The cutlery made a dull metallic twang as she slammed it into place on the table. Despite the invitation she offered as they shrugged off their dripping coats onto the entryway coatrack, it was clear to both Phyllis and Thomas that Margaret Howard, née Margaret Barrow, was none too pleased to see either one of them. Nonetheless, hospitality took precedence, and so she had invited them to stay, asking all the pertinent questions: had they eaten? was the journey pleasant? would they be staying for very long?

Sitting down for their evening supper, none of them—not Thomas, not Phyllis, not Margaret—none of them knew quite what to say. The clock on the mantle—the first and only one that Thomas had completed under his father's watchful tutelage—made a dull, mechanical click as the minute hand lurched reluctantly yet methodically forward. Unsure of how to proceed, for conversation with his sister had never come easily, Thomas hesitantly asked, "So, um, how are the boys? They around here somewhere?"

Margaret scoffed, the sound emanating from her throat speaking clearly of her disgust with her younger brother's oblivious foolishness, "What would they be doing here for? They're at home."

Thomas flushed with embarrassment as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. How could he have forgotten? In his rush seeking sanctuary from the rain, he had instinctually gone straight to his childhood home despite knowing perfectly well that his sister's tiny flat located above her late husband's bakery was situated at the other end of the village. Not wishing to be at a disadvantage in the already tense conversation, Thomas attempted to recover a shred of his dignity, "Yes, of course I know that. I just thought that they would have come with you. Maybe helped out a bit with making the arrangements."

"Oh, you mean the way that you've been helping out?" she retorted, her voice dripping with accusation. She glared at Thomas, her piercing blue eyes a mirror of his own, and waited for his response.

Affronted, Thomas leaned back in his chair, his mouth agape. "Have you lost your marbles? When would I have time to help out with the arrangements? I only got the news a few days ago; and in case you didn't know, I have some very important work that I can't just drop at a moment's notice. I came here as soon as I could!" He hated that he sounded so defensive. She was the one who should be begging for forgiveness, not him.

"Very important work?" she spat back at him. "Doing what? Tying some lazy aristocrat's bootlaces? Bravo for coming out the day before Dad's funeral. Congratulations for doing the absolute least you could do for your family, Thomas. Shall I fetch you a biscuit? Perhaps gather the village together to throw you a parade?" Her cheeks grew crimson as she unleashed a torrent of pent up frustration at him.

"You're joking, right? What would you have me do, Mar-ga-ret? I didn't know," he demanded, pronouncing each syllable of her name as though he were systematically firing bullets from a gatling gun.

Phyllis shrunk into her seat, uncomfortable with the mounting animosity volleying between the two siblings. "Perhaps," she suggested meekly, "We should try to calm down just a bit. Emotions are a bit threadbare, and no one wants to say something that he or she doesn't intend." Navigating the volatile temperament of one member of the Barrow clan was bad enough, never mind when two of them were at each other's throats.

Thomas nodded, his fit of pique slowly abating to a slow simmer. "How are the boys?" he inquired in an attempt to salvage a bit of decorum out of the evening. "What's new with Geoffrey and Edgar?"

"Edmund."

"Oh, sorry. What's new with Geoffrey and Edmund?" he asked again, trying his best not to sound irritated at being corrected.

The corners of Margaret's mouth curved up ever so slightly as a wave of pride for her children washed over her. "Well, Geoffrey has been studying to follow in his grandfather's footsteps. He still hasn't quite learned all the nuts and bolts of the trade, but he's a quick learner and ought to be a fine craftsman if he keeps at it. Oh, and I'm not supposed to know, but he has something of a sweetheart. I'm fairly certain he plans to ask her to marry him any day now."

"Oh, that sounds marvelous," said Phyllis with a warm smile. "And how is Edmund?"

At the utterance of her elder son's name, Margaret's eyes brightened as though a candle had been lit from within her. "Well," she said with the sort of mock humility one uses when one wishes to crow to the heavens, "Eddie just completed his qualifying examinations for medical school. Can you believe that? I'm going to have a doctor for a son!" Her tentative smile had now transformed itself into a full-fledged grin as she basked in the glory of her sons' accomplishments.

Thomas visibly relaxed, the long-held tension receding achingly from his back and shoulders. He had been dreading the idea of seeing his sister after so many years apart, and he was certain from the moment that he stepped through the door that the experience would be nightmarish. But if he could keep the conversation on something other than himself, he reasoned, he might be able to survive this visit after all. "That does sound marvelous," he said, echoing Phyllis's earlier words, "You must be delighted."

Margaret looked him in the eye for a moment before saying pointedly, "You could have done something similar with your life if you wanted."

Thomas's shoulders slumped as the age-old argument raised its hoary head once more. "And how exactly did you expect me to accomplish that, Maggie? Dad turned me out of the house, remember?"

"He would have taken you back in an instant if you were only willing to—" she broke off from speaking as she gave Phyllis a weary sideways glance, "Perhaps, it would be better if we spoke about this matter some other time."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "She knows, Maggie."

Her eyes widening with horror, Margaret raised a trembling hand to her mouth, "Oh dear Lord. I am so very sorry, Phyllis. I am so sorry that my brother has dragged you into his— his— oh, I can't even say it!"

Phyllis smiled weakly as she made the monumental effort of not rolling her eyes at her old friend's histrionics. "I somehow managed to survive the shock," she bluntly stated without any added inflection.

Margaret nodded her head, offering reassurance to her friend who required nothing of the sort, before turning her attention back to her brother, "As I was saying, if you had only been willing to change, Thomas. If you had just given up that foolishness, Dad would have taken you back with open arms. You were always his favorite."

The fire beneath the cauldron of his anger had been hitherto a quiet flicker, but at hearing such a ludicrous suggestion, Thomas could feel his inner kindling ignite. "That's not how it works, Maggie. It's not something that I can change! Don't you think that I would have if it was possible?! If it was all that simple and easy to do?! I'll have you know that I spoke with a very well-respected doctor, and he assured me that in his expert opinion, I can't help how I am. It's just how nature has chosen to make me." If not for his ire, he might have felt daft at giving so much credibility to the kindly country doctor, but in this moment, Dr. Clarkson was the greatest medical authority the world had ever known.

If his sudden burst of anger was intended to intimidate his older sister, it wasn't doing the trick. Narrowing her eyes into thin slits and crossing her arms, she seethed with a long-held vexation, "This is so typical of you, Thomas. You've always acted like you're some sort of victim of life's cruel circumstances. All Dad ever wanted was for you to take the straight and narrow, so that you might have some goodness in your life. For once could you at least try to take a little responsibility?"

Phyllis wrapped her arms around herself as though physically chilled by the growing animosity in the room, "Perhaps we should all just—"

"Oh, don't you dare defend him, Phyllis!" interrupted Margaret. "He isn't one of those wounded animals you used to try to nurse back to health when we were children! He's a grown man, and it's high time he quit acting like some sort of martyr every time someone asks him to take responsibility for the way he's treated this family."

"The way I've treated this family? Is that really the argument you want to make?!" Thomas sputtered so flabbergasted at his sister's unmitigated gaul that he allowed flecks of spittle to fly unheeded from his mouth.

"You abandoned us, Thomas. You like to think it's the other way around, but it's not. Where were you when Aaron died?! You were nowhere to be found because you were too selfish to give up the twisted life you lead." She rose from her seat, so that she was staring down at Thomas, her nostrils flaring and her pale skin turning a blotchy red.

Besought with anger, Thomas stood as well, sending his chair clattering to the floor as it tipped backwards. Yanking off his glove, he brandished the gnarled flesh of his injured hand as though it were a weapon. "You want to know where I was when Aaron died?! I was up at the front getting this done to me!" The skin was thinner at the more damaged points where the bullet had made contact, allowing the blood vessels beneath to show through, which gave the illusion that one could see light shining directly through the appendage.

"Don't you dare try to compare your blighty with my husband's death. Don't you dare." Her entire body shook as she spoke, "My husband died, and all you could manage to write was, Sorry for your loss. As though everything I've ever given up for you didn't even matter. As though I was some sort of distant acquaintance that you barely even knew!"

"I was at the front of the bloody war, woman! And what do you mean everything you've given up? When have you ever—"

"My God, Thomas! I always knew that you had your head up your— You know what Dad told me when Mum got sick? He told me, 'Sorry, Maggie. No more school for you. Somebody's got to watch after your little brother. Make sure he stays out of mischief.' And then when Dad was willing to give you the universe, when he was willing to work day-and-night so you could finish your education, so you could go to any school you wanted and fulfill your every dream— you decided that it was more important that you be able to live a life of depravity." Her eyes shone like glass as she struggled to keep tears from flowing down her face, "You were given every opportunity in this world, and you chose to throw it away."

"I didn't choose to throw anything away, Margaret. Quit trying to rewrite history! You threw me away. I begged you for help. You turned your back on me when I needed you most." He swallowed painfully against the lump that formed in his throat as he remembered the rejection.

"And just what would you have me do, Thomas? What were you even thinking?! You say that this doctor of yours claims that you're just the way nature made you, but even he couldn't possibly believe that you should act upon your compulsions!" she replied utterly aghast at the memory of her brother's near downfall.

"What would I have you do? I would have had you show me just a little kindness, that's what!" Unsuccessful in his own battle to keep his tears at bay, he stood humiliated as the hot droplets of moisture streaked down his face, "I needed you and you abandoned me."

"And just how was I supposed to help you? I have my children to watch over on a widow's pension, and you expect me to take care of you as well? You said yourself that you wouldn't be able to find work! My husband had just died, and you expected me to have the strength to come running to your rescue? It's hard enough to make ends meet without having another mouth to—"

"Well, maybe I could have done something if you didn't shut me out," Thomas retorted scornfully. "Oh, and don't try to make this all about finances, Maggie! Stop rewriting history. You didn't want me around because you thought I might corrupt your kids!"

Margaret's nostrils flared as she shot back, "Can you blame me? Of course, I thought you were a bad influence. You were nearly arrested, Thomas! I can't even imagine what was going on in that head of yours! And once again, you're so wrapped up in playing the victim that you can't even acknowledge that I was grieving. I already had so much to worry about, and you expected me to come clean up your mess!"

Incensed, he dropped any and all pretense of common courtesy. "You needn't worry about me corrupting your little angels. I promise to keep my buggery to a—"

A stinging slap delivered quickly and painfully to his face cut his tirade short. As the red imprint of his sister's hand began to throb upon his cheek, he blinked at her in shock.

"You will not use that sort of language in our father's home. Can't you even try to show a little respect?" she growled.

"Thomas, perhaps you should—" Phyllis attempted to interject.

"Oh, shut up, Phyllis!" he snarled at her. The visit was turning into everything that he had imagined it to be: an unmitigated disaster. And just then, blinded by his own ill humor and his own impotent rage, he found himself hating her. He hated her for letting him think that this journey would prove fruitful. He hated her for always thinking he could be a better man. And he hated her for allowing him to believe that he was capable of such a thing. "Just shut up! I knew you would take her side! You keep pretending that you support me, but the second I ask you to accept me for who and what I am, you say that you can't do it. You're just like her."

Phyllis began to open her mouth to object, to scold, to apologize—Thomas didn't care what it was she had to say, for he whirled around and stomped out of the room. He headed to the only place of refuge that he knew of in that house: his bedroom.

Slamming the door behind him, he stopped short as he took in the sight before him. The room was just as he remembered it: his narrow bed pressed firmly against one wall; the bureau where he imagined his old school uniform still lay, neatly folded and pressed; the small side table upon which an electric lamp—the only new addition—and a portrait of his mother sat. He heaved himself onto the bed and buried his face into the pillow, breathing in deeply the near forgotten smell of his childhood.

You're acting like a spoiled brat, his more rational and mature side whispered inside his head. "Shut up," he muttered into his pillow. Just go out there and apologize. Stop behaving like such a twat. "Shut up," he muttered once more. He knew he was behaving foolishly, but he was too angry to care.

Before much time had passed, a tentative knock came at the door. "Leave me alone!" he yelled petulantly.

Through the wooden slab, he heard Phyllis plead, "Open the door, Thomas. Please."

He sat up in his bed and felt his already bitter mood souring even more. "Go away. I don't want to talk to anyone. Leave me alone!"

"Thomas. Please. Just open the door."

He swiftly crossed the length of the small bedroom in two strides and flung open the door. "I said, leave me alone!" he shouted as he slammed the door shut.

Or at least he tried to slam it; instead, he had only managed to crush Phyllis's little finger in the jamb. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but could only manage a tiny, sharp sob of pain as her face crumbled into a mask of anguish and tears began to flow down her cheeks.

author's note: In the next chapter, Mr. Molesely comes to kick Thomas's butt! OK, not really. But it'd be an awesome twist, right?

Sorry about poor Phyllis's pinky—but it's been a while since Thomas has done anything particularly cruddy, so I'm afraid she was the collateral damage in this chapter. Please don't hate me for maiming her. Keep in mind that Thomas's dad died less than a week ago, so he's naturally going to face some bumps in the road to wherever it is that he's heading.

So who has the moral high ground in this argument? Anyone know?

I hope that Maggie is starting to feel a little more well-rounded. Previously, all we knew about her is what Thomas and Phyllis told us, but there's always more than one side to a story, right? Next chapter, you'll get to learn why she didn't help when Phyllis got out of prison.

I had spent a lot of time trying to create Maggie's husband, and had at first imagined some obnoxious bore whom Thomas could grumble about. But then I thought, "What if he's dead? Killed in the war, maybe?" and a whole new angle opened up for writing about the dynamics between the Barrow siblings. So, poor Corporal Aaron Howard, owner of Howard Baked Goods, became canon fodder for my story. #sorrynotsorry

By the way, I have no idea if one can systematically fire a bullet from a gatling gun. But the line sounded awesome, so meh.