She was not going to cry in front of Isadora. She was not going to cry in front of anyone.
“He was perfectly civil,” she said. “He was—he apologized. He called what happened in the… what happened between us a mistake, and he said it was time to return to the original terms.” She looked at her hands. “And he called me a responsibility.”
The silence that followed was very heavy.
“He said that?” Isadora asked.
“In those words.”
Another silence ensued.
“Right,” Isadora uttered.
“I want you to know that this house has been–” Cecily broke off. The word that stuck in her throat washome. “That you and Letitia have been–”
Isadora stood up. She set her book on the chair with quiet decisiveness, crossed to Cecily, and pulled her to her feet by both hands.
“Look at me,” she said, squeezing her hands.
Cecily looked at her.
“You are going to go to Beatrice’s, and you are going to let her fuss over you, and you are going to eat the biscuits she puts infront of you even if you don’t want them, and you are not going to spend the next fortnight being sensible about this. Do you understand me?”
Something cracked slightly behind Cecily’s sternum. “Isadora–”
“He is my brother,” Isadora interrupted, “and I love him, but he is currently being the most extraordinary fool I have ever had the displeasure of sharing a bloodline with.” Her dark eyes were steady and entirely serious. “That is not a reflection of anything about you. I wish you to know that.”
“I know,” Cecily said, and found that she mostly did.
“Do you?”
A beat. “I’m working on it.”
Isadora squeezed her hands again and then let go. “Good. That’s good.” She looked towards the door. “Now, let us go to your room. What needs packing?”
They went up to Cecily’s rooms, and Cecily showed her the trunk from the dressing room, the books stacked by the bed, and the violet notebook in the top drawer. Isadora moved through it with the quiet, efficient competence she brought to everything that needed doing, directing Ellen with the trunk and folding things that Cecily would have simply placed.
She moved to the bookshelf. “Are these all yours?”
“The top two shelves. The bottom is Letitia’s—she leaves them everywhere. You’ll recognize them by the bent spines.”
Isadora looked at her. Her dark, kind eyes filled with tears. “He is–” she began, and then stopped herself.
That told Cecily everything—that she had seen it, had been watching it, had known what was happening in this house.
“He is not always–” Another pause.
“I know,” Cecily said gently. “I know.”
They continued to pack.
Letitia appeared in the doorway at some point. She looked at the trunk. At Cecily. At Isadora. Then back at Cecily with the bright, perceptive eyes that saw everything.
“Are you coming back?” she asked.
Cecily looked at her. “I don’t know.”
She couldn’t lie.
