author's note. As I mentioned in the previous chapter – I wrote and posted this story out of chronological order, so this section was written YEARS before the rest of it. My writing style has changed somewhat in the nearly-a-decade since I wrote this, and I wish I had time to revise the entire thing, but I don't. Sorry!

So: about the rabbits. I forget if that happens at the end of the second episode, or the beginning of the third, but it was so completely out of character for Domingo to kill all of the rabbits that I figured there HAD to be a logical explanation. Remember, he bought all three of the rabbits just to keep Iris' dad from killing and eating them. (And remember, Iris' dad killed the first rabbit in front of children, just to prove a point, and we are still supposed to find him a sympathetic character.) I think it's not terribly good writing to have a character do something shockingly OOC, and never explain it, just to move the story forward.

I'm assuming it was some sort of war flashback that led to the rabbits' demise – remember, we are shown how deeply the war affected Billy, and he never even saw combat. Domingo experienced two years of some of the worst combat humanity had experienced to that point, AND survived a life-altering injury, so I think he's entitled to a little PTSD. Also, bear in mind that they gave opiates out like candy in the 1920s – I mean you could buy cough syrup over the counter with heroin in it – so maybe he wasn't operating at a hundred percent. The way he looks at the razor (sidebar: he shouldn't have had a straight razor; the safety razor was invented in 1901 but didn't start catching on until they were issued to soldiers during WWI, so as a war veteran Domingo would be using the modern version – is it weird that I know that?) makes me think he was thinking of using it on himself, so I'm glad it was the rabbits instead.

And, here's something I learned from the comments section on YouTube (where at least a few years ago, you could watch every episode of this series) – when Domingo tells Iris' father his name, the dad immediately responds by calling him an ethnic slur for Irish Catholic people. I'm not up on my 1920s British slang, but apparently at the time this was highly offensive language, and Joseph Moss uses this word within seconds of meeting a person. What a nice guy! But Domingo doesn't react at all, which I think is hot. It makes me think that losing his entire family + almost dying + living with a life-altering injury puts things into perspective for him.

Mama told me that's what marriage is all about… coming to an acceptance. - Iris in "The Thunderbolt"

He still hadn't dressed. She'd waited a decent interval after the young bride's departure before she entered to find him huddled in a ball of misery, face towards the wall. She retrieved a blanket and spread it over him, heart aching with mother love. Gingerly, Mrs. Hennessy sat on the edge of the bed.

"It was worse than she thought it'd be, then?" She pulled the blanket an inch further over his bare shoulder, as if it would offer him comfort.

"She didn't know." Domingo's voice was muffled by the pillow. "I never told her. She - she had no idea."

"I see." Mrs. Hennessy sighed. "She gave me to believe that she knew… everything."

"I couldn't tell her. I meant to, but… I never could."

"Will she come back, do you think?"

The muffled voice choked with a sob. He still hadn't turned to look at her and maybe he never would. "I'm certain she won't, Mom. You didn't see her face; she was disgusted. My wife thinks I'm a monster. My wife."

And Clarinda Hennessy sat very still for a very long time, listening to the ticking of the clock, cursing her own helplessness and the three white rabbits. Finally she arose. "Dom, where's the brown bottle?"

"In the top left bureau drawer, back of my dress collars," he said, still not facing her. "Only you know how I feel about it. It won't help."

Mrs. Hennessy retrieved the item in question: nearly full, despite coming from the chemist more than a year ago. "I do wish you'd consider it," she said softly, and left.

"Gone? How could it be… gone?" Ruby repeated.

"Gangrene," Iris explained, face buried in a handful of wedding veil. "And I didn't say it was all gone... entirely."

"Well, how bad was it?" Ruby persisted.

"I don't know," Iris wailed. "I'm not exactly in the habit of looking at those things."

"But surely you've seen one before," May suggested.

"Of course I have, with Dadda's vetting work," Iris said, "and when Billy was a baby and I used to give him a bath."

"I'll thank you not to place me in the same category as Dadda's neuters!" Billy exclaimed indignantly.

Ruby tapped her lower lip reflectively. "What would you use for an object of comparison?"

"Is this discussion really necessary?" Father Melia pleaded, his voice unusually strained.

He had lost track of night and day: the curtains were perpetually drawn, anyway. He hadn't eaten in days and the brown bottle was nearly empty. It was finally his reflection in the mirror - hung high above the bureau so it only showed his face and shoulders - that suggested he ought to shave. He'd thought often about switching to safety razors, but now the phrase "cut-throat razor" kept repeating itself through his frenzied mind. How easy it would be. Only the cleanup would be left to his mother and there would be no record that the miserable Domingo Hennessy had ever lived.

One of the rabbits squeaked in its cage. He'd forgotten all about them but it was so clear now. The rabbits had been the origin of all this misery - take care of the rabbits, take care of the pain.

And if that didn't work, there was always the razor.

"Is Mrs Hennessy in?"

Ruby stared at her blankly. "You're Mrs Hennessy."

"The other Mrs Hennessy," the woman on the doorstep said firmly. "My daughter-in-law."

Ruby sighed grandiosely. "She's upstairs. You can wait in the parlor."

She stepped inside. "Thank you."

Ruby rolled her eyes and took off up the stairs. "Iris! The battle-axe is here."

Iris appeared a few minutes later, wearing a wrapper and a pair of red-rimmed eyes. "I do wish you'd at least see him," the older woman began without preamble or pleasantries.

"Oh, I saw him, all right," Iris said, sitting shakily on the edge of a brocaded chair.

"I thought you were different," Mrs Hennessy went on. "I hadn't picked you for that kind of girl - the kind that toys with a man's affections."

"It wasn't a game to me," Iris pleaded miserably.

"You led me to believe that you knew everything."

"I only knew that he'd been wounded," Iris said wearily. "He told me he'd been invalided out. I thought it was nerves like our Billy."

"Nerves!" Mrs Hennessy flung out her hands expressively. "He should be so lucky that it was only nerves. You don't know what he's been through these five years. I meant what I said, about never thinking I'd see him smile again. He's not smiling now, that's for sure, young lady."

"It isn't my fault," Iris defended. "It was the war did... that... to him. Not me."

"No, you're quite right," the other woman agreed, tartly. "We have the enemy to thank for it. And quite a nice way to show your appreciation to a decorated war veteran."

"You don't understand," Iris argued. "This wasn't what I wanted."

"Few of us ever gets exactly what we wanted. You're a very silly girl if you don't know that already."

"I wanted children. Babies of my own. And to be loved as a wife. Now go on, tell my I am selfish for wanting these things."

"I don't suppose that it crossed your mind to consider what he wants. Have you any idea what he is feeling right now?"

"I expect he is unhappy," Iris conceded. "I'm not a fast woman - I didn't set out to hurt him. Only this - this I can't bear."

"It hasn't been easy for any of us, Iris," Mrs Hennessy declared passionately, "but don't think for a minute that you got the worst of it. You don't know what it was like for us, in those early days. The pain was so terrible for him he couldn't walk, he couldn't sleep. That was when he started doing magic, did he tell you that?"

"He only said... after the war."

"All the time he was laid up in hospital he practiced it out, first the card tricks, then the rest. I was overjoyed he had something to think about other than pitying himself. I spent so many nights worrying over my boy but I never let him see it. Helping with bandages, trying to bring him some small measure of comfort. And oh, what a time we had of it figuring out what he could eat."

"What do you mean?" Iris asked, with the least bit of new admiration for Mrs Hennessy.

"His stomach, his bowels were nearly destroyed. Nothing will ever be the same for him - he tried so hard to keep it from you. Did you know, he never ate all the chocolates you gave him - they give him terrible pains, we learned the hard way. He brought them all home to me - said all he could enjoy was the delicious fragrance - I've had to loosen my corset laces since he started seeing you. But Dom would have died rather than offend you."

"Stop." Iris was determined not to give an inch out of pity.

"That's why the house with modern plumbing was a godsend - it made things so much easier for him than the privy."

"Stop it." Iris put her hands over her ears. "I don't want to know this."

"Do you think it makes it better for him if you refuse to acknowledge it?" Mrs Hennessy was merciless. "I should think your mother didn't raise you to be selfish."

"Don't you talk about my mother!" Iris retorted. "You have no idea what this is for me. You have children - I never will."

Mrs Hennessy looked down at her coldly. "I had three sons. Did he tell you that?"

Iris looked down at her hands, abashed. "Yes, he - he mentioned his brothers had been killed in the war."

"We lost Saul in '14 and Jeremiah in '15. I begged God to let me keep at least one of my boys and He saw fit to spare Domingo." Clarinda Hennessy was not a physically imposing woman but on this subject, at least, she could be quite impressive. "So don't you dare tell me that I don't know. Pray that you never have to endure what I've endured."

"But you knew about it already," Iris argued. "It's not the same thing at all."

"He was my middle son - I never was as protective of him as I was the others. I know that must seem surprising. But I despise anyone that's hurt him - I reserve an entirely un-Christian loathing for the entire Ottoman Empire."

"And me, I suppose," Iris added with uncharacteristic drama.

"I love my son fiercely," Mrs Hennessy explained, although the declaration was quite unnecessary. "I was prepared to love you as a daughter, as well."

"I suppose it's too late for that now."

"Not too late," she corrected. "Not yet."

"I was under the impression he was... perfect," Iris protested as she poured the tea. "He never gave me any reason to suspect otherwise."

Fathe Melia stirred his cup and took a sip. "If it's perfection you're wanting, you may as well take the veil. The only perfect man who's ever walked the earth is Jesus Himself."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"You obviously had affection for him before, when you were unaware of his condition," Father Melia continued. "That might be worth considering. Or as an alternative, ask yourself what you'd do if you'd been married before it - before the war. Would you still find the marriage abhorrent?"

"I suppose you're going to tell me now I shouldn't go through with the annulment."

"Not at all," Father Melia disagreed. "As a representative of the Catholic Church I am obligated to remind you of the sanctity of marriage and all that. All those things I told you before, the love of a man and a woman being holy, they still apply. But as a friend, I tell you I wouldn't blame you in the least. I will do everything I can to make it go smoothly if that's what you want."

"Why does everyone keep asking me if it's what I want?" Iris snapped. "Of course it's what I want."

The priest was slightly taken aback. "Because it's an irrevocable course of action, that's all."

"Forgive me." Iris looked down into her own cup - she still hadn't touched her tea.

"You might try a little compassion," Father Melia said. "Don't act in haste; consider if your primary purpose is to make things better for yourself or to wound him."

"He's already wounded," Iris muttered to herself.

"As I said, none of us is perfect," the priest went on. "It's part of God's plan. He gives us imperfections that we may magnify Him."

Iris was disgusted. "Was it God did that to Domingo?"

"Good heavens, no." Father Melia shook his head. "That was man at his very worst. Let us pray that such a thing never happens again."

"Oh."

"But, remember what I told you before, about compensation. For everything that God takes from us - or allows to be taken from us - He gives us another gift, in return."

"And what gift did God give Domingo?" Iris wondered. "It seems like He would owe him a lot."

"I can't tell you that - you have to find it out for yourself."

Dear Mr Hennessy,

"Why not 'dear sir'? That sounds so much less personal," Ruby inquired.

"How does Mr Brazendale address his business letters?" Iris asked May. "This is a business matter more than anything else, I should think."

"He doesn't let me read his letters!" May replied with indignation.

In light of our recent transactions -

"Transactions? It isn't as though he's sold you a horse," May objected.

"Maybe a gelding," Billy muttered, earning a murderous glance from May.

"Well, I've already written it," Iris explained, "and this is the last good sheet of notepaper unless one of you's volunteering to go down to the corner for more."

I would be willing to meet with you this coming Sunday, from 4 till 4:15 -

"You're not planning on giving him tea, are ya?" May asked. "Because we're down to nothing in the cake tin."

"Fine, I'll cross it out."

- from 3 till 3:15 in order that any arrangements may be -

"May be what?" Iris paused.

"May be arranged?" May suggested.

- may be arranged as are deemed necessary.

"Well, that's rather final," Iris said, looking it over. "One sentence. Short and to the point."

"That's the best way," Ruby advised, as though she had any expertise in the matter.

"Now, how shall I sign it?"

"Why not a skull and crossbones?" Billy put in around a mouthful of toast.

"Oh, who asked you," Ruby scowled.

Yours sincerely, Iris Moss.

"I still don't like you," Ruby said upon opening the door.

"I can't say I blame you," Domingo agreed morosely. Anyone with an iota of compassion could have seen that he was about the most wretched man on the face of the earth.

"You have exactly one quarter of an hour," Ruby said as she led him to the parlor. "Anything more than fifteen minutes and I'm coming in to rescue her, do you hear? I meant what I said. You hurt her, you'll wish you'd never tangled with the Moss girls." She cast him a murderous look, but at least she allowed him into the parlor without further threats of bodily harm.

Iris didn't rise to meet him or even turn his way until the parlor door softly clicked shut.

"Hello." He wasn't smiling.

Iris hadn't seen Domingo in almost a month. His deformity was so burned into Iris' memory that she had almost forgotten his face. She'd liked his face, before - it was so honest, so gentle and bright. Yet she was shocked at the change in him. The man she'd left on the marriage-bed showed the evidence of soul-crushing anguish but he'd still been young, hopeful. He was older somehow, now, and Iris understood that there was no getting that other man back. All of this occurred to her in a rush and it threw her for a loop - so much so that all she could say was, "You haven't been sleeping."

"No," he agreed with a sad twinge around his lips, "but neither have you."

"No."

He crossed the parlor in two long strides, facing away from her at the mantelpiece. The clock ticked off a full minute before he spoke again. "Iris, I-"

"Domingo-"

"Iris, I never meant to hurt you. I didn't. If I could undo it, I would. I'd never have hurt you intentionally and I'd do violence to anyone that would."

"How could you? I was so happy."

"I should have told you." His back was towards her but his voice, the set of his shoulders were unmistakable. "I tried. I tried a thousand times. Only how could I? It's not the sort of thing that comes up in polite conversation."

"You should have tried harder," Iris said quietly, looking down at her hands.

"I should have," he agreed. "It was on my lips every time we spoke but I never could get it out. I was afraid, Iris. Terrified. Please know that I'm not a dishonest man, only a coward. Hate me for the basest kind of a coward but not a liar."

"I'm not sure that's much better. And I'd hardly say you're honest."

"I never said a word to you that wasn't true," Domingo said, finally turning towards her with stricken eyes. "I may not have told the whole truth but I swear to you, I've never told a lie."

"Father Melia says that sins of omission are just as devastating, and sometimes worse than sins of commission."

"I'm sure he's right. There's no way I could ever atone, either to God or to you, for what I've done. And I don't blame you for hating me."

"I haven't said I hated you," Iris said. She'd been better raised than to say it.

"But you do, don't you? Hate me, I mean."

Iris bit her lips. "I haven't decided."

Domingo buried his head in his hands, memorizing the pattern of the carpet. He'd remember that carpet until his dying day. "I loved you, Iris. It would be so much easier if I didn't, but I love you still. I know it's not right, but there it is."

Iris did not respond.

"Have you decided what you're going to do?" he said finally.

"I've spoken with Father Melia. He said an annulment would be very easy."

"I figured as much." Domingo reached in his pocket for a thick white envelope. "This may help you. It's a full typewritten description of my… injury. I wouldn't read it if I were you; it's rather explicit. But the Church may want proof of why our marriage can't be consummated."

"Thank you," Iris said, accepting the envelope with her fingertips.

"I only want to make things easier for you," he said. "If there's anything else that is required, you need only send word. You don't ever have to look on my face again if that's what you prefer."

"And what will you do?" The question surprised Iris even as she was speaking it - she didn't suspect that she was the least bit interested in his future plans. "After it's all over with."

"Back to the paper mills," he said. "I read in the news that they're hiring. After I make arrangements for my mother I'll emigrate to Canada. It may help you if I'm father away."

"No more magic?"

"No more magic," he agreed. "Those days are over now, aren't they, Iris? A sad magician's not much use to anyone."

"Is that why you dispatched the rabbits?" Iris said, rather nastily. She was still quite hurt about the rabbits.

Domingo lifted his face to her, drained of all remaining color. "What? How do you know about that?"

"Sending them to me was a nice touch," she added coldly. "As if there could have been any doubt."

"Oh, no," he moaned. "Tell me I didn't."

"You did, indeed." The color had risen in Iris' face. "Dadda can show you where he buried them, if you'd like."

"No…"

"I wouldn't have expected you for such a nasty trick."

"I wasn't myself," he said. "I know that doesn't excuse it, but I must explain. It was the brown bottle."

"The brown bottle?"

"Opiates. For the pain, only I don't like to use it. Only when necessary. It makes me do terrible things, sometimes."

"Is it very bad?" Iris said, almost in a whisper. "The pain?"

"Every day," he said grimly, looking away from her. "And after you left, well, I hit the bottle. Hard. I didn't know what I was doing - I think I didn't know my own name. I only realized what I'd done… later… when I saw the dried blood. I thought it was my own blood. And then the empty hutches. Only I thought Mom must have discarded the corpses… I never imagined I'd sent them to you."

"I thought it was a message," Iris said. "That you despised me. That you never wanted to see you again."

"Nothing could be further from the truth," he said. "And when I came round at last, I threw what was left of the bottle in the incinerator. I could never touch it again. I - I'd cut off my own hand if it would undo the hurt I've caused you."

"I doubt that's much comfort to the rabbits."

"I'll get you new rabbits," he said. "They're no use to me now anyway. Or I'll send chickens, if rabbits would be an unpleasant reminder."

"Rabbits would be fine," she said. "Dadda'll make them all into stew, anyway, no doubt."

"If it will make you happy."

"Children would have made me happy," Iris corrected him. "I wanted to be a wife. And mother. Rabbits are a poor substitute for that."

"I wanted children too, believe it or not," Domingo said miserably. "And I was happy. On our wedding day I could have died from happiness. Please, if you ever think of me again, remember our wedding - not everything that came after."

"I don't want to remember," she said. "I wish it had never happened."

"While we are airing grievances," Domingo said, a little cruelly, "I wonder if you needed to tell everyone about me."

"I'm not a gossip if that's what you're suggesting," Iris retorted. "Only people needed to know why the marriage was off. I can't be responsible for what's said behind my back."

"Had it never occurred to you," he said, with an expression on his face that Iris had never seen before, "that I've worked hard to develop a reputation as something other than a deformed freak? Why do you think I moved here?"

"I... I don't know," Iris faltered.

"Because when I got out of hospital, everyone knew." There was no mistaking it - he was angry. Domingo picked up a porcelain kitten that had been their mother's, and for an awful moment Iris thought he was going to dash it on the carpet. "Oh, the pitying glances, the silence as I hobbled by. The stares from children. No one looked me in the eyes anymore - only at my trousers."

Iris wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your pity!" he said sharply. To his credit, though, Domingo set the kitten down gently. "I'm done with being pitied. I want to be your equal. I wanted to be your husband."

"And what of what I wanted?" Iris replied. His indignation was catching. "Did you ever think of that? You knew all along that you could never make me a mother, yet you kept right on courting me. How could you? "

His shoulders sagged. "I honestly believed," Domingo said so quietly that Iris had to strain to hear him, "that if we loved each other enough, it wouldn't matter."

"Oh."

"Oh," he repeated.

"It seems a shame," Iris mused after some time.

"What does?"

"That you'll never do magic again. You were quite skilled. Perhaps with a change in venue…"

"No." He cut her off. "That life is over. I've given it up - as my penance, for what I've done to you. It's the least bit of the punishment that I deserve. You'll be happy, anyway, and that will have to suffice for the both of us."

"And if it was up to you?" Iris said. "What would you have us do? We can't go back to the way things were before."

"Iris…" Domingo began. "I'd like it if we could be friends. Perhaps, in time, if you can't love me as a husband you could like me as a companion. Only I can't ask it of you - to be burdened with such a thing. I know I can't ever be what you deserve. I've missed you terribly but I won't be selfish."

"I did like going out walking with you," she said.

"You did?"

"I did." She knew she had to tread carefully, to avoid giving him any false hope. "Billy thinks I should give it a cooling-off period before I send for the annulment. I suppose a few more weeks wouldn't hurt anything."

"Please don't toy with me."

"You may take me out walking next Sunday. Don't get your hopes up, mind."

It had only been twelve and a half minutes, but Ruby burst through the door against which she'd had her ear pressed for the entire conversation. "Time's up."

The first Sunday, they spoke not a single word to each other the whole time. Seven blocks down and seven blocks back, and both of them as stiff as gargoyles, lest a smile crack their stone faces. Domingo bade her goodbye at the door, stiffly, and she just as stiffly agreed to see him the following week.

The second Sunday, they managed the weather as a topic of conversation. By the end of the seven blocks they'd definitively established that it was, indeed, sunny although it may turn to overcast later in the day.

The third Sunday, Iris begged off with a bad cold, which wasn't entirely untrue, though Domingo was given to skepticism when Ruby gave him this information at the door. As soon as the florist's opened on Monday, Domingo had a bunch of violets sent to her door and to Iris' credit, she actually placed them in water instead of tearing them to pieces.

The fourth Sunday, it was pouring rain, so they stayed in the parlor while Ruby read aloud from Mama's book of poems (thoughtfully omitting Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds) and Dadda abused the foot-pedals of the pianola.

After their walk the fifth Sunday, Iris came across the annulment papers in her drawer and thought, Oh, I was meant to have sent those to Rome by now.

And the sixth Sunday, Iris agreed that perhaps they could meet oftener than once a week.

"You can look through the cards if you'd like, see that they're genuine and not marked in any way."

"Shouldn't you be wearing a top hat, cocked at a funny angle?" Iris asked, and he smiled, almost to himself. "My mother always said that playing cards were the Devil's handiwork."

"Mine too," Domingo agreed, "only these aren't face cards. See?" He pulled one from the deck in her hands to show her, the warmth of their hands touching like a crackle of electricity. "They're all of the Catholic saints so they're quite safe, although I suppose your father would find them objectionable."

"He would." Shyly, she slid the deck back across the table to him.

"Now pick a card," Domingo instructed. "Remember which one it is or the trick won't work. Have you got it?" Iris nodded. "Good." He slipped her card into the middle of the pack and shuffled the cards between his hands. "This was the first trick I ever did - learned it off of Bobby Hudson of Finchley. He taught when we were on watch, only he never quite got the hang of it himself - pulled the wrong card oftener than not. Poor Bobby never quite forgave me for mastering what he considered 'his' trick. I sent his cards home to his mother after he was killed.'

Iris wasn't listening - she was watching his hands, staring as one transfixed. Domingo didn't look down at the cards once as he shuffled and mixed them, bright colors swirling together impossibly. He kept up a chatter the whole time in his low, quiet voice; he was obviously practiced at the art of misdirection; but all Iris could notice was his hands. Hands that had killed, that would never hurt her. Hands that could do magic.

Perhaps I've underestimated him, she thought.

"Now tap the deck three times," Domingo said, and offered the deck towards Iris. It took her a moment to rouse from her reverie and comply. "Very good." He fanned the cards out across the tabletop, closing his eyes as his hands hovered above the spread. "This one." He held it up towards Iris. "Is this your card?"

"It is!" Iris exclaimed with delight. As if she could forget. St John Francis, patron saint of marriage.

"How's the magic business?" Iris inquired on their third walk that week. She'd be needing new soles on her shoes if this continued.

"I'm in over my head now, I can hardly keep my bookings straight," Domingo said. "I'm playing a show every day, sometimes. Scarcely leaves me time to see my mother - or you."

"Have you ever thought of using an assistant?" Iris wondered.

"It's a touchy business, a magician using an assistant," he explained. "It must be someone who knows him intimately or the tricks fall flat. There's a lot of false bottoms and sliding latches and such - it isn't really magic."

"I know that," Iris laughed.

"And must have good hands, of course."

"Of course."

"You've got the right hands for it, Iris," Domingo continued. "You handle those chocolates like they are something important."

"Chocolates are something important," Iris defended. "They're the rent, or pennies for the gas, or a new hat even."

"Yes, well." Domingo smiled at the pavement. He still carried the mental image of her on their first meeting, in her father's kitchen, the sun making a halo of her hair. "You've never seen yourself the way I've seen you."

"So you think I'd do a good job of it? The magic?"

"Oh, I don't know. It would mean spending a lot more time with me. To practice, and all."

"I think I could manage that," Iris conceded. She slipped her hand into his, causing the pair of middle-aged women alongside them to stop dead in their tracks. "They're still staring at us," Iris whispered after they had passed.

"I don't mind it now."

"You don't?" Iris said, still at a whisper.

"All right, I do mind it some. I suppose I always will." Domingo tightened his grip on his wife's hand. "But you don't know what it means that you've stood by me."

"How's that?"

"I think we've both changed, Iris," he explained. "You're so much more confident than you used to be. And I think that when people see that - that your life didn't end because you married me - it's good for me as well."

"Is it a good change, or a bad one, that you see in me?" Iris pressed.

"A good one," Domingo hastily added, "not that I wasn't fond of you before."

"That's all right, then," Iris said as they came around the corner. "I don't suppose you can have fish and chips?"

"Sadly, no." He smiled ruefully. "But please don't let me stop you from enjoying. They certainly smell tantalizing."

Iris opened her change purse but he stopped her. "Let me. After all, business is booming; there must be some compensation to being married to a conjurer, as your father calls me."

"But you don't need -"

"Save it," he interrupted, "for a new hat."

"What was it like?" Iris inquired when the transaction had been completed. "When you found out you couldn't enjoy things the same as before. Or... what you'd never get to experience."

"At first I was devastated, of course," Domingo said. "But then, after a while - after the first year or so - I started to see it as an opportunity."

"That's a strange way of looking at it. Oh, they're hot!" She passed the paper cone into Domingo's gloved hands and blew on her fingertips. "What do you mean by an opportunity?"

"You love a glass of cold water so much more after you've been in the desert. I thought, I can learn to enjoy the things I'd always taken for granted. It's the smile of a child, the blue of the sky... even the smell of your chips, there, Iris."

"Hmm." Iris thought of what Father Melia had said, about God and compensation. "And you're happy this way?"

"I'm happy now," he said significantly.

"It's an interesting thought," Iris mused. "But I don't think I could live without the chips."

"I wish I could help you to see things the way I do, Iris. I know it won't be the same," Domingo said, suddenly seeming embarrassed. "But... I've been thinking. Not to put too fine a point on it but there must be some things I can do. To... satisfy you."

Iris blushed ruby. "I can't believe we're talking about this on the street! And the Catholic church just around the corner!"

Domingo actually chuckled. "I don't think Father Melia can hear any better than the rest of us. And it's hardly a sin between a man and his wife, is it?"

"So, that answers one question," Iris said, licking a bit of salt from her fingers.

"What's that?"

"What you think about when I'm not around. Besides the magic, of course. You've been thinking about the future - making plans."

"Once I stopped pitying myself, after the war," Domingo said, "I started to think I could have the least bit of hope. For the future. About having a family, and all of that."

"I'm still wallowing in the pity stage, myself."

"I don't blame you." He wanted to put his arm around her, but she was intent on fishing a particularly stubborn fried bit from its paper cone. "I've had five years to get used to the idea; you've only had a few months. But we'll have a houseful of children - under foot and hanging from the rafters if that's what you want."

"But how?" Iris wondered. "You said yourself that the magic's not real."

"Orphan homes are stuffed to the brim, especially after the war. Children aren't going lacking. There's no need for your arms to be empty."

"I do seem to be destined to someone else's cast-offs," she said with a small bitter smile.

"Like your wedding-dress."

"What?"

"Made from Mrs. Brazendale's discarded nightgown. Peignor," Domingo corrected himself with an exaggerated accent. "But didn't you look beautiful in it? Weren't you everything a bride is meant to be? I'd never have known if you hadn't told me."

"I was happy," she said on some reflection. "And do you know, by the time we arrived at the church I'd forgotten it wasn't mine to begin with."

"See?" Domingo smiled down at her triumphantly.

"But children are different. Children aren't nightgowns." Iris wadded her empty paper cone and tossed it in the nearest bin. "How can I love it as my own?"

"You have a mother heart, Iris. I could tell that about you from the first moment we met. If you can love me, you can love a child - our child. Iris, you were made to love and be loved."

And it occurred to her later that that was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her.

"Thanks for the walk," Iris said as she unpinned her hat some weeks later. "I've got to get dinner up for everyone but I'll see you at the magic show tonight."

Domingo hung her hat for her on the peg on the wall behind him. "Sure you don't want me to walk you there?"

"It's no trouble at all. Closer to me than it is for you, and you've got the rabbits to carry." Iris snapped her fingers. "Oh! I almost forgot. I've got something for you in the kitchen."

Domingo followed her through the din of the Moss household to the kitchen, where she handed him a small round paper box. "Thank you," he said, tucking it under his arm.

"Aren't you going to open the box?"

"I should have told you before," he apologized. "All those chocolates you gave me, I've never eaten a one of them."

"Your mother told me you never eat them - you only sniff them." Iris giggled. "But these are for you anyway."

Domingo opened the box - truffles and violet creams. "They're the misshapes from my last batch," Iris explained. "I've tendered my resignation with Viegler's. It's just not practical - I hardly have time anymore."

"Because of the magic?" Domingo felt a twinge of guilt.

"Sure, because of the magic."

"Iris, don't let me -"

"It's no problem at all," Iris interrupted him, "and anyway, I'll be busy. I'm packing up all my things - Billy's helping me cart it all back over to Medici Street as soon as we can borrow Ruby's bike."

His eyes grew wide. "You mean that?"

"So much more convenient, for working on the magic," Iris said, suddenly embarrassed by the joy flooding Domingo's face. "And all we've got here's a privy in the yard."

"Convenient. Ah. Right." Domingo turned to go.

"And, well..." Iris laid a hand on his forearm to persuade him to stay. "I like spending time with you. I find myself missing you when you're not around. I thought we might give it a try."

"That's the best idea I've heard all day." Domingo bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "So, what are these for?"

"It's what May calls a symbolic gesture."

"Symbolic of what?"

"I was making these, and I realized." She smiled shyly. "It's only prejudice that stops the misshapes from being sold on shelves. They're just as sweet as the others."

"Collars for your dress shirt, cost of printing the tickets and feed for the rabbits." Iris tapped her pencil against the ledger. "What else should I put down under 'expenses'?"

"You ought to have a new dress," Domingo said. "Something bright, that will show well on stage."

"Brand new and ready-made?"

"Brand new and ready-made," he agreed, "and a hat to match if you'd like."

"Maybe." Iris pursed her lips pensively. "I was thinking we should have some posters made. 'Domingo the Magnificent' in letters a foot high, so you can read them halfway across town."

"'Domingo the Magnificent'," he repeated, a smile playing across his lips.

"Only don't expect me to call you that round the house," Iris added quickly.

"No, it's a bit of a mouthful," Domingo agreed. "'Dom' is fine for every day."

A loud snore erupted from the armchair behind them, and they both laughed. "I don't think your mother's finding this as interesting as we are."

"She does the music but the business side's always bored her. Someday we'll have a full orchestra for every show and Mom'll watch it from the front row."

"Anyway," Iris went on, "I was thinking we should look into doing newspaper adverts, as well. What do you think?"

"Do you want to know what I think?" Domingo was looking at her strangely.

"I do."

"I think that you like me now."

Iris looked away, suddenly embarrassed. "I - I do like you now."

"Come here." He pulled her up by the wrist and danced a turn around the room with her, humming You Made Me Love You for accompaniment. "I think I like it, the way things are now," he said when they were finished.

"I like it too," Iris said, not letting go. "It's different, but I like it."

"I don't think things could ever be the way they were before," Domingo said, "but isn't that a part of life? Changing and growing, and all that."

"Sometimes it's the only way," Iris agreed, feeling infinitely older and wiser. And as he took her around the room a second time, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be led. Tucking her head under his chin, she could feel his heart beating in his chest and she thought, This is happening to me. Not one of my sisters. Me.

And Domingo was thinking, This is why I couldn't die. I had to live. For her.

"So, I was wondering." Domingo stopped the impromptu waltz and held her at arm's length. "Have you still got your wedding dress?"

"It's in my scrap basket," Iris admitted. "May said she'd put in far too much work for me to chuck it in the bin."

"Why don't you put it on?"

She was still a virgin in the eyes of the Catholic Church. Father Melia had been quite uncomfortably clear about that.

Iris didn't care. From that evening forward, she considered herself married in every sense of the word.

"Let me see it again," Iris said, sitting cross-legged on the end of their bed. Firmly, before she lost her nerve.

"Are you sure? You don't have to - "

"Get used to being bossed, you're a married man now," Iris teased. She pretended not to notice how badly his hands were shaking.

Iris found to her surprise that his wounded body was far less grisly than she expected. Somehow, in her mind, the scars had grown almost monstrously ugly; now she saw that had been simply a trick of memory. Not that it wasn't bad, but it wasn't unbearable either. And anyway, she only had to look at it. Domingo had to live with it.

"Well?" he said quietly, after some minutes had passed.

"I don't like it," Iris said.

"I don't either."

"But it brought you here." She reached for his hand. "It brought you here to me."

"The arrangement's changed, Dadda, that's all I'm saying," Iris explained, tying an apron over her new yellow dress.

"So that's it, then?" her father replied. "I knew he'd take our Iris away from us, one way or another."

"We'll still come to dinner every Sunday, and oftener for tea," Iris retorted. "Only someone else's got to do the cooking from now on. It's high time you all learned to get by without me. And don't be offended if Dom doesn't have any - he's had a tricky stomach since the war."

"Tricky stomach," Mr Moss repeated. "Dom! I don't even know you any more, Iris. We only see you an hour a day as it is."

"Look, I've done my indenture, haven't I?" Iris smiled placidly. "It isn't as if you haven't had time to get used to the idea."

"And I suppose this... this Dom has got you so busy, scrubbin' his floors and mendin' his britches that you haven't got time for your own family."

"It isn't like that at all, and you know it, Dadda," Iris rebuked. "Only we're so busy these days with the magic -"

"Magic!" The moustache couldn't hide the disgusted expression on her father's face.

"It's an honest job; you said yourself he's got an eye for it," Iris said firmly. "And it's more interesting than piece-work and safer than the bobbin mills."

Ruby looked at her with narrowed eyes. "You look happy," she accused.

"I am happy."