A/N: There's a small inconsistency in language use in this chapter. I write in American English so I should refer to football as soccer, but given that soccer is just a horrible word I stick with football. Please understand it as the FIFA regulated game and not "bawl" (or Aussie rules ;-) ).

June, 4th

Margaret:

When Mr. West announced he'd come to visit my father again he suggested attending a football match. I'd let them come to this quintessential temple of manliness on their own, but it seemed they expected me to join them and it didn't sound like a bad plan for a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Now we're sitting in the special visitor's area. Not exactly a luxury box - I think of Edith's friends and their boxes so detached from the reality of the game, but we're a little more comfortable in shaded plush seats than the sea of heads before us.

As it seems to be the case with every stone I turn in this town, Mr. Thornton's company is involved in some sort of sponsorship with the home team. Milton's Centennial Stadium is small but can hold 8.000 people and is well kept, even for a football stadium. Home arena of the Darkshire Wolves, Miltoners love coming here and speaking of the championship cup won five years ago, with a devotion that nears fanaticism. The Manchester City and Manchester United are bitter enemies of these grounds.

The tickets, I find out now, were a gift from Mr. Thornton and, sure enough, he's standing not far from us. He's wearing jeans and a blue tartan shirt that brings out the color of his eyes, the sleeves rolled up let muscular forearms on sight. I don't remember having seen him in casual wear but it doesn't matter. He looks just... as delectable as he always does. Not without effort I avert my eyes for fear of embarrassing me, but my God, every time we met I'm surprised again by his handsomeness.

How did I manage not to see this? Do I need a white cane and wearing indoor sunglasses?

He shakes hands with my father and Mr. West and chats amiably with them while barely acknowledging my presence with a slight bow of the head. A waiter appears with refreshments: the men have beers and I have a soda, but when I try to pay the waiter politely refuses. I steal a glance at Mr. Thornton and I think he's rolling his eyes, and I feel small and inadequate.

The game starts and I regret coming. I should have imagined that old friends Hale and West would be merry in each other's company, and with the added thrill of my father's new friend and hero there's no reason for me to be here. It seems contradictory that in such a sunny day a tight pack of dark thoughts should maraud me, but here we are. Lately I've been feeling a little... somber, perhaps. I'm lost in thought and don't notice my father and Mr. West getting up. Suddenly I'm aware that I'm sitting next to Mr. Thornton and we're silent.

I wonder who first discovered that watching a game, no matter the sport, is prefab companionable silence and thus should be announced in tickets. "Tolerate odious company. Buy 90 minutes of companionable silence, with optional subjects of inconsequential praise and hatred included in the package!" or something. In spite of this obvious fact I attempt a conversation asking him how his classes are going and unsurprisingly his answers are short. I'm aware that he might be watching the game and I might be bothering him but I need to shake off the gloomy feeling and I totter to the only innocuous subject we have in common, this is, my father.

Though he probably knows it already I tell him my father can read and write Latin. Of my father making jokes in Latin, and of the school performance where I was a witch (naturally) and he wrote some mock spells for my character. I still remember some of those mock spells so I repeat one aloud, dramatically waving my hand as if cursing the ground.

I haven't been paying any attention to the game but the sudden silence and ensuing deafening tidal wave of noise makes me look at a screen in a wall near for the replay. The goalkeeper of the other team (Lakes Monsters, or something like that) had the ball in his hands and was ready to pass it to a teammate, when the ball just jumped up and off his hands as if pulled by a string and bounced cheerfully into the net. I am trying to discern whether the people are happy or outraged when I notice Mr. Thornton's reaction out the corner of my eye. He looks surprised but then his face goes back to its stony indifference, and with a quick look to my general direction he mutters: "We haven't got to that lesson yet."

I'm puzzled by this reply and it occurs to me that he's joking. I don't think I've ever pictured him anywhere near humor, so serious, so driven, but now I suspect that's just one side of him. I look back at him but he isn't smiling and forgot me already.

My father and Mr. West are back and I try to join their conversation. Mr. West's witty humor dissing the Northerners and Milton make Mr. Thornton uncomfortable, who instead of taking it with a light heart tries to rebut every comment with a vehement defense of his home grounds. They get into a pointless argument on whether the stadium is fit for an Olympic game in which Mr. Thornton tries to get the upper hand but gets more and more incensed (I believe my presence has something to do with his discomfort), so I try to steer the conversation to a neutral subject.

-"I believe we're going to have rain tomorrow. It's a pity we'll have to stay indoors" I say. Oh weather, weather, what would we talk about if it weren't for you?

- "Oh dear," replies my father, "you'll have to postpone getting into the garden as you had planned."

-"Not at all," intervenes Mr. West, "I am sure Margaret won't let a thing like summer rain get in her way." He turns at Mr. Thornton and adds: "Margaret doesn't mind dealing with some dirt now and then".

-"Really?", says Mr. Thornton and looks right into my eyes for the first time this afternoon, for the first time in I don't know how long, and it's not a friendly glance. "You don't say".

My face momentarily freezes in shock, my breath catches in my chest. It becomes clear as day that Mr. Thornton knows about me and the drug dealer. He was at home when the detective came, after all. He knows and he disapproves and there is nothing I can do, because he is right.

I clamp my lips shut. I withdraw from the conversation and lower my gaze to my hands first and then to the green below us, fascinated by the whiteness of the painted lines. I really don't want any of them to see my eyes are brimming with tears, of embarrassment and regret, so I scratch my temple idly only to hide my face a little better under my hat. I can feel Mr. Thornton's accusing eyes on me but I can't take more of his scorn and I don't look up, not even when we get up and head for the car. We ride in a silence only broken by Mr. West's condemnation of our host.

-"He had struck me as a sensible man before, but now I see that success has spoiled him. How disgusting!" he says, but I feel I must defend Mr. Thornton, for my dignity's sake.

-"He must have had a bad day. He's usually more agreeable, isn't he, Dad?".

-"Oh yes, yes Margaret," agrees my father, but he's looking out the window and he probably has no idea of what we're talking about.

For a moment Mr. West's narrowed eyes dart to mine through the rear view mirror, but he doesn't say anything else. When we arrive I go to the kitchen to prepare dinner and we don't mention Mr. Thornton again.

Note: This chapter echoes Ch. 40 "Out of tune", which contains the wonderful sentence "Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Thornton was chagrined by the repeated turning into jest of what he was feeling as very serious". perhaps my favorite of the whole book.