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Alcott adds, “And because Lazarus found it oppressive.”

“I did,” I say.

Olive looks at me, “the table was oppressive?”

“Emotionally.”

Her mouth twitches. “You are absurd.”

“Devotedly.”

She crosses the room then, not to the food or the flowers or the wine. To us. First Edward. She takes his face in both hands and kisses him softly. His entire body leans toward her as though gravity has finally explained itself. Then Alcott, she softly brushes the soot from his cheek with her thumb. “You look guilty.”

“I am guilty of several things. You will need to be more specific love."

She kisses him, and his eyes close, absorbing her essence. Then she turns to me. She stops before me, gaze narrowing. “Why do you smell faintly of sausage?”

Edward turns away as Alcott fake coughs.

I lift my chin. “A vulture-based incident.”

Olive admires me, then bursts into laughter and peppers kisses across my cheeks. The sound fills the room more beautifully than any music I could have chosen. I grin wildly as her laughter softens.

She looks at all three of us and whispers, “I love you impossible men.”

Edward’s face breaks as Alcott’s smile turns tender.

I take her hand and kiss her knuckles. “We love you too, impossible woman.”

I help Olive to her seat on the floor as she peers around the room once more. She raises her dainty hand to her mouth and grins, “To the severed head that started a love story.”

Edward chokes and I stare at her, delighted beyond measure.

“Darling,” I say, “that may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said.”

She smiles over the rim of her glass. “I learned from the best.”

49. Bitter Tea – Alcott

If I'm There

Arthur Patrick Afton arrives in Lockham with one trunk, two travel cases, a bruised heart, and a young woman who looks as though she has learned to expect cruelty from every doorway. I know this immediately. Not because she trembles. She does not. Not because she weeps. She does not do that either. No, I know because she watches everything. The street. The windows. The hands of the men unloading the carriage. The alley behind my workshop. The distance between herself and Arthur. The distance between herself and escape. Survivors measure rooms before they enter them. I have done it. Edward has done it. Olive still does it, though now she pretends she is admiring the curtains. The girl at Arthur’s side is introduced to me as Astrid. Then, with a small correction from Arthur and a glance toward her, as Baba.

“Baba,” he says, as though the name is not merely a name but a vow he has made to pronounce correctly for the rest of his life.

She looks at him when he says it. Not long, only just a flicker, but it softens something sharp around her mouth. Interesting. Arthur Patrick Afton is young. Terribly young. All knees, nerves, solemn eyes, and shoulders trying to look broader than grief has allowed them to become. He carries himself like a boy attempting to become a man quickly enough to build shelter for someone else. I can recognize that too. Edward did the same thing once and he still does, if I am being honest.

Arthur removes his hat as he steps into the workshop. “Uncle Alcott.”

I stare at him. “Do not call me that.”

His face falls. Ah. Too harsh. I sigh. “Not because I object to you. Because it makes me sound ancient and inclined toward gout.”

Arthur blinks. Baba’s mouth twitches, a small victory. A microscopic one, but I have learned to respect small rebellions.

“Alcott, then,” Arthur says carefully.

“Better.”