Chapter Text
Margaret Hale was rudely awakened by a shrill ringtone. “Oh! Why can’t I have something nice for once!” She squeezed her pillow into a ball and screamed into it, promptly choking on the little bits of down she’d released into the hot air.
She had been blissfully engaged in the most sinful fantasy, her overheating skin living proof of why that was an inadvisable thing to do during a heatwave.
She peered at the mobile that kept ringing without a care for her disordered thoughts and sat up abruptly, feeling her face burst into flames of embarrassment. It was her father calling.
“Daddy,” she squeaked, as if afraid he would somehow be able to guess what she had been doing.
“Morning, Margaret! Are you ready, love?”
Ready? Was she ready for what?! Her mind took a horribly long moment to pull itself together, but she finally remembered what day it was and bolted upright in a tangle of sheets.
“Yes!” she all but screamed. “Just give me a moment to boot up the computer and I’ll call you back on Discord.”
“You’re a bad daughter, Margaret Hale,” she mumbled to herself while splashing cold water on her face, “a degenerate,” she continued on the way to the kitchen, “a wanton woman,” she grumbled into her sip of iced coffee. On this last chastisement she also inhaled some of the liquid and was still coughing when she used one hand to type in her password, the other busily wiping away tears. “If only he could see you now!” Margaret continued, only to slap a palm over her mouth. “Enough, woman! Must you debase your own mother’s anniversary with your shameless behaviour?”
Her exclamation was so forceful that a tissue forgotten next to her keyboard flew up in the air, like a broken wing. Margaret looked at it, horrified. This was undeniable proof that not only was she talking to herself, she was doing it at the top of her lungs as well. Did that mean that all that moaning and panting in her dream had also— Oh, what would the neighbours think!
She picked up John Thornton’s business card again, and stared at it hard. “It’s not even you,” she whispered to it. “I mean, it is you, but not the actual you. You see, you’ve become a symbol for the path not taken. You’re my what-if.”
“Should I get a cat?” she asked her father later, in lieu of a greeting. She felt an uncontrollable urge to bite a fingernail and she was fighting it with all her might.
“What? Aren’t you allergic? Margaret, is everything alright?” asked Mr. Hale in a concerned voice.
“It’s mum’s anniversary, let’s just focus on that. We can talk later,” she mumbled with a deep sigh.
“Nonsense, your mother is not going anywhere. You know you can always talk to me, love.”
Their two characters had met in-game, the Forsaken priest - with bony limbs and ash-grey skin visible through a robe that had once been snug, back when the breath of life hadn’t yet left his body, but was now hanging limply, held up by dry bones and not much else - and his beautiful daughter, glowing golden with vitality. They had just passed the Sepulcher, and sat down in their customary spot on the shores of The Great Sea. It was a tradition they had kept every year since her mother’s passing. This was a place where the three of them used to come and watch the sunset; now they held a symbolic memorial of sorts each year and always did it in the morning, at the time of Maria Hale’s passing.
Platon, her father’s character, put down their picnic basket within sight of her mother’s little tombstone, Mercy helped unfold the sun chairs and umbrellas and as their avatars took their seats, her father said in his best confident tone, “Alright, love, now let’s hear it. What is on your mind? What’s all this business about cats?”
“Oh, dad— I don’t even know what is wrong with me. I think I am just—” She sighed and looked to the side, unable to take any more of the compassion she could read in his eyes. “After I turned twenty-four this year, I couldn’t stop thinking how you and mum had already had me by that age. You were already married, and had a house, a child and your careers and I— I suppose I am just lonely. And maybe becoming a little desperate.” It felt good to have it all out in the open.
“But you have a career as well. And you’re not alone, Margaret-love, you have me. You are the most important person in the world to me.”
“Dad, it’s not what I mean,” retorted Margaret, with a tinge of exasperation. “You know that.”
“Of course, but— How can I put this? Meeting someone is not something you can plan and set a deadline for. You mother and I didn’t suddenly go after each other because we were in our twenties and ‘it was time’; we happened to fall in love at first sight and the rest simply followed.”
“I know!” exclaimed his daughter.
“You’re young, Margaret, let yourself live a little. You will meet someone, if it’s meant to be.”
“I did,” Margaret said in an almost inaudible whisper, suddenly shy.
“You did? Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it!”
“He’s not real.” She dragged both hands over her face. “He’s not real,” she repeated, louder, “and yet I think I am in love.”
“I am not really following, love.” Mr. Hale’s brows came together, punctuating his confusion. “What exactly do you mean? How is he not real if you’re in love?”
“Well, I— I suppose it’s not really me that’s in love. It’s Mercy.” She could read the confusion in her father’s inarticulate sounds, so took pity on him and attempted to explain.
“We met in-game. He— he’s a character.” Saying it out loud made her realise exactly how pathetic it was and she felt her face burst into flame. She waited with baited breath for Mr. Hale’s reply, and, to his credit, he didn’t miss a beat.
“Well, these two on screen in front of us are characters as well, but we are real and talking right now, aren’t we? This—”
“Thorne,” supplied Margaret.
“This Thorne character also has a real person behind him, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, there you go, then. Have you met your Thorne chap, the human?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Dad, you know very well that Warcraft romances are fun and games until somebody buys a plane ticket.”
“Right, true, very true.” They both took a moment to shudder at the memory of Henry Lennox, who had developed a veritable obsession for Margaret and had turned into her on-line stalker. She had had to contact the authorities when he’d showed up at her place of work, asking to see her. She’d never given him any of her contact information, had never allowed him any liberties, and yet there he was, slobbering all over the reception desk.
“Does this Thorne chap set off alarm bells, like Henry Lennox did?” her father asked after a pause. “Because for Lennox they were ringing from the start.”
“No, he’s very considerate and kind. He knows how to listen and he has manners. He’s so intelligent and— and perfect! I— I like him very much.”
“I can’t really give advice on this on-line dating thing that people are doing nowadays,” said Mr. Hale. “I am too old for this. Back in my day, you would meet people in the shops or at a concert, and simply ask for their number. But— well, this person - I mean the one controlling the character - is the one deciding how he speaks and acts. The pixels on the screen are lifeless, love, the human touch is what breathes souls into them.”
“So you mean that if I like the personality of the avatar, it means that I may like the real human behind it?”
“Of course it’s not a given. Dissimulation is not uncommon, but—”
They both stopped suddenly and listened. There was a rustling noise behind their characters, a hulking shadow shifting the edges of the forest.
“What is that?” asked Richard Hale. His daughter replied in an excited shriek that made him regret he’d put on both earbuds. Margaret sounded like she’d jumped up from her chair and knocked over a cup, just as Mercy also bounced up on screen.
“He’s here,” breathed out Margaret. “Daddy, he’s here! It’s him!”
The fabled character she’d gushed over for the past quarter of an hour was before them in the flesh, as it were. He stood at the forest edge, surrounded by the shadows, half of his face obscured.
Mercy stood up in a rush, almost tripping on her skirts, but Platon had moved in front of her with surprising alacrity, putting a hand out to stop her from advancing.
“Dad, what are you—?”
“Margaret, wait here and don’t move.”
“But why?” she squeaked.
He turned serious eyes to her, and asked: “what do we do in this family, love?”
Margaret’s eyes scanned his face, its seriousness and air of determination registering for the first time. “We don’t break character,” she mumbled in the tone of a petulant child.
“Exactly”, Platon nodded decisively. “Now, you wait here, love.”
He didn’t say another word. Mercy was left to reluctantly stand where she was, eyes fixed on a spot on her father’s back, as Platon ambled slowly towards Thorne. Her lover was still as a statue, not having taken a single step. He was watching the advancement of her father with an expression Mercy could not interpret.
At long last, the Forsaken, limbs weighed down by the slow decay that was inescapable for his kind, reached this fearsome wolf who seemed to him to be resigned to his fate.
“I thought I told you to stay away,” he spat out, without bothering with any semblance of a greeting.
Thorne’s golden eyes focused into narrow slits, scrutinising the man before him, unable to decide how to respond.
“I told you then,” repeated the Forsaken, “and you agreed.” He’d kept his voice low, not wishing it to carry. Wishing to spare Mercy now, as he had then, of this knowledge. “Whatever I thought of you, I never took you for a man who didn’t keep his word.” This last speech was coloured with a strange disappointment, such as a parent would feel for a favourite child that had lost his way.
Thorne cleared his throat, swallowed and said, “I did agree. And I did stay away. When you left without a word—” His voice broke, he paused to force more air into his lungs and continued in a low growl. “When you took her and left, in the night, without a word— I never followed. I stayed away, just as you’d asked.”
Platon raised his chin and shot him a look through pale, narrowed eyes. “Well, you’re not away now, are you?”
Thorne shook his head, frustrated. He made to drag a hand across his face, but one was holding a bouquet of red roses, and the other was hanging limply at his side. He groaned. “This is different. I did not track you! Not then, and certainly not now.”
“Aye, I know you did not. In your madness, you weren’t even able to track anymore. Or should I remind you of that?” He continued, ignoring his interlocutor’s huff of annoyance. “Did you forget how I caught you by surprise? So busy were you, mooning across the expanse of that lake?!”
Thorne made to interrupt, but Platon would not relent. Not in this. “Look at me!” He let out an incredulous breath. “Look at me, son!” he said louder, gesturing to his rotting flesh. “You couldn’t even smell my approach, you didn’t hear the rustling of the forest floor, not until I stood next to you. You were no wolf!”
“What does that have to do with it?!” growled back Thorne.
“Everything!” Platon spat out. “You are still young now, but you were a pup back then. A wild beast, and yet so fresh that it needed all its wits just to learn how to survive. And when you were near her, you had no wits left to spare!”
An incensed Thorne took a menacing step closer. “Was that it, then? You wish to convince me you were protecting me? That you did it for my benefit? All this talk of wits and senses— Just speak plainly, man! You didn’t want a Worgen’s eyes tainting your precious daughter. And you didn’t want her to see one of my kind in a gentler light.”
Platon shook his head at the younger man. Looking at him now, all he could see was the boy he’d known then. Newly affected by the Curse, driven half mad. A being that was no longer a man, but had not yet learned how to be a wolf either. Platon had witnessed Thorne jump over his city’s wall to hunt, with quick movements made even more scary by their careless ease. He had felt chills running across his skin, cold as it was, at seeing the strength and agility the young Worgen possessed. And yet all that seemed to be forgotten as soon as he caught sight of Mercy’s golden hair from the corner of his eye.
He’d been scared, the first time he’d noticed the glowing golden eyes perched high up in a tree, the snarling mouth open to take in big gulps of air. The hungry look on that face. He’d called upon the Light to shield his little family, to shield his child from those who would steal her away. But the Light rarely answered his pleas in those bleak days spent in the shadow of the Gilnean Wall.
The old man had got up from where he was sitting and nursing his increasingly ailing wife, ready to put his own body between his daughter and this beast. His frail bones were aching, and yet he’d picked up a sword nonetheless. In the end, he’d had no need of it.
The wolf was blind to everything but her, and as long as she didn’t move, neither did he.
The first encounter between the Forsaken priest and the young shapeshifter now before him had been on the edge of Lordamere Lake, after Platon, newly-widowed, had taken his daughter to the house there, to grieve in peace.
He’d spotted the wolf from the dock, the same eyes he knew from before trained on the window, no doubt hoping for a glimpse of Mercy. He’d made his way to him slowly, in a wide circle, without fearing for his own safety. He had divined the young man’s intentions and character long before; he’d lost count of the times he’d seen Thorne leap in a blur of shadow to clear out any wild beasts, human or otherwise, from Mercy’s path. The boy took such pains to prevent her from noticing him, that Platon could not but have a high opinion of his honour.
Throne flinched when the older man came to stand at his side.
It was the first and last time they spoke. The priest had said everything that Thorne never wanted to hear. Things he knew already, but was unwilling to accept. Even as they spoke, the Forsaken armies were invading Gilneas and bringing about unprecedented destruction. No matter which side won, a union between a Worgen and a Forsaken was impossible and certain to bring about the end of one or the other. Thorne had to reluctantly admit that he would be putting Mercy in danger, that she would be chased away by his people, or worse. That were the Forsaken to win, he’d be lynched as soon as he came within sight of the Undercity.
That was how the agreement between father and would-be lover had come to pass: that Thorne would stay away, for the sake of all involved. He’d gone back to Gilneas, to fight for his homeland, to push their kind away. And they had retreated deeper into the lands of the living dead.
Now, however, things were different. She had been the one to come to him, he reminded the priest. Now, all past agreements were irrelevant. A new dawn had come.
Mercy saw her father slowly make his way back to her. She trembled as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“We all owe a death, love,” he told her quietly. “I just hope my debt won’t be collected before I get a chance to see you happy.” Platon’s bony finger caressed her cheek, and he nodded in encouragement. “I have done my part, love. Now it’s up to you.”
With the satisfaction of having accomplished what he’d set out to do, Mr. Hale sat back in his chair, powered off his computer and sent a quick message to Edith. “Let’s see what she has to say of my abilities now!” he mused.
~~~
Margaret Hale, already in a state of trepidation, felt the blurring of the line between fantasy and reality. She knew her father’s parting words were meant as much for her as they were in-character role-play. Her heartbeats grew more frantic as soon as the click of the voice connection reverberated in the silence of her office. She held her breath, and upon hearing Thorne for the first time her face broke out into a wide smile which matched the excitement she couldn’t suppress.
~~~
John Thornton had never known that his voice had a mind of its own. Upon first meeting Margaret, he’d been so taken with her elegance and refinement that it had quite knocked the breath out of him. He’d softened his voice and spoken in the cultured tones which always required a conscious effort on his part, but which at the time seemed to be best suited.
Now, however, he felt so close to her that he wanted her to know him, the real him, and to hear him speak without any artifice or what could be construed as an attempt at deceit. Consequently, his voice came out in his customary deep tones and with a thick Northern accent.
It sent shivers down Margaret’s spine.
Mercy rushed to him, arms outstretched, the sense of surprise evident in the roundness of her eyes. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, feeling ridiculous for having stated the obvious, only for a sense of apprehension to sneak its way into her heart. She looked down at the bouquet of roses he pressed into her hand, heard him murmur “for your mother” and realised with a panicked jolt that he knew, that he had always known.
She had had doubts, had dearly tried to look within herself for the resolution to let him go, even if it was akin to ripping her heart out of her chest. She’d steeled herself for their separation, made necessary by the circumstances of who and what they were. She’d awoken with the knowledge that loving her would mean his demise; that the only options available to them would be to be shunned by the Alliance - were they to try to live in Stormwind - or imprisoned, were they to go to the Undercity. Their suffering would be unequal, too. Mercy would be spared from any physical harm, but Thorne, a Worgen— His only payment for loving her would be in blood.
Yet every morning, after turning all of this over in her mind, she’d allowed herself one more day. And now, as it turned out, he knew her secret. The fact that he was still here meant he had most likely found a solution. Mercy trusted him implicitly, and as they looked into each other’s eyes, she could finally be at peace in the knowledge that all would be well.
She made to pull him to a chair and fairly jumped when she found sticky wetness on his hand. She looked down to see Thorne’s arm dripping a dark trail of blood. “You’re hurt!” she cried.
“It’s nothing,” he shrugged. “An arrow— I didn’t give a wide enough berth to the Sepulcher. The guards were not amused.”
Neither was she, as she forced him to sit and began her prayer of healing. “Nothing!” Mercy huffed.
“It doesn’t hurt,” was his cool reply.
“To hear you speak, you’d think you were alone in the world and could do as you pleased! If you’re hurt, I suffer as well!” yelled Mercy, shooting him a hard look. "And don’t think I will go around picking up whatever bits of yourself you've lost!"
She ripped the cloth covering the picnic basket and started wiping at his fur with a violence that contradicted her words, and Thorne allowed it, sitting back with a grin.
When it seemed to him that she had abused him enough, he circled her waist and pulled her on his lap. She landed with a thump and snaked her arms around his shoulders, pressing her face into his neck in one fluid motion.
They stayed like that long after her trembling had subsided, looking out at the light rippling across the water, each unwilling to break the spell.
“What are we going to do?” whispered Mercy after some time, lifting her face to look into his eyes.
“Gilneas,” was Thorne’s resolute reply. “Come with me, let me show you my home.”
She studied the face of this man that she loved beyond all reason and knew that she would follow him anywhere. It didn’t matter whether he’d meant to offer his city as a temporary destination or as a permanent place for them, away from capitals and factions and senseless wars.
At Mercy’s eager nod, he secured her more firmly in his arms and got up. They rode together in the wilderness, pressing close, keeping their voices low and hushed, even though there wasn’t a soul around to hear them.
Thorne steered their horses through the remnants of the battered gates lying either side of what had once been a monumental access road, through the piles of rubble and between the collapsed buildings that stood out as weeping wounds in the face of a once beautiful city.
Mercy felt a heaviness settle over her as she took in the destruction the Forsaken forces had wreaked on his home, the emptiness left behind by the people fleeing for their safety. It was eerily quiet, only the horses' hooves and her own thoughts pounding in her head. Her eyes fixed on a spot on Thorne’s broad back, wondering how long it would be before he determined he couldn’t stand having one of her kind at his table, in his bed.
She was wiping away stubborn tears when Thorne dismounted and came to help her down. He took one look at her face and pulled her into a hug, whispering endearments into her hair while Mercy sobbed, no longer able to keep closed the dam of her fears.
“Don’t be silly,” said Thorne in a kind voice, taking her hand and pulling her up the wide stairs of a surprisingly intact building. Mercy looked up at the tower, the stained-glass windows and the beautiful turrets, and concluded that it could only be Light's Dawn Cathedral.
She hesitated for only a moment, enough to make Thorne turn towards her.
“Will you—”
She didn’t let him finish. “Yes,” she whispered, nodding her head jerkily. “Yes,” she repeated more firmly, a wide smile lighting up her whole face.
Thorne’s face softened with a beautiful glow. His calloused thumb drew circles on the delicate hand held in his, and he lifted it to his mouth to press a feverish kiss there.
They went up the stairs and into the building, across the red carpet and didn’t stop until they were facing each other in front of the altar.
There were no witnesses to hear their words, and yet Mercy spoke them loud and clear.
“In Light, in Darkness and everything in between, we are one. I promise to keep your counsel, and share in your joys and sorrows, now and forever. I pledge to you my everlasting love.”
Thorne’s hands shook lightly as they gripped hers, and he repeated her words, looking deep into Mercy’s eyes and emboldened by the happiness that seemed to radiate in a halo around her. And she was happy, deliriously so. When Thorne leaned down, she couldn’t help the word that escaped her lips.
“Husband,” she breathed with twinkling eyes, relishing the feel of that word on her tongue.
“Wife,” replied Thorne with a wide smile. And then he kissed her. At the feel of his lips on hers, she leaned into him with practised ease, pressing herself close. The lights and colours were dancing wildly all around her, until all she could see and feel was him.
Thorne picked her up into his arms and she didn’t once think that she had no idea where they were going. All that came into her mind was whether he intended to carry her all the way to wherever that was.
“Of course, wife,” came the serious reply. “It is customary for brides to be carried across the threshold.”
Mercy giggled then and settled more comfortably into his arms, sinking her fingers into his fur.
They had a view of the Cathedral from their little house, and a charming breakfast nook whose windows glowed bright orange. There was a cheerful fire lit, but she barely registered anything else around her, because their kisses turned more desperate, until making it up the short flight of stairs with their clothes intact necessitated a conscious effort. It wasn’t until morning that she noticed the colourful flowers on the carpet and the wall hangings, or the rocking chair placed in front of her weaving loom.
All in all, married life was treating her well, Mercy thought as she stretched and purred like a cat in the cosy alcove that held their bed.
~~~
“Milton train about to depart! Milton train about to depart!”
The announcement only made Margaret more frantic, which in turn made her trip over her own feet. Even though she was but a few paces away from the train door, the stress of reaching it in time led, if anything, to it taking longer.
She landed in her seat under a pile of bags of varying sizes and degrees of hardness, smothered by a scarf her father had insisted she take to fight the northern chills, her laptop poking her ribs.
After catching her breath, she systematically put away all her items in the overhead space, keeping only her laptop which she placed on the small table in front of her. Having no companions in the seats around her had the unpleasant effect of giving her time to think.
Margaret Hale was a rational person. She’d worked in a museum, identifying and cataloguing priceless exhibits - which in itself required an ordered, if not scientific mind. She was working on her doctorate investigating how the industrial revolution had influenced Victorian fashion trends. She was even now on her way to her new job - as the coordinator of an exhibition on the fashions of the working class in that era.
All in all, she was a reasonably sane, reasonably functioning adult. And yet, at this very moment she felt like a newly-married woman. Which was madness. Because she wasn’t. Definitely not, she murmured under her breath. And yet… Thoughts and feelings are not facts, she told herself, believing them won’t make them real.
At that last pronouncement, Margaret gave herself a smug nod, only for her face to fall a moment later. But it is real, he is real. She shuddered, recollected herself and looked hopefully to a lady who appeared to contemplate occupying the seat next to hers. Finally, a distraction. The woman eyed her dubiously and hurried away. Maybe she had been talking to herself. Had she been talking to herself? In public? Oh! Margaret buried her face in her hands and sighed.
It took only another moment for the war between feeling and reality to be won by the former. After all, why should she choose to make herself feel miserable? She had met the most wonderful man. They had fallen in love. And they had recently married. She chose to be happy, and ignore all the scenarios in which society would deride her for it. After all, it wasn’t hurting anyone.
That settled, she spent some time studying extant Victorian wedding dresses, and only picturing herself in some, not all of them, before she turned to the folder she had requested on the Weavers and Spinners exhibition.
Her contact, Nicholas Higgins, had done a very poor job indeed taking the photographs she had asked. Half of them were either out of focus or missed their subject entirely. The other half showed garments in varying stages of deterioration, which appeared to be spread quite carelessly over a table. She sighed, remembering what an effort it had been to receive even this much.
Margaret zoomed in on the problem areas, studying the wear of the material and taking notes on what interventions would be necessary for conservation. She had one bag filled with tissue paper, had stocked up on curved needles and original threads, but it became apparent while studying the images that more supplies would be needed. Not all of these textiles were fit to be exhibited as of yet.
Since she had only received the photos that morning, she’d been unable to procure the necessary materials. She hadn’t yet finished her list of possible backing fabrics, when her phone pinged with a text message.
She unlocked it, read it and frowned. Edith was asking, “Is it all sorted, then? I'm proud of you, uncle! ☺️”
“Um… what? Is what sorted?”
She could see Edith was typing and then… not. Then typing again, seeming to delete whatever she’d written, until Margaret couldn’t take it anymore and called her.
"Hi!" squeaked Edith, in a tone of such forced cheerfulness that it immediately made Margaret suspicious.
"Edith," she said with the authority of one who could always extract whatever secret her cousin was nursing, "is what sorted? And why are you calling me 'uncle'?"
"Oh, so silly of me! I meant to write uncle Richard."
"Yes, yes, I figured as much! But why?"
"Margaret, I- I have to go," stuttered Edith. "Maxwell– Maxwell!"
Margaret could hear a slap connecting with an innocent shoulder apparently attached to a sleeping Maxwell, because he jumped and cried in a voice Margaret knew all too well: a combination between shocked and tortured.
"What?! What-"
Edith forced out a hysterical laugh, "Oh, Maxwell! I am sorry, Margaret dear, Maxwell needs me." She could hear the husband thus offered as pretext mumbling in the background. And then silence, as Edith hung up without warning.
Margaret was left to stare at the phone, trying and failing to make any sense of that conversation, brief as it was. She tried calling again, only to find that her cousin had powered off her device. She decided she would have to ask her father about this strange exchange, and went back to her folder, intending to get some more work done, when the voice announced that they would soon be arriving in Milton station.
Margaret gathered all her belongings and stepped down on the platform. She was almost immediately approached by a fair-haired young man who introduced himself as Tommy Boucher and said that Higgins had sent him to fetch her.
“Won’t take long, miss. We’ll be at the mill in no time," he assured her.
She liked that fact about this museum, that it was in an original Victorian mill. It lent more credence to the whole thing.
~~~
John Thornton’s morning had been trying. Trying to drive him mad, that is. In normal circumstances, when a man married, he got at least a few days off work. He could take his bride on a nice, cosy trip somewhere, enjoy her and their love and the quiet. Maybe even fish or sleep past dawn.
Alas, that was a luxury he could not afford. The mill hands were all scheduled to come in for a dress rehearsal and a trial run operating the machinery. The health and safety inspector was there as well, because trouble loves company.
They were in the middle of arguing whether it was safe for Mary Higgins to be a piecer or any kind of employee of the mill, seeing that she was hearing impaired. The girl in question was next to him, head swivelling from one to the other. She was trying to follow the flow of their exchange, and had placed her hand on his chest, to better feel the rumble of his words and the texture of the conversation.
It was in this position that he found himself upon first seeing her again. For after a miserable start of the day, the door opened and in came Margaret to set his world to rights again.
~~~
Margaret took in the expanse of the mill, head buzzing with plans and excitement. As she stepped up the short flight of stairs and through the door towards the offices, she was still musing over her exhibits and where she would place them, were that decision to be left to her. She couldn't stop thinking about a light blue dress that had seemed to require most attention. It had a nice bit of lace at the collar, of that old English point which had probably not been made for seventy years at the time of applying it on a work-dress, and which could not be bought. It was a surprising embellishment to find on the garment of a working class woman. She wondered at the history behind it.
She looked up upon hearing a door slamming in the distance, and a booming voice she recognised from their telephone conversations. “What’s all this about my Mary?” it said in a belligerent tone.
A man who could only be Nicholas Higgins was advancing at top speed, towards— Towards her exhibit! Margaret's mouth gaped open in shock. The light blue dress with the bit of lace— it— it had a whole person stuffed inside of it! The sacrilege! What sort of museum was this?! Margaret’s eyes shifted from her exhibit, which moved together with the person currently occupying it, to the girl’s hand so gingerly placed on the broad expanse of a chest. Her horrified eyes took in the tenderness of the scene, as that desecrator of extant garments lifted clear, round eyes to— to him! She felt her knees give out, watching John - her John - with that woman.
He stood tall and serious, and with an expression that gave nothing away.
Margaret was inundated with a feeling of humiliation as she had never felt. She fought a fierce battle within herself to not increase her mortification by betraying any outward signs of suffering. If he could be nonchalant, so could she. She channelled all her willpower, took a deep breath and advanced.
John Thornton was shocked into stillness by the look of hardness on Margaret’s face. She had been there only a minute, and yet it had been sufficient time for her to go from a contemplative, dreamy expression to one of disgust. His heart sank when he realised the shift had happened when she’d clapped eyes on him. He replayed the events of the previous day in his mind and came up short as to what could have happened. They had been happy, he was certain of it, and as in love as two people could ever be. A thought crossed his mind with lightning speed. Even though he had known her and Mercy to be the same person, maybe she hadn’t figured that out about him. He frowned, replaying their conversations and reaching the conclusion that his own changing accent probably hadn’t helped. She may have loved Thorne, but for some reason seemed to loathe him. Not only that, but she was likely to consider them as separate entities. His tongue, not usually given to eloquence, currently felt tied up in knots.
She shot daggers at him, stepping towards their little group like a warrior preparing to enter into battle.
The realisation hit him all too late, in the form of Mary Higgins laying her hand more firmly on his chest. He tried to pry her digits away, but since the girl seemed frightened out of her wits at the sight of the woman with the wild eyes advancing towards them, he only managed to make it appear as if they were holding hands.
It did not help his case.
Nicholas Higgins stepped in front of his daughter, no doubt sensing danger. "Miss Hale! We are happy to welcome you here! This is the master, John Thornton. "
She turned murderous eyes to him then, and asked with deceiving sweetness in her voice, "so, are you my employer?"
John Thornton could sense a storm was coming. He squared his shoulders, locked his jaw and nodded.
Margaret took one step closer, nose almost pressing into his chest.
"I quit!"