a/n: This will be in three parts that will be posted one a week until it is finished!

Entry 1: Such Odd Behavior At Home

December 13th, 1918

I write this from the train to Massachusetts. "I've graduated," he said. "You ought to come and celebrate with me, cousin," he said. "At least see your poor old mother for Christmas instead of sitting around with your rats," he said. And why, oh why, did I say yes? I don't want to celebrate anything with this man. He shouldn't be celebrating anything on his own, either, the blackguard! And I don't even want to go home.

He's in the train car with me now. I don't want to talk to him. I'm going to try to sleep the whole way. Maybe then I'll get over my cold before anyone invites me to any skating parties!

I don't often get invited to skating parties, in fact, I don't think I ever have been. But it would be rotten luck if someone invited me and I was sick and couldn't go. Maybe I would just go anyway, it's just a cold. Of course, I don't know how to skate, but I could learn.

Well, I think Fred wants to talk to me, so I'll go to sleep now if I can. I may not write at home. Not much happens at home.

-WpH

"Wakey wakey."

Someone was shaking him. Wilson squirmed and writhed and struck out limply with the back of his hand.

"Such a fuss," Fred tutted. "We're at our station, old boy. I suppose you'd rather I let you stay on and wake up in Canada."

Wilson made an inarticulate noise, his voice box not yet being awake. The train car was warm and stuffy- quite conducive to napping, as was the puddle of sunlight he was sitting in. Not nearly as conducive to getting up, grabbing heavy luggage and going out into the cold.

"What's that? 'Yes, Freddie, I want to run off and become a lumberjack.' An odd decision, but I'll support you."

Fred was more interested in being annoying than in being witty. He was right, though, unfortunately. Wilson couldn't just stay on the train.

Wilson got up, wriggled into his topcoat, and started wrestling with his suitcase. It was almost as big as he was, and almost too heavy to lift. Had it been this big and heavy when he'd put it on the train?

Fred picked up his own bag- it was tiny. Right- he had a home wardrobe and a school wardrobe. Wilson did not have two separate sets of clothes- his parents were rather well off too but not like the Wheelers, not well off enough to buy him a second wardrobe just to keep him from handling a suitcase. Although it had been Wilson's decision to pack textbooks. Perhaps that had been the wrong decision.

"There are people to do that for you," Fred said offhandedly as they headed down the aisle with Wilson's trunk bumping along behind him. "Not me, of course… I can hire someone?"

"How nice of you to offer to help when we're already to the door."

"Someone's unpleasant when he's been woken."

Tight-lipped, Wilson did not reply.

They exited onto the platform and Wilson took a deep breath of fresh air. It was cold, even through his mask, and caught in his chest- which was still slightly congested, it seemed, the sleep hadn't done the trick- and he coughed. A few passersby looked alarmed at the sound.

"Chilly, isn't it? Right amount of snow for Christmas, though." Fred popped his pipe into his mouth and proffered the box of tobacco. Fred had not worn a mask, even though the influenza virus was still in Boston and train stations were excellent places to catch germs.

Wilson scowled. "I told you I quit."

"Of course you did, old boy, just like the last time you quit tobacco. And the time when you swore off coffee. And the time you renounced sweets."

Wilson's abandonment of his pipe was quite recent and the smell of Fred's tobacco was highly tempting. Maybe-

No! He would not give Fred the satisfaction. "Get that stuff out of my face!" It was bad for his cough anyway, that was why he'd quit. Also, if he smoked, he'd have to take off his mask. And if Mother had any inkling that he'd been smoking she'd kill him.

"All right, all right," Fred said, and he put the box away. "You were asleep quite a while, old bean, and it seems to have put you out of sorts. I think your lurid, maniacal all-nighters are catching up with you. I say, that's your mater over there, isn't it?" Fred's tone changed sharply- still nonchalant, but falsely so. After two and a half decades of acquaintance Wilson knew the difference. "Wills, she's wearing black, you wouldn't happen to know about that, would you?"

"She's just being fashionable." Wilson looked over. "Although the veil is an… interesting touch."

Behind the gauzy veil, his mother's face was pale and taut. She saw him, and she smiled and waved. It did not look like a real smile, though. Wilson adjusted and re-adjusted his grip on his suitcase.

"Oh- those are my parents," said Fred. "Shall I be off, or shall I have a kiss for Aunt Wilhelmina first?"

Ah yes. Fred was meeting both his parents, because rich old Uncle Alvin, like Fred, had not chosen to go to war. Father had. Father wasn't here, and Mother was in black. "Go meet your parents," Wilson said, more shortly than he'd intended.

"All right. I'll see you soon."

"Not too soon, I hope," Wilson said, and Fred rolled his eyes as he left.

"Oh, it's dreadful," Mother said as Wilson approached. "It's simply dreadful, Wills!"

"What is? What is it?" His voice quivered despite himself. "Was it the flu? Pneumonia? Is he alive still, or-"

"Oh, no, no, it's nothing to do with your father," Mother dismissed. "He's fine."

Wilson took a deep breath. "Ah…"

"Don't look so relieved," Mother insisted. "Two of your aunties, and Uncle Morris, and their poor children-" She sniffled into a handkerchief. "It was that flu."

Two aunts? And Uncle Morris? It couldn't be. He must be misunderstanding. "Are they dead?" he ventured.

Mother began sobbing. "Of course they're dead! Did you think they were on vacation? Don't you see that I'm in mourning?"

"Oh, I…" Dead? And he'd been asleep a moment ago. "So then…" He ought to have worn black. "When did…" He should have known about this. Had there been any mail he hadn't read? Sometimes he didn't read his mail because it wasn't important but… this was important… "Which aunties? Was it- was it Aunt Edna?" How could he have been peacefully sleeping not fifteen minutes ago if a big chunk of his family was dead?

Mother was still crying, in part because he had been so insensitive. He put his bags down to pat her shoulder. "Oh, it's…" He trailed off. It wasn't okay, her sisters and brother-in-law were dead. What in the world should he say?

"Shall I drive?" he asked lamely.

"No," she said, sniffling and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. "No, don't drive, dear."

He'd forgotten how she never wanted him to drive. That was all right, at the moment he'd rather not drive…

"When did it happen?" he asked on the way to the car. The train station was as busy as it usually was around Christmas, and he was one of very few people in masks. That all didn't strike Wilson as terribly wise, but no one had consulted him about it.

"The first was three weeks ago."

Three weeks. All of them gone? "Why didn't you send a telegram? I could have…" What would he have done, exactly? Send flowers? To whom?

"You had your finals," Mother said. "You didn't need the stress."

"Oh…" But this was quite stressful right now. "Oh, and how about Father?"

"What about him?"

"Have you heard anything? Is he getting better?"

"I know as much as you do," she said distractedly.

"Oh… I see…"

They were at the car. Wilson hefted his trunk into the back. Heaving for breath, and well out of the thick of the crowds, he discarded his mask. The air was even colder without it. Recalling the earlier stares, he managed to suppress his threatening cough. No need to worry Mother.

"That's hardly necessary by now, you know," Mother said as he sat down next to her. "The mask, I mean."

"But you're telling me our relatives are dropping like flies!"

"Oh, that was weeks ago, it's nearly all over now."

'Nearly' wasn't nearly enough for Wilson's peace of mind, especially now.

"Does Fred know?" he asked as they were pulling out onto the road.

"Hm? Fred?"

"My cousin, Fred Wheeler?"

Mother looked nonplussed. "Wheeler?"

"Uncle Alvin has been paying for my school since I was about ten! You do know the Wheelers? Father's sister and brother-in-law?"

"Oh, yes, the gamblers. Sweetie, why do you take their money? You're an adult now and your father's not here to strong-arm you into it."

"But…" But no one had ever had to convince Wilson to take free money!

"Anyway, I don't know whether or not your cousin knows. He's not related to my side of the family."

"He'll have to know the party is off," Wilson said, although as he said it he realized that was a rather insignificant problem compared with everything else.

"The party's not off," said Mother. "Besides, your cousin wasn't invited."

Wilson blinked and inclined his head in confusion. His chest cold must have spread to his ears somehow. "Pardon?"

"He wasn't invited, the Wheelers are trash," Mother said distractedly.

"Of course they are," said Wilson, sarcastic despite knowing it wasn't appropriate- it had sort of slipped out. His dry tone had gone over Mother's head anyway, thankfully. "But there's still a party?"

"There is still a party," she said quite clearly. "Why on Earth wouldn't there be?" Her tone was indulgent.

"But…"

"It's what they would have wanted," Mother said.

Wilson sounded squeaky and incredulous to himself. "Is a party a good idea during a pandemic?"

"My doctor son!" she said, with a warm note of condescension. "No, no, the worst is over- it's practically all gone now. It will be quite all right."

Wilson said nothing for the rest of the ride home.

Once there, he took his suitcase out of the automobile. He had thought he was prepared for its weight but he wasn't and he half-dropped it onto the ground.

"There's a funeral tomorrow," Mother said. And a party tonight… okay… "Did you bring any black?"

"No, I haven't got anything in black, I wasn't expecting a funeral," Wilson said. "I'll have to go buy something."

"Father had a black suit," said Mother, with the past tense, as if he'd already died, "you can alter it."

"No! That's his suit. I'll buy my own," Wilson insisted. "I mean, he'll come back and need it again and it will be all hacked up- I can't wear his clothes!" Father was a good foot taller than Wilson. His suit would be ruined entirely...

"Oh, my boy," fussed Mother, and she took him into one of her pillowy embraces. She smelled of lavender, and in a moment he was a small boy again constantly being swept up by strange lavender-smelling adults, even though Mother was one of the few people who was shorter than he was.

It wasn't a pleasant sort of nostalgia.

"Don't go to war," she said into his shoulder.

"No, Mother, I won't," he said dutifully.

"Don't ever go to war."

"I'll never go to war, Mother."

It was an honest promise. He couldn't go to war regardless of what his or anyone else's wishes may have been, he was undersized and neither the United States nor the United Kingdom would take him. No venturing into dangerous territory for Wilson.

Mother released him after what seemed an eternity and he picked up the trunk again. "Well, I'll unpack and change," he said, "and then I'll have to buy a suit for tomorrow, I suppose. Oh, are the girls coming to the funeral?"

"Hmm?"

"My sisters? When are they coming in? Will they be in time to go?"

Mother blinked and inclined her head to one side. "None of the girls are coming for Christmas. They're all much too busy this year. It's just you and me, darling."

Oh.

"Ah, how- how lovely," Wilson stammered. "I'll, uh- I'll go upstairs."

"Alright. You must be tired from the trip!"

"Yes."

Wilson dragged the trunk up the stairs to his old room. There was a maid in there- a new one.

"Hello," Wilson said politely. If only she'd been a male servant, he could have asked for a hand with his trunk.

"Er," the maid said. "Good day."

He managed to get blasted thing in a little farther, to a spot where people could go in and out and wouldn't trip on it, and he sat down on the bed, sighing. He was out of breath from his exertions and had a faint twinge in his upper left chest when he gulped in air.

The maid fidgeted.

Hm. The girl looked completely nonplussed.

"No one told you I was coming?" he ventured.

"No, sir…"

"I suppose Mother must have forgotten to tell you." This had happened last time he'd visited, too. Mother had a lot on her mind these days. "I'm home from graduate school. I'm Mrs. Higgsbury's son," he said. "This really is my room, you can ask her."

"Yes, sir. Shall I go?"

"Well, if you're finished and all," he demurred. Yes, please, he thought. She seemed like a perfectly nice girl, but the presence of a stranger made the space feel electric and full.

"Yes, all right," she said, and bobbed her head, and left.

Wilson sighed. He got up and opened his trunk. Inside were the clothes that he had jammed in that morning, jumping on top of them to make them fit- irritable, swearing under his breath and with no problems on his mind more pressing than the tight space in the trunk and the sticky all-over unpleasantness of his cold. It seemed like a million years ago.

Two of your aunts… Uncle Morris… their children… what did that mean? Some of his aunts had quite a lot of children. Which aunts? She hadn't even told him which aunts were dead. Was this some kind of a horrible joke?

Uncle Morris, with his gingery beard and booming voice, who would clap Wilson on the back heartily enough to almost knock him over. A man like that, a robust man, he couldn't die of flu. He'd survived the trenches!

But he wasn't thinking rationally at all. Wilson had seen how the morgues looked in August… had he thought a family as large as his wouldn't have any flu deaths?

He closed his eyes and put his hands over them to keep the light from filtering through his eyelids. He was sweating but did not have the energy to take off his coat.

He might as well not mention this cold to his mother. 'Cold' sounded too much like 'flu' to the nervous layperson. He could not have the flu- flu was swifter and much more pronounced, and would have been over by now one way or another- but still, best not to worry anyone.

Anyway- there was a question of suitable clothing.

Wilson wasn't terribly social and didn't own a great deal of fancy dress. How formal was this evening?

Ah. Right, he'd spilled a little HCl on his dinner jacket. Now he didn't have a dinner jacket. He had a rather nice business suit. That would have to do.

And nothing in black… and a funeral tomorrow.

Wilson liked bright colours and didn't buy dark clothing unless he had to. Now he had to. And he couldn't buy off the rack without having it altered at least a bit, he was too short. He ought to have been told about this. Why hadn't Mother sent a telegram?

Well, the problem wouldn't get fixed by just thinking about it. He'd better get to the shop.


He got back some hours later, having quickly ordered a made-to-measure suit that would supposedly be ready in the morning.

He had walked to town, since Mother didn't like him to use the car, and now he was tired and out of breath and wishing there was no party that evening. Of course he had already wished that for several other reasons.

It wouldn't take him long to get ready for the party. He could spend some time to himself first. Maybe he'd sit and read in the parlour, or play the piano, though his musical skills were wretched at best. He could probably still remember 'Chopsticks'…

The parlour was locked.

"Now, Wills, you don't need to go in there."

Wilson jumped. Mother was sitting in the corner, knitting. He had not seen her.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Don't play in the parlour, sweetie. It's being painted." It did smell funny through the door, though he hadn't placed the smell as paint. That smell was-

That smell was-

No, it couldn't be. An artefact of his cold producing unpleasant sensory impressions.

"It's locked," he said. "I can't go in anyway."

"Good," she said sweetly. "Don't."

"Fine," he grumbled.

Mother was slightly pale. Of course she was always pale, she was the genetic origin of the sickly pallor Wilson had seen in the mirror all his life. But she looked strained in addition. And why shouldn't she? She was grieving! He shouldn't be short with her.

"Listen," he said, "I'm sorry this happened. You know, my specialty is chemistry and pharmaceuticals, and if you need something to relax-"

"No, dear."

He blinked. "Are you sure? Because I brought a few of my supplies, and-"

"No."

He never did understand why people didn't want to avail themselves of scientific help, but that was her choice and he wouldn't force things. "Well, if you ever just want to talk," he said.

"I'll remember that." Her needles clicked together with a rather final clack.

So the parlour was blocked off and there was no point in standing around watching Mother knit. She clearly did not want to talk.

That left the living room. The furniture had been moved around, as it often was while he was gone, but the basic items were the same- the plush red couch, the cherry wood coffee table, the thick rug. A nice spot for curling up with a book, or, like now, just sprawling on the couch and trying to regain one's equilibrium.

Or wondering about the smell from the parlour.


Four people had shown up. The table was set for ten. That might or might not have anything to do with the epidemic, which really was dying down- he recalled low attendance of Mother's parties that past summer as well.

Wilson twisted his napkin back and forth and gazed absently at the surface of the table. His mother was chatting animatedly with the guests about acquaintances he didn't know. The guests were Aunt Edna, Uncle John, Uncle Sean, and Great-Aunt Mary, and they were all rather old and quite unflappable. He was not sure they were aware there had been deaths in the family. The subject hadn't come up so far.

Uncle John leaned in to talk to him now, with foul, rotting breath. "So, eh, how are you doing in school, boy? Not getting up to too much trouble?" His voice quavered with age. "Not bothering your teachers?"

"No, no trouble from me, sir," Wilson said, hearing timidity in his own voice. He cleared his throat and made an attempt to sound more confident. "I've been doing well, I think. I've started an experiment with rats and ionic solutions. You see, I think it's possible to induce the rats to store electricity! How useful would that have been in the trenches? A living portable battery!"

"Typical little boy, teasing animals," Uncle John said. "How about girls? Eh? Still afraid of them or starting to catch on now?"

It dawned on Wilson that Uncle John- who was becoming downright decrepit- had not gotten the memo that his nephew was now twenty-four years of age and in graduate school.

"Girls have cooties, don't they?" he said. "How old am I now? Ten?"

Uncle John wheezed a laugh and clapped Wilson on the back, which disturbed his congested chest and made him hack into his handkerchief.

"How is my favourite nephew?" This was Aunt Edna, peering at him with watery blue eyes. Wilson was her only nephew.

"Ugh, oh," Wilson mumbled, discreetly folding his handkerchief, which he had had to spit into, which was terrible manners at the table but it had been spit or choke. "I'm doing great."

"Have you found a nice young thing at school yet, Willy?"

"Oh, no, Aunt Edna," he said, "I'm not going to get married. I have much too much to do! I don't want to have someone fall madly in love with me only to languish at home while I'm giving lectures and attending conferences and changing the world…" Of course, girls would begin to notice him when he started being famous, and might fall in love with him anyway, but hopefully they'd get over him.

"Your poor mother deserves grandchildren," said Aunt Edna.

"Mother already has grandchildren. My sisters have children," Wilson pointed out. "Besides, I don't like children, I like science." This all seemed very reasonable to him, but Aunt Edna suddenly looked very sad, and he flushed and wondered if he should have lied. But why should she care so much?

"Wilson Percival, you are growing up into an awfully selfish young man," she chided.

He didn't know how to respond. "Sorry about that…"

"And you haven't touched your food."

Wilson obediently took a bite of potatoes.

Aunt Edna shook her head and tutted and turned to talk to Priscilla.

Wilson put his fork down. He had not eaten much all day and really ought to get something down, but his stomach felt limp and listless and his taste buds were out of order- a state of affairs not aided in the slightest by the richness of the food or the distinctive smell of elderly relatives.

In addition to all that, there was another smell in the air, beginning to leak over from the parlour door. And now he was quite convinced he knew what it was. He had enough experience with the smell of decay to know for darn sure when he smelled it. Although why it was issuing from the parlour… that was another question.

A door opened. He assumed it was a servant at first and then he heard the reedy, affectedly-English cry- "Auntie Wilhelmina! Oh, I'm so sorry, you're entertaining! Don't mean to intrude! I was just going to drop in to take this rapscallion off for a pint, but if you lovely ladies happen to be using him already…"

Wilson very nearly swore right in front of two elderly aunts and his mother. "Fred, get out."

"Look at him," Fred said, towering over Wilson. "He's obstreperous. Needs a drink." He bodily hauled Wilson to his feet. "No one objects, then?"

"I object, I object," Wilson cried shrilly, but somehow he was already out in the hall, leaving a few goggling old people behind him, and now he was in the study.

Fred closed the door behind them.

"What do you want?" Wilson snapped. "You know, you were not invited!"

"All right, now, stop this," Fred said in a low voice. "You didn't want to go to war any more than I did. If you hadn't been rejected, you'd have found some other way out of it. Hell, you'd probably have asked my dad to buy you out too, so you are going to cut out this shame-the-defector act right this very second."

Wilson folded his arms tightly over his chest and plopped down in Father's reading chair. His legs didn't quite reach the ground.

"Would you like to curse at me a little, Wills? Call me a despicable blackguard or a right bugger or something, would that help?"

Fred loomed over him, hands on hips. His bushy ginger eyebrows, sharp grey eyes, slender hooked nose and full moustache had been up there in that hovering-cousin space above his head for as long as Wilson could remember- although there must have been a time before the moustache. Fred hadn't had a moustache when they were children, he couldn't have.

The study was full of Father's things. They were all dusty. No one had been in here since he'd left, not even to clean. He'd been gone quite a while.

Wilson's lip trembled.

He blinked. He hadn't been expecting that to happen.

He bent his head and pulled out his handkerchief. The unexpected misery was not going away, it was making a lump in his throat. He shouldn't be so astounded with himself, people did tend to be sad when their relatives died.

Fred stood there without speaking, close enough that Wilson could hear him breathing. He seemed not to know what to do.

"No one's told you, have they?" Wilson said finally. He turned away and dusted Father's globe with his sleeve. He didn't know what the new maid was intended to do and which rooms in the house she was assigned to, but maybe he would ask her to clean in here. He could tip her if needed. Why, Father could be well enough to come home any day, and have no study to recuperate in. This place was a mess!

"No. Told me what?"

"There've been some deaths in my mother's side of the family... you wouldn't know. I hardly know. No one is saying anything about it!" And despite himself, knowing he sounded petulant, he blurted- "I almost wish I'd stayed home."

Fred, to his eternal credit, did not say anything asinine such as 'This is your home!'

Instead he said: "Would you like to spend the night with me?"

"Oh. No. Thank you. I can't," Wilson said. He didn't think now was a good time to leave his mother alone, even if Fred's house was large, warm in winter and full of really good alcohol. "Thank you, though. That's good of you to offer. I'll be fine."

Fred nodded.

"Um." Wilson glanced at the door to be sure no one was there to hear. "The war's over now, so… perhaps…"

"I'll consider the olive branch extended."

Wilson nodded.

Fred watched him a moment. "You know, your old dad wanted to be in. He didn't have to go, you know. He's married and getting up in years- and we would have kept him out of it anyway, if he'd asked."

"Maybe he was trying to get away from Mother," Wilson joked, but it was an awful joke and he shouldn't have made it. He cleared his throat and looked down, swinging one foot back and forth. His father's chair was so high! Sometimes Wilson felt as if he had quite failed to grow up. He wasn't going to get any taller- this was as good as it got.

"Feel free to pop over if you want to get away from your mother," said Fred.

"Nah. No, I'm fine. I get enough of your company at school!" He laughed. It was a thin, awful sound, perhaps worse than if he'd given in and sobbed.

"I dare say I've had enough of you to last me a lifetime as well," said Fred, "but the offer stands."


If only he'd accepted!

Uncle Alvin was loud and boisterous and probably would have kept him up half the night, and he would have been up the other half berating himself for leaving his mother alone at a time like this, but at least Fred's house didn't smell like death.

Wilson blinked up at the moonlight patterns on his ceiling. He rolled onto his side.

How many cousins had died? Had it been as horrible as some of the cases in the morgue? Had it been an entire family, Uncle Morris and his wife and their five children? Who had found them? Had they watched each other die? What was that smell?

He rolled onto his other side, coughing weakly into his pillow. Why was Mother throwing a party the day before a funeral? How was Father doing in the hospital? What was that smell?

Ought Wilson to really become a doctor and treat people with flu and do a useful duty to society instead of rebelling the minute he had the degree like he'd planned? No! Nonsense, all the real society-changing discoveries came from the laboratory, not the clinic. The medical profession needed new treatments and new research, not one more compassionate soul rushing around telling nurses to make patients comfortable and giving bad news to families!

The elderly aunts had shaken his reserve- that was all. At least they had only been his American aunts. Father's family was terrifying.

He rolled onto his back, touching his forehead and finding cold sweat there. Gross. How long was this cold going to stick around for? It had been three weeks now of illness, though only mild illness- at times he would think he was recovered, only to find he still had a cough. He almost wished he would get really sick and have it over with so he could get better. Almost. He hated full-blown colds.

No, really. What was that smell?

Wilson sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had slept too much during the day and was too uncomfortable, this was a lost cause. And if he couldn't sleep, he was going to find out what was rotting in the house.

He put on his slippers. Wilson was careful with his clothing budget, shaving off as much as he reasonably could to spend on laboratory equipment, but he never ever skimped on slippers. He was glad he hadn't, the floor was cold.

He padded downstairs. The last time he'd snuck around in his own house after dark, it had been to creep into the backyard and dig for worms. He had been about eight or nine then. He was surprised that he still remembered it.

The smell was getting stronger. He followed it across the floor, noiseless in his plush slippers.

He was approaching the parlour door…

"Get away from that door."

Wilson rounded on his heel, gasping so hard that no sound came out. Mother was sitting in the corner.

"But… you…" She was knitting by candlelight. "It's so late!"

"Yes! It's much too late for a boy to be up." She tutted and shook her head.

"But…"

"Get away from the door."

He backed up. This is my house too, he might say, or I've breathed in things a lot worse than paint in my laboratory, it'll be fine or Why aren't you in bed?

None of that seemed right, though.

"Mother," he said, with some hesitation, and she cut him off from saying anything further.

"Wilson Percival, you go back to bed this instant!"

He really should just go upstairs. Why, objectively, the chances of him being of any use here were very low. And he was a rational man, and could see that.

His conscience pointed out that his mother had suffered a loss and now was acting oddly, and he couldn't just leave her to knit all alone at midnight. Why, if he ignored her, he was no better than he would have been if he'd just gone to Fred's.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Why, of course I am, darling. What a sweet boy. Off to bed, now."

He glanced at the locked parlour door.

"It's being painted," she insisted. "Goodness, curiosity killed the cat, you know."

"Okay." He backed up. "You know, I brought some barbitone with me. They don't keep track at it at school very well-"

"My word! Why do you want to see what's in there so badly?" The whites were visible all around her eyes. "Don't you dare drug your mother! Go up to bed!"

"I wasn't going to drug you! It's entirely safe. It's what's in Veronal. And it's nothing to do with trying to get in there! I was just offering a little bit of scientific help in case you-"

"I am perfectly fine!"

It seemed that Wilson was not helping at all. "All right. Good night, Mother…"

"Good night, dear."

She bent over her knitting. He went back upstairs.