lark was no great judge of such things, so he might have been mistaken. But he thought Miss Palmifer looked right pleased, which was strange enough to him. He wasn’t sure why such a golly would like to take a picture of the little miss, much less insist so that the taking of the picture was itself payment. Though, he thought with a rare flash of indignation, anybody ought to want to take a picture of the little miss, because she was the brightest and loveliest thing in the whole of the Harbor.
He watched her for a few moments, clicking the button with her little thumb, the fresh bay wind ruffling her curls out of all those fine little braids Tess had put them in so painstakingly. He liked that noise, click click click.
He supposed it made sense, with this being a newfangled sort of thing, and with Miss Palmifer being so young. He didn’t often think of gollykind in those terms; he felt like all of them, with their fancy school full of magic, were apart – wizened by all that strange learning, even the ones as looked so fresh and young. It was certainly strange, crouching here in the midst of her woobley, having her seem so pleased to show the little miss all about her camera spectra and even snap a picture of her. It was a smooth, calm sort of woobley too, one you almost might’ve got used to, if it hadn’t been so funny and ticklish-alive against your skin, like the air full of things you couldn’t see.
Clark watched her drift away from the button, disinterested. He missed the rhythmic click of it immediately. She was playing with the seam of that compartment again, trying to pull it loose, and he felt another wave of antsy prickles, thinking what might happen if she broke it by accident; he was ready, still, for the worst.
He looked up at Miss Palmifer’s face as she began to explain to Renata – Renata, she had called her, using her name – not too long, just long enough to see the crinkles of a warm smile around those eyes that had seemed so cold. Miss Palmifer didn’t talk to the little miss like some ladies did; she was explaining it matter-of-fact, like she understood, which was the right way to talk to the little miss, he figured.
He felt another prickle at the thought of her bringing her golly self round the Goretti house, especially with whatever business…
Well. They were good, upstanding people, his folk, all of them that were alive now. He wouldn’t have married Tess if they hadn’t been. If there was any reason a golly oughtn’t come round, Clark hadn’t been told, and what Clark hadn’t been told, he couldn’t do much about.
Miss Palmifer looked at him, and he looked down and away sharp. Down to the camera spectra, which had small smeary prints of little fingers on the case now.
But his eyes softened on Renata, as they always did. Renata had been looking at Miss Palmifer, wide-eyed; now she was looking at him. “Like nonno,” he said, shifting on his haunches, twisting his hat in his hand. “You never met nonno, but you see him every day above the fireplace.”
Renata watched, and he looked into those big dark eyes. He felt sure she understood. “It’ll be like the one of nonno,” he went on, “but of you. Mama an’ me would be real happy to have one, but you got to stand real still. You’re good at that, ain’t you? Like papa.”
Renata looked back down at the camera her fingers were still on, intent. Then, reluctantly, she let go, and of Miss Palmifer’s skirt too. Then, to his surprise, she wobbled over to him and took hold of his coat sleeve.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Palmifer wants to take a picture of you, Renata.” he explained after a moment. “Not papa.” But Renata stood insistently by, her little fingers bunched in the sleeve of his coat. She looked at Miss Palmifer, and Clark would have sworn her dark eyebrows rose a little.