CH 158
It felt extraordinarily late in the day when Phelan and I finally set off for our grandparents' farm. In reality it was nine in the morning, and the road was difficult to traverse due to the amount of rain in a short period of time that turned the dirt to thick, slippery mud.
Once the sun came out, the morning quickly became quite heated, and with no one around, I removed my mask and fanned my face, concerned the perspiration would irritate my flesh.
"I still cannot believe you were at some of the rehearsals," I said. "Or that you drew inappropriate images on my backdrops."
"Yours? They were not yours. If anything, they were mine."
"I am absolutely certain I gave detailed instructions of what the backdrops should contain."
"You did," my brother agreed. "And as artists, we took a little bit of artistic liberty."
"Artistic liberty," I muttered.
"I suppose I have eliminated myself for consideration when it comes to future artistic designs for the incomparable E.M Kire?"
"Unless you are under very strict guidance, yes."
My brother chuckled. "I could recreate them for you if you'd–"
"No."
"Fine. But that last backdrop was masterful, Kire."
We walked along in silence, both of us grabbing rocks here and there, which we tossed down the road to see who could throw the farthest. Most of mine ended up in the fields on either side of the road while Lan's were hindered by the amount of puddles.
"I wonder if Hilda and Toke know Bodil Kimmer," I said, more to myself than my brother as I nearly pulled my boot off in a deep section of mud.
My interest was still piqued by the name of the woman who shared our surname, the possibility of another family member quite intriguing.
"Does it matter?" Phelan questioned.
"Yes," I answered. "Perhaps she's an aunt of ours. Or a distant cousin."
"Or no relation at all."
Phelan briskly walked several paces ahead of me, leaping effortlessly along the higher ground left behind by wagons and carriages whereas I seemed to consistently slide into the ruts.
"You have no desire to meet whomever this is?" I asked.
He glanced over his shoulder. "No."
"Why?"
"Because I have no interest in anyone related to Bjorn."
"If she's related to our father, she's related to us as well. Or our uncle, for that matter."
He scoffed at my remark.
"What if she's pleasant?" I asked.
"What if she's not?"
"What if she's been searching for us as well?"
"That's none of my concern."
I sighed to myself. "You are being terribly difficult."
"Kire, you are more than welcome to knock on this woman's door and ask her whatever you like. You realize this, don't you?"
"Alone?" I asked.
He paused and took a deep breath. "Yes," he said without looking at me. "Perhaps. I don't know. I suppose if you absolutely cannot do this on your own, I shall accompany you."
I smiled to myself, knowing that despite us both being in our forties, it was still in his nature to look after me, older brother to younger brother.
"How far away is Onkerat?" I asked, shielding my eyes from the sun with my mask.
At last Lan turned to face me. "I have no idea. I've never been there, but I can't imagine it's that far."
"Good. I suppose it will be a first visit for both of us," I said, fitting my mask into place.
His eyes narrowed as I walked past him, the conversation put on hold as we were greeted by two overzealous farm dogs, several wayward chickens pecking at bugs outside of the fence, and our exceptionally concerned grandmother, who waddled down the path from the front door to meet us.
"Grandsons!" she shouted, motioning us to her as I turned away and swiftly fit my mask into place.
We picked our way through a deep, muddy path, our boots unrecognizable from the saturated road. Lan reached her first and she hugged him tightly, kissing him several times on the cheek.
"You worry your grandmother," she said, poking him in the chest before she embraced him again and kissed his forehead.
"We waited out the storm," I said.
"A wise decision, but you must be starving."
"The hotel has a bakery," I pointed out.
Hilda clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head in dismay. "Not the same as a meal made by your grandmother."
"Not even comparable," Phelan agreed.
Hilda pinched me in the side. "Oh, my precious little grandson. Still so thin." She looked me up and down, frowning. "Come inside, I have food waiting for my boys to put on these sad bones."
Hilda kept her arm around Phelan all the way to the front door, receiving zero complaints from my brother, who appeared most content when she was near him.
I walked in behind them, leaving my boots outside the door beside my brother's, and watched as Hilda caressed my brother's shoulder when he sat at the table. She brushed her hand over his when she asked what type of tea he wanted and kissed his forehead again.
"My sweet grandson," she said in German, grinning at him with pure adoration. "Min bedste ven," she finished in Danish.
Judging by the way my brother smiled, I was certain he knew what the words meant: my best friend.
"Hilda, you are too much."
"Never," she said, giving him one last look before she disappeared into the kitchen to fix breakfast.
I took a seat on the opposite side of the table and looked him over, smiling to myself at how he softened.
"What are you staring at?" Phelan gruffly asked me when we were alone and he noticed me observing him.
"She's very fond of you," I commented.
"Of course she's fond of me," he said. "Look at me, Kire, I'm her most cherished grandson."
"Most cherished?"
"I'm the oldest," he pointed out. "And the most successful, the tallest, the most muscular…shall I go on?"
"No, you needn't continue," I said flatly. "And you should cease speaking for the remainder of the day."
"Should I?"
"Yes, right this moment."
Hilda returned a moment later with a full tray of food enough to feed an entire family. "No arguing, boys," she said, issuing me a pointed look.
"Me? He started it," I groused.
Hilda shook her head. "Be still. Be good brothers."
"Yes, Erik, be a good brother."
"Where is Toke?" I asked, deciding not to entertain my brother's quarrelsome tendencies.
"With his favorite ladies," Hilda answered. "He could use your company, but only after you eat first. You cannot work a farm if you are starving."
Phelan and I dug into a hearty breakfast, both of us practically groaning with pleasure over the buttered bread and sausage dripping with grease.
Hilda sat back, smiling at the two of us as she watched us consume the food she had cooked.
"Have you decided to play your violin for Skyderhelm, my sweet Erik?" Hilda asked.
"I haven't thought about it," I said between bites.
Immediately her shoulders sagged and she made a very exaggerated face of disappointment.
"You are only visiting for a few more days," she said.
Her eyes welled with tears, her lips quivering as she studied me. "And then my grandsons will return to their homes."
"I will play for you if you'd like," I offered.
"Not the same."
"A private performance would be better," I said.
"No, no," she said with a shake of her head.
"How is it not better?" Phelan asked as he watched our grandmother slide more food onto his plate. "I am not the slightest bit hungry, Hilda, but I cannot stop eating. I do hope you are satisfied."
Hilda appeared quite pleased with herself as we both continued to eat a second helping. "Grandmother wants to see everyone in Skyderhelm applaud her beloved grandson when he plays his music for them. They will be astonished."
I paused before taking another bite, finding myself amused that my grandmother, whom I had met days earlier, wished to see her neighbors react to my music. It was a difficult request to deny, seeing the pride in her gaze when she looked at me.
Hilda turned to look at my brother. "Phelan," she pleaded. "Why haven't you talked to your brother?"
"I've tried, Hilda," Phelan said. He looked at me and shook his head in dismay. "Erik simply doesn't listen."
I sighed at the two of them. "I will consider it."
"That is all your grandmother wants," Hilda said, wiggling in her chair. "For her beloved to consider a humble request."
"Humble indeed?"
She returned a sly smile. "Perhaps not so humble, grandson."
Once breakfast was finished, Hilda asked Phelan to help her take the rug outside for cleaning and I grabbed my boots in order to see what Toke needed in the milk parlor.
I was barely out the back door when I heard Toke singing to the cows. The unexpected sound of his voice made me smile to myself, and I paused once I reached the barn door to listen a moment longer, knowing if I interrupted he would stop immediately.
His voice was untrained, but still pleasant and deeper than I would have expected. It reminded me of the tone I used when Alex refused to nap or continuously banged one of his toys against my desk or my knee.
Once the song ended, I knocked on the barn door and was met with silence.
"Toke?" I called out.
Again, my grandfather didn't answer.
I knocked again. "May I come in?"
I heard him mutter under his breath and I shifted my weight. When he didn't answer, I slid the door open and peered inside where I found him sitting on the stool with his arms crossed while the cow that had served as his audience waited to return to the rest of the herd peering in through the open barn door.
"How long were you listening?" he asked, motioning for me to take the bucket of fresh milk and place it onto the shelf.
"Not long," I answered.
His blue eyes narrowed and he grunted. "I don't sing for others," he grumbled. "Cows only. You should not be eavesdropping."
"I was coming to help you, not eavesdrop," I said.
Truly, he had no idea how proficient I had always been in overhearing conversations and secrets. If I had not wanted my presence known, I could have easily remained unnoticed.
"Judging by the last few notes I heard, the cows are fortunate to have you sing for them," I said, closing the door behind me. I took the bucket and placed it onto the shelf beside several others that were already filled. "You have a good voice."
His jaw worked in silence for a moment, his eyes looking me over as if he searched for a hint of sarcasm. "Not as good as the city singers you are accustomed to hearing," he grumbled.
"No, I wouldn't expect you to have the vocal ability of someone who sings opera for a living. But, honestly, if you aren't auditioning for the part of Wafiq in The Soldier and the Shell or something similar, there is no need to be a singer of that caliber. Your voice is good regardless."
"What is this you speak of?" Toke asked, his tone still defensive. "Who is Wafiq? What is the shell?"
"Wafiq is a character in one of my operas called The Soldier and the Shell."
"Wafiq is the soldier?"
I opened the barn door, allowing the cow who was in the milk parlor to exit while another trotted inside and made her way directly to the stall. Miraculously, I managed to close the bottom half of the door before another animal squeezed through behind her.
"Fanz is the name of the soldier and his father's name is Wafiq. The father makes a sacrifice for his son, who was missing after a battle, in order to bring him safely home."
Toke considered my words. "Wafiq is the hero?"
"One of them, yes," I answered.
"I sound like him?"
"Your voice would be suitable for his character. He has a solo in the first act where he gives up his sight so that an ancient spirit will guide his missing son home from war."
He nodded slowly. "How does the song go?"
My lips parted, and I considered humming the tune, but reconsidered. "I don't have my violin," I said.
Toke sat forward and began milking the next cow. "Sing it."
I blinked at him. "Sing it?"
"You know the words, yes? You wrote the opera?"
"I did, but–"
"Sing it."
I exhaled. "I'm a composer and musician, not a singer."
"I am not a singer either. You heard me sing, I want to hear you, grandson."
I chuckled to myself, finding both Hilda and Toke to be quite persuasive. "Fair enough, I suppose."
Toke continued milking while I stared at the rafters and went over the composition in my head first, attempting to refresh my memory. As with most of my compositions, I'd never heard the music performed live by a trained vocalist accompanied by a full orchestra, forced instead to bring the full production together in my mind.
"Well?" Toke impatiently questioned.
"I'm playing it in my head first," I said under my breath, staring at a distant point across the milk parlor, visualizing how I imagined the staging would appear.
"You don't remember how it goes?"
"No, not entirely," I answered, growing annoyed by the interruption.
"How do you not remember your own music?"
"Because I wrote it eight years ago," I defensively answered, "and since then I've written hundreds of other songs."
"You have written hundreds of songs?" he asked incredulously.
"Every one of my operas has at least sixty separate musical compositions," I explained. "Margarite has eighty-four, actually."
Toke whistled as if he were truly impressed. "How many operas do you write a year?"
"In ten years I've written twelve, but only five have been published."
Technically six had been published, if I counted Don Juan Triumphant, but since the opera had not been performed in its entirety and I was never paid for the years of work I had put into the composition, I didn't think it truly deserved a place on the list.
Toke leaned to one side and looked at me, his brow furrowed. "What happened to the other seven?"
"Kindling for the fireplace."
His keen blue eyes widened, his expression hardening. "Who destroyed them?"
He looked every bit like a Viking warrior prepared to unleash his wrath upon the unfortunate soul who had committed my operas to the hearth.
"I did."
"Why?"
"Because they weren't good enough."
"Who said that about my grandson's music?"
"I did."
The most galling part of the creative process was staying awake until dawn, pen swiftly jotting down page after page of music that I was certain was delivered on the wings of angels only to review my work the following afternoon and cringe at each note.
The arrangement that had been perfect at four in the morning sounded hideous twelve hours later, when I reviewed the notations in the margins and listened to the music in my head.
In disgust of how fruitless my labor had been, I would rip up each page and toss it into the fire, cursing under my breath–or so I thought. Many times Madeline stomped up the stairs and gave me a piece of her mind for using such terrible language, which she was certain would ruin my son.
"Why would you think your music is not good enough?" he asked.
"After reviewing the operas in their entirety, I decided not to pursue publication," I said.
Toke growled at my words and shook his head in disbelief. "Nonsense," he said. "You should not destroy them."
That was exactly what Madeline would say as she attempted to salvage what was left of the opera. She thought my reaction was far too dramatic and, along with my language, set a poor example for Alex despite how much my son enjoyed tossing paper into the fire.
Alex found so much enjoyment in burning paper that on at least two occasions, he'd crumpled up and tossed drafts I wished to keep into the flames before I was able to stop him.
"Sometimes a better idea emerges from a failed attempt," I explained. "They are simply rough drafts."
Both my desk in my bedroom and the one in the study contained hundreds of half-finished drafts, some of which had been put on hold years earlier and probably should have been discarded. I couldn't imagine what my brother would think if he laid eyes on the pages crammed into the desk drawers.
"Sing for the cows," Toke roughly insisted. "Wafiq's song. I want to hear it."
"But–"
"You perform for millions of people in Paris."
"That's not quite true."
"And you are playing your music for the rest of the town."
"I haven't decided–"
"Play for your grandfather."
I started to protest, but Toke would have none of it and motioned for me to cease my stalling.
At last I exhaled. "I will do my best," I said. "But the cows are getting a very stripped down and unprofessional version of the solo I wrote six years ago."
The milk parlor suddenly felt sweltering hot, and I rolled up my sleeves, uncertain if it was the sun rising in the sky or my own nerves making me sweat profusely.
"Sing."
"I do hope they are in a forgiving mood. And that they are fluent in Italian."
"Erik," Toke growled.
I started out like a terrified vocalist auditioning for his first major production in front of a full house, stumbling over the words and stopping twice to correct myself when I sang the wrong verse.
"Why are you nervous?" Toke asked. "They are cows."
"And the owner of the cows is also present," I pointed out. "Not to mention, he happens to be my grandfather."
"Bah! I am an old man, hard of hearing. You shouldn't be nervous in front of me."
"You are the only audience that matters," I blurted out. "You're…you're family."
Toke grunted. He continued milking, his focus thankfully on the cow and not directly on me as I felt my voice, which had gone unused for a number of years, had become weaker than the song deserved, particularly for a solo that wasn't difficult.
Halfway through, the cow in the stall backed up and I paused to let her out of the parlor and bring another one inside.
"Keep singing," Toke insisted with a nod. "The cows enjoy the sound of your voice."
I looked over my shoulder at my grandfather as I unlatched the gate and felt several large animals push against the barrier, all of them vying to have their milk supply relieved. They managed to push hard enough for three to enter at once before I was able to close the gate.
"Grandson!" Toke exclaimed, slapping his knee. He chuckled to himself as the cows ran loose in different directions with me attempting to corral them. "They all want to hear you sing."
"Doubtful," I said, feeling quite exacerbated by their impatience.
Once there was no hope in retrieving the two wayward cows–Ida and Laura, to be exact, I leaned against the gate, feeling the breaths of the herd on the opposite side of the gate hot against the back of my neck while Ida and Laura thoroughly searched me for edible contraband in my trouser pockets.
I looked into Ida's soft, dark eyes and continued singing Wafiq's plea for his son's safe return. That particular scene had always held a sentimental place in my heart as I'd written the entire opera in a brief three months and with the constant, nagging fear that Christine would return and take Alex from me.
I would unbutton my shirt once we were alone as Alex always wanted to press his flesh to mine. With the lamp turned up and door locked, I composed with my son draped over my body, his head on my bare left shoulder, my arm beneath him to support his weight, and the paper on the arm of the chair in the parlor.
My back and neck ached terribly after thirty minutes, but the only time he was content was either in my arms or with Meg, never in his bassinet. Worried that our last days together were inching closer, I couldn't bear to put him down, not even for a moment to stretch or crack my neck.
I was aware that Alex was far too young to remember being with me, but I hoped that somehow he would have some memory of the closeness and how he felt being cradled with his tiny fist at the nape of my neck and his lips pressed against my jaw, tongue occasionally flicking out as if he expected to find his bottle.
Do you remember how I shielded you from danger?
When you were so small and fit into my arms
They say you, my son, have disappeared in battle
Months have passed and I am filled with such alarm
I would give up anything to have you home tonight,
Take my riches, take my land, take what you want
Gladly I would give up my voice, my limbs, my sight
For my Fanz, my son, my one and only light
Toke continued milking the cow in the stall, but his gaze was trained on me, his lips tipped upward in an appreciative smile.
"Was that in Italian?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Would you sing it again in Danish so that I can understand?"
I raised a brow. "You certainly like issuing challenges."
"You are an Ostergaard," Toke proudly responded. "And you are Gyda's son. You are able to accept challenges with a noble heart."
His words made me smile, despite never truly feeling as though I had earned a place as my mother's son or possessing a noble heart.
Toke patted the cow in the stall and offered a close-lipped smile. "Unless that challenge is keeping the cows out of the parlor for your grandfather, in which case you have not quite succeeded yet."
I scratched Laura's chin as she extended her neck, ears flicking back and forth while the tip of her tongue protruded.
"I will do my best to translate," I said. Despite holding the cow by the halter, she managed to lean in closer and snort in my face. "And I shall give my best translation for Laura, who is apparently my most adoring audience to date. What a lovely girl you are, Laura. You remind me of Bessie."
"You have a cow named Bessie?" Toke asked.
"Well, no, she's not a cow. She's a Basset hound."
Toke shook his head. "City people," he said under his breath. "Think cows and dogs are the same animal."
Ignoring his remarks, I briefly took a moment to arrange the lyrics, first in Italian, then into French, and finally into Danish, which was more difficult than I had imagined. I sang the melody twice under my breath, hoping that the lyrics would make sense before I sang it aloud.
The cow became a much larger version of Bessie, who would often sit with her face inches away from mine, head tilted to the side, and forlorn eyes staring at me as if she could not get enough of her serenade.
Sometimes Bessie would give a whisper of a bark or a soft howl as if she wished to sing a duet with me, but mostly she simply looked at me, soft eyes filled with adoration for the person in the house who smuggled food to her beneath the table and allowed her to sleep in my bed.
From the corner of my eye I saw Toke mouth the words as he bobbed his head to the music. I wasn't certain if he was aware I could see him, so I kept my gaze trained on Laura's dusty red halter and appreciated his interest in music that was unfamiliar to him.
Once the song ended, Toke cleared his throat.
"Does Wafiq see his son again?" he questioned.
I considered his inquiry. "Do you honestly want me to give away the ending?" I asked.
Toke's gaze dropped. "I will not visit a big city to see your opera," he answered sullenly. "But I would like to know what happens."
"I could send you the music," I offered.
"In Danish?"
I exhaled. "No, it would be in Italian."
"Tell me what happens, then," he insisted.
As much as I disliked giving away the entire plot, it was unlikely that Toke and Hilda would ever enjoy an opera at all, let alone one of mine.
"Wafiq is reunited with Fanz," I answered.
Toke nodded once. "Good. I would not be pleased if Wafiq lost his…"
He looked at me briefly, his blue eyes distant and forlorn.
"I do not want to talk about opera. Bring me Laura," he said, his tone much colder than it had been since I'd walked into the milk parlor.
I guided the cow toward the stall and she walked in, immediately sticking her entire head into the pail of grain.
"You take over," Toke insisted. He grabbed onto the metal bars and stood, grimacing as he hobbled out of the stall and took the filled pail of milk with him.
He stood with his back to me, his head down, one arm outstretched, hand flat against the wall with the other on his hip.
I was certain he thought of his own children, the son and daughter he had lost young and the daughter who had disappeared, whose fate he and his wife had not known until my brother showed up, claiming to be their grandson.
"When my son Alex was quite young, I was convinced his birth mother wanted him back," I said. "I was certain if she took him from me I would never see him again. I began writing The Soldier and the Shell when I thought she would come for him.
"When my worst nightmare didn't come true, I put the music into a drawer and began writing something different."
I went through the steps of cleaning the udders in the iodine solution before I placed an empty bucket beneath the cow, who impatiently stepped back and forth while milk dripped from her.
"And then early the following year, influenza spread through Paris and Alex was stricken," I said.
I could see my son's face in the back of my mind, his cheeks flushed while the rest of his body was deathly pale. His eyes rolled back in his head, his breaths short and ragged. He moaned, wanting to be held in one moment while desiring to be laid down with a cool rag on his chest in the next.
"He was so young, so weak from the illness and I…I thought he was going to die." The memory still stole the breath from my lungs. Madeline had suggested that I stay confined to my room as only Meg and Alex were unwell and she didn't want me to be next. I, however, was less concerned for myself and beside myself with worry for Alexandre.
Not a single moment in my life had been nearly as terrifying as the week I spent thinking my son would not survive. He was everything to me, my reason for living and breathing. After watching his namesake pass beside me, I couldn't bear seeing my own son succumb to illness.
"It was a terrible, helpless feeling," I said. "Once Alex recovered, I finished the opera and reunited Wafiq and Fanz."
Toke pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. "They are not real people," he said quietly without looking at me.
"No, I suppose not," I agreed. "But they represent real feelings."
"False people with false hope," he grumbled. "Once you are finished, it is time to rest," he said, grabbing two pails of milk from the shelf. He pushed against the door with his back and walked out, leaving me with the cows.
oOo
Phelan walked into the milk parlor as I finished milking the last cow and guided the three back out to the rest of the herd.
"There you are," my brother said. He looked from me to the pails on the shelf and took inventory. "I was getting worried."
"Why were you worried?"
"Toke said you would be out in a few minutes and it's been twenty since he returned to bed."
"Ida has been uncooperative," I said.
My brother scratched his forehead. "You're on a first name basis with the cows now?"
"I would not dare clean the udders of any creature whose name I didn't know."
My brother snorted. "I can see the headlines: 'Famed composer Erik Kire writes opera called Ida, dedicated to a dairy cow.'"
"Amusing," I muttered.
Phelan paused. "Toke grumbled his way back to bed and now you seem annoyed as well. What happened?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know or you don't want to talk about it?"
"A bit of both."
"Understood."
We moved the remaining pails into the out kitchen for Hilda, working in silence until the remaining fifteen were organized onto one of the large tables. Once we finished, I turned to Phelan and furrowed my brow.
"How on earth are you so…filthy?"
He wiped his hand across his face, leaving behind a smear of perspiration and dirt.
"Am I?" He brushed the dirt from the hairs on his arms. "Ah, so I am. I beat the hell out of a rug," he answered.
"I beg your pardon?"
Lan grinned. "Every visit, Hilda has me clean the kitchen and parlor rugs. First she sweeps it off, then it gets hung up and I use a wooden board that looks like a paddle. One side is flat, the other has bristles. It first gets the bristles used to loosen the dirt and then, using the flat side, I literally beat the hell out of the rug until the dirt comes flying from the fibers. Then Hilda sweeps it again and it goes back into the house until spring. I must say, there are few things more satisfying than being able to pummel a giant rug."
"Honestly?"
My brother nodded. "There's one left. Care to try your hand at it? If you think your shoulder can tolerate it, of course."
I rotated my left shoulder. "I suppose we shall find out."
I followed him toward the rear of the house where the rugs were hanging from a long rope that extended between two trees. Iron clamps held the rugs in place while the tool for removing dirt was leaned up against one of the trees.
"So I simply…?"
"Strike it."
"With this…?"
"Paddle, yes. Flat side."
"How hard am I supposed to…"
"As hard as you can," my brother said. "Like you're in a game of cricket."
"A game of what?"
Phelan exhaled. "You've never heard of cricket?"
"I have, but I've never seen it played."
"Actually, I think you'd want to hold the paddle like you're playing baseball."
I eyed my brother, annoyed by his references. "I have no idea what that means."
"Kire," Phelan scolded. "Allow me to demonstrate."
I watched as he hefted the paddle, widened his stance, and held the cleaning tool up with the broad end over his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he swung as hard as he could, hitting the rug directly in the middle, which released an impressive billow of dirt that wafted toward us, along with a very satisfying sound as the paddle punched the heavy fabric.
"Your turn, little brother," he said, handing me the paddle.
I rotated the cleaning tool, noting the stiff bristles on one side and the flat, smooth portion on the other, as he had described. Taking a breath, I assumed a similar stance to my brother, drew back the paddle, and struck the rug, sending another billow of dust toward us.
We grinned at each other like mad fools taking pleasure in striking an inanimate object.
"Again," Phelan insisted. "You really release some frustration on the second go around."
I struck the rug several times, hitting it as hard as I could until I was winded and covered in dirt and perspiration, same as my brother.
"Unexpectedly enjoyable, isn't it?"
"Indeed," I answered before striking the rug again, using so much force I nearly spun myself in a circle.
"I do believe you have scored a maximum in the boundary," Phelan said.
"Right," I said with a nod. "I am a champion of baseball."
Phelan made a face. "Cricket. A maximum is six runs in cricket. In baseball, you can score a maximum of four runs."
He may as well have been speaking a different language as I had no knowledge of either sport. I decided against telling him as much, but previously I had thought cricket was played on a board, similar to chess.
"I had no idea you were an admirer of sports."
"I'm an admirer of many things," he gruffly replied.
"Do you play cricket?"
"Heavens, no. I am better suited for a single person type of sport, such as boxing."
"You're a boxer?" I asked, striking the rug again as more dust and debris burst from the wool fibers.
"I wouldn't say I'm a boxer, but I've been in the boxing ring."
"Against how many different people?"
"I don't know. Thirty? Forty?" he guessed. "I haven't been to a gymnasium that had a boxing ring for a while, actually. The last time I had a match was probably two years ago now."
"Why did you stop?"
He shrugged again. "I was knocked unconscious the last time I stepped foot in the ring, and my opponent didn't stop when I hit the mat," he answered.
His gaze became distant, his expression hardening. "And after the physician stitched up my scalp and determined I'd broken a rib, Daphne asked me to stop getting into the ring for Rose's sake. She didn't want me injured." He scoffed. "Imagine that, Kire, my adulterous wife, acting concerned for my well-being."
His nostrils flared, his lips thinning out in a remorseful line.
"I suppose now it doesn't matter and I should return to practicing," he said. "I'm no Jem Mace, but I held my own in the ring."
"I had no idea you were a boxer."
"Well, unless you were a mind-reader or had some gift of seeing into the past, you would not have known. I've never mentioned it to Val."
"Why not?"
"His opinion of me is low enough already."
I hit the bottom edge of the rug and nearly lost my hold on the paddle.
"You had better secure your grip before you send that paddle through the kitchen window and scare the hell out of Hilda," my brother warned.
I readjusted my hands and turned my feet back and forth, planting my front foot into the dirt.
"Why would Joshua care if you had taken up boxing?"
"He cares about inconsequential details," Phelan answered, stepping back as I took another wild swing. "And he thinks I'm far too hot-headed as it is. I'm certain he would protest the two of us beating this rug."
"Has it always been this way between the two of you?" I asked, giving the rug another good punch toward the top. From the corner of my eye, I saw Phelan shrug.
"Mostly," he said. "He's family and treats me as such."
I turned, lowering the paddle, my chest heaving with each breath. "I don't understand what you mean."
My brother crossed his arms. "Be thankful for that."