Charlotte pressed her hands to her face. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Jonas settled in their uncle’s armchair, which had become their habitual seat in the last two days. Seeing them there hurt, made Charlotte sharply aware of how much they missed Arthur, though they hadn’t said as much.
“I don’t mind.”
“That’s not the point.” Charlotte took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m your mother. You and your sister aren’t supposed to take care of me. I’m supposed to take care of you.”
“You do take care of us.”
Not like she used to, she thought. Not like she ought to.
The radio played a jingle. Jonas picked at the faded floral upholstery.
“Do you think Uncle Arthur’s okay?”
Had the situation been reversed, Arthur would’ve instantlyassured Jonas their mother was fine and would be home before they knew it. He might’ve even believed it, or told himself he did.
Charlotte was too pragmatic for such optimism. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
Jonas hugged a throw pillow.
“If he doesn’t come back,” they said softly, and Charlotte’s fingers tightened on the arms of her chair, “can we talk about him?”
She looked at them in surprise. “Of course, my love. What do you mean?”
They fidgeted. “It’s just, you never talk about Papa. Or Granddad. Or Nan. Uncle Arthur says it makes you sad to talk about them.”
Her throat tightened. Damn Arthur. Damn him. She’d never said as much. Why did he have to know her so well, when she worked so hard not to let anyone know her? When she tried not to let anyone see the cracks in her armor?
She swallowed hard. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
Her radio program came on; they listened to it together. Jonas held the throw pillow against themself like a shield, fingers tightening whenever anything scary happened. Charlotte was too distracted to enjoy the thrill of fear the program normally gave her. She tuned in and out, kept thinking of Cormac. She’d been so hopeful, when he’d unexpectedly asked after Arthur, that she’d found someone who would help—but he’d refused, same as everyone else. He’d been more concerned with what people might think than a man’s life.
Partway through the program, Sasha emerged from the bedroom with swollen eyes. Charlotte stood so quickly her head swam. Recovering, she asked, “Are you hungry, dearest?”
Sasha nodded. She said nothing through supper, nothing in the sitting room afterward, nothing when Charlotte told the children to go to bed.
The latter put Charlotte on her guard. Sasha always objected to bedtime. Charlotte settled back in her armchair, listening.
She sat for so long with no sound but the fire crackling in the grate that she almost gave up. God, she was tired. The chair was so comfortable. Perhaps she’d been wrong—misinterpreted Sasha’s uncustomary silence—perhaps she could close her eyes like she so desperately wanted to and comfort her daughter in the morning.
Then a door creaked open. The floorboards in the hall groaned.
Charlotte waited to get up until a second door creaked. The workshop door, opening and shutting. She hurried toward it.
Sasha was closing the garden gate when her mother made it outside. The gate squeaked. Sasha flinched, paused, and closed it carefully the rest of the way. Over her shoulder was a pillowcase, tied off and bulging, and her rag doll was under her arm. She wore her coat and boots and a look of determination that made Charlotte want to cry, or hug her, or both.
“Sasha.”
Sasha flinched but turned around.
“I’m going to find Uncle Arthur,” she said mulishly, “since no one else will.”
Charlotte rubbed her forehead with her knuckles. “Come inside, love.”
“I’m going to find Uncle Arthur.”
“I heard you.” Charlotte nodded at the pillowcase. “What are you taking?”
