PART II

England, 1778

The starlings were black with white speckles, but when the sun hit them, a shimmery dark green ripple spread through their feathers. The magic of nature, Mathieu thought, is those colors, hidden where no one would think to look. He was lying on his back in the sweet grass of the meadow, old Kuma dozing beside him, his creaky breaths whistling almost inaudibly as they gusted out of those black nostrils. Mathieu did this more and more as he got older, going outside to feel, to look, to listen. The last one was dangerous, because if he listened too intently his ears would pick up the endless arguments that came from the house. Amelia claimed they hadn't always fought, but, "You were just a baby back then, Mattie. You wouldn't remember." As if that wasn't a heartbreaking truth. She never seemed to care that their parents were constantly at each others' throats. Proof? She had gone on a trip to Scotland with Uncle Alistair, and she hadn't even considered what that would do to the household she left behind. To Mathieu, it was obvious what would happen. He was Mother's favorite, and Amelia was Father's favorite. What would he do without her? Get jealous, of course. Get grumpy, of course. Fight with Mother, of course. And then she would have Mathieu to comfort her, as always, but who would comfort Father? No one, now, and he would storm off to the room that had once been a nursery but was now an office where no one was welcome without Arthur's explicit permission. (Not even Lydia, the maid, was allowed in. Mathieu had never seen inside, but he suspected it could do with some tidying.) Arthur would have coals simmering in his heart until the next fight, where they would flare into more fire, then settle down to coals again, never to be put out without Amelia. Mathieu had tried before to comfort his father, but they had never been very close. Too many things drove them apart. Mathieu was fluent in English and French, while his father struggled to understand simple sentences in the latter. Mathieu loved being outdoors, for hours on end. Arthur had only joined his family for a picnic in the meadow once, and he'd ended up with a sunburnt face and hands. They had nothing in common, aside from a love of reading, but even in that they differed; Arthur didn't care for Mathieu's romances, and Mathieu had no interest in Arthur's historical encyclopedias.

But it worked the other way, too. Marianne and Amelia often clashed, over the strangest things. Clothes, mostly. The cut of a shirt. (It's too revealing, Amelia! It's too drab, Mother!) The color of a coat. (If you wore something pink, or a soft blue, you would look so lovely. If you say so, but I think I'll just keep the brown and black.) And the neverending, year-spanning war about the matter of trousers. (YOU ARE A LADY AND YOU WLL NOT DRESS LIKE A MAN! I AM A RICH KIRKLAND AND I CAN WEAR WHATEVER I BLOODY WANT!) Arthur, for his part, mostly agreed with Marianne about Amelia's clothing, but he was far too invested in opposing his wife in every possible matter to give in on something as frivolous as household attire. At home, Amelia was free to wear what she pleased. In public, it was not open to discussion: she would wear a dress or a skirt. Were society's views different, Arthur may have relented to her preferences, but as it was, he would not budge. He would not allow his daughter to break the law.

In unison, Mathieu and Kuma heaved a sigh. He—the boy, not the dog—wished things were different, even though he knew how pointless that was. It just seemed like they were all waiting for something. They were all stuck in this same rut, held hostage by the fiery cycle of Arthur and Marianne's fights. It wasn't a war either of them could win; what would the prize be? Nothing. What were they fighting over? Being right. Mathieu had never heard of anything so daft. How could two people fight for a decade and suddenly admit that one had been right all along? Impossible.

Mathieu was the only one who noticed these things, because he watched and listened. Everyone else clamored to yell above the chatter. Everyone else waited impatiently for their chance to speak. He listened. If people would only listen. . . .

"Hello," said Peter, flopping down beside his older brother. He was twelve, but he seemed younger; he'd inherited Arthur's smallness, and he was the baby of the family, so he acted accordingly. Mathieu suspected it was a shield against the conflicts of the house. How could anyone blame Peter for anything, he was just the baby. Nothing was ever his fault. He had a toy plane in his hand, one Mathieu had helped him build with paste and thinly carved bits of wood. Peter flew his plane to land on Kuma's thickly furred flank. "Hello, Teddy."

This was another point of contention in the Kirkland home. Everyone had a different name for the dog. Amelia maintained his name should be Blizzard, after the color of his coat. Mathieu knew his name was supposed to be Kuma, because he was as big as a bear, and that word meant bear (though just how he had come upon this information none of the family could fathom). Peter, appreciating the bear concept but wanting to be a bit cuter with it, went with Teddy. Arthur and Marianne had never been able to come up with a name the other liked, and had given up some time before Mathieu's birth, so for as long as he could remember Father called him old lad and Marianne referred to him as beau chien, and sometimes Beau, if she needed to summon him. Somehow, the dog answered to every name, every time. When Mathieu and Peter called things like cake! or fish! to test him, the dog completely ignored them. Thusly, Kuma was the smartest person Mathieu had ever met, even though he was a dog.

"Mother and Father are arguing again," Peter remarked, glumly picking at the grass.

Mathieu sat up. "It's not because of us," he assured his brother. "It's just them."

"I know. It's just annoying, that's all. I wish they'd shut up. All they do is shout." Peter held his finger out to a ladybug, but it fluttered away in a flash of crimson. He turned his blue gaze, so much darker than Marianne's or Amelia's, to Mathieu. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Mathieu nodded. "Of course."

Peter leaned closer, speaking in an undertone. "I've been praying for God to send us someone to make things better. Maybe someone magic, to make Mother and Father love each other. Or maybe someone bad."

Mathieu had begun to share his brother's feeling of longing for that magic someone, but now his brow furrowed. "Someone bad? What do you mean?"

Peter shrugged, eyes on his lap. "I dunno. Maybe . . . I dunno. Maybe Mother and Father can't love each other anymore. Maybe one of them has to leave."

Mathieu quickly took Peter's hand, his violet eyes meeting the dark blue ones. "Listen to me, Peter. Mother and Father won't be like this forever, but . . . I don't know what it will take to stop it, but you shouldn't wish for someone bad to come. You shouldn't wish for bad things to happen to our parents. And what if the bad person hurt us, too?"

Peter's eyes widened a little. "I never thought about that. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. Just . . . no more praying for someone bad to come, okay? Besides, we never have any guests—"

Just as he reached the end of the S, a voice neither boy had ever heard before with the strangest accent bellowed, "THIS IS THE KIRKLAND HOUSE, JA? ANYBODY HOME?"

Peter scampered up the slope to peek over the top of the ridge, while Mathieu got up slower, pausing to comfort Kuma, who had jerked awake at the strange voice. "You haven't moved that fast in a while," Mathieu murmured to the old dog, before heading toward Peter. "Who is it?"

"Two men," Peter reported. "One is dark, and one is light." He turned to Mathieu in shock. "Mother is hugging the darker one!"

Mathieu looked down from the ridge. They couldn't see over the house, but the quartet of their parents and two strangers was standing on the path to the right of the house, so they were in full view while Marianne flung her arms around that odd smiling man. Mathieu had never seen her so happy.

And beside the darker stranger, hair the silver of someone twice his age, wide shoulders and tall stature leaving no question about the strength he possessed, the man who had yelled, turned his head to look directly at Mathieu. They had the full length of the pasture between them, but Mathieu still felt those eyes—the crimson of a ladybug, of blood, of a demon—piercing his very soul.

"I'm afraid," Peter whimpered under his breath.

So was Mathieu, but Marianne was beckoning them, and none of the Kirkland children actively disobeyed their parents. Mathieu descended the slope with Peter at his side and Kuma shambling as quick as he could behind them, making his way toward two men who he hoped—feared, dreaded, regretted—would change his life forever.

. . .

For Marianne, the past seventeen years of marriage had been very educational. She had become very aware of her limits, because Arthur spent the majority of each day prodding at them. Several nights the past month had ended with them collapsing in exhaustion beside each other, made weary by the sheer fact that they had no other words left to use as weapons against each other. Insults were inevitably recycled, which allowed for a new accusation: lack of originality. They had recently taken to critiquing each other's words of hate. Marianne found her language, so beautiful and colorful, lacking in the obnoxious insult department. It turned out the English language was perfect for swearing, and had no shortage of words based in genitalia, excreta, and copulation. For a gentleman, Arthur certainly had a filthy tongue. Some of the ways he combined curses didn't even make grammatical sense, but in his accent—so harsh when he wanted it to be—they cut deep. So, naturally, she stabbed him back. And round and round it went.

Until she heard the familiar shout from a lifetime ago, and that boulder that had seemed so firm between her past and her present was submerged in the surging waters of . . . joy. Such simple, soaring joy. She had not felt such happiness since the birth of her middle child, her favorite.

And then, through the window, she saw him. The man she had been trying to forget since the first night spent with her husband, the man who made her despise her husband because the pair of them were so different, the man to whom Arthur could never, ever hope to compare.

Marianne ran to fling open the front door. "Is it really you?"

Antonio Carriedo's olive-toned face lit up with a grin that put the impuissant English sun overhead to shame. "Hola, Mari. How are—oof!" This last was because she had launched herself at him. He laughed and held her close, his lips brushing her hair. "I missed you. It's been too long."

"I missed you more than anything in the world," she murmured into his chest, hoping his coat muffled the words so that he and Gilbert couldn't hear the dip of heartbreak in her voice (Gilbert couldn't, but Antonio could, and his brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't say anything about it).

She might have lingered longer in Antonio's warm, cigarro-scented embrace, if not for the teasingly tartish voice asking, "What is this, you missed the Spaniard but not the Prussian? You've been spending too much time with these Englisch."

Marianne smiled and gave Gilbert a hug, as well. His body was harder than Antonio's, not that the Spaniard was weak; both of them were able-bodied. Of course they were. One could not spend months on end at sea without becoming hardy and resolute. Marianne would have gone out with them, but as a woman, it wasn't possible. Still, she knew she was more like her friends than like the blond man stepping out of the house right now.

"What's all this, then?" Arthur asked, a guarded look in his eyes after seeing two strange men put their arms around his wife.

Antonio smiled, as always. Marianne had never met anyone so friendly, aside from dogs. "We are old friends of Mari," he replied, offering a hand. "I'm Antonio Carriedo. It's an honor to meet you."

Arthur placed his pale, delicate hand into Antonio's larger, bronzed one. "Mari," he repeated flatly, almost to himself, before adding, "Arthur Kirkland," and concluding in a way that suggested he was anything but, "Charmed."

Gilbert shook Arthur's hand, as well, with the Englishman tipping his head back to gaze up the half-foot of height difference between them. Gilbert smirked, feeling the lack of strength in Arthur's thin arm. Arthur's eyes narrowed, overly aware of the fact that he was both the eldest and shortest person in attendance.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," said Gilbert Beilschmidt. "Pleasure to make your acquaintence."

Marianne was glad to see Gilbert could still weild even kind words like a blade. Do you see this, Arthur? This is someone you would not want to fight with. She had never felt more rescued. Even the negative things about her husband were lackluster compared to what her friends were capable of. Antonio could kill with kindness; Gilbert could kill with . . . well, Gilbert could kill. Marianne had not witnessed it herself, but she had a stark memory of finding Gilbert washing blood off his hands. From fish? she had asked, and for once he had not met her gaze. Yeah. Fish. And of course there were the late-night fights Gilbert had gotten himself into, roaring drunk with the other sailors, which Antonio always had to drag him away from. Marianne proved useful at those times; if she got between her boys and the others, they always backed off. No one was foolish enough to touch the captain's daughter. No one except. . . .

"So you do have little ones," Gilbert remarked, and Marianne followed his reddish gaze up the slope to where her sons were watching from the ridge. She beamed, proud of her children even if Peter did look more like his father than his mother. She waved them over, and put her arms around their shoulders.

"This is Peter, the youngest," she told them. The boy peered shyly upward, and her friends nodded kindly to him, Gilbert amused by how intimidated the Peter was. "And this is Mathieu. He was born in the middle. Amelia is our eldest and only daughter, but she is away, visiting her uncle."

Mathieu was trying hard not to stare at Gilbert, Marianne could tell. She knew why; the Prussian was quite peculiar in appearance, what with his ashen hair and blood-shaded irises. He could be quite terrifying when he wanted to be, but any loved one of Marianne had no need to fear him. She was family, and so was her son. To both children, Gilbert said, "Guten Tag."

"Bonjour," Mathieu replied, voice soft as always when speaking in front of many people. Marianne wasn't sure what caused this. In private conversation, Mathieu spoke up for himself, but among others—even when the others were family—he became shy, hushed, difficult to notice. It was even more puzzling because the other members of the household were not what anyone would call quiet. She supposed there was always an odd one out. He got that from his father, without a doubt.

Gilbert's lip curled at the French greeting, and Antonio said, "You definitely take after your mother," which made Mathieu give a tiny smile and made Arthur clear his throat pointedly. Everyone turned their attention to the Englishman.

"Forgive me for interrupting the . . . reunion," said Arthur haughtily, "but I think it would be more appropriate to have it indoors. Also, you neglected to do it, dear, so I shall take it upon myself to invite Mr. Carriedo and Mr. Beil, er, Beilschmidt to stay for dinner."

Antonio raised his eyebrows at Marianne, Is he always like this? She simply stifled a sigh. Oui.

Gilbert's smirk sharpened enough to draw blood. "Oh, don't worry about invitations, where we're from we don't need to act out pompous rituals to feel comfortable around each other. And, hey, we're all friends here, aren't we?" He chuckled, teeth flashing just a little between his lips. "Also, we don't mind the outdoors. Better to be out in the air, especially in these parts. Things can get pretty stuffy. I hope you understand my meaning. English isn't my first language. But I suspect you're clever enough to read between the lines, ja?"

Arthur's left eye twitched slightly. Red and green gazes clashed until Arthur finally turned his back on them, striding through the ajar front door. "I shall be in my office if I should be needed. Please do not disturb me. I have letters to read." From within the house, they all heard the office door shut—not a slam, but close enough that Kuma gave a whine of concern.

Normally, Mathieu would have stroked the dog's soft white ears to comfort him, but now he stood motionless as his mother escorted her friends and Peter into the house. Antonio had made Marianne smile, and Gilbert had made Arthur retreat from battle. Both of those things were unprecedented as far as Mathieu was concerned. These two exotic men were miracle workers.

"Hey, Mäuschen."

Mathieu startled out of his amazed reverie. Gilbert had stopped walking to glance over his shoulder at him, smirk softer now, a smile that didn't suggest the viewer was lesser, more that the owner of the smile was better. It was at once complicated and simple, and it made something flip over in Mathieu's stomach.

Gilbert arched a pale eyebrow. "Coming?"

Mathieu nodded hastily. "Yes! I just, uh . . ." He wanted to give some lie about needing to feed the chickens or the horses or the goat first, but he had a feeling the Prussian knew farm animals didn't randomly get fed in the middle of the day. The truth was, he wasn't the type of person to make friends easily. He didn't put himself out there. Amelia did that. Marianne was never shy. Arthur had his posh manners to hide behind. Peter was shy at first, but once he grew accustomed to whomever he was speaking to, it was nearly impossible to shut him up. But Mathieu didn't do that.

And yet . . . for the first time . . . he wanted to.

"Yes," he said again, with more certainty this time.

Gilbert's smile didn't change, but his eyes—the red that had moments ago seemed so chilling now glittered warmly, like a pair of rubies. The Prussian gestured to the doorway. "Kirklands first."

Mathieu stepped inside, and though he didn't glance back, he knew Gilbert was watching him. The idea was exciting. What might he want with me? It would be nice to have a friend who seemed so interesting. He hoped the visiting friends would bless the family with their presence for a long while.

. . .

"So where have you two been all this time?" Marianne asked, once they had settled in the parlor with wine for the adults, milk for the children, and beer for Gilbert (oh, great, I love English beer, it's good for sobering up).

Antonio and Gilbert exchanged a glance, the sort that used to drive Marianne mad with jealousy because, to her and all those watching, the meaning was indecipherable. Years ago, Marianne had thought the issue was simply her lack of, well, being a man. But now she suspected it was because Antonio and Gilbert were both older than her (Antonio was thirty-seven and Gilbert was thirty-eight, while Marianne trailed behind at thirty-four) and they had spent their earlier years together. The trio was quite close, but the boys knew each others' souls.

Not boys, anymore, she thought with jarring wonder and a little flicker of excitement. They're men now.

"Oh . . ." Antonio trailed off, thoughtful, and Gilbert finished for him, "We've been around. Sailing this sea and that, you know how it goes."

Peter perked up with interest at mention of sailing, but children were supposed to be seen, not heard, so he could say nothing unless spoken to. Beside him, at fifteen, Mathieu was in the grey area between man and child; old enough to make it on his own, most likely, but still young enough to fearfully respect his elders, a quality that seemed to fade when true adulthood took hold.

"Sailing the seas," she echoed, suddenly realizing what that look could mean. "Flying what colors?"

Antonio's cheeks seemed to get a bit darker, and Gilbert glanced pointedly in the direction of Arthur's office before replying, "No colors in particular."

Peter's face didn't change, but Mathieu's brow furrowed slightly in confusion. Marianne wondered what her husband would do if he knew his wife was entertaining two pirates in his parlor. She decided she didn't particularly care. What Arthur didn't know wouldn't kill him. She deserved to have a break from the constant warring. This was her holiday. This visit would have been the perfect Christmas gift—not that Arthur didn't get her plenty of things, gowns and jewels. They were clearly picked out by his mother, however, and were all in English style or otherwise unsuited to Marianne. She rarely wore any of her finery. Their trips into town didn't require fancy attire, and they only made it to London perhaps once or twice in a year. She did miss the scent of the sea and the lights of Paris, but neither of those things could be found in London, so she considered a few trips in the year to be a few too many. (The children agreed, except Peter, whom their grandmother adored and always lavished with toys and sweets.)

"We didn't know you were gone until a year after you'd left France," Antonio was saying. "We came back to find you and you weren't there to find." He gave her a rueful, apologetic smile. "We would have visited then, but things were . . . Well, we had business to settle."

Gilbert nodded. "Let's just say it took longer than expected, but we're here now."

Marianne didn't think she wanted to know what business they meant, something that took sixteen years to handle. She just smiled at them, letting them see how very, very glad she was. "Yes, you're here now. How long will you stay?"

Gilbert shrugged, and Antonio asked, with uncharacteristic bashfulness, "How long are we welcome?"

Forever! "As long as you want. We have room for you, with Amelia away. The boys can share a room, and one of you can sleep in the attic, or we can move the maid up there." She didn't particularly care for their maid. Lydia was middle-aged and had two sons, both of whom were serving England across the Atlantic, shooting at American Patriots who preferred coffee to tea. She was adamant in her belief that England was the best country God had ever created, and though she had never said it, her thoughts of France and French people were less than complimentary. But she kept the house tidy and wasn't fussy about wages, so Arthur turned a deaf ear to the sidelong insults to his wife's heritage. It made Marianne wish for Maggie who spoke French (gone from the mansion, Arthur informed her, mad from a mercury cure).

"We'll try to impose as little as possible," Antonio said.

"Which means I'll be sleeping in the attic," Gilbert translated, and chugged his glass of beer. He paused, then shook his head. "Not even the tiniest belch from this stuff. They call this beer? A baby could drink it."

Peter and Mathieu exchanged an excited look, both for the wonder of having these two men stay with them, and how foreign it was for a man to take pride in eructation. It is obnoxious and foul, was what Arthur had always told them. Do your utmost to refrain from it, and if you do it accidentally, give your sincerest apology and beg the pardon of those around you, particularly if they are ladies. Neither Peter nor Mathieu had ever done it or heard it done by someone else, and as with all things taboo, they were filled with curiosity for it.

"You're sure your husband will have no problem with it?" Antonio asked. Mathieu had always thought Spaniards were confident and passionate, like the French; both loved roses, but the Spanish were the thorns and the French were the petals, in Mathieu's mind.

"Oh—well, there he is, let's ask him." Marianne stood up as her husband appeared in the doorway of the parlor. "Arthur, Antonio and Gilbert are . . ." She trailed off, stepping toward him. "Arthur, what is wrong?"

The Englishman's face was paler than she had ever seen it, and his eyes—always so sharp and bright—were unfocused and dark. He tried to speak twice before he finally managed, "Can either of you drive a carriage?"

A query directed at Gilbert and Antonio, both of whom nodded. Concerned, Antonio asked, "Is everything alright, Señor Kirkland?"

Arthur shook his head slowly. "No, I'm afraid it isn't. According to a letter that was sent yesterday, my father is dying. I need to get to London as quickly as possible. Will you take me?"

Marianne and Gilbert—and Mathieu and Peter—looked to Antonio, but he didn't hesitate as he stood and replied, "Yes, of course I will. My condolences . . ." He squeezed past Arthur and hurried out to prepare the carriage, leaving Arthur to tell those left in the parlor, "I shall send for you when the arrangements have been made. You will all be expected to attend the funeral." He gave Marianne a light peck on the cheek. "Farewell." And with that, he left the house.

No one questioned why Arthur could not drive the carriage himself, partly because of the shocking news, and partly because it was quite apparent by the look in his eyes, the kiss to his wife, the inclusion of Gilbert in the funeral attendance, and the trembling of his petite frame that he was in no state to control a vehicle—and indeed, not five minutes after he had joined Antonio in the driving seat, the Spaniard had to stop the horses and carry the swooning Englishman around to put him inside the carriage, where he lay, fainted, on the cushioned seats all the long way to London's Golden Square.

. . .

That night, Mathieu showed Gilbert to his room in the attic, where the Prussian promptly knocked his head against the slanted ceiling and remarked, "Fotze."

Mathieu blinked. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing nice." Gilbert sat down on the bed—it was more of a cot than anything, so his knees were higher than the mattress when he sat, and his ankles would hang over the end when he slept—and regarded Mathieu with faint amusement. "Nothing good boys like you should be saying. Thank you for showing me to my room, by the way."

It had been an order from Mother, but still, it was nice to be appreciated. "You're welcome."

They stood and sat in silence for a moment, before Gilbert said, "Shame about your grandfather."

Mathieu nodded. "Well, I didn't really know him. I've only spoken to him a handful of times. I didn't even know he was ill." He shrugged, looking down at the floor. "We're not a really . . . close family, I guess."

He blushed a bit and ducked his head more to hide it. What am I doing, telling him about Kirkland problems? Are they really his business, even if he is Mother's friend? And why would he care, anyway?

To his surprise, Gilbert replied with ease, "Ja, that's nobles for you. The only things they care about are gold, looking-glasses, and themselves." He kicked off one of his boots; Mathieu looked up at the thump and watched him deftly unlace the other and send it crashing into its twin. "No offense to your father or the Kirklands." He lay back on the cot, arms crossed behind his head. "But it's true."

Mathieu was taken aback by how brazen the silver-haired man was, but at the same time, he admired it. What must it be like, to live without all the behavioural restrictions society imposed on so-called civilized folk? He said, "I know it's true. It's—it's nice to meet someone else who notices things."

Gilbert regarded him keenly. "Hm. It's one thing to notice things. Plenty of people do that. You just don't realize because most people are afraid to speak their minds."

Mathieu shook his head. "What's the use of having a mind if you can't tell people what's in it?"

Now Gilbert's eyebrows lifted. "How old did you say you were?"

"I didn't, yet. I'm fifteen."

Gilbert gave an impressed little hum. "You're a lot smarter than I was at fifteen, that's for sure. You're a clever one, aren't you?"

Mathieu shrugged, stifling his smile, trying not to tremble with the force of his heart swelling in his chest. "I'm good at reading and sums."

The Prussian's red eyes rolled. "Not that kind of clever. Don't be modest. You know what I'm talking about, don't you? You do, come on, now."

He did. He let his smile show. He had never boasted before—it was rude, putting yourself above others—but it occured to him now that this wasn't boasting, it was simply stating facts. "I'm good at noticing things. I'm an excellent listener."

Gilbert nodded, lips quirked upward in the corners. "That's what I thought. So tell me something, listener. What has your father been doing to your mother? She looks like she's been through hell." His mouth and his eyes, Mathieu was quickly learning, had to be watched separately. The hint of a smile lingered on his thin lips, but his eyes glittered with loathing for Arthur Kirkland.

So Mathieu told him. He told Gilbert what had been happening in their home for the past decade. He told of the endless fights, the arguments, the hurled insults, the scathing mockeries, the glares at the dinner table, the touches that edged toward violence. Had Arthur hit Marianne? No, never, Mathieu felt certain of that. But he had grabbed her wrist tightly several times, tight enough that on one occasion Peter found bruises there the next day. Had they ever loved each other? Apparently, but Mathieu saw no proof of it. Had they ever tried to spend time apart? Of course not. If they were commoners, that would be possible, but everyone knew who Arthur was, and who his family was by extension. There was nowhere for any of them to hide; nowhere that could be easily returned from, in any case. In that sense, they were trapped by their own blood. They were trapped by being Kirklands. They were trapped by Arthur.

"Sometimes I hate him," Mathieu whispered, barely audible. For some reason, his throat was burning. Was that because he was going against one of God's rules? Honor thy father. But what about when your father was terrible to live with? When he made the family home a war zone?

Before he could do anything to stop them, tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Hey, don't cry, Mäuschen," Gilbert said, voice softer than Mathieu had heard so far. The Prussian sat up, reached out, and gently pulled Mathieu to sit beside him on the cot. Mathieu knew he was too old for this, and the embarrassment made it worse. He buried his face in Gilbert's shirt, sobbing silently, shaking against the older man's firm chest. The arms around him were strong and warm. The man smelled vaguely of brine, and of beer, and of the chicken they'd eaten for dinner. Mostly he just smelled like a man, without the frilly perfume even Amelia was fond of, without the starched stiffness of Arthur's sort, afraid to break a sweat and risk seeming human. Gilbert was real, solid, an anchoring force, a savior to cling to in this roiling sea of changes.

"I'm sorry," Mathieu whimpered, for it was all he could think to say.

Gilbert rubbed a slow, comforting circle over the boy's back, like a mother soothing her child. "There's plenty to be sorry for," he said, "but none of it is your fault. Never apologize for other peoples' mistakes."

Just what he had been telling Peter for so long. Mathieu hadn't realized that taking the burden of blame off his little brother's shoulders had meant putting it on his own. But this, hearing an adult say it was not his fault . . . Fresh tears brimmed in his eyes, but as he lifted his head to gaze up at Gilbert, the warmth in the Prussian's gaze seemed to dry up the watering sadness.

"Don't worry," Gilbert murmured, giving him a little squeeze. "It'll all work out. Antonio and I will help Marianne. You just keep noticing and listening. Keep being clever, and you'll come out on top in the end, I promise you."

Mathieu sniffled and tried his best at teasing suspicion. It was a pitiful attempt with his cheeks still damp. "D-don't make promises you can't keep."

The Prussian's teeth, startlingly white for a beer-loving sailor, flashed in a grin. "Don't doubt me. I always keep my promises. I'm a man of my word." Then, without warning, he let go of the boy and flopped back on his cot. "And I'm ready to sleep. Get out of my room."

Mathieu hurried to obey, and when he heard the Prussian mumble, "Good night, Mathieu," his chest nearly burned his shirt from the warmth of his heart. He replied softly, "Good night, Gilbert," and hurried off to his bedroom before either of them could ponder what it meant for him to call an older man by his first name, in the manner of a friend . . . or of something more.