Outside the station and with toddler in arms, Phryne remembered that she had, in fact, been dropped off by Bert and Cec and therefore had no vehicle to drive. She briefly contemplated just returning to Jack's office and washing her hands of the whole affair, but the truth was that she wanted it over. It had been one of those cases that was emotionally exhausting despite its quick resolution—the severity of the assault, the child left for hours with his mother's body, the knowledge that she would have happily sent the child off with his aunt if her intuition hadn't objected, a long interrogation, and a particularly personal motive had left both her and Jack out of sorts—and it really was best to just conclude the whole matter once and for all. So she took the tram instead, thankful she had at least thought to bring a purse.
Still half asleep and cuddled into her shoulder—the child was deceptively heavy—Anthony was at least pleased enough to applaud the tram's appearance and wave goodbye as they disembarked at the other end, even if he stayed nestled against her and glowered at strangers. Stranger strangers, really—they were hardly old friends themselves.
The Welfare offices were housed in a small red brick building tucked on a quiet side street; Phryne doubted she would have found them if she hadn't already known where they were. She went inside, heading up to Ed's office. With any luck he would be in and she could drop Anthony off and leave, rather than trying to bring someone else up to date. Having grown too heavy to carry, Anthony walked beside her, tiny fist wrapped around her fingers; he was still nearly silent. His hour-long tantrum over wanting his mother had been almost welcome in comparison to his long moments of unnerving complacency. Phryne did not spend a great deal of time with children, but even casting her mind back to her childhood and Collingwood she couldn't remember a child so… absent. Quiet. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it was unsettling.
'E. Prentice' was painted on the window of one of the offices, and Phryne knocked on the door.
"Come in," Ed called, and she went inside.
An enormous desk teeming with files and stacks of paper almost dwarfed the small man, who looked up in surprise.
"Miss Fisher! I mean, Mrs. Robinson?"
"Fisher-Robinson, Ed. I know these are the Antipodes and it's so hideously modern, but do keep up," she said, smiling to make it clear her chastisement was nothing of the sort. She'd known Ed Prentice for years, through his wife's charity work and Jane's guardianship, but he did not have a head for names, and didn't move in the sort of society circles where hyphenation was heard of. "Did Jack telephone?"
"He did. I take it this is the child in question?"
"No, I just thought I'd bring this one in as an example," she said dryly, placing Anthony in one of the visitor's chairs before taking a seat in the other. "This is our victim's son. Do I need to sign anything?"
Ed nodded and began digging through the mass of papers.
"I'm not sure where we're going to put him," Ed said. "When you said his aunt had arrived to collect him we gave his spot to another child."
Phryne remained silent. Where they put the boy was not her business and not of particular interest.
"Honestly, we're already so short—ahh, there...no, wrong one—on foster homes, and these group homes are a whole new set of problems. We've had to find places for a dozen children after one of the girls lit the place on fire..." Ed sighed, slumping backwards in his chair and rubbing his chin. "I can't find the blasted paperwork."
"I'll wait," Phryne said flatly.
Anthony spied a low table of books and toys in the corner, and he slid from the chair and headed towards it. Ed watched his silent movements, then turned to Phryne.
"Has he spoken at all?"
"He has," Phryne said. "It seems to come in fits and spurts."
Ed nodded, then stood and moved towards the boy. He knelt down on his level; Phryne knew that Ed was chronically late and overly fond of paperwork, but he had gone for this job because cared about the children.
"Hello, Anthony. My name is Mr. Prentice."
The boy froze, then turned very slowly to look at Ed. He shied away from the outstretched hand, rounding the table. Phryne had leaned forward to intervene before realising, clearly still on edge after the incident with his aunt, then huffed a small laugh and sat back in her seat.
"Alright, Anthony," said Ed gently. "I'm going to sit down. Maybe you can join us when you're ready?"
Anthony looked away, picking up one of the small wooden cars and driving it along the table. Ed stood up and returned to the desk, giving Phryne a strained smile.
"You said he was talking?" he asked, pulling out a particular file and running his finger down the paper as if searching for something.
"A little," Phryne replied, sparing a glance to make sure he was too distracted to overhear her. "Mostly to ask about his... well, you can imagine. And when he saw his aunt he was distressed; he witnessed the argument, though thankfully not the rest. But other times he's off in his own world."
After a minute Ed sighed, shutting the file. "I haven't got anywhere to put him. Not with his needs."
"There's not a thing wrong with him, aside from the fear."
"Yes. And I could probably cram him into a home where the children are already sleeping doubled up in a bed with a filthy mattress, or in one of those group homes—"
"The group homes where arson is the name of the game?" Phryne asked indignantly. Those places were—in theory—an improvement over the patched together system of private groups, but in theory was the operative term on that front.
"We don't have anywhere else."
Phryne jumped when she felt a small hand on her knee; she glanced down and found Anthony looking up at her with a book in his hand. Oh, bugger this for a lark. It would only be a day or two until they tracked down a family member.
"What if we take him?" she asked.
—
At half past four, Jack entered Wardlow with the intention of grabbing a quick nap before dinner. He glanced into the parlour and didn't see Phryne; he had hoped she was home so he could make sure relinquishing Anthony had gone smoothly. He'd start trying to track down the appropriate next of kin in the morning; there was a second aunt at the very least, though Connie Wilkes refused to provide an address. Mr. Butler came out from the kitchen, drying a glass as he did.
"Hello, inspector."
"Ahh, good evening Mr. Butler. Is Miss Fisher home yet?"
"I believe she's in the nursery."
What possible reason could she have for being in the nursery? Jack quickly hung up his hat and coat and headed towards it, accepting a tumbler of whiskey Mr. Butler appeared to have conjured from nowhere as he passed the other man. He moved down the corridor and paused in the doorway; Phryne was sitting on the floor, facing Anthony. The boy had a toy dog in his lap—there'd been one in his cot, Jack remembered, and suspected that Phryne had noticed it as well—and was carefully stacking blocks into a tower before knocking it over. Phryne, bless her heart, looked bored out of her mind.
"Whatever is going on?" Jack asked after a moment, startling Phryne.
"Ah, small issue with the Welfare plan," she said with a bright smile, a little too effervescent even for her.
"What sort of small issue?" Jack asked, taking a sip of his whiskey.
"I might have, possibly, maybe..." she exhaled, then hurriedly explained,"agreed to take Anthony in until we contacted his family."
"Why?"
"It was better than the alternative," she shrugged, moving to stand. She'd clearly been on the floor for some time because she winced as she moved, and Jack crossed the floor to help her up; she flashed him a grateful smile, then scowled at the wooden flooring. "On very rare occasions, Jack darling, I feel my age."
She was baiting him, he knew that.
"Does that mean my old bones might get a rest one of these days?" he teased, pulling her in for a kiss in greeting.
"Mmm," she hummed against his lips, eyes closed. "I wouldn't put money on it."
He laughed, and she opened her eyes and slipped a hand beneath his suit jacket.
"I do love your laugh, Jack," she said, smiling fondly at him. "Are you heading upstairs?"
"I was," replied Jack. "But as some wicked woman has decided to adopt a two-year-old without telling me—"
"I did not adopt him. I merely...brought him home in a temporary capacity."
"As some wicked woman brought home a two-year-old—in a temporary capacity, as you say—I have a distinct feeling that my afternoon will entail less napping and more wrangling than anticipated."
"Nonsense. Ivy will be here soon and is very much looking forward to spending time with the little blighter. She'll completely understand that a man as terribly old as you—forty next week, you're practically Methuselah!—needs his rest where he can take it."
"The cheek on you, Phryne Fisher," he grumbled good-naturedly. "But as I am rather like a fine wine—"
"Better than that vintage from Maiden Creek," she agreed.
"As I am rather like a fine wine, I certainly don't regret my age," he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, trying not to smile. "Unlike some vixens in my acquaintance."
Phryne laughed, then froze.
"What?" asked Jack.
"Jack, darling, I don't want you to worry..."
"What?"
"It's really not serious."
"What?"
She moved closer, pressing her entire body against him now, and raised her hand.
"I've just noticed that you have a smattering of grey hairs..." she brushed against the hair at his temple, then leaned up to kiss the place. "...just there."
"It's remarkable how they only appeared after I met you," he replied dryly.
"Coincidence, darling. That's all it is. Now go take a nap," she said, moving away, and he nodded in agreement.
Taking a quick glance at Anthony, still lost in his block building game, he wondered if there would ever be a time when he wasn't left utterly speechless by the depths of Phryne Fisher's heart. It didn't seem likely.
—
Unable to switch off his mind enough to sleep, Jack lay in bed, reading a book. There was a quiet knock at the door, then Phryne slipped inside.
"Ivy's just arrived," she said, heading towards the vanity to remove her earrings. "She's watching Anthony while I get dressed for dinner."
Jack set aside his book to watch her, smiling slightly. While he was exceptionally fond of her seductive techniques for the removal of clothing—he had eyes and a pulse, after all—there was also something welcome in the familiarity of simply watching her change.
"What possessed you to take him in, love?"
"A temporary loss of reason," she laughed, removing her blouse and laying it on the back of a chair.
"You never lose reason," replied Jack, looking at her firmly. There would be more to it despite her frivolous tone. "You're far too levelheaded to let a bit of sentiment take precedence over your general dislike."
"I don't dislike—well, I do dislike some children, because they are selfish little things, but it's more of a general disinterest," she said, slipping off her skirt and camiknickers before padding over to lie beside him on the bed. "They're messy and loud and completely nonsensical, even the ones that are family, and the whole thing is just so utterly unappealing and contrary to how I like to live my life."
She slipped her hand beneath his shirt, curling her fingers to catch the edge of the placket over his chest.
"All of which I already knew and gets me no closer to understanding how we ended up with one of those messy, loud and nonsensical beings in your house."
She huffed irritably, sitting up to face him.
"Must you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Call it my house."
"But it is."
"It's our house, Jack."
It was a niggling bone of contention that they often joked around, not quite seeing a compromise. She insisted that he should treat her assets as his, and he had no intention of doing so. She was convinced, despite his assurances otherwise, that it was a matter of pride, and that he would not behave in such a way if he had been the one to bring in the larger portion of the money or if their arrangement was legally recognised. Jack simply had no need for it and no desire to lay claim to anything of hers; Phryne had already made the vast majority of the sacrifices in their arrangement, in order to keep his good standing in the police force, and he had no intention of asking for more.
"I'm sorry..."
He caught her hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.
"Never mind," she replied, lacing her fingers through his.
"There's still a messy nonsensical thing downstairs..."
"But you'll notice he's not loud," Phryne smiled.
"No. No, he's rather..."
He trailed off, not quite certain what to say.
"He's scared, Jack. His entire world's just been upended and he was nearly sent off with his mother's killer. Not that he knew that, but..." she sighed and gave him a pained, crooked smile. "It was an awful life waiting for him, we both know that. And then Ed pointed out that there wasn't a place where he'd be safe, not with Welfare being stretched so far beyond its limits. I was sitting in that office and I just felt..."
She paused and shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ear to keep it from falling in her face. "Helen Fox died trying to keep him out of that situation, and now he was going to end up somewhere even worse. It wasn't fair. But we had a warm bed and food, and Mr. B thought it was a good idea—I telephoned because I knew some of it would fall on him, but you've seen how he is with Dot's two and he was rather approving of the whole thing. Dot's working all week as well, and Ivy loves children; she might even accept payment for minding him when she won't take it for anything else. You Robinsons have too much pride for your own good. And you're off the next couple of days, so it would be nearly five against one and even I can handle those odds," she took a deep breath, lying back down to rest her cheek against his chest. "And I really didn't think you would mind, not for a few days. You don't, do you?"
She sounded almost uncertain. A truly uncertain Phryne was awful—he could never quite be sure he had hit the delicate balance of being supportive without overstepping, aware that Phryne loathed having her problems solved for her even if she were being irrational, even if the obvious answer (the safe answer) was right in front of her—but an almost uncertain Phryne could be teased and cajoled back into spirits, and it was a challenge he adored.
"I don't know, Phryne. I've got two days off at once. Who's to say that I didn't arrange a night away?"
"You didn't," she said certainly.
"Is the idea so preposterous?"
"No. But it's been arranged for next month, and you never repeat your overtures this closely."
His reaction must have given him away, because she began to laugh.
"How'd you find out?" he grumbled, and she laughed harder.
"Don't try to deceive a detective. Especially one as good as I am."
"Phryne..."
"Alright!" she giggled, rolling over to retrieve an envelope from her bedside table drawer. "This arrived on Thursday and I opened it accidentally. I was going to rewrite the envelope and pretend I didn't know, but I haven't had the chance!"
"You opened my mail accidentally?"
"I swear!" she protested. "That's not a line I'm willing to cross."
"I believe you. But how did you open it accidentally?"
"Turns out whoever sent the booking confirmation has a worse hand than you do," she said, passing it over.
Jack looked at it and chuckled. They really had managed to make the J look like a P, though the Fisher-Robinson was perfectly legible.
"I don't know why you insist on insulting my writing," he said instead. "It's not nearly as dire as all that."
"It really is," she countered, then smiled coyly. "Lucky for you, I've been hearing about these new finger exercises, all the way from America. They're said to improve both strength and dexterity."
Phryne Fisher, approximately as subtle as a breeze block to the head.
"Lucky for you, Miss Fisher," he growled in response, skittering a hand up the inside of her thigh, "I am a man who likes to improve himself at every opportunity."
