“I’m just—”
“If you’re going to be a member of this family, you’ll do everything that requires. Getting into Oxford was a good start. Animos is even better. But we have a reputation. We have a duty to this house and our name, do you understand?”
“He’s my Mud Duck. I have to cultivate him.”
“Samantha. I don’t care what you do in private. But Animos is meant to be secretive. So, keep your secrets. And maintain our family’s dignity as much as you can.”
As much as you can. With those words, he’d said everything she knew he wanted to say.Your presence here is a stain on this house as it is. Your connection to this family has shamed us enough as it is. You’re living proof of my failure. Don’t make matters worse.
“Yes, sir,” she said, a small miracle, considering her throat was so tight she could barely breathe.
“And Reginald’s a good boy. He’s from good stock. Maybe we could invite his family for a dinner or something.”
“Yes, sir.”
An image formed in her head, an image of everything she thought she wanted. Sitting beside her father at a long, overflowing dinner table, surrounded by his peers, hearing him claim her as his own. But when she focused on that dream for too long, she realized it wasn’t Captain sitting on the other side of her. It was Daniel.
Taking a long sip from his teacup, he nodded at her. “Howhasyour initiation been going? All well, I trust?”
“Yes, sir. It’s tough, but I’ll make it through.”
“Yes, I believe you will. I look forward to seeing you in Animos blues, Samantha. Joining the family tradition. Good on you.”
Sam’s heart lifted. It was, in all of her life, the nicest thing he’d ever said to her. And it was all because of Animos.
It was working.
“Thank you.”
“Keep up the good work.”
…
Sunday night came with no word from Sam, not even to reply to the oh-so-funny cat gifs Daniel sent her as a means of distracting himself from the terror that tonight held. Now, with his performance so close at hand, he stood in the densely packed Crowdwell’s Bookshop, scanning the room for any sign of her. These open mic nights were usually his favorite way to unwind after a long week. His day job might have been fixing up nice cars for an old geezer and restocking bookshelves; the menial, manual labor of his days only made his Sunday evenings sweeter. He usually would have been hunched over a table and a pint by now, sandwiched by Angie and some of their musician pals, talking shop about guitars and demos and Prince. Instead, Daniel stationed himself by the door, waiting for her.
“Big night tonight, Danny Boy.” Angie hopped next to him, offering him a longneck of cider. When he refused it, swatting the sweating bottle away like trash, she shrugged and brought the drink to her lips as if to saymore for me.
“You know, I think I’m not feeling really well.”
“Oh, no. You’re not pulling the sick card on me. Alanis came all the way from London to see you and you’re going to perform. I’ve told her all about the new song and she’s keen.”
That was a small relief, at least. After leaving Sam at her house after the Blitz Ball, he’d had to pull off on a side road and scribble down chords and lyrics. The music flowed through him, a rich, unstoppable river of sound and poetry. It was a song about her. About them. About all the things she said she didn’t believe in. The kind of song that could maybe, just maybe, melt her heart.
“I was hoping Sam would be here,” he said.
Angie folded her arms.
“You don’t need her to sing. You’ve never needed her before.”
“But I neverhadher before,” he countered. “How could I know I needed her if I didn’t knowher?”
Angie clearly wasn’t interested in arguing with him.
“Just close your eyes and pretend you’re singing to her, then. Anything to impress our friend at table number three.”
Daniel scouted the crowd again. He counted the regulars, all strung up with their cases and kits.Natasha. Sophie. Steve. Matt. Joe.Even his parents came. They always showed up for these things. At table three, a short, suited woman with a purple-and-black bob took notes on a small pad resting upon the table. Alanis.
He had to do this. He had to sing, no matter how sick he got thinking of the empty chair he’d saved for Sam at the front and center table.
