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“I will say it in ten years.”

“What if I do not know you in ten years?”

His throat works. “Then I will introduce myself.”

The answer is too simple. Too cruel. Too loving. I cover my face and sob.

Lazarus remains at my feet, not explaining too much or pretending this is less terrifying than it is. Just there.

A sound comes from the hall, fast, heavy footsteps. Then Edward appears in the doorway, robe thrown over his nightshirt, white-blond hair loose around his face, older and still beautiful in the exhausted, haunted way that has always belonged to him.

“What happened?” His eyes take in everything.

Lazarus is sitting on the floor, the letter opener on the rug, then fear hits his face before he can hide it. Behind him, Alcott arrives with a lamp in hand, silver hair tied back, sharp eyes already searching for injury, threat, explanation. Darkness is there too, I know by the way his gaze narrows at the letter opener and then softens when it returns to me.

Edward steps into the room, then stops. Even after thirty years. Even half-asleep. He stops. “Olive?”

I cannot answer, shame crawls up my throat.

“I did not know him,” I whisper.

Edward’s face breaks. Lazarus looks down, as Alcott closes his eyes and the room floods with everything no one wants to say. The partial lobotomy. The scar. The damage that waited decades before asking for payment. The Collector, dead thirty years and still finding ways to touch our lives with his rotten hand. I press my fingers to the inner corner of my eye and the old scar aches tonight or possibly I imagine it.

“I thought he was a stranger.” I state in defeat.

Edward crosses the room slowly. “May I sit beside you?”

I nod. He sits on the edge of the chair beside mine, close but not crowding. His hand rests near my knee while Alcott moves to the table and sets the lamp down, then lowers himself with some irritation into the chair across from us.

“I hate aging,” Alcott mutters, then Lazarus lets out a wet laugh as he throws a pillow towards him.

Edward looks at him with a narrowed stare, Alcott shrugs. “Someone had to say something normal.”

That does it. A tiny laugh slips through my tears. All three men freeze, then, remembering how much I hate that, they pretend not to.

Alcott looks toward the fire. “The logs are dramatic tonight.”

Lazarus wipes his eyes. “Everything in this house is dramatic.”

“Because it is your house,” Edward says.

“Yes, and it has spent three decades trying to live up to me and it is our house you devilish cunt.” Laz replies.

I laugh again. It hurts and it helps all at once. Edward’s hand turns palm up near my knee and I take it, then I reach for Lazarus, he leans forward immediately, giving me his hand too. Alcott refuses to be left out so he steps beside us, sitting in Laz's lap, grasping his and his brother's hand.

Three anchors. My monsters, older now. Lines on their faces, with silver in their hair. Bodies that ache when they kneel too long but hearts that stayed. I look at them and try to memorize what I fear I will someday lose. Edward notices though.

“You do not have to hold all of us in your mind at once,” he says softly.

My eyes burn with the threat of tears, “What if I lose you?”

He squeezes my hand. “Then find us here.”

I sob again and Laz’s fingers tighten around mine.

“You are not disappearing tonight,” he says.

“You do not know that.”