CH 78

It was going to be a good week.

Somehow I had managed to evade what could have been a disastrous encounter with Cecil La Behr and what I imagined would have been quite the lengthy discussion leading up to my termination if he had known what happened between his sister and I. For unknown reasons, Lucille had kept our past private. I was more than a little grateful for her discretion.

When I left the pool in dry clothes, the sun was shining. My walk across campus was mild and enjoyable, the birds were out, and my heart was lighter than I could have ever hoped.

Perhaps it would not be a perfect week, but I had high hopes that there would be more good than bad, that the sun would shine more often than it would rain, and that the school year was one week closer to an end and I would be on my much-anticipated holiday.

Abigail was still gone and there was nothing I could do to bring her back to Paris. Worrying would not remedy the situation and only filled me with despair.

Erik was alive and still out of my reach, but I made every attempt to convince myself that at least I knew he was out there in the world. After almost three decades apart and two since I'd known for certain he was alive, I had seen him with my own eyes. That was reason enough to have faith that he would survive.

'I will see him again,' I mentally chanted all the way to the art building and up a flight of stairs where I found Ink sitting cross-legged by the door in a pair of burgundy corduroy trousers, a blue shirt that didn't match in the least, and scuffed boots. His eyes were closed, arms hugging his frame, and mouth wide open as he made a gurgling sound in his sleep.

He woke when I cleared my throat and scrambled to his feet once he recognized me.

"You have not slept here all night, have you?" I asked.

"No, not the entire night. Only the last….two hours," he said, consulting his pocket watch. "My, that was some tremendously satisfying sleep for a hallway outside of an art studio. It's very quiet in here, Professor Kimmer."

I shrugged. The students who came into the studio just to sleep on the couch made me wonder what sort of cacophony took place in the dormitory where they were exhausted during the day.

"Glad as I am to see you well ahead of the bell, what are you doing here so early?" I asked.

"I wanted to examine your arm before anyone else arrived."

I didn't know how to react to his words aside from pure astonishment that he was so concerned over my injury and healing that he had arrived to the campus more than three hours before class.

"I honestly thought you were here at six in the morning, not eight. I suppose I didn't need to leave my apartment as early as I did."

"My sincere apology for leaving you waiting," I said, unlocking the door. "But somehow I doubt you will ever be here this early again."

He gave an appreciative smile. "Most likely not."

Ink followed me inside and we both put our belongings down before he pulled up two stools and opened a small metal tin with medical supplies.

"Do you always carry this?" I asked, nodding at the tin.

"No, not usually, but this morning I did. Would you roll up your sleeve?"

"It looked fine when I examined it earlier," I said.

"I would still like to make sure for my own peace of mind," Ink insisted.

This was part of the good week I had promised myself, the care and compassion of my sole American student. Sleeve rolled up, I presented my left arm to him and found myself surprised when Ink nodded in approval.

"You've removed the bandage, I see, but the wound has healed very well and the bruise doesn't look bad considering it appears quite deep."

"I was surprised by the appearance myself."

Ink nodded. "The only odd part about the bruise is the pattern now that I can see it in the sunlight," he said.

"Pattern?" I questioned, brow furrowed.

He moved his finger just above my flesh, tracing without touching, the distinct outline of fingers in deep purple against a background of yellow blooming at the edges.

"This looks like a hand print, doesn't it?" he asked. "I would say you were definitely not stepped on Friday night as you originally assumed, but someone grabbed hold of you."

"I don't remember what happened," I said swiftly. Too swiftly. To my own ears I sounded guilty.

Thankfully Ink had no reaction. "I suppose there is not much I recall either, given the amount of confusion," he said. "I will say that whoever grabbed onto your arm had tremendous strength to leave a bruise like this. I cannot imagine how much this must have hurt."

"Tremendously," I said.

Ink balanced the medical kit on his thigh and popped both latches. Brow furrowed, he dug through until he produced a small tube with a yellow label.

"Arnica," he said, unscrewing the lid. "This should help with the bruising a bit."

The salve had a very distinct and strong smell to it. Not unpleasant, but noticeable notes of pine and sage that had the scent of aftershave. Ink squeezed a small amount onto his fingers and then proceeded to gently rub it onto my forearm.

The pressure stung a bit, but not enough where I felt the need to pull away.

"Tell me if I am hurting you or causing discomfort," Ink said, glancing up to meet my eye.

I nodded, but remained quiet with my arm still aside from the involuntary twitch of my fingers.

"Does that hurt?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I'm not moving on purpose. It's a result of nerve damage."

"I see."

He squirted out more salve and continued to massage it into my flesh in a circular motion.

"How was the rest of your weekend?" Ink asked. I assumed because it was so quiet within the studio that he became uncomfortable.

"Good, actually," I answered. As long as I said it aloud, I could believe my own words, fictitious as they seemed to be. "The art show closed yesterday."

"Did you sell anything else?" he asked.

"I don't know for certain, but I heard that everything but a drawing sold and that might be in negotiations."

Ink looked up at me and grinned. "I am so pleased for you, Professor Kimmer. This is quite exciting."

"Thank you," I responded.

Ink's head lowered, his concentration on my arm, and I studied him briefly before turning my attention to the bruise, which looked far worse beneath the sunlight streaming through the windows.

I had never inflicted such pain on myself before. A bit of pressure sent lightning up and down my arm, but this had been far more than I was normally able to tolerate. I stared at the marks left behind, scarcely able to believe I had done that to myself–and never wanting to ever sustain such a terrible self-inflicted injury ever again.

"How was your weekend?" I asked, needing a distraction from my thoughts.

"Honestly, I felt as though I spent far too much time gossiping with other students about the fire Friday night." He glanced up at me and sniffed. "Assuming you saw the newspaper last night?"

"I did."

"You were closer to the stage than we were, so I assume you had a better look. The man depicted in the sketch looked different than the one on the stage, didn't he?" Ink asked.

I considered his words for a long moment.

"The man on the stage, his face was unusual, to say the least," Ink continued. "The fellow in the newspaper looked…well, average. Or slightly below average."

My mood immediately darkened. I couldn't blame Ink for the way he described Erik as 'different' and 'unusual'. He was being kinder than most, given that half of my brother's face was not developed properly, and yet still I wanted to reprimand Ink for his observation.

"I believe you may be correct," I said at last.

"Do you think it was stage makeup? To alter his appearance?" Ink questioned.

Of course I knew that it was not, but I shrugged. "I suppose it could have been."

Ink slowly nodded. "I, uh, also broke off my engagement to Harriet," he blurted out.

I blinked at him. "Is this good news or bad news, Daniel?" I asked.

Ink ran his hand over his hair. "I don't know yet. I dropped the letter in the post yesterday and it won't be delivered for a few weeks, so it is my sincere hope that the letter finds Harriet well and she agrees that we are not meant to be."

I nodded in agreement. "That was admirable of you."

Ink sullenly looked away. "Somehow, I don't think Harriet will view my retracting of a proposal as admiral."

"Do you regret your decision?"

Ink thought for a long moment and slowly shook his head. "I don't love Harriet. I have been with other people," he said quietly. "With…other men. The morning that you came to the police precinct, actually, I'd been out with someone over the weekend, someone I have seen quite a few times and whom I am quite fond of in a way that I didn't think was possible.

"But we weren't doing anything wrong. I swear on my entire family, we were not causing mischief of any sort. We were having dinner, walked down the street, and then suddenly someone accused us of throwing a rock at someone else and chaos erupted."

"Was the other person injured?" I asked.

"He was, but his family came for him the same night," Ink explained. "I had no such luxury, being all the way across the Atlantic. Sitting alone in that jail cell certainly made me feel like a criminal. In my heart I know I didn't do anything wrong, but I still feel like I was paying for my wrong doings."

"Daniel, you do not need to plead your case in order to convince me. I believe you and do not think of you as at fault."

He pursed his lips briefly. "Professor Kimmer, you have no idea how much that means to me." He bowed his head and sniffed.

I knew what it meant to have someone I trusted in my life, someone I could speak to freely without fear of being judged or reprimanded. I definitely knew what it was like to sit injured in a cell, wondering if this would be the time no one came for me.

"I am glad you came to class early," I said. "And I sincerely appreciate your concern over this injury."

Ink's expression brightened. "Think nothing of it," he insisted. "I am relieved it looks better, bruising aside."

Despite thinking a new bandage was unnecessary, I still allowed Ink to fit a gauze square over the center of my forearm and wrap it neatly up.

"To keep your sleeve from absorbing the salve," he said, tying the length of the bandage at my wrist in an impressively symmetrical bow.

We chatted for a while before the rest of the class arrived while I opened the windows and Ink set up the easels and stools for his fellow students.

I opened the windows one by one, turning the cranks to allow fresh air into the room.

"Do you think we can have class outside one day this week?" Ink asked.

"I certainly hope so," I answered. "Perhaps multiple days if there isn't rain."

"Paris in spring is truly breathtaking, Professor Kimmer," Ink said.

"You should see it in the summer," I said.

Glancing out at the campus below with the trees below in bloom, I noticed Lucille standing out front, looking first at the sign in front, then up at the windows on the second floor. At first I wasn't sure if she could see me, but her eyes met mine and she frowned before swiftly turning on her heel, then briskly walking away.

"Good day to you as well," I muttered.

oOo

It took me far longer to find the drawings of Elizabeth with the cat toy than I had originally anticipated. Between searching through several crates of drawings and attempting to keep Elvira from stealing my pencils and brushes, I felt like I was the ringmaster of an unruly circus.

"If you absolutely swear you will not scream at this poor woman, you may come with me to show her these drawings," I said, removing yet another paint brush from her beak before she walked off with it.

Her greatest chances of biting me were when I took something from her that she treasured, but was not supposed to have. It could have been anything from one of my shoes to my toothbrush, pencils or even a canvas.

When Elvira wanted something, she became incredibly defensive, her posture tense, and crown of feathers on her head erect.

She had bitten me multiple times over the years. The worst had been the first six months of me bringing her into my home when nipping had been the norm.

Quite frankly, I couldn't quite blame her as in hindsight, we hadn't started off on the best foot. In my haste to leave the salon with a stolen bird, I had stuffed her into my coat, which had not been my brightest idea. Unprepared for a parrot living in my apartment, and not knowing what else to do, I had released her into my two bedroom flat and she had immediately scurried beneath my chair and out of reach.

Again, pure foolishness on my part.

Unable to handle her and giving her far too much unintended freedom, she had collected about two dozen different items within a matter of days. She stashed all of her forbidden treasures onto the top of my bookshelf, which she claimed as her tree by climbing her way to the top. The whole thing was swiftly covered in scratches from her claws as well as her beak, and the sickening crunch of items crushed in her beak made me certain I didn't want to attempt to take back my brushes or pencils and lose a finger in the process.

I was dumbfounded. Any time I attempted to come near her, she became a screaming, terrified and aggressive bird that very well could have snipped off every single one of my fingers with her beak if she so desired.

The safest way, I reasoned, was to take a broom and sweep the items off from the top of the shelf and out of her reach until she was more comfortable with me. The moment I grabbed the broom, however, Elvira, who was missing the majority of her feathers already, began frantically tearing at her wings, the only part of her body that still had feathers, and plucking them clear off in terror of being struck with the broom in my hand.

Rather than remove what she had stolen and further terrorize her, I gathered a pile of discarded pencils I'd sharpened down to stumps more suitable for a child's hands than my own and put them in a pile along with brushes that I had intended to throw away as they were worn past their use.

"Here," I said, kneeling like some sort of peasant before an angry and unsatisfied deity, "take whatever you want. Take all of it, just stop hurting yourself, Elvira. I am trying to save you, not make you worse."

She had not stopped immediately, but she did eventually come down from the bookshelf and gather up several pencils. I took the rest and brought them to her, handing them off one by one until she had so many that they began to fall off again. With each gift I bestowed upon her, I gained trust, and eventually was able to feed her by hand, then offer her my arm and have her willingly come to me. Weeks turned to months and at last she accepted me as her caretaker instead of another tormentor.

As much as I disliked clutter, I tolerated her hoard of supplies until she grew tired of her collection and mostly abandoned the bookshelf for her current perch in front of the window, where she occasionally balanced a brush or two. Or one of my shoes, which was the most difficult item to negotiate as she enjoyed taking the laces out.

"Careful, she bites!" Elvira screeched.

"You absolutely cannot bite anyone," I told her.

"Ouch! That hurts!" she yelled before imitating a crying baby.

I cocked a brow. "Do you want to go out for a walk?" I asked. "It's beautiful outside and I have an hour."

Her antics immediately came to an end with the prospect of leaving the apartment. She strutted across the floor toward me in what I could only describe as her most seductive walk–if a waddling bird could be described as seductive. She managed to hop onto my chair, wings beating to fly up to the arm first, then walk toward the back where she stood with her head to the side in the most demure fashion.

"Aren't you a sweet girl," I praised, holding my arm out.

It was a strange and fascinating partnership between the two of us, one that I had yet to decide if it was beneficial or detrimental to my overall mental state. I supposed that truly depended on the day of the week.

Elvira patiently perched on my shoulder until I found the drawings and placed them into a folder, which I deposited into my satchel.

I was five minutes early to meet with the potential buyer, who had arrived before me and profusely expressed her eagerness to see the rest of the drawings. She paused and noted Elvira on my shoulder, and I promised that the giant red bird was loud, but secured to my shoulder and no real danger. Aside from possibly her colorful language.

The woman smiled politely as she unlocked the door to the toy shop. I followed her inside, ducking through the short doorway, and toward a table of miscellaneous toys from wind-ups to dolls and stuffed animals of every imaginable variety.

"This would have been heaven to me if I were still six years old," I said, gazing around at the shelves of toys and games.

The woman smiled, shoving everything into a bin. "My father makes almost everything himself," she said.

"That is quite impressive." I removed the drawings and spread them out on the table, then took a step back. "Do you mind if I look around?"

"No, of course not," she said. "I will try to be swift about it."

"I have a half hour until I need to take Elvira back home and return to the university," I said. "If you need more time to decide, you can certainly take them home with you and take your time."

"They are all very well done," she said.

I turned from her and smiled to myself. "I appreciate your compliment."

"Your niece is the one in the drawings, correct?"

"Elizabeth, yes."

"How old is she now?"

"Sixteen."

"Do you have children of your own?"

I was glad my back was to her as I shook my head, disappointed in my reply. "No, I do not."

"I am sorry to hear that. You seem like you'd be an excellent father."

My own actions had proven otherwise, but I thanked her all the same as I enjoyed browning the gallery of toys in a little shop I hadn't stepped foot in for at least five years.

Elizabeth had often tugged on my arm, playfully dragging me toward the yellow and white awning, drawn to the pinwheels in the gravel-filled flower pots lined up in front of the window with the gold lettering.

Marco was less than a year older than Elizabeth and I had only purchased one toy for him, which he had not accepted from my hands when I'd seen him in his pram. No matter how Florine attempted to put Marco into my arms, he protested. Not even the little brown bear with its coal black button eyes and sewn on pink nose could sway my own son to find comfort in my grasp. He screamed at the top of his lungs until he was nearly choking, and his wails of protest made me shiver. The moment I returned him to his mother, he quieted, and despite Florine assuring me it was nothing personal, it had certainly felt as though Marco despised me.

I looked over the shelves, wondering what toys he would have played with as he grew older. Elizabeth preferred animals to dolls and frequently asked for whatever was toward the bottom shelf, be it a turtle with a leather shell or a Scottish cow with real fur in its eyes.

I regretted not purchasing gifts for Marco over the years, when he was no longer a temperamental infant most comfortable in his mother's embrace. Every year I thought of him on his birthday, but never mustered the courage to knock on the door to the Fabienne residence or knock on the door. They lived at a great enough distance where I never traveled past the estate, which I also regretted.

"All of the drawings are for sale?" the woman, whose name I still don't know, asked.

"They are," I said, turning to face her at last. Elvira managed to grab a string with bells attached to it and nearly pulled it from the ceiling. It was a wind chime, which I knew would be impossible to convince her to give to me.

Part of me hoped the woman didn't want to purchase all of the drawings as in hindsight I would have liked to have kept at least one. Of course, I had hundreds, if not over a thousand sketches of Elizabeth, and the drawings were stuffed into a crate with a hundred other doodles, sketches, and hastily drawn portraits I hadn't looked at in years.

"May I offer you one hundred francs?" she asked without lifting her gaze from the table.

She stood with her hands on her hips and lips pursed, eyes flitting from one sketch to the next.

"I've narrowed it down to…four," she said.

"Four out of the four I brought?" I said with a chuckle. Elvira shook her head, bells still in her mouth, and smacked me in the back of the skull quite enthusiastically.

"Yes." The woman laughed as well. "Which one would you choose?"

I moved around the table to stand next to her, making sure she was on the opposite side of Elvira, who continued to be amused by the bells.

"Well," I said, looking over the drawings with my hands linked behind my back. "The top left has the toy cat as more of a focal point. The top right shows more of my niece. The bottom left is more comical and the bottom left is more sentimental."

The woman looked at me from the corner of her eye. "You have somehow made this decision more difficult."

"Take them all with you," I suggested. "I'll return at the end of the week for the ones you don't want."

"I would honestly like all four," she said. "One for my father, one for myself, and the others for my sister and brother."

"I can pay you the hundred francs now for one of them and the rest on Friday," she offered. "If you would take one hundred francs per drawing?"

Quite honestly I would have accepted fifty francs for all four of them as they were more rough drafts than what I would have considered completed portraits. In addition, Theo had said drawings were not nearly as lucrative as paintings.

"One hundred francs is fair for all four of them," I said, becoming more annoyed by Elvira and her new toy.

The nameless woman looked horrified by my words. "No, that is far too low. One hundred now, the rest Friday."

It was going to be a good week, I reminded myself. Not without flaws, but good nonetheless, and an additional four drawings sold would definitely add to my good news.

"Friday," I agreed.

oOo

Joshua was home when I stopped by after my classes to retrieve what I'd left behind from the market. It was three in the afternoon and I was more than a little surprised to see him answer the door.

"I took the day off," he said before I asked.

My heart immediately sank as I thought of Carmen unable to enjoy game night with their guests.

"Everything is fine," Joshua assured me. "I was a bit tired from yesterday and decided I would stay home and rest. Carmen and I have been lounging most of the day. Honestly, it's been quite nice."

I was glad to hear they had spent time together, but still worried over Carmen's health.

"Your food is still in the ice box," Joshua told me. "If you aren't in a hurry back home, would you care to come inside and have a bite with me?"

His offer surprised me. "You want me to stay?" I asked.

Joshua's lips sank into a frown, and I felt myself tense, prepared for the inevitable remark that would drive the wedge between us again and potentially ruin my week.

He sniffed and lowered his gaze. "Of course I would like you to stay, Phelan. You're my cousin. You are always welcome here."

I stared at him briefly before I nodded and followed him inside. Carmen was not in the parlor as I had hoped, nor in the dining room on the way to the kitchen where there were two sandwiches already prepared.

"Did you know I was coming?" I lightly asked.

"One is for Elizabeth, but you're welcome to it and I'll have another one made for her in a bit. She isn't home from school yet anyhow."

The maid, whom I hadn't immediately noticed, looked annoyed by her employer's words, but swiftly abandoned the vegetables she had been preparing to make another sandwich.

We moved to the dining room, sandwiches on plates with a heap of red grapes and cubes of cheese.

"How was your day?" Joshua asked.

"Fine," I said, becoming somewhat wary of his unusual behavior as I popped a cube of cheese followed by two grapes into my mouth. "Yours?"

"Good," he said. "Restful. I feel like I'm always on the run these days."

We both sat in silence, Joshua eating his grapes first, me picking the crust off the bread in small pieces to consume.

"I can have another sandwich made if you want," Joshua offered. "After you finish that one."

"One shall suffice," I replied.

Joshua narrowed his eyes. "You? Only eating one sandwich? Nonsense."

I smiled to myself. "You act as if I practically eat the walls," I groused.

"I'm not complaining," Joshua said. "Merely an observation that you come here to eat all of the food in our home."

"I come here to see Elizabeth," I replied. "The food is a bonus."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Your pantry is stocked with different food than what I keep at home."

"Then why don't you stock your pantry same as ours?"

"I spend less money when I eat here."

Joshua gave an appreciative laugh. "See? I knew you still have the sensibility of a banker."

I shook my head. "Do not even suggest I return."

Joshua regarded me for a moment. "You know, I was thinking last night after everyone left," he said, popping a grape into his mouth, "about what you had asked me a few weeks ago."

My breath stilled, muscles involuntarily tense as my stomach seemed to fill with anticipatory dread that the pleasantness of our conversation would take its expected turn.

"What would that be?" I asked.

"You asked what you had received for your tenth birthday," Joshua replied.

I wasn't sure why he brought it up, but assumed the worse. He wanted to tell me I was absolutely incorrect and had indeed received a gift, but it was my constant need to be combative as well as ungrateful that prevented me from remembering what I'd received on my tenth birthday.

"I don't remember asking," I lied.

Joshua looked sharply at me. "Yes, you do," he said.

He insisted on stoking my anger, in making me say things I would later regret or that he would forever hold against me. This was our relationship; moments of attempting to smooth over our differences and the unfortunate inability to keep our tempers from blowing up. We were each other's matches to a cache of dynamite.

"You asked because you knew that my father and I had not brought you anything," Joshua said.

My skin prickled. There had been far too many bad memories for me to remember all of them, but I had known with absolute certainty that I hadn't received anything on my birthday, that both my uncle and cousin had been certain to punish me for what had happened to Erik three years earlier, and Joshua had decided to tell me to my face that I was incorrect.

"Why are you bringing this up?" I asked quietly, holding down the agitation I felt wishing to be released.

Joshua studied me for a long moment. "I apologize for not giving you something that day," he said. "And I am truly sorry for acting like it hadn't happened."

But…

You were such a difficult child. You shut yourself in your room. You never sat with us at the dinner table. You were combative. We moved here and you did nothing but cause trouble. You slept with every woman you met. You always turn a conversation into an argument. You are not likable. You are a bastard if there ever was one, now stop eating my daughter's food and get out of my house.

It felt as though an eternity passed and nothing I expected Joshua to say left his lips.

"You never forgot," Joshua said.

I shook my head, my throat unexpectedly tight. My eighth birthday was weeks after Erik had disappeared and I truly had not expected to be celebrated. I had no recollection of turning nine. But ten? Surely by then, a full two years after my most heinous mistake, Alak and Val would stop punishing me and perhaps if they told me I was not at fault then I could believe it as well.

I'd waited all day for them to return, to speak to me, to include me, to apologize for shutting me out as if I had purposely lost track of my brother. I had waited for years, not simply for a day, and their silence had crippled me with anxiety I did not know was possible to experience at the age of ten. Their rejection had ruined me. Of course I had not forgotten. I thought of it frequently, of them walking into the house and not saying a word to me.

"It's fine," I managed to say.

"No," Joshua said. "It is not fine."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"If you change your mind–"

"I won't," I assured him. That conversation was no longer one I wished to have with him. It hurt more than I could bear, even if he had intended to apologize.

"If you will excuse me for a moment," he mumbled as he stood.

I nodded, tearing off another piece of bread. The desire to press against my forearm became overwhelming, but I imagined the bruise in the back of my mind, the shape of fingers that had been my doing. I could not add to the bruising. I could not cause myself more physical damage in an attempt to stop the emotional hurt.

Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Alone in the dining room, I sucked in an unsteady breath, my gaze darting around the room and the unbearable emptiness. I couldn't concentrate or hear Bernard's voice in my thoughts encouraging me to steady my breathing and set the weight beside me and everything became heavier.

I gripped both of my knees with my hands in an attempt to keep my hand from my left forearm. My mind turned numb as I stared at the table, still struggling to take a full breath. If Joshua returned, he was going to take one look at me and think I'd gone mad.

Breathe. For God's sake, breathe like a normal person.

Joshua returned well before I had my breathing under control. My flesh felt as though it vibrated with static beneath the surface, the hairs on my arms standing on end.

Without a word he stood with his hands behind his back and forced a smile.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"This is for you," he said, holding out a small box wrapped in brown paper.

I hesitated to accept the box, hands still gripping my knees. "What is it?" I asked.

Joshua sighed. "See for yourself," he said.

There was no anger or frustration in his tone, but still I felt as though he truly despised me for the person I'd always been and would always be.

Difficult. Distrusting. Disruptive. You are the one who stopped speaking to us, not the other way around. Why would we want to give you a gift for your tenth birthday? You were such a little prick hiding away in your room. We should have locked you out for good.

I took the box from his hands and carefully unwrapped it while Joshua took his seat beside me again and crossed his arms.

Swallowing, I lifted the lid and discovered a dozen new colored pencils.

"They're from Bloom's," Joshua said, excitement in his voice. "I wasn't sure what to get you, but the man at the counter assured me these were suitable for a professional artist."

"My birthday is months away," I mumbled.

"These are not for your birthday," he said. "These are in celebration of your gallery showing."

My breath hitched. There had to be some sort of catch, some type of condition that needed to be met first. Why, I wanted to ask. What do you want in return?

I hated my own thoughts. I hated how I reacted to my own cousin. I hated that this was how our lives had been for as long as I could recall.

"You didn't have to…" I started to say.

"I wanted to," Joshua replied. He placed his hand on my shoulder. "I absolutely wanted to give you something to show you how proud I am of what you've accomplished. You are remarkably talented, Phelan. You are a respected professor at the university, you're becoming a successful artist, and I have no doubt you'll return at the end of summer as a masterful sculptor."

It felt as if I had stumbled into a dream, that at any given moment I would startle awake in my bed, struggling to grasp hold of how I had felt receiving praise from the cousin I had disappointed for years.

"I would not mind if you took your position back at the bank," he said lightly, "but I understand if you want to stick with art. You're very good at it."

"Thank you," I managed to say.

As long as I could stay out of my own way, it was going to be a good week. I refused to believe otherwise.