Consciousness did not steal slowly over Lucien Blake; instead, it struck him full in the face, a blinding headache, a roiling in his belly, the taste of sick and guilt at the back of his throat. He wrenched his eyes open and groaned at the sudden intrusion of the morning sunlight, closing his eyes shut tight once more. Something soft, and warm, and very, very solid brushed against his chin; Nemea, butting his head with her own, trying to rouse him, but he resisted, with all his might, for the morning was too unpleasant, and he had no intention of experiencing it for himself.
"Lucien," she grumbled, and he could tell from her tone that she was frustrated with him. And of course she was; he was frustrated with himself. After his father's funeral he'd taken himself off to the Pig & Whistle, drunk like a man who wanted to die until closing time, and then finished the evening by Lake Wendouree with a bottle of whiskey. It was, he thought, an absolutely abysmal display of poor manners; he didn't even like his father, and he'd gone and gotten himself into such a state over the man's death that he couldn't even recall how he'd made his way home. No doubt Nemea had something to do with that; someone had heaved him into bed, and taken off his shoes. In his heart he hoped Nemea was the only one who'd seen him like that, laid so low; he couldn't bear it, if the perfectly prim and proper Mrs. Beazley, or worse the young Nurse O'Brien, had seen him so wretched. I should be better at this by now, he thought as the unpleasantness of his current predicament washed over him. I've lost so many people, you'd think I'd have learned.
"Just let me sleep," he was not whining, but it was very close.
"Mrs. Beazley is already making breakfast, and you owe her an apology," Nemea told him.
For her sake Lucien tried to rally, opened his eyes once more and blinked at her blearily, while her golden eyes watched him, soft and sad.
"Mrs. Beazley," he said. "I take it you mean…"
"She helped me get you into bed when you were too drunk to stand," Nemea confirmed for him, and Lucien's heart sank even farther in his chest, if such a thing were possible.
"Bloody hell," he grumbled.
There was no telling, he thought, what Mrs. Beazley must think of him now. One of the things he had learned about her over the course of their brief acquaintance - one of the very few things - was that she did not tolerate foolishness, and she clung fiercely to the strictures of her church. Appearances mattered, to a woman like Mrs. Beazley. She would want the good Doctor to be a good Doctor, to live up to his father's fine example, to be restrained and polite and gracious in company. Too bad for her, he thought, that the younger Blake lacked the elder's refinement. Too bad for her, he thought, that Thomas was dead, and all she was left with was Lucien. A poor replacement for such a man, he thought.
"Lucien," Nemea butted her head against his chin once more.
"I'm going, I'm going." He really didn't have a choice; it was difficult to say no to a three hundred pound lioness. Gingerly he rolled to the side of the bed and sat up, heaved once but managed to maintain his hold on his stomach, and then limped from his bedside to the dressing table, where a bowl of tepid water waited for him. He splashed some on his face and let the shock bring him back to his sensibilities.
"Did I say anything last night I might regret?" he asked Nemea as he peered through the drops of water gathering on his eyelashes.
"It's not your words you have to regret this time, Lucien," she said sagely.
Sometimes, Lucien wished he'd been blessed with a more sympathetic daemon. It would have been helpful, he thought, in moments like this, if his daemon would only reassure him that his behavior had been understandable, given the circumstances. Instead, Nemea always seemed to expect better from him, and she did not hide her disappointment. Maybe that said something about Lucien himself. He didn't want to examine it too closely. And he wouldn't trade her, really, not for anything, for Nemea was a piece of his very heart, and the only comfort he had found in a world that was often cruel, and rarely kind.
With Nemea by his side he slipped up the stairs and into the bathroom, washed his face properly and trimmed his beard, and then ventured back down again to change into a fresh suit. He felt more himself with his hair neatly styled, wearing clothes that did not reek of drink, and thus fortified he squared his shoulders, and marched off to join Mrs. Beazley in the kitchen.
Evidently Mattie had already enjoyed her breakfast and departed for the day; Mrs. Beazley was alone, washing dishes by the sink, humming softly to herself while Halcyon flitted about, trilling a little melody in time to Jean's own tune. It made for a charming sight, he thought, woman and daemon making music together, Halcyon's wings brilliant in the sunlight, the same sunlight that caught the shine of Jean's hair, and turned some of the strands the golden shade of honey. They looked happy, the pair of them. They looked as if they were at peace, and Lucien was loath to disturb them.
But disturb them he did, for Halcyon caught sight of them and nearly tumbled from the air when his wings froze in shock. He recovered himself quickly and darted back up to the ceiling, calling out, "good morning, Doctor Blake!"
Jean's head whipped around to stare at him, and for a moment Lucien dearly wished that a hole might appear and swallow him up, and spare him the indignity of having to face her.
"Good morning, Halcyon," he said. "And good morning to you, Mrs. Beazley."
Her dark eyes watched him warily, but he found no disdain in them, no judgmental disapproval. Where was Mrs. Beazley's patrician certainty this morning? He wondered. Why was she not already berating him for his foolishness, telling him that his behavior was unbecoming a man of his stature, a man who bore his name?
"Good morning, Doctor Blake," she said. Her voice was soft when she spoke; it was not the softness of a kind woman, a mother tending to a wayward child, but instead the softness of a soldier who had stumbled into a field of landmines, and hardly dared breathe for fear of setting one off.
"If you'll just have a seat, I'll make you something to eat."
"Please, don't go to any trouble," he said stiffly, made uncomfortable by her subservience. It had been too long, entirely too long, since Lucien had employed anyone to look after him, and he had not missed it, the sense of duty he felt towards her, and the helplessness her fussing instilled in him. To employ a live-in housekeeper was to take responsibility for her reputation and her livelihood, and in turn to accept that there were some things he simply would not be permitted to do for himself, and he and Nemea had been too long on their own to welcome such constant company willingly.
"I can manage a bit of toast on my own."
Mrs. Beazley frowned at him.
"Nonsense," she said. "Bubble and squeak, I think, if you don't mind to wait a few minutes. And there's tea made, but we have some coffee in if you'd prefer that."
Bubble and squeak was quite his favorite breakfast, and truth be told a cup of coffee sounded lovely. Did she know? He wondered. Those employed in service had a habit of learning the preferences of their employers; a good housekeeper knew her man's favorite meals, and how he took his tea, when to fuss over him and when to step aside, and so made herself indispensable to him. Not unlike a good wife.
"Actually, that sounds lovely," he told her. It would go easier for him, he thought, if he simply gave in to her, and did not fight her on this. Let her fuss; it might make her feel as if she were accomplishing something, rather than languishing in grief, and Lucien, knowing how much he himself appreciated the distraction of occupation, would not deny her the opportunity.
While Jean occupied herself with breakfast Halcyon fluttered over to the table, and landed close to the spot where Lucien had set himself down. The head of the table, his father's chair, and the morning paper already laid out waiting for him. Was this what she wanted? He asked himself. For him to take his father's place, his place at the table and in the surgery and at the club, for her life to carry on in precisely the same fashion, with no interruption from the incorrigible young Blake? If it was, he rather thought she was about to be sorely disappointed.
Her little bird peered up at him, the shine of those dark eyes unsettling at such close range.
"Are you feeling all right this morning, Doctor Blake?" Halcyon asked him nervously.
"Oh, don't bother the good Doctor, Halcyon," Jean chided him, not even turning to look.
"It's quite all right, Mrs. Beazley," Lucien assured her. He was growing fond of her chatty little daemon, and he wouldn't have the poor lad punished for simply asking questions.
"And I am fit as a fiddle this morning, thank you," he added, shooting Halcyon a cheeky wink. The kingfisher's long beak did not allow for a smile, but his eyes seemed to brighten, and he shuffled a few steps closer.
"Are you going to stay, Doctor Blake?" Halcyon asked him earnestly. "Only Jean and I, we were talking, and-"
"Halcyon," Jean barked, and he silenced himself at once, shot back into the air and flew across the kitchen to perch on her shoulder instead. And wasn't that interesting, Lucien thought, that Jean and her daemon had discussed him, that Jean did not want him to know. What would they possibly have to say to one another about him, he wondered, but his mind was clearing from the fog of drink - aided by the cup of coffee Jean had graciously made for him - and it occurred to him that there was one very simple, practical reason for such a conversation. Jean's continued employment in the Blake house would be entirely dependent on Lucien's decision to stay or to leave, and she must have been worried, he realized, not knowing what the future held for her, waiting for the whim of an unpredictable man to decide her fate.
"Well, I'll tell you," he said, directing his words to both of them, to Jean's back and the little blue bird who watched him from her shoulder. "I think I will be staying."
He could earn an income from his father's practice, which was no bad thing, could be a doctor but not a surgeon - his hands still shook too badly to be trusted with a scalpel and a living patient - and Matthew Lawson was in need of a police surgeon he could trust, and his father's house would afford him an address where he could send and receive mail, could keep in consistent contact with Mr. Kim in Hong Kong, as the man continued his search for Li. There was nowhere else for Lucien to go now, not really; he'd left the Army years before, and though he had continued, for a time, to work for Queen and country he had been rather untethered the last few years. Yes, he thought, it might be nice to have a home. Even if it was only for a little while.
And if he stayed, Mrs. Beazley would not need to look for employment elsewhere, or worry about her lodgings, and Mattie would not be turned out on the street. Really, he thought, it would be best for everyone if he stayed.
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Halcyon crowed, delighted.
Lucien could only hope that Mrs. Beazley agreed.
The paper was right there in front of him and Mrs. Beazley was hard at work, so Lucien turned his attention elsewhere, at least until she brought his plate to him.
"There you are, Doctor Blake," she said. At close range it was hard to deny that she was a beautiful woman, hard to ignore the beguiling draw of those clear, blue-grey eyes, hard to ignore the swing of her hips, and Lucien swallowed, a bit thickly.
"Please, call me Lucien," he told her. If they were to continue living together, they were going to have to get used to one another, and every time she said Doctor Blake he caught himself looking round for his father.
"If you'll call me Jean," she answered. She did not smile, but for a moment her eyes seemed to sparkle at him.
"Very well," he agreed. "Jean."
She hummed, softly, and turned away, and Lucien turned his attention to his breakfast, and so did not see that as she ventured back towards the sink and her dirty dishes she passed right by Nemea, and when she did Nemea lifted her great head, and Jean reached out to scratch her gently just behind the ears.
