11 months of writing this story and I exceeded the word count for google docs. Oops! :D

CH 51

There was a group of strongmen waiting for me Wednesday morning when I approached the gymnasium. Their voices carried, and I heard the roar of their laughter well before I spotted them huddled in front of the door.

"There he is," I heard Bernard say as I approached. I found myself surprised that he was standing in the midst of the other younger men given that he didn't seem quite approachable the previous time we had encountered the students. "The man with the arms made of fettuccine."

The other men cheered my arrival. "Lovely to see all of you this fine morning. And may I remind you, the man with the noodle arms is the only one able to bring you group of vagrants in from the cold," I said as I unlocked the door and ushered everyone inside.

"Did you sleep in?" Bernard asked me.

"No, the streets are covered in ice and I had no desire to crack my head open."

"If my fist didn't break your skull, nothing will," Bernard said. "And my apologies for testing the strength of your head."

"Montlaur said he would buy us a round after class if you weren't here in five more minutes," one of the men said.

"My apologies for showing up in under five minutes."

Whatever testosterone-fueled wariness had lingered between the students and Bernard seemed to no longer exist as they hung up their coats near the door and proceeded to make their way toward the back of the room, laughing as they chided each other over the size of weights and male anatomy.

"Professor," Bernard said, nodding at me as he balled up his shirt and tossed it aside. The bruising to his torso had gone from deep blue and purple to fading spots of sickly yellow, which matched the rings around his eyes and the contusions to his cheeks. "Come spot me."

"You trust my fettuccine arms won't allow the barbell to decapitate you?" I dryly asked.

"So far you ain't given me a reason not to trust you," he said.

With that he grabbed a bar and proceeded to lie down on the nearest bench while I stood over him, fingers gently resting on the outsides of his hands as he lifted the bar straight up and lowered it to his barrel chest.

"You know that the Louvre ain't got none of their scribbles or brush strokes for sale?" Bernard asked as he lifted the bar and paused. "Not even the ones made of rocks and mud

"The sculptures and pottery?"

"Yeah, the sculptures and all them vases and stuff."

"It's a museum," I replied. "The collection is for viewing, not resale. Most of what they have obtained is probably considered priceless anyhow."

"You don't got anything there?"

I stared down at him, unable to tell if he was being serious or intended to make a less than flattering remark.

"No, I don't have anything on display in the Louvre."

"I didn't think so, but I figured I'd ask. You know what I told them?" he asked, lowering the bar again. His voice was slightly strained from exertion, but not nearly as much as mine would have been if I were able to lift the same amount of weights. "I told them I got two of your pieces, and that's two more than they got."

I chuckled at his remark. "I'm sure they were green with envy."

"I told them you got a show going on," Bernard continued. "Some guy in a red velvet jacket was talking to a group of people, so once he was done, I pulled him aside and made him write down the name of the gallery before we left. Pierret, I think is his name."

"You did not."

"I did." Bernard finished with his final set and sat upright. "Told him to tell you Bern sent him."

"I'm sure he will be at the gallery as soon as it opens."

Bernard shrugged. "Don't hurt to tell people."

"No, it does not, particularly when you invite the curator for the museum."

"No kidding?" Bernard whistled to himself. "Guess I went directly to the top."

"You most certainly did," I said, wiping down the bench before I proceeded to lie down.

Bernard switched out the bars, providing a lighter one for me as I would have instantly dropped the bar and broken my sternum using the same one he had lifted with ease.

"You got tickets to a ballet?" Bernard grumbled.

"Not yet," I answered. "I plan on stopping by the theater between classes."

He nodded, staring down at me with his usual scowl. "I ain't never been to a ballet. I ain't ever been to a theater. Or an art gallery until this week. Or an art museum for that matter."

"A week of firsts, I see."

"The Scribbler and the Songbird got me going to all kinds of fancy places."

"You aren't required to attend the ballet if it doesn't interest you. I invited my niece and can certainly survive three hours with two teenage girls chittering like squirrels."

Bernard stood with one hand on his hip and the other beneath the bar while I paused between sets.

"It ain't that I don't want to go, I just…" He scanned the room before he continued speaking. "I got one nice suit and it don't fit around here or here since I started bulking up like a bull," he said, indicating it was too tight around his thighs and neck. Again he looked around the rest of the gymnasium to make certain no one overheard our conversation. "And it's a little snug here," he said, tapping his chest. "I guess doing chest presses ain't helping it fit better."

"I don't know if she would be able to do anything on such short notice, but I sent Celeste to a seamstress friend of mine. You could ask if it would be possible to have alterations done by tomorrow."

Bernard took a deep breath. "Yeah, maybe."

"Her name is Abigail, and she's had a bit of a minor issue balancing a ledger with a couple of missing receipts. I was actually going to recruit you into the miserable task of perusing a book filled with numbers and receipts that don't match since you aren't leaving until Thursday. Perhaps you could offer your services in exchange for alterations if you'd like to stop by her shop with me and bring the suit in question?"

Bernard perked up. "Balancing a ledger?"

"With missing receipts."

"Sounds like a challenge."

"One much better suited for you than for me." I chuckled to myself. "You are the favorite contender, if you will."

"Oh yeah? I ain't never been the favorite."

"Add being the favorite to your list of firsts for this week."

oOo

"You got an extra ten minutes to spare once we're done?" Bernard asked.

The rest of the strongmen had already finished their exercises, utilized the scalding hot shower facilities, and exited the building for a hearty breakfast before their first class. They extended the invitation to us, but we both politely declined.

"I have plenty of time. My first class is at nine-thirty and ends at noon."

Bernard rummaged through his leather bag, removing fresh clothing before he hefted it over his shoulder and carried it to the shower room where he tossed his bag onto the floor and proceeded to remove his shoes, socks, and trousers.

Once he was fully disrobed, he turned, squatted by his bag again, and handed me a notecard, then proceeded to walk into the steam-filled, tiled room and pull the cord to release water from the nearest shower head.

"What's this?" I asked, grateful for a distraction from eye contact or looking in his direction altogether.

"It's from Drusinda Frane," he said as he lathered himself in soap starting with the top of his head.

"You contacted her? When?"

"Yeah, I sent a telegram to her Sunday. She replied last night."

"Does Celeste know?"

"I didn't want to say nothing to her until we talked."

I read through the telegram and turned, facing the door instead of the showers so that Bernard was not in my line of sight while he washed himself.

I'd used the gymnasium since I'd started teaching, but had never utilized the shower room as I had no desire to stand naked on the tiled floor where countless other men washed with the same bars of soap and urinated or spit into the drains clogged with wiry hair. Somehow, the act of showering seemed far less sanitary than my bathtub in my apartment.

The telegram stated that Drusinda Frane was grateful to hear Celeste was alive and that her prayers had been answered. She was not, however, in a position to accept her niece into her care at the present time, but would be willing to make a donation to the orphanage or special school for young ladies that would accept her darling niece. There was no need for further contact. The pain of seeing the girl and being reminded of her brother was more than she could tolerate.

"I suppose it's for the best that she replied before you traveled to Brussels and Celeste was rejected on her doorstep."

"It's for the best I ain't going to see that miserable old hag face to face. Acting all pious and then wanting the kid sent off to a home so she don't have to deal with her own niece."

From the corner of my eye I could see Bernard scrubbing the soap down his torso quite violently.

"You know what? She don't deserve the kid. I'm gonna tell her that and say she don't got to worry, because the kid is better off without that ancient, nasty–"

"What are you going to tell Celeste?" I asked.

Steam rolled through the room. Bernard stood with his head incline toward the shower head, water pelting him in the face. For such a study individual, he slowly disappeared into the moisture clinging to the air.

His labored breaths echoed through the tiled shower room, the cadence slowly changing from angry huffs to more controlled inhales and exhales.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I can't tell her the truth. She don't need to hear that she got family that don't want her."

I felt my own breath hitch, the pain of being a child living in three different homes where I had not been wanted was still quite raw. I doubted the rejection would ever fully disappear, the aching more than I could bear.

Bjorn had been cruel, but Alak had shown me compassion and acceptance for three years. I had grown to trust him, to look forward to his return when he was gone for days, to ignore the stench of alcohol on his breath and the stink of his own wretch on his clothing in favor of having an adult in my life that would palm the top of my head and tell me I was a good son.

Erik and I were not his nephews; we were his children. He called us his own, treating us no differently than Val.

Until Erik disappeared. The physical affection he had bestowed upon me was withdrawn, the kind words replaced by silence, and the place I thought I'd always have within his home disappeared.

He had not wanted me. He had tolerated me because I followed him from Bjorn's home on the other side of Conforeit, desperate to obtain my infant brother that he'd taken from me. I couldn't recall if he had pushed me aside, but he'd not turned to hold my hand or guide me through the snow. Barefoot, half-naked, and starving, I often wondered how I'd been able to keep up with an adult whose pace was far swifter than mine.

Because I loved Erik. Because nothing would stop me from keeping my brother safe.

"What would you do, Professor?" Bernard asked. He had secured a towel around his hips and patted his arms and chest dry with a smaller towel.

"You are correct. This woman doesn't deserve Celeste," I answered. "And Celeste deserves a home that wants her."

I had deserved better as well, but there had not been anyone to willingly take me into their home much less their heart. Once Erik had disappeared, I had grown up unfamiliar with what it was like to be loved by another person. I felt like a ghost lingering in the halls and corners, staying out of the way as I observed the rest of the household, aware that my place was not with my parent nor my uncle and cousin and certainly not my cousin and his aunt.

"I'll tell her I sent a telegram and it was returned with no response," Bernard said. "That way she will think I tried, but her aunt must not live there no more or something."

"She misses her friends," I said. "Perhaps when the weather improves, a visit to Brussels to see the girls she once knew would be beneficial."

"And in the meantime…" Bernard started to say. "She can't stay here and she sure as hell ain't living in a home for girls that don't got no one else."

"No," I agreed. "That would not be ideal."

Bernard rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "I wouldn't mind if she stayed for a while in Wissant," he said. "She don't got to stay at the inn, either. I got room if she wouldn't mind staying with me," he said, his voice turning low. "She don't got to stay with me if she don't want to. I ain't going to make her."

"Did she speak to you about her concerns?" I asked.

Bernard immediately turned his full attention to me. "Concerns? What's she concerned about?"

"I believe the two of you want the same thing," I said.

Much as Celeste's expression had looked less gloomy at the end of our conversation the previous day, Bernard perked up as well, and he smiled in his crooked fashion that made him appear no more friendly than if he had outright scowled.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yes," I answered.

OoO

"The cloak is gone," Abigail said when I walked into her shop between classes.

"Gone as in missing or gone as in the buyer picked it up?" I asked as I reached beneath the desk and found the box of receipts and ledger both missing.

"Gone as in a woman who would not identify herself came to retrieve it on behalf of her… what did she call him again? Master? Benefactor? Something of the sort."

"A woman doing the bidding of the man in the garish cloak?" I questioned, raising a brow.

"Certainly not his wife or a sweetheart," Abigail commented as she began searching beneath various fabrics until she located her scissors.

"What makes you so certain?"

"I have my ways of knowing these things." She smiled tightly. "And besides, this woman was definitely not the sort who would call her husband 'master'," Abigail said with a roll of her eyes.

"She was disobedient, then?" I teased.

Abigail narrowed her eyes and sliced the air with her scissors. "I beg your pardon?"

"A wise woman indeed, refusing to grovel before her husband."

Abigail looked at me from the corner of her eye and smiled. "I agree."

"Shall I be the one to grovel at your feet and ask where in the world you have placed the ledger and receipts?"

Abigail immediately gasped. "Oh my word! I left them upstairs. I found two more receipts in the kitchen and took everything up for the night. I wasn't expecting you to drop by this afternoon. I was expecting you tomorrow, but clearly you cannot resist an absent-minded seamstress."

"Nor was I expecting to drop by, my penchant for missing receipts aside, but I have enlisted a friend of mine to take over. He should be here shortly."

"A friend of yours?"

"Bernard Montlaur."

Abigail blinked at me. "That name is very familiar."

"He's a boxer. You've heard of him?"

"A boxer is looking over my ledger?" she asked incredulously. "As a former banker, I thought you would be sufficient."

"A boxer with a very keen mind for numbers."

"I suppose my own negligence has led to this," Abigail said under her breath. "A boxer balancing my books."

"He also has a suit in need of alterations. If he is able to balance the book, perhaps you'd be willing to barter your services for his invaluable expertise?"

"One thing at a time, Phelan. You've gotten quite ahead of yourself." Abigail turned away from me and began looking along the shelves on the far wall. "Why does that name sound familiar?" she wondered aloud.

"He had a match this past weekend."

Abigail shook her head. "No, that isn't it."

"What's inside those boxes?" I asked, following her gaze.

"Unclaimed orders," she answered, turning to face me.

My eyes widened. There must have been at least fifty stacked four high per shelf.

"Do you think you've made a suit for him previously?" I asked.

"Not me," Abigail replied. "Clarence would have made the suit."

"Why would you keep unclaimed clothing?" I asked.

Abigail shrugged. "Clarence had faith that those who requested specific fabrics or patterns would come back for them eventually. There must be boxes on that shelf that are seven or eight years old."

"These unclaimed orders, are they unpaid as well?"

Abigail frowned. "Some of them. Clarence had far more faith in people than I did. Only my best customers are allowed to pay when work is completed."

"I am flattered to be considered one of your best customers."

"And as one of my best customers, would you mind watching the shop while I run up and grab the ledger and receipts?" She paused on the first step. "If you must tidy up, please refrain from touching anything on my cutting table."

"Are the boxes on the shelf labeled?" I asked.

"Most should be."

"Most?" Inwardly I cringed. "I shall alphabetize the unclaimed boxes then," I said.

Abigail scurried up the stairs while I began to remove the boxes and place them onto the floor, slowly separating them into stacks of the start of the alphabet, middle, end and the unfortunate unclaimed articles that were unlabeled and could not be identified into a stack of mens clothing and one for womens.

"Have you considered sending a notice to the people who have not paid you yet?" I asked once Abigail returned.

"If Clarence had thought to take down addresses, I would have," she answered. "The majority are from people who came into the shop once, placed an order, and never returned."

"Rude," I said.

"Rude on their part and irresponsible on my husband's behalf."

"How long do you intend to keep them?" I asked.

Abigail placed the book and box of receipts on the counter and wistfully looked at the emptied shelf. "Every day I glare at the shelves, but I still don't have the heart to throw the boxes away," she answered. "I suppose it's sentimental on my part to keep a bit of Clarence and his faith in people around."

I surveyed the empty space, the way the shelf was bowed in the middle from the weight of the contents.

"I wish I'd taken something belonging to my brother from the house when I left Conforeit," I admitted. "One of his shirts, an old toy…even a stick he had used to write his name in the dirt."

I wasn't sure why I said it aloud or to Abigail, but it was a thought that had not crossed my mind in a number of years, since I'd returned to watch Bjorn die on the other side of the village.

"I gave away all of Clarence's clothes once the scent wore off," she said. "His cologne didn't smell the same when sprayed onto his shirts as it did when he wore it. After a few months, when his side of the wardrobe was empty, his absence felt permanent.""

"I probably could have purchased a child's shirt, dragged it through mud and dunked it in the river and it would have smelled like Erik."

Abigail chuckled to herself. "Do you know if anyone lives in the home where the two of you grew up?" she asked.

I shook my head, moving boxes into different piles. "Our uncle's house was in the middle of the woods, far from the rest of the village. I returned a few years ago to see to some personal matters, and while there was still evidence of it once being a home, the structure itself was beyond salvageable."

"That's a shame."

I shrugged. The extent of damage made it impossible for people to inhabit the crumbling structure, but other creatures from the forest had taken up residence, finding the holes in the floorboards and exposed beams in the rotting ceiling suitable for shelter.

"It wasn't a home to me," I mumbled.

"What was it to you?" Abigail asked.

I paused, carefully rearranging the boxes at the start of the alphabet, allowing myself a long moment to hesitate and consider my reply with care.

"A roof and walls," I said.

"Nothing more?"

I shook my head. "Once Erik was gone, there was nothing more."

"Because you couldn't bear to be alone?" Abigail asked.

"It didn't matter if I couldn't bear it or not," I answered. "I was…" Gooseflesh rose up my arms. "I was simply an occupant in the house."

"With your uncle, you said?"

"My uncle and cousin. My uncle never forgave me for losing track of my brother."

I faced away from Abigail, my insides feeling bloodless down to the marrow of my bones. My heart was heavy as a stone, so grief-stricken that I felt the pulse of melancholy aching with each beat.

"Never?"

I shook my head.

"How long did you live with your uncle after Erik was gone?"

"Until I moved here with Val, so another seven years."

"Was he cruel to you?"

It would have been easier to say that yes, Alak had been cruel to me, his voice raised every time he addressed me, his hand swinging to strike me every chance that presented itself.

"He stopped speaking to me," I answered.

"For seven years?"

"If he were still alive, it would be much longer than seven years."

"Phelan," Abigail said gently. "That is absolutely unfathomable to do that to a child. You must have been devastated to lose both your brother and your uncle."

I had never considered Alak's treatment as a type of loss, but Abigail was correct. Losing his affection and the trust I'd placed in him after being terrified of my own father had rendered me stricken with grief and a sense of bewilderment that I could trust and rely on no one but myself.

I heard the scissors clatter softly on the table, cushioned by the fabric spread out like layers of tablecloths, followed by the soft rustle of her skirts and tap of her footfalls.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her standing behind me. Before I could reach for another box, she placed her arms around me, her cheek pressed to my back between my shoulderblades, hands locked around my chest.

I inhaled sharply, eyes wide with alarm, wishing to disengage and mutter that I was perfectly fine and she needn't embrace me like a sorrowful child in need of reassurance. I had survived for twenty-eight years, carrying every bit of the weight of regret and it hadn't crushed me yet.

Be vulnerable. Be human, for God's sake. Feel something, damn it!

Hugo's words rang through my mind, followed by my own argument.

She cannot and should not be burdened with an attempt to repair me, to salvage what remains of such a broken person. I will not ask her to do anything of the sort.

But for a moment, I ignored my own words and thought of what Abigail had said to me: Be with me, she had asked when our bodies had been entwined in her bed, and then at the cafe days later, when I wasn't certain if friendship was a possibility: sit with me.

Such a simple request, to be present in the moment. It was the same concept Bernard had attempted to teach me, to be where I was without carrying the years of sorrow on my shoulders. I didn't fight the stillness between myself and Abigail, the physical closeness that would not lead to anything further, at least not in terms of walking up to her bedroom.

This type of intimacy was foreign to me, like a language I had once heard but long since forgotten without use. There was no expectation outside of existing, of accepting her soft, innocent affection given without a stipulation.

As a man, I should have protested her protective, sheltering embrace, but it was like being offered a canteen in the middle of the desert, and my need for her company outweighed the feeling of being treated like a child.

Abigail took a deep breath and squeezed me tighter, and I knew it meant she was about to let go.

Wait, I wanted to say, be with me for a little longer. Give me a moment to experience what it feels like to be held by someone sheerly out of comfort. It is what has been missing for longer than I recall, the most innocent of gestures that I have longed to experience.

She pulled away and the heaviness dropped onto me, but I merely swallowed and turned to face her.

"Would you do me a favor?" Abigail asked before I could speak. "Would you throw away all of those unmarked boxes? They've been sitting there for far too long."

I nodded. "Of course," I said, disappointed that the moment had ended so abruptly.

OoO

"Professor!" Celeste exclaimed as she burst through the door, startling Abigail and myself.

"Eh!" Bernard grumbled as he trailed behind her. "What did I say about running and yelling?"

"You said I'm a kid and I should do both," Celeste replied, clearly confused by Bernard's inquiry.

"Did I say that? I didn't say that," Bernard argued.

"You did," Celeste assured him, "but I won't run on the way back."

Bernard looked at her from the corner of his eye. "I'll forget before then, yeah?"

Celeste nodded. " But I won't."

Bernard told her to look around, but not touch anything before he walked up to the desk and looked from me to Abigail.

"Eh, I seen you before," he grumbled. "But not for a few years."

Abigail looked behind herself as if expecting he addressed someone else. "I beg your pardon, I–" She paused mid-sentence, her lips parted. "Oh! Bern! As in Bernard Montlaur. My God, it's been ages."

I furrowed my brow. "You know one another?"

"Yeah, I seen Abi before, lots of times," Bernard said quite impatiently. "I came down here when I was in town for matches. She let my daughter try on all the fancy hats with her daughter."

"I'd almost forgotten about that. Gen and Bea pretending to be different animals as they chased each other around."

"The bird dress," Bernard said.

"Yes! Oh, how Beatrix loved that dress. How is Helena?" Abigail asked. "Is she in town with you?"

Bernard immediately looked away. "Me and Helena, we ain't together no more and Bea…Something happened to my daughter two years ago."

Abigail appeared mortified. "Oh, my goodness, Monsieur Montlaur, how terribly rude of me," she said as she came around from the table and walked to his side. "I had no idea. I am so very sorry for your loss."

"I appreciate you saying so," he said, switching the bag he carried in from his right hand to his left.

"Phelan said you were in need of an alteration," Abigail said, glancing at me.

Bernard pursed his lips. "It's for a ballet tomorrow night," he said. "That probably ain't enough time."

Abigail gestured for him to hand over the bag. "I can at least take a look," she offered. "In exchange for you correcting the books?"

Bernard gave the paper bag to Abigail and cracked his knuckles. "I don't need nothing in return," he said. "I'll do it 'cause you was always real nice to me and my family. Bea said this was her favorite spot in the whole city." He gazed around the cluttered interior, hands on his hips and the faintest of smiles tipping his lips. "Some of mine, too."

oOo

It took Bernard less than six minutes to conclude that the missing receipts totalled fifty-eight francs and three centims. A moment later, while he guessed the totals of the receipts, he happened to flip to the back of the ledger where four receipts peaked out from the folder in the back.

"Found 'em," he said.

Abigail and I exchanged looks.

"Less than seven minutes and you solved the mystery," Abigail said.

Bernard shrugged. "My apologies, Abi, it should have only taken me four if I'd looked there first."

I rolled my eyes, amused by Bernard's good fortune. "You should be ashamed," I dryly said.

"That's Clarence playing tricks on you," Bernard said.

"That would explain the two receipts I found upstairs yesterday. Leave it to my late husband to never put anything in the same place twice."

"Remember when I used to overhead press the girls?" Bernard asked.

"How could I forget?" Abigail replied, grinning to herself. "They were insatiable."

"Bern?" Celeste questioned, peeking her head out from behind a garment rack. "What is an overhead press?"

Bernard slid off the stool and nodded to her. "Come here and I'll show you."

Celeste scurried to his side, fixing her hair and dress before she straightened her spine and took a deep breath. "What do I need to do?"

Bernard explained that he was going to lift her off the ground. "Cross your arms and cross your legs at the ankles, then I'm gonna sling you over my shoulders and get you up in the air."

Bernard demonstrated how her arms should be folded and where to stand so that he could lift her with ease.

"Yeah?" he asked.

Celeste pursed her lips and nodded.

"You don't gotta do nothing you ain't comfortable doing. You don't want me to lift you up, you say so and I'll put you down."

"I want to," Celeste replied.

"Now I ain't going to toss you or nothing," he assured her. "You'll be sideways, but I'll put you back on your feet."

Celeste tightly crossed her arms and stood in position. At Bernard's command, she crossed her legs at the ankles and he squatted, grabbing her first by the arms.

"You good?"

"Yes, I'm good."

"Now I'm going to grab your legs between your hip and knee."

"I'm ready."

Once she was positioned over Bernard's shoulders, Celeste released a high-pitched, squealing laugh.

"You still good?"

"Yes," she giggled. "I'm fine."

With what seemed like little to no effort on Bernard's part, he lifted her straight up, held her in the air for a moment, then lowered her back to his shoulders.

"Set of six unless you want me to stop before."

"Can I count?"

"Certainly."

Bernard lifted her up, and to the amusement of both participants, Celeste announced, "One."

"That's two," Bernard argued.

"The first was practice."

Bernard lightly shook his head. "Tighten your arms. I feel you slipping."

Celeste did as requested, grinning through all six overhead presses.

"Now hold on," Bernard said as he flipped her over his shoulder into a somersault and onto her feet in front of him.

Cheeks bright red, Celeste grinned back at him. "That was almost like a ballet lift."

"Oh yeah?"

Celeste readily nodded. "My father used to have me take a running leap and he would balance me in the air. I haven't thought about that for a long time."

"Well, if I ain't got no weights around, I'll just lift you up. But you ain't gonna come leaping at me 'cause I don't want to drop you."

"I know how to tumble," Celeste said, pushing her hair back from her face.

Bernard whistled to himself. "You got endless secrets up those magic sleeves of yours."

Abigail pulled out the shirt and jacket from the bag Bernard had carried in. "If you are done with acrobatics for the moment, I'd like to see what magic needs to be done on your suit, Monsieur Montlaur. You know where the dressing room is."

Bernard took the clothes toward the back of the room and disappeared behind a curtain that concealed one of two changing rooms.

"How do you know Bern, my dear?" Abigail asked Celeste.

"Self-defense," Celeste answered proudly. "I began taking lessons…" she counted on her fingers, lips moving in silence. "Nine days ago, I believe."

Abigail lifted a brow. "I would have thought you've known him most of your life."

"Bern is very easy to know."

Abigail nodded in agreement as Bernard stepped out from behind the curtain, tugging on his suit while he grimaced.

"That is a bit tight," Abigail said as she crossed her arms and watched him approach. "How old is this suit?"

Bernard shrugged and I swore I heard the seams along his shoulders pop. "I wore this when me and Helena were married."

Abigail made her best attempt not to gasp in surprise. "Oh my," she said under her breath.

Bernard frowned in response. "Yeah, I know," he said. "I don't go nowhere fancy, so I ain't never needed another one."

Abigail nodded in agreement. "And now you have a ballet to attend."

"Yeah. With the Professor, his niece, and the kid."

Celeste brightened at her title, grinning from ear to ear.

While Abigail took Bernard's measurements in the suit, she asked Celeste to jot down the numbers. The three of them conversed as I continued with the task of moving the boxes from the wall to the back door that led into the alley.

Every time I glanced over my shoulder at the three of them, I felt as though I eavesdropped on a husband and wife with their daughter, the perfect, close-knit family.

The distance I had always felt with others became magnified, a glaringly obvious gap where I stood on the outside. Whatever had transpired between Abigail and I prior to Celeste and Bernard's arrival felt as though it had never happened at all, that the quiet moment of affection somehow had not meant nearly as much to her as it had to me.

It should not have mattered. We had been physically intimate for a couple of years and it had not gone further than sleeping together. Quite frankly it had been a perfectly acceptable arrangement, one that was satisfying for the two of us without commitment.

"Professor!" Bernard snapped. "The hell you doing way in the back? Come over here so I ain't got to listen to women's talk."

I nudged the back door open, tossed two of the three boxes into the refuse bin, and started to toss in the last one when I noticed a name scrawled on the top left corner in smudged pencil, barely noticeable beneath a thick layer of dust and tiny pieces of thread.

Abigail smiled as I approached, measuring tape in hand while Celeste dutifully kept track of the numbers.

"I didn't accidentally put one of your orders onto the shelf, did I?" she asked, nodding to the box in my outstretched hands.

"The box has 'Bernard' written on it," I said, clearing away the dust with my thumb.

Bernard furrowed his brow. "Bernard as in me?" he asked.

"Did you order a…" I opened the top of the box, revealing a maroon suit and paisley waistcoat in teal and cream. "Maroon suit?"

The moment Abigail saw the suit, she inhaled sharply, covering her mouth with her hand. "Clarence made this," she said under her breath. "The very last suit he made before…"

"Clarence did a damn good job on this," Bernard said as he lifted the waistcoat from the box. A matching teal cravat slid out from beneath it, which Bernard caught. "And Helena's broken broach. I forgot he said he was gonna incorporate that with the cravat."

Abigail lovingly caressed the buttons on the waistcoat. "Beatrix's birthstone."

"Yeah," Bernard said, smiling at the twinkle of emerald green. "Same as mine."

Abigail took a deep, shuddering breath. "I should have sent this to you as promised," she said. "Bern, I am so deeply sorry I kept this after Clarence's death."

Bernard removed the overcoat and with it a notecard fell to the ground, which Celeste picked up. She looked from the card to the notepad in her hand. "Are these measurements?" she asked. "Most of the numbers match."

"Clarence must have put it in for you to keep if needed for your regular tailor," Abigail said.

"Which ones ain't the same?" Bernard asked.

Celeste compared the two papers. "Your waist is the only one that's different," she said.

"Bigger or smaller?" Bernard asked.

"Bigger. By…three inches."

Bernard immediately scowled while Abigail chuckled to herself.

"I bet you Clarence wrote it down wrong is all. Ain't no way I'm four inches thicker around the middle than I was last time I was here."

"I suppose trying it on will solve that mystery," Abigail said, handing Bernard the box.

Still scowling, Bernard disappeared into the changing room while Abigail stepped toward me and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder.

"I'm not certain if I believe in spirits, but it certainly feels like Clarence is paying a visit," she said. "Perhaps it's his way of saying I needn't hold onto all of these little reminders."

"Perhaps he is pleased that you and Bernard have crossed paths again," I replied, feeling as though I had somehow betrayed myself.

"My Bern," Abigail said affectionately. "Clarence would always say he was like my long lost older brother, teasing me like we were children when he'd stop by with Bea. Bern-Agail, Clarence would call us, or Abi-Nard." She looked at me, hand squeezing my shoulder. "I had no idea the two of you knew one another. How long have you been friends?"

"For an entire week and a half, I believe."

"You two seem so different."

"We're practically twins," I dryly replied.

Abigail wrinkled her nose. "The mysteries of Phelan Kimmer continue."

Bernard poked his head out from behind the curtain, scowling like a troll guarding his treasure. "Eh! Abi!"

"How does it fit?" Abigail asked, ignoring Bernard's tone.

"Everything's good," Bernard answered. "Aside from the waist."

Behind me, Celeste snorted with laughter.

Abigail cleared her throat in an attempt to keep herself composed. "Does it need taken in or let out?"

Bernard sighed, the sound like a low, rumbling growl. "Let out," he grumbled. "Probably by three inches."

"I'll have the trousers altered by noon tomorrow for you evening at the ballet," she promised. Taking a deep breath, she smiled to herself. "It will be an honor to finish the alteration on the last suit Clarence finished, and for Bern no less."