Chapter 31

The next few hours seemed to drag on like dying slugs. The meeting was always just out of reach. But so far away. Oswald tried to focus on his duties, on his minions and business, but everything kept slipping between his fingers like sand.

Oswald gave up on concentration by the time the clock struck five. An hour before the meeting was to take place. Darkness was beginning to peak through the sky's corners. Ready to jump out and play.

Good. If anything went wrong, then at least the servants would have the cover of night to bury the bodies in.

Oswald sat at the head of the table. Staring into his dark red wine. It was like concentrated pomegranate juice. Persephone had once eaten six mere seeds, and damned half her existence without even realizing it. He wondered how much of his own life he was damning by...well, everything he was currently doing. Would he live to a ripe old age, as Falcone had? Or would he end up shot in the head by an ally, as Maroni? It wasn't the first time Oswald had asked himself these things. But during those other times, he had felt more than capable of handling it. With Ruby by his side, he had felt that he could conquer the world.

Now? He was struggling to keep his own allies from betraying him.

Oswald glanced at the old grandfather clock on the far end of the room. Three minutes past five. He had just under fifty-seven minutes left to wait. And his brain felt too hyper to concentrate on literature or music. He could always summon a servant and proceed to strangle them with their own entrails. That was always time-consuming as it was enjoyable. But no, even that didn't seem appealing to him tonight.

Try as he might, Oswald couldn't get the jewel-loving servant girl out of his head. Just remembering the way she'd sobbed as he'd turned on his heel and left...that twisted the knife of guilt protruding from his chest.

Oswald rose. His cane clicked rhythmically against the worn wooden planks. The chamber's door closed firmly behind him. He clicked his fingers, and a servant appeared. "Yes, sir?"

"Have refreshments set out on the table within the hour." Oswald said. "And I want a television wheeled into the room, projecting the viral video concerning Miss Sinclair."

The servant - a young boy, green as grass - blushed as he looked down.

Oswald quirked a thin, dark brow at him. "I presume by your expression that you watched it?"

"Just one...and a half times." The servant boy admitted.

Oswald sighed, leaning his head back. Stayed silent for a moment. He glanced back at the boy. "Harry, was it?"

"Henry, sir."

"Henry." Oswald echoed firmly. "This is your first and only warning: if I ever hear of you watching that atrocious product of shamelessness and slander again, I will have you strung up by your genitals and leave you for the crows. Is that clear?"

Henry looked ready to faint. Instead, he nodded in a jittery fashion. "Y-y-yes, sir."

"Good." Oswald gestured to the room that he had departed from. "Now, get that place dusted and a fire roaring. I want my guests to be...comfortable." A serpentine smile crawled upon his pallid face. Henry all but ran into the cubicle, slamming the door shut behind him. Oswald scoffed at the display. "Teenagers." That business solved, he began his ascent.

Five minutes later, he was knocking on the attic door. Funny. Nothing for ages, and now two stopovers over the course of a few hours. "Ruby?"

Silence.

Another knock. "Ruby? Is everything alright?"

Of course, everything was anything but alright. But he didn't know what else to ask. Apparently, neither did Ruby. Oswald cleared his throat. "I am coming in, so please be decent." He twisted the knob, only to find resistance. Oswald blinked, then sighed. Of course. She wasn't home. Oswald's first instinct was to drop the idea and return downstairs. But something kept him rooted to the spot.

And it was an almost alien sentiment for him: compassion.

Oswald knew what it was like to be hated, rejected, and tormented.

He had endured all of that and more from the moment he'd first stepped out of his mother's incence-scented apartment. Kids had bullied him for everything: his clothes, his skinny figure, his beaky nose, and his high grades. At first, the harrassment had limited itself to name-calling and erect legs that caused Oswald to trip more times than he could count. Then, it had devolved into kids literally throwing rubbish at him, somehow obtaining his house's phone number and jeering at him through the receiver, and coating his bike in eggs. Once, Oswald remembered how a classmate had used the swimming hour as an oppurtunity to put a firecracker in Oswald's slipper. To this day, Oswald was convinced that if he hadn't heard that faint hissing noise and removed his foot in time, he'd have lost two toes at least. And everyone would have found it hysterical.

At least he'd never wound up on the world-wide web.

Not for the first time, Oswald felt ashamed. But this time, something else accompanied the sensation. A desire to do something, however small, to give Ruby hope.

Deftly, before he could change his mind, Oswald slipped his cane's hidden blade out from its sheath. Slid it into the lock. Clic, clic, clic. The door yielded with a creak. Oswald stepped inside. The floorboards squeaked beneath his uneven shuffles. Quickly hiding the blade back in its slender wooden case, Oswald stepped further into the room. Without Ruby, it was just a hollow shell. With the drawn curtains, it felt gloomy and even hostile, much like its owner. But this time, without anyone to watch him, Oswald felt a strange liberty. Distracting him from his destination: Ruby's desk.

"You kept the truth from me," Oswald whispered, "I just want to understand why."

His hands began digging through the shelves. In the closet. Under the bed. Strangely enough, Oswald found multiple fashion magazines piled on top of each other. This surprised him almost as much as Ruby's powers had. In the year that the two had known each other, Ruby had never struck him as fashion-conscious. But as he looked closer, Oswald noticed something: the magazines were all centered on the same model. Opal Sinclair.

Coincedence? Oswald doubted it.

He eyed the model, holding the glossy paper up to catch the best of the gloomy light. She was stunning to say the least. Radiant fair skin, completely devoid of the wrinkles women her age are normally burdened with. A face as round and as pale as the moon, with large, cat-like eyes the color of liquid silver. Her hair was very curly and the exact shade of honey. It cascaded down her back in perfect little waves. Her body was as close as a real woman can get to Jessica Rabbit. But Oswald only noticed a couple of key elements in her image: the familiar curls, the round face, and the big eyes.

Oswald's heart began to trot within his ribcage. He quickly began to turn the pages, searching for more clues. More logs to toss in the fire. He found them soon enough in pictures of an interview concerning both the model and her manager, who turned out to be her brother. Jasper Sinclair. Oswald brought the paper close. The siblings were sitting very closely to each other, so much so that their elbows were almost touching. They also looked as alike as two people of the opposite sex can look, aside from a small minor differences. For instance, Jasper's hair was not the impeccable, warm blonde that his sister had. Instead, it was an odd - yet familiar - mixture of blonde, brown, and gray. His features were a bit sharper, and his eyes were smaller. His chin was weaker than office coffee.

Oswald felt ice coat the inside of his stomach. He began to read the interview typed below the picture.

So, Miss Sinclair, what inspired you to become a model in the first place?

Well, isn't it obvious? Boys everywhere would have grieved if I had kept my body to myself.

Oswald rolled his eyes. Kept reading.

But from what we've heard, your family has suffered from minor genetic problems in the past. Isn't that right?

Jasper stepped in.

Well, yes. You see, our family moved to America from Scotland in the late 1800s. But centuries before that, when Scotland had been divided into clans, the Sinclairs were very hostile and distrusting of anyone outside the clan. So, to keep the name from dying out, and to avoid betrayal, they often married amongst themselves. Marriage among cousins, usually. And while this managed to keep the bloodlines pure, it also gave birth to a list of minor deformities that came with it. Mostly, they were caused by the cells being unable to reproduce properly. So, even if a Sinclair looked normal on the outside, they could still carry this genetic print and pass it on to their offspring.

I'm so sorry, the interviewer said, how you have to suffer for something your ancestors did.

Yes. Most of our relatives suffer from small deformities. Some have large lumps on their skin. Others had almost permenantly red eyes because the veins in their scleras kept bursting. Others had deformed, or malproportioned organs. The two of us were the first Sinclairs in at least two generations to have none of these things. So, we decided to make the most of it.

Oswald tossed the article back under the bed. Unwilling to read the rest of this trash. But as he rose, continuously searching, he found himself piecing the facts together. He recalled that night when he and Ruby had been attacked by Galavan. How, just a little while before, Ruby had mentioned her parents being ashamed of the way she'd looked.

She had also been in Arkham. Had had her DNA toyed with.

Oswald's heart was beating so quickly now, he felt it in his ears. Unable to sort through the scrambled shreds that had once been his brain, he limped to the patio beneath the window. All but crashed into the soft cushions. He closed his eyes. Focused on breathing. On keeping the tears at bay. He brought his hands to his temples. Massaged them gently. Trying to twirl and rearrange the pieces in order to fit them together. But there was something missing. A gaping hole in the puzzle glaring at him. If he could just find it...

He shifted in his seat, thinking about all the times Ruby must have rested on this exact spot. Reading. Polishing her jewels. Or maybe just thinking. He shifted again, this time with more comfort.

The crinkle of a paper stopped him.

Oswald remained still, wondering if he'd heard right, before moving again. There it was again. Paper. Within reach. Oswald experimentally searched under the cushions. Nothing. Under the small mattress placed on the ledge. His fingers found their treasure.

His heart was now deafening. Roaring. Like he was standing right beneath a giant waterfall. But he couldn't stop now. Not when he was so close. Oswald examined the file. Shivered when he saw the Arkham logo on it, along with the red lettering defining the document as 'confidential'. Not caring, he ripped it open. Scanned through 'before' and 'after' photos. Several signed cheques in a flourish, unreadable handwriting. Pages upon pages of formulas that Oswald couldn't hope to understand. But at last, he found hand-written notes near the end of the pile.

The subject I currently have in my care is most unique, both in origin and in resolution. Ruby Sinclair, aged 18, is the result of a less-than-ideal union, no matter what her parents say. In the few minutes that I spent in their presence, I can already write in length about their own condition. It is not as obvious as their daughter's, but it is just as dire. These two siblings grew up in a rigid, traditional household. They were homeschooled for most of their lives, right up to college, and never formed any lasting bonds outside of their family. I suspect that the Sinclair family has been practicing this way of life for so long, that they have either no idea how to change or lack any desire to. Opal and Jasper Sinclair, both named after precious gemstones because of their beauty and value to their parents, were not exposed to their peers until it was far too late. Their vanity only grew, to the point that they believed themselves immune to consequences. Thus, they believed that a union between them would be as perfect as they were. I suspect that the moment they saw Ruby, who, as they claim, began manifesting symptoms since the age of three, the revelation disgusted them to the point that they preferred pretending the problem never existed. Hence the subject's lifelong captivity.

Oswald covered his mouth with his hand.

The mother, Opal, was on leave for nine months but then claimed to have lost the baby when, in fact, the child was born a couple of weeks early. This, in addition to her damaged DNA, was a recipe for disaster.

However, there may be a way to save her. I have been perfecting a 'clay' formula meant to both repair and enhance a person's DNA. To put it briefly, it is intended to enter a person's body and supply it with all of the cells that it needs to function properly. I admit that I was inspired by stem cell research, and tried to utilize a different route to avoid lawsuits. The only issue is that, thus far, all of the subjects (all suffering from degenerating diseases that so far lack a cure) rejected the formula and often died soon after the administration. It is risky, no doubt, but I find there to be no alternative to the subject's worsening health.

UPDATE: Operation has proven successful.

The folder hit the floor. Bleeding papers and photos. Oswald hid his face in his hands. Struggling to stay in control. Yet screaming on the inside.

How? How had he failed to realize it sooner? How had he cared so little as to not delve into the enigma himself?

With the shame came the guilt. He remembered all the nights he'd broken down crying as he visited his mother's death in sleep. He'd feel arms wrap around his middle, whispering sweet nothings in his ear, and staying with him until dawn. He remembered all the times Ruby had shared stories with him about his father, bringing them closer through her words. She had given him peace regarding both his parents' deaths. And what had he done for her in return? Nothing. He'd never even inquired about them. Why?

Because, after a while, he'd stopped caring about the issue. That was the cold, hard truth.

"Ruby," Tears streamed down his hollow cheeks and dripped down his pointed nose, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He tried to regain control. And failed. Miserably.

A rapid succession of knocks snapped his head up. "What?!" He yelled hoarsely.

"Um, sir." Henry's timid voice trembled through the woodwork like a dying maggot. "Er, your guests have arrived."

"What?" Oswald reached into his jacket's breast pocket and extracted his small watch. The hour struck him harder than a slap. "My God. Alright!" He raised his voice. "I will be down in a moment. Have them served whilst I descend!"

"Yes, sir!" Henry's rapidly fading footsteps left him alone again. Alone with the truth.

Oswald struggled to regulate his breathing. Placing his hands on his abdoment to help. Counting ten seconds before inhaling and exhaling. For the first time, Oswald was grateful to the therapist his mother had dragged him to back in junior high. If not for the breathing exercises, he might have had daily panic attacks since Fish Mooney first broke his leg.

Gathering the cursed papers, Oswald quickly shoved them back whence he'd found them. Then, he walked towards the desk. At last. He reached into his jacket's inner pocket and extracted a note. On its back was the careful sketch of a white rose. He placed it on the center of the polished wooden surface. And then, he left the small room and all of its secrets. Feeling like a different person altogether.

Faint voices wafted up the staircase like ghosts. Oswald slowed down. Listened carefully. There were two voices; one gruff and calm, the second higher and more nervous. Oswald picked up the pace. As he neared the conversation, he recognized the voices. The realization pierced him like a gunshot.

"Sinclair, are you sure you're not just looking for attention?"

"That's really cruel, Butch. You just don't get it!" A frustrated whine. "Just leave me alone."

"Jesus, just try to be clear for once!"

"Why? It's all over, like me."

"Knock off this stupid martyr crap!"

Oswald hurried down. But with every forcefully accelerated step set his knee on fire. Forcing him to slow down. Nearly screaming with frustration, Oswald listened to the rest.

"What do you want from me, Butch? Huh? You think bothering me is gonna hook you up with Tabitha?"

"I just want you to be honest, woman!"

"Nobody believes me anyway."

Oswald finally reached the last step. Just in time to see Ruby storming out the front door, head bowed and hugging herself. The slam behind her felt horribly final. Oswald turned to Butch, who was rubbing the back of his fat neck. Actually looking guilty. "Butch!" Oswald's voice cut his distracting thoughts down. When Butch saw him, he reddened and looked down. Oswald marched towards him, clanging his cane with a white-knuckled grip. "What in God's name is going on?"

"Uh, er, nothing, I-"

"Lie to me again, and you'll be lying underground." Oswald hissed. Butch's face went from red to stark white. Good. "Now. What is going on?"

Butch sighed. "I just...wanted to get some info out of her. This whole thing seems fishy as hell, so-"

"So you accused her of being a martyr in search of attention." Oswald clicked his tongue. "Oh, my dear boy. You have all the detective skills of a moldy lemon." He glanced back at the front door. A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it back down. "Never mind. Are the Sirens here?"

Butch frowned at him. "Well, yeah, but what's this all about?"

"You will see." Oswald shoved him through the doors. Warmth and smoke reached out to greet him. With them came the crackling of burning logs. Oswald stood in the doorway. Taking in the sight. As he had ordered, the room had been cleaned up for the meeting. A roaring blaze dominated the fireplace. Burning bright orange and crackling with satisfaction.

The deep green wallpaper shone with vigor, the paintings gleaming like mirrors. The lacey jade curtains, fresh from the dryer, rippled gently from their rungs. The carpets, all depicting intertwining vines and flowers, had been shampooed. The antique furniture was clean, the table waxed. Overall, the setting was pleasing to the eye: the company was not. Butch was bumbling his way to a chair, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there. The Sirens, by contrast, had made themselves at home. Barbara, dressed in a pink cashmere sweater and tight, inky-blue jeans, was nibbling on a cucumber sandwich. Tabitha, robed in black velvet, sat in one of the armchairs with a glass of whiskey in her hands.

Oswald smirked. "Comfortable?"

"I would've been, if I'd had someone to play cards with during the wait." Tabitha eyed Butch. "Where were you?"

"Uh, nowhere." Butch cleared his throat. "Er, I just saw Sinclair."

"I think everybody's seen Sinclair by now." Barbara commented. Tabitha let out a loud snort that made Oswald want to thrust her head in the fireplace. Instead, he forced a polite smile. "It seems that you are making light of a video gone viral."

The Sirens both shrugged.

Oswald continued. Lurching towards the wine cabinet. Selecting a favorite, he poured himself a glass. Without wine, he feared, he might go ballistic. "This entire situation has triggered some rather deep thoughts in my mind. It makes me wonder how it would feel to have falsified images of yourself published for everyone to judge."

Barbara rolled her eyes. Like this was all a game.

Oswald drank. The hot wine raced down his throat. Hit his knotted stomach with a resounding splash. Now slightly quelled, he continued. "Usually, people require a subject matter, be it an individual, group, or even a country, to critisize so that they never take a good look at themselves. In the end, we can only blame ourselves for participating-"

The door burst open. A servant boy poked his head out like a frenzied jack-in-the-box. "Yo! Some crazy shit's going on outside!"

"You!" Oswald spun around and threw the glass at the door. Glass shards and crimson liquid collided with its surface. The boy shuddered. "Don't you ever barge in here that way again!" Oswald yelled. "Lest you want me to steal your tongue as insurance!"

"I-I'm sorry, sir." The servant bowed his head. "But it's important! The head maid. She's..." He swallowed.

"What?" Oswald stepped closer. His anger forgotten. "What happened?"

The servant boy shuddered. "She's on the roof, and-"

Oswald shoved past him, running as quickly as his damaged knee would allow. Not a second later, Butch, Tabitha, and Barbara all followed his lead. Pushing past the servant boy. Leaving him alone. He stood there. Blinked. "Uh." He cleared his throat. "I'll just...clean up here, then."

It had begun to rain. Above, the skies were a deep, unforgiving gray; the color of gunmetal. Torrents of icy water sloshed downt to pelt everything that flew, crawled, or stood still. Rolls of thunder rumbled across the heavens. Below, the trees tremble beneath the acquatic ammunition and the sidewalk was already soaked through. The servants had only their hands to shield themselves from the aerial assault. But Butch, Tabitha, and Barbara watched the scene from the safety of their umbrellas.

Tabitha stared with wide eyes. "Is this for real?"

Barbara laughed. "Bitch flipped out!"

As Oswald hurried towards the centerpoint of everyone's interest, a passing-by servant girl muttered, "I didn't think she was that fucked up." His knee was sizzling with pain at this point. His shoes were already ruined, and his gelled hair was now drooping down. Trying to see through the rain, Oswald pushed forward. Looking up. What he saw would haunt him forever.

Ruby was standing on the roof. A dark figure against a darker sky. Even from over a hundred feet below, Oswald could sense the dreadful calm emanating from her.

"No!" He screamed. "No, no, no!" Broke into a run. His knee felt like it was being beaten with a socket wrench, but he couldn't have cared less. Bursting through the back door, he dived up the spiral steps like a bird taking the sky. His pants and stomps bounced across the narrow, stony corridor. With every closing step, he could sense Ruby's intention as though it were his. He could feel her draining patience, too. Oswald knew that he had a minute, at best.

Keep...going...Oswald...

He encouraged himself as he ran, fighting the strain on his knee.

You...can...do...it.

At last, he reached the door on the top of the staircase. Out of breath and with limbs like Jell-O, he pushed it open. The swinging metal contraption clanged loudly against the brick wall.

The noise startled Ruby enough to spin around. When her eyes found Oswald's pale, sweating face, her bleeding heart stopped. More tears filled her eyes. "What're you doing here, Oz?"

Oswald was so relieved to see her that he cracked a smile. Took a step. Slipped. Crashed on his side before quickly climbing up, clothes dripping. Ruby gasped. Shook her head. "Stop! Don't come near me!"

Oswald looked down at himself, soaking and muddy, before raising his gaze. His eyes were bright and blue as crystals. Painfully beautiful. Ruby couldn't have asked for a better sight before dying. But she didn't want Oswald to witness this. Swallowing, she tried to sound more confident that she felt. "Oz, seriously, stay where you are. I will jump!"

Oswald's pupils dialated at the threat. He raised his pale hands up in surrender. "A-alright, alright. I will stay here." He sighed. "Ruby, please."

Ruby's round face crumpled. Her pixie-cut hair was plastered into a helmet shape around her face and neck. With a shudder, Oswald noticed that she was dressed completely in black: a floor-length black skirt, a black blouse, and black Mary Janes. Her ears carried onyx earrings, her fingers were heavy with jet, obsidian, and black opals. Her neck carried a black pearl necklace.

She had dressed for her own funeral.

"Please." Oswald repeated.

Ruby made a strangled little noise. "Oh, Oz. I know you want to help me. But I'm beyond help." Oswald remembered saying the exact same thing to dear Ed all those months ago, right before he'd been dragged to Arkham. Ruby sniffled. "I love that you gave me some support today, but it doesn't matter now. Nothing matters."

"You matter." Oswald stepped forward, careful not to be too quick. "And not by me alone."

Ruby grimaced as though she'd smelled something foul. "Yeah, right. My own family has wanted me gone from the moment I was born." Something in Oswald's face must have shown, for Ruby threw her hands up. "Why not? What have I to lose anymore?" She dropped her arms. "I'm a product of incest, Oswald! My parents were siblings!" She began to cry and laugh bitterly at the same time. The sight broke Oswald's heart. She let the tears fall along with the rain. "They chose to walk out those gates and leave me forever!"

"I know." Oswald blurted out. Realizing his mistake, he quickly recovered. "I-I know how it feels to be abandoned. For most of my life, I felt that my father had abandoned me. Yes, I learned the truth later, but up until a year ago, I had thought myself unworthy of a father's love." He swallowed. "You mattered to my father, Ruby. I can tell from those photos in your room, and the way you two interacted. He loved you as if you had been his."

Ruby sniffled. Sighed. Didn't move.

Encouraged, Oswald pushed on. "Ruby, your life is still yours. You control your destiny. You cannot control your origin, but you can control what to make of it." He held out his hand. "Please. We can get through this together."

A shaky, tiny smile made its way on Ruby's rain-soaked face. "It's...it's nice to hear you care about me. It...makes me feel a bit better."

Oswald took another step forward. Placed a hand on his heart without noticing. "Of course I do. I told you this morning, no? You're my friend, Ruby."

Ruby became rigid. Stared into his eyes with a curious expression. "So you're telling me you're okay..." she held up a hand, "...with this?" Her hand rippled before shape-shifting into a rose of flesh, bones, and veins. It was a horrifyingly beautiful sight. In an instant, the change reversed.

Oswald took another step. "Your powers were not the true cause of my anger, but your dishonesty."

Ruby blinked miserably at him.

Oswald held out his hands. "Ruby, please trust me. Come stand by me, alright? Just now, I was discussing the video with Barbara and Tabitha. I know that they published it, and I intend to make them pay."

"Are you serious?" Another smile appeared on Ruby's face. A wider one. "Thank you so much..." She reached up and wiped her eyes. "The fact that you don't care about my heritage, or my powers, means more to me than you can imagine."

"I think I can imagine." Oswald lightly joked. "We punished our tormentors once, and we shall do it again."

"You sound so persuasive, Oz." Ruby sniffed. "If only..."

"Ruby, I believe you. I believe in you." Oswald finally allowed a little of his emotional turmoil break through. Tears leaked down his cheeks. "Please, you don't have to do this."

Ruby closed her eyes with a sigh. "Oz, I'm in a nightmare. I've been in a nightmare since the day I was born, and I can't wake up...unless I fall asleep." She broke down crying, her shoulders shaking. "I never asked for it to be this way. I never asked to be made."

Oswald hesitated. Let loose something he'd kept locked within himself. "I believe...I am to blame for that."

Ruby blinked up at him through her tears. Confusion circled in her puffy, pink eyes.

Oswald edged a little closer. "Since childhood, I have been alone. With the exception of my mother, I could only trust and rely on myself. After years, I began to grow used to solitude; enjoy it, even. But for quite a while before, and even occasionally afterwards, I wished for a friend. Someone whom I could talk to, with whom I could watch films, plot schemes, and laugh."

Ruby's eyes widened. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

"I asked Fate, for that was all I believed in, to send me one. I did not mind waiting, but I desperately wanted a friend. And I believe, after all of this time, my wish was granted when I met you."

Ruby sighed shakily. Tears streamed down her face. "You're such a good person, Oz. Sure, you can be kinda snobby, quick to temper, and you wear too much velvet." She inhaled like her lungs were made of wet tissue paper. "But I'll come with you." A real smile. At last. "You're my friend."

Oswald wanted to cry. He held his hand out. Ruby stared at it for a second. Then, wavered. Leaning forward, she seized it with both hands. Oswald pulled. They both hit the cement with muffled splashes. Ruby buried her face in Oswald's vest. He wrapped his thin arms around her. Buried his pointed nose in her soggy hair. Ruby broke into fresh sobs. "I'm sorry!" She wept. "Sorry..."

Oswald cracked a tiny smile. Pushed some wet hair behind her ear. "What are you talking about? You saved me from the worst meeting of all time."

Ruby laughed and cried at the same time. Coiled her shaking arms around Oswald. He tightened his hold on her.

They stayed like that for a long time.