were becoming more frequent these days. He was required to play the peacemaker whenever he was at home.
Since the household seemed to run perfectly well during his absences, he wondered if these arguments flared up only because, with him around, they could. Elisabeth and her sister were like two fighters who would never engage without a ring and a referee. Without those, to strike out would be to injure. But with Sebastian in the middle, they could vent their feelings in relative safety.
After they’d dined, Frances took up her sewing and Robert went to his bedroom, an extension to the apartments that was little more than a cubby built out over the shop’s front. He took his newest magazine with him, to read for the second time.
When Robert was out of their earshot, Sebastian said, “I’ve had a reply from the publishing house.”
“Saying they won’t take him.”
He showed her the letter. “They’ll write to us if a position becomes available,” he said.
She looked at the letter, but she didn’t take it from him or read it.
“They always say that,” she said, and gathered up the last of the plates to take back to the kitchen.
He rose, and followed her. All through the meal he’d been sensing that there was more to this than weariness or frayed nerves.
He said, “What happened today?”
“Nothing.”
“Elisabeth.”
“I said, nothing.”
He waited, and then she said, “We had to have the police in.”
“For?”
She stopped what she was doing, and took a moment.
Then she said, “A man came in wanting to take his child away. He was stinking of beer and he wouldn’t be told. He said that the doctors were killing her and her place was at home. Said he had a knife, although he didn’t show it. Two of the nurses kept him talking while I ran for the police.”
“What’s wrong with his child?”
“She’s dying.”
“Nothing the doctors can do?”
“No.”
“Then why not let him take her, if there’s nothing to be done?”
“His home is a sty. And his children only matter when he’s drunk. And the more drink he takes, the more sentimental he becomes. He’s the kind of man whose love is all noise and self-pity; at least she’ll die where the sheets are clean.”
He touched her shoulder. “You’re worn out,” he said. “You should go to bed.”
“I think I will.”
She went about half an hour later. In many people’s minds, working in a charitable children’s hospital was an extended fantasy of rescued orphans and grateful Tiny Tims. But the truth of it was not for the soft of heart.
Sebastian was left with the publishing-house letter in his hand. There was no point in pushing Elisabeth to read it; unlike him, she wouldn’t take courtesy for encouragement. Not today, at any rate.
He became aware that Frances had paused in her work and was looking at him. Then she quickly pretended that she wasn’t and returned her attention to her decorative embroidery, held only inches from her face.
He said, “Have you enough light?”
“Enough for what I need,” she said.
He had a rolltop bureau in the corner of the room. When he was home, it served him for an office. He put the letter in one of its drawers and then picked up his copy of Owain Lancaster’s book.
It was a nice piece of binding, in blue cloth with printed boards and a number of tipped-in illustrations on slick paper. He’d bought it at Wilson’s on Gracechurch Street, billing it to his employer. He opened it at the copyright page. Due in part to the scandal that had driven its author from town and from London society, the book had sold in its thousands and was now in its fifth impression.
He closed up the desk and then moved to the doorway.
“Good night, Frances,” he said.
She laid the fancy work in her lap. “Good night, Sebastian.”
Before going upstairs, he moved toward Robert’s room with the book in his hand. It was “fancy work” of a different kind. As fiction, it would be a commendable account of a fantastical expedition to a far-off land. One that had involved perils and wonders, tragic loss and heroic survival. The maps and doctored photographs would have enhanced its grip on the imagination.
But Sir Owain had insisted it was no fiction. He’d even been prepared to take the Royal Society to court for casting doubt on his word. His vigorous defense had led to a public accusation of fraud and the equally public destruction of his reputation. He’d sued the Society and several newspapers, and lost every action.
And now here he was, withdrawn from public life, struggling to preserve his liberty and to retain control of his fate and his finances.
Sebastian tapped on Robert’s door before going in. Robert was writing. His bed was covered in slips of paper, all crammed with lines in his neat hand.
“I thought you were reading,” Sebastian said.
“I’ve read my serial. I’m not ready for anything else just yet.”
“I know what you mean,” Sebastian said. “It doesn’t do to rush onward. It’s nice to stay in the tale.”
“At least for a while. My favorite time of the day is when I’m waiting to go to sleep. I like to just lie there and think.”
“What about?”
“Things,” Robert said.
Sebastian knew that he made stories of his own, but he wouldn’t share them. Sebastian had sneaked a look at some of his writings, once. It was all gangs and pirates and Martian war machines, jumbled together in a single tale.
Sebastian said, “I have a job for you. It’s worth a shilling or two.” He handed over Sir Owain’s book and said, “Tell me what you think of this. Have you read it before?”
Robert turned it around and looked at the title.
“No,” he said.
“The author would have us believe that it’s a true account of his adventures. He travels to the Amazon, and his party is attacked by monsters unknown to science. He speaks of members of his expedition being discovered, torn by beasts. See if you can tell me the point where the truth ends and his fantasy begins.”
“All right,” Robert said.
Sebastian had half-expected him to argue. It wasn’t often that Robert read a book. It was periodicals that fascinated him. To his mind a book was a dead thing, fixed, detached from real time.
The boy laid the volume aside and returned to his writing.
“Good night, Robert,” Sebastian said, and Robert murmured something that Sebastian couldn’t hear. He didn’t take his eyes from the page.
Elisabeth was sleeping when Sebastian went upstairs. Or at least, her eyes were closed and she didn’t open them. He undressed in the dark and lay down beside her. She was turned away.
He wondered how the world must seem through Robert’s eyes. He could not imagine it. Elisabeth’s hope had always been to see Robert take his place in ordinary human society. But now Sebastian sensed a reluctance in her whenever there was any real suggestion of letting the boy go. As if she wanted to see him stand, but would not risk seeing him fall.
His request had been a serious one, not meant simply to indulge or occupy the boy. Robert’s knowledge of such fantastical literature was detailed and comprehensive.
Sebastian stared up at the ceiling until shapes started to form. Then he closed his eyes.
The shapes did not go away.
