagues had this nickname for me.", she told him, and took a bite of the fish from her plate. "They used to call me "the Bloodhount'".

Defoe snorted, not expecting this. "Why, because you're so hard to get rid of, once you are put on a case?", he asked, amused.

"Well, yes, something like that.", she grinned, looking smug. "Which is true, to be fair."

"Oh, of course.", he said, nodding emphatically. "I think we can all agree that you go pretty far to solve cases. Even reading my old physics papers, from several years ago..." he smirked, raising an eyebrow.

She shook her head, with a smile. "Well, yes. Of course, I had to read up on all of your work, once I heard you might be a terrorist," she stated, calmly. "I also found a bunch of other stuff on you, if it makes you feel better."

Something about her ironic smile made Defoe's stomach drop. Oh no. What had she seen? What could there be? The Executive probably had an insane amount of information on him, that Iris must have been able to access. Every photo ever taken of him, every document or message containing his name, perhaps even his old online dating profile, from his early 20s? What exactly did she see?

"Oh god no.", Defoe muttered, scrunching his eyes in embarrassment. "What exactly ...-? How much did you see?"

Iris snorted, laughing when she saw his expression. "Oh, don't worry. I'm a professional, I would never share any classified information with third parties, if that is what you are concerned about." She raised an eyebrow, still grinning.

"I'm serious, Iris.", he intervened, although he couldn't help but smile, all the same.

She looked like she was taking pity on him, shaking her head. "Don't stress.", she said, taking a sip from the cup of water in front of her. "I'm just kidding. I only saw your work contract and a few of your research papers, that's all. And your doctor's thesis, of course. I have to say you write quite well, professor."

"Oh, thank you.", Defoe said, feeling his ears grow a bit red. "But as you know, I've changed some of my scientific standpoints, since then."

Iris shook her head, poking her fork into another piece of carrot. "What exactly are you so worried about me finding out, professor? Any embarrassing childhood pictures that you don't want me to see?", she smirked, cocking her head to the side.

Defoe shrugged, flustered. "Yeah, something like that.", he muttered, not quite looking at her. She had a crazy way of making him nervous, sometimes.

"Well, Chapel Perilous probably had a big file on me, as well.", Iris suddenly said, more seriously.

He looked up, mustering her in surprise.

"Yes, they probably did.", he admitted. Was she angry about that? he wondered.

"Hasan must have known pretty much everything about me, I guess.", Iris contemplated, carefully.

He nodded. "Yes, probably.", Defoe stated. "She knew your name, from one of Mannix's recordings. She'd heard it in 2023 and remembered it all this time. She said that you would be important in some way."

Iris looked thoughtful. "So Hasan, and Lorna, they always... kept an eye on me?" She asked, raising her brows. "I mean... Lorna moved in next door to me 3 years before it all went down... that was no coincidence, was it?"

Defoe let out a sigh. "No, definitely no coincidence. They were watching you for a pretty long time, trying to learn more about you... from what I gather."

It must have been strange for Iris, he thought, not for the first time... finding out that the sweet neighbor with the cat that she'd befriended was actually a terrorist, all along... just waiting to kidnap her...

"It's a bit of a bummer.", Iris commented, after chewing another bite of fish. "I used to really like Lorna." She seemed thoughtful for a moment, then shook her head. "Well, let's say, I tolerated her. But she was nice enough, I thought." she corrected.

Defoe looked at his plate, trying not to appear too annoyed. He had never liked the blond lady, even though he knew she'd been useful to their organization. "Yeah, well... I guess Lorna was good at hiding her more... aggressive personality traits. I don't think the Executive ever even suspected her of any petty crimes, let alone terrorism. She was kind of hiding in plain sight." He shrugged, pushing his empty plate aside. He felt full, happy that Mrs Jenkins had prepared such a nice meal for them.

Iris seemed thoughtful, then she looked up and locked eyes with him. "So... Chapel Perilous kept tabs on me, for years.", she reiterated, matter-of-factly.

"M-hm." He confirmed, nodding.

"And you, did you...-", she paused, blinking quickly. "Did you also know who I was, at the time? When I took you in for questioning?" She looked curious, and perhaps a bit worried.

Defoe shook his head. "I think I'd heard your name, at some point before, a long time ago. But I didn't immediately connect the dots. I only realized later that you were the person Hasan and Lorna were sometimes discussing, after you first took me in for questioning."

He tried to remember the exact details of that time, remembering the first time he'd sat across from the detective, in that small investigation room. Her brown eyes had bored into his, demandingly, and he'd worried about acting suspicious - still a bit traumatised from watching his own 'Doppelgänger' die in front of him, half an hour earlier.

"After the police interview with you", Defoe continued, thoughtfully, "I reached out to Hasan, and told her what had happened. That's when she reminded me again who you were... - that you were somehow important, to Mannix, or to the future of Chapel Perilous."

"Did you really think I would immediately help you and Hasan?", Iris asked, quietly. "That I would somehow join Chapel Perilous, overnight?"

The physicist looked down, a bit affected by the question. "I thought there might be a chance." He admitted, lowering his eyes. "I thought, if I could convince you to hear me out, somehow, you might join us. Lorna had said there might be a chance you would."

Iris looked away, lost in thought. Defoe sighed. "And then..." he continued, shaking his head. "Then I got to know you a little bit and really wanted to convince you... I knew that, if I didn't, and if you would stand on the other side of history than us..."

He didn't finish the thought, shuddering inwardly.

"Then what?", she asked, a bit sharply. He looked up, seeing the honest question in her eyes. "You would have killed me?", she guessed, drily.

Defoe felt anger bubble up, in his chest. "What?", he almost hissed. "Why would you think that..- no, I mean..." he paused, realizing that she was not as far off with her thought, as he'd have liked. "No.", he said, quietly. He shook his head. "No, I wouldn't have. But Hasan might have. Or Lorna. As a safety measure."

Iris stared at the table in front of her, folding her hands into each other. "Yes, that's what I thought.", she stated, simply.

"That's partly why I ran away, from your apartment.", he admitted, clearing his throat. "I thought that, without me there, Lorna wouldn't possibly be crazy enough to try to kidnap you, to bring you to Hasan. I was hoping I could somehow try to... keep you out of the whole thing. Without getting arrested by you in the process." He shrugged, smiling half-heartedly. To his surprise, Iris did not look angry or disappointed, whatsoever - when she looked up and onto his eyes, a second later, they were neither upset nor sad. She only seemed a bit more guarded, than a few minutes earlier.

"It's not your fault.", Iris stated, softly, taking Defoe completely off-guard.

He shook his head, confused. "What?", he asked, with a lump in his throat.

"You couldn't have changed anything about this, Gabriel.", she said, gently, and her use of his first name once again made him feel a bit off-balance. "I wouldn't have believed you, either way. Lorna would have found a way to kidnap me and bring me to the Throat - with or without your involvement. And I would have been on Mannix's side, either way. Nothing you could have done would have changed things." She paused. "I only wish I didn't shoot you.", she added, quietly. "I never thought I would be the one to...-" she broke off, looking down.

"Hey.", he said, his voice raspy, and reached across the table grabbing her hand. She seemed surprised, but didn't protest when he gently wrapped it in his large palm. He had the urge to interlace their fingers, but stopped himself from acting on the impulse.

"Can we perhaps... call it even?", he said, simply, furrowing his forehead. Iris looked at him intently, her gaze brushing across his tired features. He wondered what she was thinking, what she might see in him, right now.

"No", she replied, softly, shaking her head with something like pessimism. "We might have been even, before today.", she contemplated. "But now, you brought me here." She looked around the dark room, and without even looking up, he understood what she was insinuating. He had brought her from a difficult situation in London, without any real prospects for the future, to a large, warm house, which certainly meant more security. He'd also given her a new SPYNE, which improved her situation a lot, as well...

"Iris.", he said, finding himself once again drawn to the sound of her name, "you don't have to believe me, right now, but we truly are even. I promise, we are.", he said, simply. He couldn't possibly explain to her why. But he knew that they were.

"Are you done eating?", he asked, a few moments later, noticing the mostly empty plate in front of her, that had been untouched for several minutes.

She nodded, looking still a bit lost in thought, but stood up from the table. "Should we clean up?", she asked, uncertainly, but he shook his head.

"Mrs Jenkins will come by, early tomorrow morning.", he answered, simply, and blew out the few candles that were placed across the room. Only the fire from the chimney still gave a low light in the dining room.

They made their way upstairs through the mostly dark hallway, and although no servants were around, Defoe gently placed a hand on her lower back, as if he was helping her up the stairs. Iris did not seem bothered by it, still looking lost in thought. When they arrived in the hallway in front of their rooms, Defoe paused, nervously letting go of her.

"There are some nightclothes, in the wardrobe.", he said pointing towards Iris' room. "And the bathroom is at the end of the hallway." He gestured towards the end of the long corridor, at a slim wooden door. "You have your own.", he added. "I'm using the bathroom on the second floor, usually - there's a ladder in my bedroom, that goes right up to it.", he explained, unnecessarily.

Iris nodded, smiling slightly. "Understood.", she said, simply.

"Well, goodnight then.", he said, uncertainly, while backing away from her.

"Goodnight." She said, quietly, one hand on the door handle of her room.

When he was in his room, and once more alone, for the first time in many hours, Gabriel Defoe thought back on all that had happened today. Once he was ready for bed, he fell into the comfort of his wool blankets, watching the moon through the thin cracks in the wooden window sills.

He listened to Iris' gentle footsteps, two doors away, and couldn't stop his heart from pounding wildly in his chest, for a long time still.