Devon stepped into the workshop, and the smells of metal and dust and sulfur and chemicals in general made his head spin. The spinning felt good. No, that made him think he might upend his innards. Being in the workshop felt good. He had missed this place. Here, he had not only been inventing something new but inventinghimselfanew. He grinned and held his arm out to the side, waiting for the workshop to welcome him back with a brotherly hug.
The workshop remained spinning, and a spinning workshop would soon be a puke-filled workshop, so he sat on the workbench and laid his head on the cold tabletop. He shut his eyes. The spinning stopped, and the workshop disappeared. Good.
But then there was Lillian, right where she always was when he closed his eyes, right in the middle of his brain, soaked into every recent memory, at least the good ones. And the one bad one. Last night and the ballroom brawl. He was such a bloody idiot.
“What's that song that they sang in the pub tonight?” he asked the gadgets and tools.
The drunken ones, the ones worse off than him—and that was dangerous, considering his own state—had lifted their bosky voices high. With what song?
Ah, yes.
“All in the downs the fleet was mooooooooored. The streamers waaaaving in the wind. When black—no, no, all wrong,” he mumbled. “She doesn’t have black eyes.” He cleared his throat and sang again, louder this time. “When coffee-eyed Lillian came on board. Oh! Where shall I find my true-love?” His voice wobbled, and he shut his mouth like a petulant child. “At home in bed, that’s where.”
He slumped lower onto the table and turned his head until his cheek pressed against the cool wood, and when he spoke, his lips pouted out under the pressure of his smooshed cheek. “She’s warm and cozy and lush and funny and dev’lish smart and I’mhere. It’s a good place.” He patted the table. “But it’s notthere. In bed. With her.”
A bang from behind, the sound of wood hitting wood, jolted Devon upright.
“Lord Devon!” Mr. Clarke yelled, “what the bloody hell are you doing here at three in the bloody morning, singing at the tiptop of your lungs, loud enough to wake the dead? Thankfully, Mariah sleeps more soundly than the dead or you’d be dead. Do you understand?”
“I had a wee”—Devon pinched his thumb and forefinger almost together right in front of his eyes—“bit too much to drink. I’ve had barely a drop since Christmas, so I’m not, you see, used to it.”
“That is not the question I asked. It was clear from your caterwauling that you are soused. What is not clear is why you are here instead of in your own bed.”
“I’m drunk,” Devon said, “and Lillian would not like me like this, and I do not want to show me to her when I am like this.” He waved his arms up and down his body, illustrating his point. Hewasillustrating his point, wasn’t he? Had to be.
“If you know my daughter will not like you in this condition, and you don’t even seem to likeyourselfin this state, why then, son-in-law, are you like this?”
“Excellent question, that. I suppose it begins with birth. You see—”
“I’m not requesting your life story. I’m talking about this particular situation.”
“I see,” said Devon. “I see, I see, I see,I see.” His head slumped back down to the table with athunk.
“Something tells me you don’t see anything clearly right now, son.”
“Hard to see with the world spinning.”
Mr. Clarke disappeared. He must have because he did not say anything, and he was always saying things. With nothing better to do, Devon went back to singing but quietly. Whisper-hissing more than singing. Because Mrs. Clarke was scary, too. Best not to wake her.
Until the table shook, and he startled upright once more. “What? Where? Did I explode again?”
Mr. Clarke stood above him, arms crossed over his wide chest. In front of Devon sat a silver tray laden with a steaming tea pot and two porcelain cups. The cups still rattled from being dumped down onto the table so hard.
“’Mazing they didn’t break,” Devon said.
Mr. Clarke sat on the bench across from Devon, poured some of the tea into a cup, and shoved it across the table. “Drink up.”
Devon wrinkled his nose. “Prefer coffee.”
“Drink that. All of it. Now.”
Devon picked up the cup.
Mr. Clarke nodded. “I am going to sit here until you drink all of that and sober up a bit, and then we are going to talk about why you are here and foxed instead of being at home and sober. And sleeping.”
Devon snorted between sips. “Then you’ll give me some witty aphorism to write down.”
“If I so wish. It will do you good if you choose to listen.”
