He pulled his knees up and hung his head between them. The closed window screamed at him. Blank, empty, going on forever that way.
Footsteps like gunshots down below. He startled to his feet. How long had he been slumped there? Enough time to finish whittling an entire figure for…
Not for Alfie.
Hell.
He flung the door open and teetered at the top of the steps for a moment, found a steady breathing rhythm and listening to the voices below. His mother and Clara, chatting as if he wasn’t suffocating up here.
Time for the noonday meal, then.
He jolted down the stairs and grinned as he hit the very bottom one, three upturned faces coming into view. His mother, Alfie, and Clara, wearing breeches, as usual. His body leaping to attention, as usual.
“How’s it faring, love?” Despite the endearment, he kept his distance, clinging to the bottom-most newel post. Difficult to find a way to pretend without getting too close to her.
She managed to smile at him, though it didn’t touch her eyes. “Shall I show you what I’ve accomplished this morning?”
His mother, unloading a loaf of bread from a basket, looked up, her gaze darting between them.
He followed Clara across the room, careful not to touch her. “Do you need my help with anything?”
“No. I’ve finished the window seat.” She knelt and ran a hand across the smooth wood. “What do you think?”
He thought his wife a siren, sunlight streaming through the window and igniting the flames in her hair. He dropped to his knees beside her, ready to worship.
But he didn’t touch her.
And she didn’t touch him. But she did glance over her shoulder at his mother. Clara only touched him when others were looking, and his mother had busied herself with setting up the table. Clara smoothed her hand back across the wood, and his hand followed hers across the seat’s edge. Silky, corners perfectly joined with the window.
“Perfection.”
She gave him a tight smile and stood, her gaze pulling him to his feet.
Why couldn’t he look away from her? Why could he never look away? Even though looking ached more than the scar gnarled down his thigh.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered, pacing away from him to join his mother at the table. She snapped a drop cloth over a table she’d recently repaired, Alfie dragged chairs across the room to the table, and the four of them sat, Alfie with the toy soldier in one hand and a chunk of cheese in another. He still carried the toys Atlas had made for him around, the soldier one always in his pocket or hand. He didn’t seem overly worried that Atlas had melted into the background, tried his best to become a bit of furniture Clara had not yet fixed, dusty and falling apart in a corner of the dower house.
Beside Atlas, Clara was paint-smeared and lovely. He lifted a hand to brush a thumb across her cheek, to remove a bit of blue smeared there. She jerked away from his touch, and he let his hand drop to his lap.
Silence fed the table, then his mother said, “Is there something wrong, Clara?”
“No!” A word yelled a bit too loudly.
“Are the two of you at odds?” His mother glanced between them, her mouth screwed into a worried curl.
Atlas swallowed. “Everything is fine, Mother.”
“I don’t think it is. There’s been a tension these last few weeks. Darlings, whatever it is, you can work it out. Perhaps you should meet with me tonight, and we’ll discuss?—”
“No, Mother. It’s nothing.”
Clara laughed. “He scared me is all. I didn’t see him coming.” She offered Atlas a smile.
“Apologies,” he mumbled. “You have a bit of paint. Right here.” She let him lean close this time, and she let him lift his hand to her face, rub his thumb across her cheek and pull the blue from her skin. He held it up, showing her the paint. But was his mother convinced? Better to be careful.
He kissed the spot on her cheek where the paint had been.
“Thank you.” She ducked her head, cheeks pink as roses.
