Remember what I said about not being able to tell Jupiter everything? Well, there was one big part of my life I was terrified to let him see. Home. He couldn't know anything about what went on when I was at home. Or anything about what happened there, or how much my grandfather drank, or the shouting matches my parents got into practically every night. Or even the weird family tension that had already begun to widen the gap between Whittel and Garten. Looking back, I probably could've done something more. Because even then, they seemed predisposed against each other. Lucy and I just didn't want to get involved, but maybe we should have.

Unfortunately, when we reached the field, it was already in use. Across that little inlet of water was the city orphanage, overflowing with children from every corner of the First Warren. Some were alright, others downright bullies, and others somewhere in-between. We tussled with them frequently and had gotten punished subsequently for fighting. Jupiter tried to convince them to leave, but since it was Helmer-yes, that Helmer-they of course did not. Helmer was one of those in-betweens. We didn't get along well, he and I, and the class divide never helped. We learned to tolerate each other as we got older, but back then all I had to do was look at him the wrong way and he'd pick a fight.

Jupiter did not manage to prevail on them to leave, and instead we left, discouraged, and disappointed. All except for Lucy, who wouldn't have been able to play in the first place and was not at all upset that baseball had been called off. Jupiter was the most torn up by the events, half-pouting as we walked back up the road.

"I suppose I ought to go home." He muttered around a third of the way back to my house. "If I want lunch."

"Which, in other words, means you'll sneak into the kitchen." I snorted. Jupiter smiled.

"Long as mother doesn't notice no one cares!" He was like an endless pool of energy and enthusiasm, always able to recover his spirits even after such a disappointment as not being able to play baseball. After a further contemplation, and the realization that he was hungry, he said goodbye and darted off down the road.

.

.

"Grandfather's in a bad mood." Whittel said the moment Jupiter was gone.

"What do you mean?" Wilfred asked. Whittel looked at me, squinting for a moment against the bright sunlight, before returning his gaze forward. He didn't respond. That was all the response I needed. "How drunk is he?" I asked bluntly. Whittel shrugged. His silence was irritating but expected, he never spoke more than he needed. Grandfather, by that time of day, would be drunk enough to be dangerous. Garten had hurried up ahead, on purpose, probably, to avoid my questions. I just hoped he wouldn't do anything stupid.

.

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We went up the servant's stairs. The house I grew up in was a huge old thing, a manor probably but we never thought of it that way. Whole rooms were cut off or unusable, so of course we snuck into them anyways. Often, we found nothing, but occasionally we discovered something interesting. Once, on a rainy day when we were trapped inside, Whittel discovered a small glass jar filled with shells. Big ones, like the ones from far west, from the ocean. That kept us occupied for several days. Other times we would find things like old beams, rope, buttons, and other odds and ends. That house was a treasure trove. But I never miss it now, too many sad things happened within its walls.

Lucy suggested the library, which Whittel was delighted about, and Garten disliked. But neither would he stay in his bedroom alone, though he never would have admitted it, so he holed up in there along with the rest of us.

Grandfather couldn't climb stairs. Well, he could, but it was painful, and hard. He had a lasting leg wound leftover from an old war that had never healed. He mostly stayed downstairs, lucky for us. We stayed upstairs if we could, and when we couldn't we snuck as quietly around as possible. We avoided our grandfather at all costs. Unfortunately, at that moment, he was raging downstairs. I'm not even sure what it was all about, but he was in a temper like Whittel had said.

"You've read every book in here, why would you want to read them again?" Garten asked, raising an eyebrow in Whittel's direction. He had taken over one of the couches nearest the fireplace and was steadily filling it with books of every kind. Our grandmother had loved books, and her store remained untouched even long after her death. She'd even made sure that there were books for us depending on whatever age we were at.

"Why do you want to play the same games over and over again?" Whittel asked.

"Cause' they change every time. A book doesn't."

"Not to you maybe." Whittel retorted. Lucy, who had been listening quietly to the bickering, rolled her eyes.

"And this is a stupid conversation." She said. Garten and Whittel paid her no heed and continued their pointless argument. Lucy went over to the piano, a grand old instrument only ever touched by her even though we all could play. (That was mostly because she was the only one any good. Garten's music sounded like chalk board screeching, Whittel constantly lost his place in the music, And I would have rather died than actually have to play, I hated having to do it so much) Something shattered below, and we all collectively winced. There was a shout up the stairs,

"One of you lads get on down here!" Came the roaring tone. We all glanced at each other with the same look in our eyes; Never in a million years. He wanted one of us to climb down into the wine cellar, since he couldn't and had already gone through everything within his reach. When no one appeared, he began to shout louder. Whittel buried himself in the sofa pillows. Garten was so tense that he looked ready to snap. Lucy was sitting on the bench in front of the piano, hands on the keys, but not playing a single thing. I stared out the window, shaking and trying to hide it.

"One of you-" What followed was such a cacophony of curses and slander that Lucy finally had enough. She struck a fortississimo C chord as low in the bass clef as she could, which, in normal words, means very loud, low notes all being played together at one time.

Lucy was quiet.

She was brave too.

She began to play with such fervor that grandfather eventually went away. The shouting vanished and Garten got up and went to make sure the door was locked. The rest of the afternoon was quiet, luckily. Whittel disappeared into his books, Garten started a puzzle, and Lucy played the entire time. I stared out the window.