“Pirates is more fun.”
Arthur smiled. “You don’t have your sword, duck.”
Sasha plopped down on the carpet, though the room boasted several cushy armchairs and a davenport to boot. “All right.”
She quickly became more enthusiastic about the game, especially since she kept beating him. As with so many other things, Arthur was terrible at war. If the game had been called “romance,” he might’ve been better at it. Then again, maybe not. He was good at reading romance, but when it came to real life, on the rare occasion potential romance presented itself, he mucked it up as he had with Mary Tierney.
Mucked it upwas an understatement in this case. He’d thrown it away with both hands. He still wasn’t entirely sure why, except that, while he’d grown fond of Mary, he hadn’t been in love with her.
Partway through their third game, Agnes slipped into the room. She perched on the edge of the davenport, in her habitualspot but not her habitual pose. Usually, she sank into the cushions. She’d always been warm and easy. Even the death of her husband of fifty years hadn’t ruffled her. Now, however, she looked shrunken, hands fidgeting in her lap.
Arthur got up from the floor with difficulty, putting a hand to his lower back as it spasmed in protest. That had been a fortieth birthday present from his body, the muscle spasm in his back. Usually, it hit at odd moments, but he had to admit that, in this case, sitting on the floor had been fair provocation.
“Hey,” Sasha said. “We’re not done yet. It’s no fair to stop because you’re losing.”
His smile was more of a grimace this time. He rubbed his back. “We’ll finish up, duck, I promise. Let me speak to Mrs. Livingston first.”
Sighing dramatically, Sasha flopped back to gaze at the intricately painted (albeit flaking) ceiling. Arthur’s grimace turned into a real smile as his pain faded. He used to come in from his work to find Agnes and Charlotte lying on the floor that way, head to head, their hands behind their heads as they pointed out fanciful shapes in the painted clouds to each other.
He wondered, briefly, whether Charlotte could be induced to do such a thing now with an aid in place, or some good pillows. These days, with her fatigue and aches, lying on the floor would be terrible, and getting up would be worse.
Arthur sank into the nearest armchair and reached for Agnes’s hand. She chewed her lower lip. Usually, she stopped after a few seconds, laughed, and said perhaps she’d break the habit in another fifty years or so. Today, she merely went on mangling her lip.
“Mrs. Livingston,” Arthur said, “you wanted to discuss something with me?”
“Yes,” she said faintly, then more firmly: “Yes.” Her posture relaxed; she stopped chewing her lip. “It’s about a clock.”
“What else?” Arthur said with a smile, but Agnes shook her head.
“Not one of my clocks, dear boy—not yet, at any rate. The last time Gracie and I were in Port Lorne, we saw this grandfather clock in an antique shop. The shopkeeper claimed it was over a hundred and fifty years old, but by God it was the ugliest clock I’d ever seen. All square edges, hardly any ornamentation... Gracie went to look at it every day, God knows why. It was absolutely hideous. I didn’t buy it, of course.”
“Of course,” Arthur said in confusion.
Agnes drummed her fingers on her knee. “I want to buy it now.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“I want you to buy it for me. As my agent.”
Arthur opened his mouth but closed it without saying anything.
“I can’t leave Gracie,” Agnes said, “not while she’s like this. I simply must be with her. But I want that clock for her. If I had known when we were there that she’d— I’ve wired the seller, of course, to make sure it’s available—someone else had their eye on it, but I convinced him I could pay more. It’s dreadfully ironic. That clock will likely end up the most expensive piece in my collection once I have it—imagine! The ugliest clock you’ve ever seen, but—”
Arthur’s tongue unstuck itself. “Mrs. Livingston... why do you want me to buy this clock for you?”
“It’s for Gracie,” she said wildly. Sasha glanced up from the floor, frowning, but resumed her painted-cloud gazing without interrupting. “I need to buy it. For Gracie. Don’t you understand, dear boy? For all my riches, I can’t do a thing for her. There’s no cure in the world money can buy. I can’t even give her relief without going to your sister or some doctor for help—but I can do this. I can buy a hideous old clock for her.”
She sat gulping down air for several moments, eyes damp. Arthur fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She clenched it in her fist without using it, but when she spoke she sounded calm again.
“I would like you,” she said, “to travel to Port Lorne on my behalf,” and Arthur’s heart leaped. “I’ll provide you with a horse and cart. You’ll have to go the direct route, through the wood, I mean—going around would take far too long. By the time you returned she might be— I’ll provide money for any expenses you might incur, of course. You know clocks better than anyone in the village, certainly, and frankly better than half the so-called experts I’ve met in my travels. I want you to see the clock before I buy it. Make sure it’s in working order and hasn’t suffered any damage. If he tries to talk you up on price—well, let him, I suppose. I must have it as soon as possible, and the money is no matter...”
Arthur’s hand clenched on the arm of his chair. Money was no matter to Agnes because she’d always had a great deal of it.
“I’ll pay you handsomely,” she concluded. “Half when you leave, plus expenses, and half when you return.”
When she told him the sum, he rocketed out of his chair. Sasha popped up from the floor.
“Uncle Arthur?”
