Day dawned early, brimming with the promise of summer. The scent of morning flowers perfumed the late June air, so Francis propped the door open wide. He crossed the cabin's slightly uneven wooden floor and pulled the curtains away from the window as well. Soon, the quaint log cabin was filled with warmth and sweetness and sunlight.

Stoking the banked embers in the tiny cast iron stove, Francis hummed to himself. He loved this time of year. It was a time of fond memories and new beginnings. He cracked a few eggs into a pan and set them over the flames to cook. That's when he heard a squeak and a thud behind him.

Francis turned around to see a pair of short, chubby legs sticking out from under a tangle of cloth. A single blond curl protruded from what appeared to be a sleeve.

"M'aidez..." the bundle whimpered. "M'aidez, s'il vous plait."

Chuckling to himself, Francis approached the bundle and gently straightened out the clothing. Tiny hands popped through the sleeves, followed by a golden-blond head emerging from the top.

"Merci, Papa," said Matthew. His little pink cheeks blushed the colour of nearly ripe strawberries. "Je suis desole,"

"Pourquoi?"

"I can't dress myself," Matthew whispered. Francis knelt by his son, holding the fabric of his pants and shirt together for comparison. The cotton shirt, dyed robin's egg blue, complimented the dark blue woollen short pants in a lovely manner.

"Ah, but I disagree, mon petit chou," said Francis. "You did a wonderful job choosing your clothing. I'll make a proper Frenchman of you yet."

For just a split second, Francis' thoughts forcibly snapped back to a time long ago. That man. His rival. His enemy. His lover. His tragedy. HE never knew how to dress, looking shabby most of the time and drab at best. No, little Matthew would not take after his other father.

Matthew. The little boy's smile brought Francis back to the present moment. So did the smell of fresh eggs, which were just about perfectly cooked. As Francis removed the pan from the heat, Matthew scurried to set the table. Forks and knives, clean but unpolished. A spoon for jam and an extra plate for the bread that sat waiting to be sliced.

Just as the two sat down to breakfast, there was a knock at the door. Moving as one, they leaned over and looked out the window. There on the their front step was a man with a heavy bag slung across his shoulder. Matthew shrunk back.

"Papa?" he asked Francis. "Who is that?"

"I believe that's the courier," Francis replied. He offered Matthew his hand.

"Shall we go take a look together?"

Retreating into silence, Matthew clung to the edge of the table. Francis showed him a gentle smile and then left him to go meet the man at the door.

"Bon matin," Francis said, in his ever-cordial tone.

"Bon matin, Monsieur... Bonnefoy?"

"Oui."

The man reached into his bag and pulled out a large envelope. Francis saw his name printed on the front of it, written in a hand that made his stomach lurch. A horrible moment came and went.

"Monsieur?" the man said. Francis became aware that he had been clicking his tongue.

"Je suis bien," he said, grasping the envelope. "Merci."

The man nodded politely and left. As through he was in a trance, Francis plodded back to the breakfast table. Little Matthew had not yet begun to eat, but he had cut a slice of bread for each of them, and was carefully spreading jam over his slice. These motions were so very familiar. Corner to corner, edge to edge, his knife moved evenly across the surface of the bread. Jam covered everything, stopping each time just before it reached the crust. These purposeful movements were an undeniable reminder of the other side of Matthew's heritage. The envelope burned in Francis' fingertips.

"Aren't you going to eat with me, Papa?"

Francis nodded. He knew he should probably leave the letter until after breakfast, but his curiosity was making him anxious.

"Please begin without me, mon mignon."

On Francis' study table, a letter opener awaited him. Francis seized it and gutted the envelope like a freshly caught salmon. The wax seal on the back of the envelope bore a rose and a crown, something Francis could stand to look at only briefly as he let the envelope drop to his desk. As he unfolded the letter, the paper rattled in his subtly shaking hands.

To my old friend, Francis,

the letter began. Already, aggravation forced Francis to pause. "Friend" was clearly not the word. And what exactly did he mean by "old"?

Although the last time we spoke, it was on less than amicable terms, I write to you on this occasion as a matter of sociability. As you know, the boys' birthdays fall within the same week. Perhaps they might celebrate together? They have not had the opportunity to play together since the divorce.

Divorce was my invention, by the way, and aren't we both happier for it? Why, if we were still following your rules, then we would be forced to remain together. Or I could behead you.

That last line was scratched out, but not so strongly that Francis couldn't read it.

In any case, I propose that little Alfred and I visit you and Matthew early this July. Not for our sake, Francis, but for theirs. Please respond in time for us to make the trip.

Sincerely,
The Right Honourable Arthur Kirkland the First,
Representative of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

Francis pulled his fist in tight, crushing the letter in his hand. He let the ball of crumpled paper fall to the cabin floor.

"A sign-off like that and he still addresses me as 'old friend?' Mon dieu."

The crumpled paper stared up at Francis. It might as well have been smoking like a mortar shell. Closing his eyes, Francis picked it up and threw it in the waste basket.

"Papa?" Matthew called from the table. He giggled. "Did you forget to come back?"

Francis made a point of regaining his composure. He smiled warmly at his son, and promised himself he would do what was best for the youngster.