The latter. Because you love it. Because you used to hum it.
He forced calm into his voice. “Either is acceptable.”
She wrote it down without looking at him.
“As for the christening gown, I offered the family heirloom. The silk one with the Honiton lace.” A brief pause. “Amelia wondered if Pip should wear the newer one instead—the one with the ribbons.”
Edward felt something absurd flare inside him—irritation, grief, affection, all knotted into one.
Ribbons?Blue or red or white or God knows what—what did it matter? Please, let her choose anything she likes.
But he kept all of that to himself.
“It makes no difference,” he said, his voice level. “Whichever she prefers.”
Beatrice’s quill hovered mid-air. “Then we’ll use the newer gown. The lace is delicate, and Pip likes to kick.” Her mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile, but she smothered it quickly. “Practicality is best.”
He wanted to laugh, or shout, or thump his forehead against the wall. Instead, he sighed. “Indeed.”
She continued, efficient and careful, as though discussing the inventory of a storeroom. “Amelia also asked about the ribbons for the gown. She wondered if blue would be suitable. In honor of Simon’s mother.”
Edward felt his lungs deflate. Blue ribbons. Why did that undo him?
His jaw tightened. “If Amelia wishes it, choose blue.”
What do my preferences matter? Why should I care about ribbons when I’m trying not to fall apart in front of you?
Beatrice wrote it down without comment.
“And the procession?” she asked lightly. “Amelia thought both godparents should carry Pip into the chapel.” A pause, small but sharp. “She thought it would be meaningful.”
It lodged in his ribs. The words were simple. The implication wasn’t.
He kept his arms crossed and his back rigid, banishing every trace of softness. “I have no objection,” he replied flatly.
Her quill didn’t move.
“And you?” she probed softly. “Do you find it agreeable?”
He hated how careful she was being with him.
“Yes,” he said. “It will do.”
“Right.” Her quill scratched lightly. “Then the placement during the blessing—usually, the godfather stands on the right.”
“As I’m supposed to.”
“And I’ll stand to the left.”
“As you’re supposed to.”
Their exchange felt like the echo of something they had once done with warmth. Now hollowed out, a shape without substance.
Beatrice closed her notebook gently, as though noise might break whatever composure they had left. “Everything is settled, then.”
“Good,” he said stiffly. “It seems we’ve managed it.”
Managed. As if they were strangers executing a task.
