here was pain in her voice.
It was raw and ragged. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard it earlier, but he’d thought it none of his business; he’d thought it the prerogative of an angry girl, the sort of girl who’d wanted nothing to do with her father for a year, to have her feelings in all their complexity, and none of his flooding business to ask. Whatever she’d felt, she’d come there to ask for his backing, or his money, or a nod in his will.
Or something – he still wasn’t sold she wouldn’t come out with it at the end, pull out some juicy scrap of information to blackmail him with. Pull the curtains aside, and have done with all this mung dancing-around; she was after something, and she’d show him what it was, eventually, and it’d be no better or worse than any other Brunnhold brat looking for a foot in the door of da’s wallet.
So he told himself, walking beside her close enough their shoulders brushed. There was no avoiding caprise now; the monic particles sought each other, unfamiliar, meeting noses and whiskers and jumping away and creeping back.
He didn’t know what to say, other than – Diana had told him Cerise didn’t want to see him. He thought of saying so; he wasn’t sure why he hesitated. It wasn’t as if he liked Diana any more than any of the rest of them, and it was the truth, after all. Maybe it was because he’d shrugged, in those days, and thought: one less thing to worry about.
Rain tapped the umbrella. Cerise had broken off; he didn’t think she’d continue. “Work’s not the same as,” he started, and broke off himself. There was a tightness in his throat; his own voice was as raw as hers.
Can’t you see? I didn’t even flooding recognize you when you walked in the door, he thought. Only because you looked like him, he thought again. Surely you can see it? Surely you’d recognize your da, and you’d know if the man standing beside you with an umbrella over our heads wasn’t him? Surely you’d know if there was something living in his –
His breath came in shuddering; he let out a sharp exhale through his nose. “I didn’t want you to see your father like this,” he said simply, honestly, after a long pause.
He picked up the hem of his coat, stepping over a puddle as they crossed the street. Looking left and right for coaches, he didn’t get a glimpse of her face; her heavy hood was in the way, and the frizzy edges of a few curls.
This street was narrower, he noticed, as he followed her on. Street lamps glowed blue through the rainy haze, and the facades on either side were cozy brick, lights in some of the windows. They passed under awnings rippling with the onslaught of the rain, glass bay windows reflective and dark; he couldn’t see himself past her, and he didn’t try.
“Easier to get by at work,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Harder at home.” A carriage rattled past, showering him with a thin mist. “Diana tells me we had a falling out; I don’t remember. I didn’t know where we stood, but I assumed – I was the last person you’d want to hear from, least of all recovering from something like that.”
He swallowed, looking down at his feet. “Did nobody – tell you?” he asked suddenly, the realization wincing across his face. He looked over at her. “She told me she wrote you, but...”
He hadn’t asked to see either of the girls; he realized he’d no clue what she’d been telling them. He’d the sense she didn’t trust him – she’d been trying to keep them away – but –
What do you say, when your husband drops off the face of Vita for a month and comes back acting like somebody different? He’s disordered, maybe; he’s still recovering. He needs space. And he hadn’t asked to see the girls, not even once, not even when he’d set himself to pretending at normalcy. What do you even write?
She wanted something, he told himself, swallowing tightly, trying to resist the hot prickling in his eyes. She wants something still; there’s no love among these people.