(A/N: A coda, of sorts.)

For as long as she can remember, Sister Julienne has lived on the edges of things. From a childhood spent in far-flung reaches of the Empire to overseeing Nonnatus House, she has always been a little bit apart from the world. Though one need only to look at Nonnatus House to realize that it is possible to be both apart from and at the very center of a community.

Some nights, when the burdens of her office leave her sleepless, she stops a moment in the hallway on her way to the chapel and listens. If it is late, the only sounds are the snores of Sister Evangelina and Barbara, the protests of their overworked boiler and, perhaps, the ring of the telephone, quickly answered. "Nonnatus House, midwife speaking." No night watchman calling out "all's well" on the hour could have soothed her quite so effectively.

If the night is still young, there is the chatter of the nurses and the blare of their record player. She can never make out their words through the door, nor would she wish to, but she recognizes Barbara's long expositions, Trixie's bright interjections and the quieter comments from Patsy. On occasion their voices are joined by Nurse Crane's unmistakable timbre.

On some nights, nights that Sister Julienne dreads, there is only the sweet smell of Horlicks and a tense and pressing silence. On those nights, she pauses longer before the closed door and spends a moment in deep and urgent prayer before seeking comfort for herself in the chapel or in the fleeting respite of sleep.

That the nurses regularly and flagrantly disregard the Great Silence is no secret, nor is Sister Julienne unaware of the fact that they regularly smoke and drink in their rooms. The walls are not as thick as the nurses seem to believe and certain scents do linger. The Sisters often exchange amused glances as they pass to and from the washroom and hear the girls' laughter through the solid oak door. Sister Winifred has been known to perk up over the washbasin when someone puts on a record she likes and Sister Evangelina once even did what looked suspiciously like a salsa step in her bathrobe. On the other hand, Nurse Crane's period of Spanish ballads is a trial to them all and tonight there are long-suffering looks in the corridor when someone, probably Trixie, plays "Please Don't Tease" for the fifth night straight.

"If that girl isn't called out tomorrow night, I may be forced to 'give it to her straight'", mutters Sister Evangelina darkly.

Sister Winifred, who rather likes Cliff Richard, makes to answer but is silenced when Sister Evangelina glances pointedly at her watch to indicate that the Great Silence has begun.

Sister Monica Joan, whose internal clock has purportedly been in misalignment with British Standard Time ever since they set the clocks forward before Easter and whose observance of the Great Silence had been inexact even before that calamity befell her, takes no notice and beams, "The setting sun, and music at the close, as last the taste of sweets, is sweetest last, writ in remembrance more than things long past."

Sister Evangelina's look is decidedly un-Christian.

"He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?"

Sister Julienne feels momentarily like Sister Monica Joan and is quite glad there is no one in eye or earshot to witness her reciting scripture to an empty hallway.

It has been a particularly long and trying morning and a glance at the pile of invoices on her desk convinces her that a cup of tea would be a justified indulgence. She is on the way to the kitchen, when Trixie's raised voice gives her pause.

"I don't see why Delia and Patsy have Friday afternoon off again. They had last Friday off as well and it's simply –"

"Simply," Nurse Crane's voice interrupts, "the way the schedule works out. It so happens that Nurse Mount has this Friday off. As to Nurse Busby, I assure you, Nurse Franklin, that I have no influence over the rota for Male Surgical."

In the hallway, Sister Julienne frowns. Nurse Crane has had a long and storied career – Sister Julienne should know, she checked the recommendations – and it is not inconceivable that she could, in fact, exercise some influence over decisions regarding the London's personnel, if she wanted to.

As Trixie leaves the kitchen looking distinctly unsatisfied, Sister Julienne enters. Settling the kettle on the hob, she remarks, "Do you know, the rota at the London and that of Nonnatus House must share a similar interval, as Nurses Busby and Mount have the same evenings off more often than not. Quite the coincidence."

Nurse Crane sips her tea, not quite hiding a smug smile. "Isn't it just?"

A week later, long after the beginning of the Silence and somewhat after midnight, Sister Julienne is in her office catching up on reports when she hears footsteps in the corridor. The steps pause outside her door and she hears Nurse Crane's distinctive harrumph of disapproval.

Sister Julienne waits for a knock, but it doesn't come. After a moment Nurse Crane's footsteps continue briskly towards the kitchen. But somehow the schedule works out such that Sister Julienne is last on the duty roster for the rest of the week.

The sharp rap at her office door does not come as a surprise. Over the months they've fallen into a bit of a routine and barring births, fires or stolen hubcaps, Nurse Crane is almost ostentatiously punctual. Knowing she is expected, she enters before Sister Julienne has said "come."

"I've brought you my petrol receipts and an account of my mileage for the week," Nurse Crane says unnecessarily, for this has become their Friday ritual.

Sister Julienne smiles and carefully caps her pen, raising her eyebrows when she sees the woman brings more than expenses.

"I have also," continues Nurse Crane, "brought cake, because I notice you were kept from your tea. Again." The tone is highly disapproving. "It is a Battenberg," she explains as she sets the cake and papers on the desk. "I had hoped to find a bit of the Victoria Sandwich, but Mrs B used Mrs Buckle's jam –" here she looks meaningfully at Sister Julienne, " – so you may draw your own conclusions as to its fate."

"Thank you, Nurse Crane," she says gracefully, choosing not to engage in yet another fruitless discussion of Sister Monica Joan's less endearing eccentricities, "that was very thoughtful of you."

"I thought," Nurse Crane fixes her with a hard stare, "I had told you to call me Phyllis."

"So you did," the nun sighs apologetically. "It seems old habits die hard, I'm afraid."

This is apparently accepted, because Nurse Crane – Phyllis – nods curtly and turns to go.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Sister Julienne calls after her, "how Nurse Busby is settling in."

"Quite well, Sister," Phyllis turns back towards her. "Quite well. I think I speak for all of us, when I say she is a most pleasant housemate."

Sister Julienne wonders if this means Phyllis' concerns about the somewhat irregular situation have been allayed. Trying a different tack, she comments off-handedly, "Nurse Mount is looking particularly well of late."

"She is indeed, Sister," says Phyllis evenly. Sister Julienne sees her smile slightly as she turns, finally, to leave.

That night, as Sister Julienne pads not to the chapel, but to her office and her bookkeeping, a new voice joins the muffled conversation. The nun smiles to herself at the distinct Welsh lilt and lingers a moment to hear, with no small satisfaction, the bright peal of Patsy's sudden laughter.