Chapter Thirty-Three: Some Silver Lining
There is a certain school of thought, common to popular culture, which holds that all women, by some kind of natural instinct as omnipresent as skin and as useful as thumbs, have innate maternal qualities which somehow 'kick in' within moments of their being given the responsibility of caring for a child. Even the gruffest lady lorry-driver, the fiercest Boudicca-style lady warrior or the most prim Oxford bluestocking will immediately remember the proper way to look after a child and overcome all obstacles through sheer force of character, usually in time for the child to pen a saccharine memoir about how perfect their unexpected mother-figure was. No matter how unfeminine, how unmatronly or even if the woman in question is actually, for the purposes of making things amusing, male and of the roguish bachelor persuasion, she or he inevitably succeeds at winning the child over and charming old ladies with their mysterious 'way with' children.
This is the most complete pile of horseshit I have ever heard.
I had no bloody idea of how to be a mother when I took custody of my nephew. Hell, I still haven't got a very good grasp of it. Grandfathering, that I know how to do, uncle-ing and sister-ing I'm on pretty solid ground with, and if you really press me and give me some time to think and send an owl for instructions, on some good days I can just about manage step-mothering. But other than that, just about anything even remotely mum-like that I ever succeeded with in my life was either A. completely bloody improvised or B. done on the advice of Molly Weasley, who is mother enough for Great Britain, when it really comes down to it.
But with a good idea of how uncles, grandfathers and older brothers do business, as well as the whole 'being female' thing, I figured I could just about manage 'Auntie' as a job description.
I was, of course, wrong in many ways, but considering the kid isn't dead yet, I like to think I rose to the occasion a little bit. People don't expect quite as much of aunts, let alone aunties, which is, of course, the catch-all term for any woman older than and even remotely interested in the welfare of a child. It covers a multitude of sins, from otherwise inexplicable love-children in pre-war novels of more than usually revolting sentimentality to genuine aunts to the sort of plucky spinster who takes in children more or less as the plot requires and then succeed in being nauseatingly whimsical and improbably successful at everything, including acquiring a love interest with the absurdly cute orphan's help. Then people start bursting into song and then, as Sam Redfern says, there's nothing for it but a flamethrower.
There was absolutely no bloody bursting-into-song that first night.
"Loren?"
"Madam Tickes," he sighed, in that curiously flat way extremely tired children do when they have felt all the feelings they can be expected to feel and are just spoiling for a good cry to let it out.
"I…erm…you can call me Jessie. Everyone else does."
"You said that the other day. When you helped me make a clock."
"Yes, I remember. With seriffy numberals," I recalled, trying to smile in the completely bloody ineffective way that a grownup whose actual memories of being a child are buried under layers of sedimentary trivia and is therefore as emotionally sensitive to a grieving child's needs as your average dustbin.
"You don't need to make fun of me," Loren growled.
"Was not!" I retorted, in the way a grownup who is either dredging those childhood memories up to the surface or operating at a natural level of innate immaturity. "It was a good clock. You've got talent."
"I'm seven, not an idiot," Loren scowled in the way very tired, very stressed and very intelligent children do when they want to be both complete assholes and devastatingly adorable at the same bloody time.
"Do you think I'm patronizing you?"
He thought for a moment and I realized he needed a second to figure out what 'patronizing' meant.
"…Yes!" he snapped a second later with a glare that for some inexplicable reason made me want to smack and cuddle him both at once. "My mum's dead. I don't care if you're trying to be special-nice to me, it's not going ta' work!"
"Well…I'm not," I snapped in the weakly-defensive, 'this-is-too-much-for-me-too, can't-you-tell?' way that incompetent aunties have. I heard Charlie stifle a giggle behind me and felt a bit reassured. "I was just trying to bring the conversation around to a certain point."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," I crossed my arms and glared right back at the precious, red-eyed little bugger, who had clearly been crying only when the Aurors left him alone and doing a decent job of hiding it, except, of course, that his sleeves were only so absorbent. I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, glanced back and saw Charlie…not quite smiling, you couldn't smile when a kid was in that much pain, but he did give me a look of approval, as if to say 'go ahead.'
So I did.
"You want to live with me and make clocks, kiddo?"
Abrupt. Sudden. Almost brutally to-the-point.
And yet, it somehow, magically, worked.
"Yes'm," Loren replied, albeit addressing the remark more to his shoelaces.
"Well, that's a relief. I thought I'd just have to insist on the live-with-me part if you didn't want to, and without the clocks part, I don't think we'd have fuck-all to talk about. "
The only sound that may have echoed through the horrible silence that followed that…most motherly of remarks was the silent roar of three different mothers in the afterlife, including mine, going "Damn it, Jess!" and, just possibly one great-grandmother who thought it hilarious. Even Charlie didn't react, at least not audibly from behind me.
As, inexplicably enough, did Loren.
It started as just the tiniest little giggle, and then it broke across his face like the first sunshine of a miserable stormy day.
"You said the eff-word!" he chortled.
"Yes, I completely bloody did, didn't I?" There is a certain point in every parent or guardian's life when they just say 'fuck it' and do what works. I hit mine in uncommonly record time. "Clockmakers and, in fact, most tradesmen have different rules about cusswords than most people. When we are injured or otherwise in pain, we are absolutely bloody well allowed to cuss just as hard as we like. Guild rules."
"I'm not allowed to curse," Loren explained confidingly. "My Mum…" and then he looked down through his dark glasses at his little hands and began to cry, "and my Mama too. They never…I wasn't…"
And because I couldn't think of what else in the world to do, I crouched down and hugged the poor little chap as he sobbed.
"That's true, that they never did let you curse," I explained, patting his back as he cried into the shoulder of my coat. "But they're gone, and you're in pain now because of that. Pain of grief counts, and you're a clockmaker's apprentice now, so go on and bloody well curse if you feel like it. Curse 'til it feels better. I'll never tell."
I…may have been crying a bit myself, not that it'd have mattered, given that he couldn't see my face from nose-deep in my coat lapel.
"They killed her," Loren sobbed. "They…"
And then followed the most incoherently angry, tear-filled tirade of impotent, furious kid obscenity ever heard, though, to be fair, my coat caught the majority of it. He pounded his little fists and cursed and cursed, ran out of words, repeated himself, then finally subsided into tears. Somewhere along the line I kept my arms around him and stood up, lifting him off the ground, and he fell asleep there as Charlie and I took him home. At some point in the cab, Charlie passed me a handkerchief, then held my free hand as the sleeping boy clung to me.
Tonks and another Auror followed us into the shop and upstairs, at first for what reason I couldn't tell, but after a moment the other Auror explained that the rules required at least a cursory inspection of the living quarters, and I said I couldn't blame them. I do suppose they like to check, to make sure orphans in temporary custody don't get shoved into the under-stairs cupboard or something else Dickensian and awful, and damned if I'd have questioned it. The other Auror also had a teddy bear and a little blanket that some well-meaning charity provided to Aurors so they'd always have some on hand for any children caught in a bad situation, and what with Loren already asleep, I just tucked them into bed with him and hoped he'd at least not be offended by any adult assumption that he might need such a thing. I also took his dark glasses off, folded them and set them on the nightstand by his alarm clock, which I left off. I've known enough people who wear glasses to know where they generally go at night.
Still, as I flicked on an old nightlight that had been there since before I was even born and gently closed his bedroom door, I made a mental note to go over to Fortescue's as soon as the crime-scene was clear to check around for any similar items of his own, and for any clothes. Tonks overheard my thinking-out-loud and said there wouldn't be much that survived the small fires left by hexes and things, but I still knew I'd be going by to check for him. I didn't want Loren to lose anything else, but I also didn't want him to have to see his home in that state.
"Cup of tea, ladies?" Charlie offered gallantly, putting a hot and perfectly the-way-I-liked it cup into my hand as I came down the stairs.
"Yes, please," Tonks accepted, because we were more or less friends by that point, and the other Auror hesitated a split-second before agreeing. I'm not sure what the on-duty Aurory protocol is for tea, but we are British. I gestured to the chairs and they sat down at table just as I slunk into a chair and took a good long belt of the delicious tea. It was hot enough to make my teeth sting just a little and I relished it, anything to make that horrible mix of numb-and-sad go away.
"What do I need to know about his medical needs, school schedule…anything of the kind?"
"Well, he's not eleven yet, so he'll still have home lessons. I think your plan to teach him clockmaking is just top-hole," the other Auror, who struck me as a bit of a tit, said admiringly.
"Medically, he does need to be seen by a Healer about as often as any normal kid, with additional appointments for his eyes. I'll ask the receptionist at St. Mungo's to owl you a schedule," Tonks explained.
"Very good, any medications he needs to take, or anything like allergies or such that he can't eat or shouldn't play in?"
"None that I know of, save a little hay fever," Other Auror explained, looking into what I assumed was his file. "You can give him a little Pepperup for that, or-"
"I've got bloody hay fever myself and so does my brother, I know how to treat that one," I retorted a little curtly. "Sorry, it's been rather a stressful night."
"I would imagine. And I really do think you've been a brick to take all this on, Madam Tickes. Just to say, though, the boy's language-"
"Was exactly what I'd've said myself under the circumstances, maybe a bit cleaner," Tonks corrected her colleague, whom, it occurred to me, was almost certainly the more junior of the two, and definitely not the same sort of wands-and-wits battle-hardened kind of Auror that Tonks and dear old Mad-Eye Moody were. This was the precinct matron, parking ticket, 'oh, dearie, let's get you a glass of water and a clean hanky' sort. And that would've been fine, had this occasion been anything close to the kind of thing a glass of water, clean hanky and patronizing smile might help. "You got him to cry, Jess. None of us could. If they can't get that first grief out, the denial can last for weeks."
"What order do the steps go again?" I asked.
"Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance," Charlie spoke up. "Was it just me, or did he get to anger already?"
"And rightly so, the poor little thing," Other Auror clucked over her tea like the completely jam-and-Jerusalem tit she was. "He was already a delicate child and then to have such a loss-"
"Shut up, ma'am," I growled, setting my empty teacup down with a cold click. "All due respect, if I hear you describe the boy like that again, I'll ask your superior to assign another officer."
"Madam, I-"
"How are your folks doing?" I asked her.
"…They're fine, but I hardly see what that has to-"
"Well, mine aren't. I lost my mother when I was younger than Loren there and my father went clinically insane for nearly a decade afterwards. I was brought up by my widowed grandfather, teenage uncle and, from age eleven, my stepmother. I also heard 'poor little thing' more times than I care to mention and if I hear anyone call that brave young man upstairs anything close to that, I'll…I'll forbid them the premises. I don't want to hear 'poor,' I don't want to hear 'little' even if he is and if you call him 'delicate' I'll bloody show you what delicate feels like."
Charlie, it should be mentioned, poured me a second cup of tea during this speech and slid over the tin of biscuits.
"But Madam Tickes-"
"My job is to raise that boy, and though he may be grief-stricken and in a state of traumatic shock for the moment –and I will grant you 'little' though not in his hearing," I rubbed my shoulder where I'd carried him, "I will not have anything so bollocky useless as pity weighed onto him so that people who don't know how he's feeling at all can feel like they're being compassionate. Pity won't do a thing except slow him down."
Tonks tried to pat my arm and calm me down, but she only succeeded in making me angrier. Very luckily, I've learned a way to dress someone down without raising the volume of my voice, just the tone.
"If you absolutely need to mention his unfortunate circumstances in any situation where he might overhear, and I consider that to include the entirety of my jurisdiction in Diagon, I want the phrases 'brave,' 'bright' or 'bearing up well, considering' to be the beginning and end of what is said about him where he might hear it. Even if it's a damn bloody lie, and I don't think it is, even now, I will not have you pitying my nephew aloud. Think it if you like, but you'll keep a civil tongue in your head or face me."
"Biscuits, anyone?" Charlie asked, and as I shot him a 'what was that for?' glare, I realized exactly how he was looking at me, and blushed a little. It had been a decent speech, if I did say so myself, and that Auror was being a silly ass.
"Oooh, chocolate for me, thanks," the dreadful Other Auror accepted, gleefully taking a dipped one, biting it with some pleasure and grinning at me in an entirely annoying way. "You know, up until you said that, Madam Tickes, I had my doubts about you. That brave young fellow's in damn good hands or I'm buggered raw." She stuck out a hand to shake and was suddenly a decent person. "Leticia Bones, Ministry of Social Affairs."
"Jamesina Tickes, clockmaker and Chair of Diagon," I replied, shaking her hand and deciding that she merely possessed 'horrible tit' camouflage for misleading the gullible, and what a tactical skill it was. Come to think of it, I think she'd been in Ravenclaw, senior in my first year, but I wasn't going to admit the connection until –yes, there was the school handshake.
We were friends.
"Now, I do want to warn you against going full fairy-godmother. The temptation to buy kids a load of kit when they've had a loss and are in a new guardian's custody is always pretty strong. He doesn't have a lot of clothes that we know of, so you can get him those, but apart from that, try not to spend too much or you run the risk of them both turning into complete brats and thinking you're trying to buy their love. A nice new thing now and again is fine, but bear in mind always that you might not have him forever and if his next guardians haven't the money you'll be sending him from feast to famine."
"Good square meals only when it comes to kit and things," I agreed, nodding and writing it down.
"Though, of course, don't hesitate to get him a good suit or something he's never had, if it's essential to the social circles in which you move. The goal is to be as normal as possible, so whatever would be normal for any other nephew or younger brother or child of yours, that's the protocol. If you start to think you should spend some money because he's had a rough time, you may want to check yourself and be sure you aren't spoiling him."
"Makes sense to me," Charlie nodded. "How about food? Does it all have to be home-cooked and mum's-Sunday-roast typical, or can he eat out now and again?"
"Whatever you normally eat, he normally eats now, though you do want to try and have it be nutritious at least some of the time. If he has a few favourites from home, you might try your hand, but don't expect to be able to re-create everything he misses. That's pretty damned futile even in our easiest temporary-custody cases."
"Oh, good, because while I like cooking, I do work and we do eat some take-away," I helped myself to a biscuit.
"Incidentally, I'm assuming that you two are a couple?"
"Yep."
"Yes."
"That's another thing. So far the file we have on you doesn't indicate that you're the type to keep a turnstile in her bedroom, but you do want to be aware that children may get used to things one way and then react when those things are changed. If a frequently-visiting or even cohabitating adult in a committed relationship is your normal, then that has to be his normal, too, but constant male turnover can be rough on a kid his age, so…use discretion in how much you let him see. 'Stability is good, instability is bad.' That sums up a hell of a lot of this job." Leticia had another biscuit also and Charlie topped up her tea without being asked, which seemed to make her smile. "Still, you do have to strike a balance between what's best for Loren and what's best for making sure Loren has a sane and mentally healthy guardian, and if that means there's a stable boyfriend in the picture, then that's just fine and don't let the old biddies tell you otherwise."
"Also, I trust you're aware of the family Loren was used to?" Tonks asked.
"Of course. Two mummies, doting great-uncle and great-auntie, spent a lot of time here in Diagon to be closer to St. Mungo's, both after their house-fire hurt his eyes and then for his…I forget which one goes by Mama and which by Mummy, but one of the two was having treatments for cancer, a battle she lost pretty recently. I hadn't heard when."
"It was this past Friday," Leticia sighed.
"He's lost his family in a weekend, Jess. Hard road ahead for him, and for you, but I think you've got this," Tonks thumped my shoulder in a 'hard luck, old bean, let's get another pint into you' kind of way that it was hard not to find incredibly comforting. She had that kind of stiff-upper-lipitude which, while a little incongruous with her electric haircolors and moderately flamboyant choices in fashion when she wasn't in uniform, still somehow managed to put everyone at their ease and made it seem as though any minor world that falls apart really does fall together again.
Being reassured in any way by Nymphadora Tonks was always kind of like a 'chin-up, mates, we have your back' lecture from a Spice Girl. You just somehow know, despite the bright colors, platform shoes and hair in unusual colors that a fine old patriotic institution is on your side and wearing enough sequins to take out just about anyone who might come up against you. Petula Clark would also suit the metaphor, or maybe a dance-remix version of Vera Lynn. It was the delightful mix of the Brave Old Regiment and punk-rockity Girl Powah that somehow, just…worked.
Thinking back to that night and the half-hour or so of advice from Leticia and Tonks, as well as the sense of being too terrified that one was going to bollocks up the life of a poor innocent kid –no, a brave young man and damned if we'll call him anything less, that one barely had time to process the loss, let alone grieve…that was really the night the War started. The shop window, the little incident with that psychotic Lestrange woman, those were just tin hats and barrage balloons, as Mad-Eye and his old crowd would say. Actually having your first apprentice cry himself to sleep on your shoulder because his mothers were dead and his great-uncle and aunt missing…it was our Dunkirk, really.
And damned if I wasn't going to rise to the occasion and auntie my way through it, competent or not.
I sent the Aurors home with orders to come get me as soon as the crime scene was cleared and the remains of the attacker ready to be identified. Then I wrote out and sent two notes with Mrs. Miniver, one to Sam Redfern, requesting that she be present to help identify the Muggle weapon and consult with me on one or two matters, such as the 'reassure everybody' speech it would almost assuredly fall to me to make; and another to my brother Ian, briefly explaining the situation, demanding that he owl me back just to make sure he was alive as under the circumstances I was a bit panicky (I actually said as much, given that he hadn't been home when we got there,) and asking that he please come in quietly whenever he did, as well as a good broad hint that something of a breakfast nature come the morning would be greatly appreciated, though not essential if it wasn't convenient.
Min fluttered off in her punctual way as I carried my trunk up to the corner of my bedroom and told Charlie not to be daft, of course I wanted him to stay the night. It only took a moment or two to persuade him that while no, I was not okay, not in all honesty, but if he wouldn't mind just being around, with his usual wonderful self, until after, oh, maybe breakfast the next day, I'd be markedly closer to 'okay' if not vastly improved and back to my usual self altogether. He seemed to accept my explanation of what I required, given that he provided it at once and without question.
When one goes from independent spinster to custodial parent in one 'lost-two-friends, maybe-forever' night, a bit of cuddling and a few kisses are absolutely essential, at least for me. Leticia's remark about 'what was needed' for one's own sanity had made an impact, and I lost no time in letting him know how much…well…it wasn't just a matter of just appreciating him, not after that point.
I'd realized that I genuinely needed him.
It's one thing to comfort a hurt and grieving child, but it's quite another to do it when the man who told you real, human stories about the mother you never knew and the sweet lady who brought you fizzy drinks and a new book when you had the dragonpox were both missing and presumed dead. I couldn't have hugged Loren or been able to comfort him at all, even in the ridiculous, sweary half-assed, can't-believe-that-worked way I did if Charlie hadn't been right behind and then immediately beside me.
It's one thing to like someone, love someone or want someone, but to need them is quite another, and that scared the hell out of me, but there wasn't much I could do about it then except ask his patience while I held onto him and wished the world would shrink down to just the two of us the way it had on the train for just a moment or two more so I could cope with the rest of it. Funny, I don't think he minded it, my needing him, and seemed to understand that I did, even though I didn't have the nerve to explain that I did right then. Still, for just a moment, the world shrunk down, and I was safe.
Of course, a moment later Min was back. She had a single note in Ian's handwriting:
Jess,
Heard about Fortescue's. Samantha and I are fine, as are both Weasley twins and all the other Redferns. Was having supper with Sam's mum and dad in Diagon when it happened, got out of the restaurant in time to help put the fires out afterward, but didn't see much, still, Aurors kept everyone for witness-statements and then after that, we decided to Floo Sam's parents to Hogsmeade, just because. Saw the Weasley twins, they were helping as well, but decided to Floo to their mum's after statements just to save her a heart attack. Hope you and Charlie are well, rough to come back to something like that, how's the young Fortescue? Isn't he the one you helped make a clock, day you left?
OH, and HOW DID THE MASTERPIECE GO?! Sarah and Dad must still be abroad, as I haven't heard anything! I know deaths and war orphans calling you auntie are serious business, but still, concerned brother and wager-placing triplets would like to know. Also, how was trip? All things going well with C. and/or the P.A.'s? Still have the H.H.D.P. speech ready in case you need it.
And I'll order a lavish breakfast with all the trimmings DELIVERED, say, around ten-abouts? Whether you passed it or not, sounds like you could do with better than cinnamon buns. I BET you passed. Can't wait to see you, Sis. Be home soon. Don't wait up for me!
Love,
Ian
So I hastily scribbled back a reply:
Ian,
That's 'Mistress Sis' to you! Blue-band high honors and everything, you'll have to have a great brotherly brag to the other fellows sometime, plus collect on any outstanding bets as to how I'd do on it. As for the P.A.'s, suffice it to say that if you were betting on THAT, I do not want to know, but there doesn't seem to be any need for the H.H.D.P. speech ever and C. is better than good. We played Quidditch and our side won. Why are you asking me about the P.A.'s or need for same, anyway? Is it ANY of your business, or is this just siblingly curiosity?
WAIT, YOU HAD DINNER WITH SAM'S PARENTS?!
…I'll discuss the P.A.'s and use thereof if you will. See you soon!
Love,
-Jessie
Charlie watched me zipping away with the Think-Notes quill and gave me a hug from behind that almost transliterated an audible purr into the note.
"Do you insist on the archaic idea that a boyfriend has the right to read his girlfriend's letters?"
"No, nor fiancee's, nor wife's, for that matter, unless you'd like them spell-checked or want to share a funny bit or something."
"Oh. Well, look at this," I showed him Ian's note, and my reply.
"The P.A.'s…oh, yes. And that must be the 'Hurt Her, Die Painfully' brother speech, he's referrin' to. You know, some time Ian and I must really get together and compare them. I have a splendid one myself if I do say so, but it's never too late to add in more adverbs and things."
"But yes, Ian and I do, in a very general and vague sense, discuss such matters, always have, but if you're not comfortable with that, I'd be delighted to stop."
"I discuss such things in a very vague and general sense, kind of 'things going well?' 'yes, quite,' sort of sense with my own brothers. The only thing that surprises me at all is that you're of mixed genders and somehow manage to discuss them…wait." A deviously inquisitive look came across Charlie's face. "Is this, just perhaps, partly why you came to me without practical experience, but with enough theoretical research to be quite well-prepared?"
"Partly? It's a huge part of it. Ian described the sexual attitudes and related jokes from of some of his housemates in school, possibly in an attempt to be brotherish and warn me off the male sex in general, and I was so bloody confused by it I started researching on the topic just to keep up. And then it was so intimidating, I compensated with research, and then when he caught me researching the only way to keep him from teasing me about said reading was to treat it as no more shocking than Arithmancy texts…as much as was possible, that is. I do still blush horribly when anything related to my own actual practices or preferences comes up. But I can discuss whether a particular bit of smutty media is any good or not, and in some detail, and to the extent that that helped matters…well…"
"I need to buy your brother a pint of something. It doesn't especially matter what. But pints are most definitely in order."
"Why? To… seriously?" I frowned a little. "You're going to inform him that you approve of results?"
"I am only going to comment on the subject once, ever, but in that comment, I intend to notify your brother that his forthrightness and sensibility in discussin' matters of a sensitive nature with his most brilliant younger sister has led to said lady's possessing remarkably sterling qualities not only as regards matters related to the precautionary arts, but in the application of theory to practice, such that I do not ever expect to have any interest in any other female in that area of human activity ever again, and to compliment him on his foresight and consideration."
"You'll make him blush so hard he risks a stroke."
"Yes, true. You do both have that tendency. But then he will never, ever, be able to tease you about it again without turning into Mr. Tomato Head."
"…I keep forgetting that you are an older brother and know their wicked ways," I observed, happily contemplating this clever plan. "It sounds like I might also need to have pints with Sam Redfern, at which point we will probably discuss shoes or whatnot while gesturing and giggling with alarming frequency down the bar and just out of earshot, purely to make you two blush more and look anxious wonderin' what we're talking about."
"Yes. Dinner with her parents already."
"Sam always did move faster than I did, but she's never once been serious enough to bring a fellow home, as it were. There's probably an interesting story behind this."
"We must avoid asking, if only because they'll be trying to avoid asking us how our weekend went."
"Well, until the past couple hours, best one I ever had."
"Really?"
"Really, really."
That made him smile.
"Also, when you mentioned the reading-the-letters thing," Charlie rubbed my shoulders as I sent the note off with Min. "Boyfriend-girlfriend. That sounds so…fourth-year Common Room."
"Yes, it does," I agreed, pulling away for just a second to open my trunk and take out a couple of things, including some socks, which I tossed into the laundry basket.
"I know we've kind of vaguely discussed it, and while it's only been a few months, well…"
I noticed Charlie feeling at something in his vest pocket, even as I had something I'd gotten from my trunk in my own hand.
"Count of three?" I asked suddenly.
"What?"
"I…I think I know where this is going," I went pretty darn scarlet at that point, "and…assuming you'd be okay with…well…until the war's over…"
"Oh, naturally."
"Well, I…er…well…" I squeezed my eyes shut tight to keep from blushing or tearing up or doing anything else bloody stupid. "Count of three?"
"One."
"Two."
"Three," we finished in unison, revealing the items we'd each been hiding before blurting out, fast as we could, "willyoumarryme?"
There was silence. I didn't even see what he had, nor do I think he saw what I had.
But yes, parties the first and second did come to a congenial and mutually-desired agreement to initiate contractual proceedings with an object of permanent affiliation.
And then, biscuits.
Awhile later, we got around to inspecting our items.
I'd finished making him a silver-cased, wrist version of the Quidditch watch he'd admired with the floating dial and chased bezel, reversed for the other wrist from the watch I'd already made for him (knowing he did have a slight preference for wearing his watch on the left,) and with a few little choice extras (especially in the engraving, movement and function,) while he'd been asleep on the train, talking sport with the other guys or assuming my shopping trip with Sarah had gone longer than I'd indicated it would. He'd gone off with Paul Deroulede to one of the vacant workshops in the Guildhaus while I was actually or allegedly shopping with Sarah and painstakingly wax-carved, then lost-cast a silver engagement ring.
It was a filigree solitaire with a little sapphire that somehow perfectly suited me, and as I looked at it closely I realized that he'd managed to carve some very fine details into the filigree. It was so subtle you'd almost never notice it unless you looked at the ring quite closely, and from the side (either down or up one's finger, if one were wearing it, toward the side of the setting,) but close up, there was a lion couchant sinister with a raven vigilant beside on the one side of the channel, a dragon statant guardant dexter with an owl rising together on the other, and on the obverse of the ring the pattern was perfectly, flawlessly reversed. Symbols for him, symbols for me…together, like they were always meant to be that way. If your eyesight was good enough, you could see that lion and raven were as close to cuddling as they could get, and that owl and dragon had a certain…familiar look in their tiny avian and draconic expressions. Just looking at it was like looking at something I'd somehow always had, but never really seen before. It just suited me.
"How did you…?"
"The silver is recycled, actually…refined from a broken Omniscope I found when I was a kid and some other scraps, and…Paul said that you didn't like diamonds."
"Never have," I nodded, still a little disbelieving that this beautiful ring was for someone like me. The ring was…perfect. I'd never so much as seen one that I liked or would've considered wearing before, but this…and it fit my hand as if…well, it was made for me. The fact that, well…my hands are larger than the average woman's, but the design of the ring simply took that into account somehow, and wearing it, well…does it make sense to say that my hand actually looked, well, pretty for the first time ever?
"Is this why you asked all those questions about casting?" I had to ask.
"No, those were because anyone who's seen anything you've made has to ask, in order to believe it's real. Making this was…just a happy benefit. This is just like that Quidditch watch I was looking at, except so much better…with our initials…and the…chasing?" he asked as I did up the band for him. And damned if it didn't suit his arm better than any watch I'd ever seen on a man before…yeah…
"Chasing, yes," I replied a little dreamily. "The edge pattern is actually our names in Morse code, if you look really close… And this sapphire is beautiful –you…you didn't spend too much, did you?"
"Uh…some dragons get those in their kidneys sometimes, actually. I had that one and a couple others from Romania and Paul helped me cut the one with the most…clarification? Celerity? I had the expert pick."
"What a clever idea!"
"You don't mind that it's…well…?"
"Mind? I prefer it! Nobody was enslaved or had to do dangerous mining or anything dreadful for it, and removing it probably saved the poor dragon a lot of pain."
"Well, yes, if one's ever had kidney stones or taken a look at the medical diagram of a draconic urethra, it really does have rather more humane implications than a –is this a second dial?" He'd found the catch and flipped up the chronometer face to the amorlociometer below. I couldn't help but smile a bit shyly.
"Mm-hmm. Chronometer outside, amorlociometer inside. So it can do two things."
"Am-or-low-key-what now?"
"Amorlociometer," I explained. "It's like a familociometer, but with just two hands and one more function."
"I've never even heard of…this must be so very rare…" He looked at the tiny initial 'J' I'd put on the long hand itself, saw that it was pointing a little half-past 'simul' toward 'una' and that the small hand was pointing to…well, I'll leave that to the reader's imagination. I'd labeled it in the traditional Latin, of course, partly because it works better mechanically and partly because it's the best way to make sure the letters fit.
Amorlociometers are much like the traditional 'family clock' in that the big hand tells you where…well…your love is physically located, and the small hand tells how they are feeling at the moment. It can be a convenient little thing. Bugger to make, really, and the movement and face of that part of this timepiece had taken me nearly two months. I began it in a kind of hopeful, frivolous 'well, supposing he does, and I do, and yeah…' sort of mind-set, which rapidly became more serious. It's probably one of…well…at the time, I think it was one of about forty examples in the known world.
I told him as much and…yeah, that made the both hands twitch on the edge between one mark and another a bit. Kisses can make the difference between 'together' and …erm… 'together' on the device in question, though I wouldn't claim it was the most precise example ever.
"This is amazing."
"Naw, this is amazing. I can tell you designed and made this, yourself, and that's not something you do every-bloody-day. The style is just like yours, and it's just so perfectly…well…I can tell exactly what you were thinking when you designed it and I agree with it. That time with the Come-To-Life modeling clay your brothers tested…I knew you could sculpt, but this detail…"
"Er…Jessie?"
"Yes?"
"I… cheated a little. See, I'd never worked with jeweler's wax before, and well…"
"You carved the original much larger and then shrunk it down to casting size using a spell and a measurement table, right?"
"…Uh-huh." Charlie actually looked sheepish, even ashamed, and for no good reason at all.
"Oh, sweetheart, I do that all the time. Did the better part of your watch that way, otherwise I'd still be working on it. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's considered a standard operating procedure now. To carve this level of detail at casting-size, initially…it just isn't logical. I sure as hell couldn't do it."
"Well, I didn't want to take any shortcuts, not for something like this, but after the first bar of jeweler's wax, Paul said it might be better if I did it this way…"
"First bar?" I caught his hand in mine and held it. "You used a whole bar of jeweler's wax tryin' to get this right?" He nodded.
"Wanted it to be perfect and all."
"Oh, Charlie…you've succeeded and then some. I…I've never had anything like this. It's the prettiest, most perfect thing I've ever owned, never liked any possession or thing as much ever…and at the same time, kind of unnecessary."
"The-what?"
"I'd've said yes if you hadn't had anything, you know that."
"So would I, love." He sighed and cuddled up close to me, with the look he gets sometimes when he thinks of a poetic way to explain a thing. "Call it the silver lining of an otherwise rubbish night."
So yes…we had more than one reason to remember that evening, though, for obvious reasons, we considered the post-midnight timing of our particular event to mark the anniversaries on a separate day from the more awful events of the preceding night.
I'd even say that last bit made up for being woken up three hours later by the first of what would be many nightmares our brave nephew suffered those first few months.