Chapter 95

It was not an appropriate hour to be on the streets. My watch was somewhere at home, but I noted the time above the bank as I stood across the street from Celeste Guin's apartment, a place I knew I would never return.

My eyes felt gritty, but that was expected as it was three in the morning and I had been awake for almost twenty-four hours. I should have been asleep in my own bed. Or at least lying in bed as I was certain that I could not possibly fall asleep, not without laudanum, and I was fairly certain my stomach would reject the tincture all over again before it had a chance to take effect.

Despite the exhaustion, I didn't necessarily feel tired and assumed returning home would merely mean I sat fixating on everything that had happened and was beyond my abilities to remedy.

My sorrow had started to morph into anger, spreading out like roots in the soil, reaching further and further away. I was angry at Celeste Guin's unnamed husband, at the men who had prowled the night and preyed upon little Celeste Frane. I was angry at any man who dared looked at my niece and thought of her in less than appropriate ways–and if I caught anyone leering at Eliza, there would be hell to pay.

I was angry at Abigail for leaving without explanation, for possibly taking a secret with her that I would never know if it was true or not. I was angry at Jean for the rumors and the way he spoke of Lucille. I was angry at Erik for everything that he had done, regardless of whether it was truly his fault.I was angry at Madame Giry for striking me with her cane.

Most of all, I was angry at myself for more reasons than I could possibly count.

By the time I reached the corner of my street, I was seething with silent rage. The anger would not be quelled easily, I knew, same as the need for pleasure.

Before I crossed the street to my building, I turned on my heel, fully intending to stalk my way back across town, to the corners of the city I knew were ripe with trouble.

"The Viking is awake quite early, I see."

The baker's wife–and what I assumed was the mysterious man behind the pastries–stood in front of me. Their unexpected presence forced me to draw in a breath and take a step back.

"I–" I gaped at the woman whose name I had never learned.

"The Viking?" her husband asked. "That is no Viking."

He was a large man, at least five years younger than me with golden hair, thick eyebrows, and a well-kept beard the color of honey. He looked better suited for tearing apart lumber with his bare hands than for baking delicacies from his homeland.

In the back of my mind, the most intrusive thought poked at my brain: I should fight him.

I was so horrified by the notion that I looked away from both of them, startled that the thought would ever enter my mind.

"Yes, Nohr. The Viking. This is Professor Kimmer."

"Kimmer?" Nohr dismissively grumbled. "That's not a Viking name. What are you? German?"

His wife blew air past her lips. "He is a Viking. His grandparents are from Skyderhelm."

"Skyderhelm?" he asked. "Do you know the Ostergaards? The Andersens? Who are the other ones, Liva? Frederiksen or Flokisen?"

"That's your side of the family, not mine. Your side of lunatics."

"You have family from Skyderhelm?" I questioned Nohr.

"Distant," he answered in his deep rumble of a voice. He looked me over in one sweeping glance as if he knew my thoughts and desire for trouble. He would rip me limb from limb if I so much as looked at him in the wrong way. "What is the name of your family? Kimmer? I don't know them."

"My grandfather's name is Toke," I said.

"There are a lot of men named Toke. No surname?"

I shook my head. "I don't know my mother's maiden name."

"What's your mother's given name?" Nohr asked, crossing his arms.

"Gyda," I answered.

Nohr narrowed his eyes. "Not familiar to me. Are you sure they are from Skyderhelm? Not Silkehelm or Sturdam?"

"Konge Toke of Skyderhelm. That was a song my mother used to sing," I answered.

"Your mother without a surname?"

My jaw clamped shut, my anger flared. "Pardon me?"

"Are your clothes wet?" Liva asked me, craning her neck. "Why are you soaking wet? What has happened to you?"

"Maybe he fell off a Viking ship," Nohr said.

Liva didn't appreciate his jest and pinched him in the side, causing Nohr to suck in a very dramatic breath like he had been stabbed in the ribs. I'd never seen a man of his size react in such a manner over a meager pinch.

"Ow! Quit pinching!" Nohr complained, rubbing his side.

"Quit being rude," Liva said. "Professor Kimmer is a good customer and a fine Danish man."

"I've been out in the rain," I answered before the two of them continued arguing.

Liva frowned at me and nodded across the street. "Come on, then," she said. "Let's get you warmed up inside and out."

"I only live right there," I said, pointing to my building.

"Yes," Liva said, nodding. "Second floor."

My lips parted. "H-how did you know?"

"The bird," Nohr answered. "We hear her when we leave for the day. She's very loud."

I could not have been more shocked and embarrassed by Elvira and her reputation of being an avian menace to our section of Paris.

"When I see the light on in your apartment, I start the coffee so it is fresh for you," Liva mentioned.

I couldn't decide if I should be touched by her thoughtfulness or a bit concerned by the voyeuristic nature of being able to tell when I was awake.

"What do you do if I don't stop by in the morning?"

Liva made a face. "You have yet to miss a Tuesday to Thursday. Monday is hit or miss, but three days a week you come in and we praksis your Danish. Eh?"

"Ja," I agreed.

Liva thumped her hand against her husband's massive arm. "See? Nohr doesn't think you're a Viking. Listen to that Danish. Perfect!"

Nohr blew air past his lips. "One word is not enough to be a Dane."

This time, Liva slugged him in the side and he doubled over as if impaled. "Look at him. He's Danish. He's like you."

Nohr scowled. "Maybe a little," he said, straining to speak through his teeth.

"A little!" Liva said, tossing her hands in the air."He's a Viking and he is going to Skyderhelm next summer."

I had never agreed to that, but didn't argue, afraid that Liva would turn and pinch or slug me next and I'd be writhing on the street beside Nohr.

"Ah, well then. That changes everything. He is a Viking," Nohr enthusiastically agreed. He took a step forward and offered his hand. "What is your full name?"

"Phelan Kimmer," I answered.

Nohr made a face of complete disdain. "Phelan Kimmer? That is no Viking-"

"Nohr!" Liva warned, shaking her finger at him.

Nohr conceded. "Fine. That is a fine Viking name. Welcome, our Danish kin."

They both cheered, clapping briefly in celebration of my apparent acceptance into their Viking heritage.

For the first time since I'd read the Epoch, I genuinely smiled to myself.

oOo

Liva decided the best course of action was to hold me hostage in the bakery. Quite literally she made me sit in the back with her, crouched behind a small table on a stool that drew my knees up to my chest. I was fairly certain it was a play area for their children, who were at home with their grandmother.

The only reason Liva claimed to have chosen that particular part of the building was because the boiler was on the other side of the wall and she was certain that I would catch a cold if I wasn't warmed immediately–so certain in fact that she told me several times in both French and Danish.

My clothes were dry by the time I was allowed to leave a little after five in the morning, and by that hour, I felt more mental clarity even in my growing state of exhaustion.

I thanked them for their time and coffee, but neither would accept payment. Once Liva patted my sleeves and the sides of my shirt, determining I was sufficiently dry, I trudged across the street to my apartment, the weariness of the night deep inside the marrow of my bones.

I reached my door and found a note tucked beneath the knocker. My eyes were so heavy that I almost left it unread, but decided it was probably something that at least deserved my attention. Action could wait for later.

Phelan,

Please come at once. Carmen is not going to make it much longer,

Joshua

All of the air in my lungs was pushed out in one hard exhale. I read the note again and swallowed, my hands shaking as the words blurred.

There was no indication of what time the note had been left but the paper itself looked as if it had been wet, which probably meant Joshua or a messenger had left it sometime in the night.

I stuffed the note into my pocket and paused briefly. There was no time to change clothes. Every single second wasted meant I was in danger of not seeing Carmen before she was gone–if she was still alive.

A new wave of anxiety and regret piled on top of the remaining one from the night before. I rushed down the stairs, shoved the door open, and frantically decided which way to walk. I had no idea how many cabs would be available at that hour of the morning and desired speed.

"Please still be there," I said under my breath. "Please, Carmen, hold on a moment longer."

I ran a full street before I found a single cab, but there was already a passenger inside. I kept running, shoes almost sliding off my feet as I had not bothered to tie them, which forced me to stop almost two full streets from my cousin's home. My hands were unsteady, making it nearly impossible to effectively tie the laces.

"Damn it," I muttered. "Damn everything and everyone in this whole God forsaken city."

At last I managed to tie my shoes and stood, every muscle vibrating. My legs were much more fatigued than I had anticipated, most likely from the previous day's grueling tennis match as well as my overall exhaustion.

Unable to hail a cab, I alternated between briskly walking and sprinting, my heart in my throat and lungs on fire.

There was a black carriage in front of Joshua's home, the gate left open and lights on upstairs as well as on the main floor. I took several breaths as I approached the front door, my legs wobbling up the steps, threatening to give out.

I was surprised to find the front door ajar and let myself inside, met by a startled maid leaning against the wall in the hallway.

"Is she…?" I asked.

The young woman shook her head. "I don't know. I haven't been upstairs in the last hour."

I nodded, laboring up to the second floor. I had to rely heavily on the railing as my thighs knotted with each step and I thought I might collapse. Somehow I managed to reach the top of the stairs, seeing both Elizabeth and Joshua seated beside Carmen's bedside while the physician stood at the end of the bed with a book in hand.

No one turned to acknowledge me and I walked into the room, my breaths unsteady and mind reeling.

Carmen was still, her eyes closed, lips parted. From a distance I couldn't tell if she was breathing and I couldn't bear to step forward if she was not.

"Uncle," Elizabeth said, noticing me first. "You're here."

Joshua turned his head, his eyes glassy with tears, but he didn't verbally acknowledge me. He nodded for me to step forward.

"She's very weak," the physician said to me.

"But she's still here?" I asked.

It felt incredibly callous to ask, but her chest showed no sign of movement and I assumed her breaths were very shallow or non-existent.

"Barely," the physician said.

Joshua stood, offering me his seat, but I shook my head.

"Please," Joshua said. "Please, Phelan, sit with Carmen. She would like to have you with her one last time. I'm certain of it."

I swallowed hard, taking my cousin's seat while he moved to the other side of the bed closer to the window and moved onto the edge of the mattress.

"Talk to her," the physician said.

What did one say to a loved one in their final moments on earth? There was nothing that seemed significant or profound enough worth mentioning. I had already expressed my love for her and she had done the same for me.

"Elizabeth," Joshua whispered. "Let's give your uncle a moment with your mother."

Elizabeth sniffled as she nodded and rose to her feet, her hand gently brushing my shoulder. She looked at me with tenderness and a reassuring smile.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispered to me.

"Carmen," I said once they were out of the room.

The physician chose to remain behind, but was either reading or pretending to read. I didn't much care which and didn't feel the need to ask him to step out.

"You had asked me to stop seeing Celeste Guin," I said.

I couldn't think of anything else to say to Carmen, anything that would not leave me sobbing at her bedside. It seemed selfish to waste her last moments in despair, to force her to listen to my sorrow over the end of her life.

"I saw Celeste last night for the last time. She told me some things that were disturbing, to say the least. I was not aware that she had been…"

By the laws of marriage, I was fairly certain that it wasn't technically possible for a man to rape his wife, but in my mind, that was what had happened to Celeste Guin. She had been assaulted from the time she was seven or eight, by her future husband and various other

How unfair life had been for Celeste Guin. She had been orphaned, forced to identify her father's washed up remains, and sent to live with family that had failed her. I knew what it was like to be housed in a place that was not truly my home, to have a roof over my head but no true protection. That life had ignited such self-hatred, such desire to seek out violence to fill the emptiness. For Celeste, it had accentuated the worth men found in her, the beauty that kept them coming back for more of her that she was not allowed to refuse them.

"Celeste was assaulted," I said at last. "By her husband. I don't know if you were aware, but–"

Carmen's eyes slit open. She didn't appear aware of her surroundings, and I couldn't tell if she knew what I said, much less who I was sitting at her bedside.

She blinked at me, expression never changing, but I swore she listened.

I ran my hand over my nose and mouth, frowning.

"I wish there was something more to be done for her," I said. "For Celeste. I suppose there is not, is there?"

Carmen blinked slowly, her eyes set on mine. I took her hand in mine and felt her bloodless fingers curl against my hand.

"There is someone nice that I met recently. Well, not recently. A few years ago, but…never mind, That is beside the point," I rambled.

If Carmen truly did hear every word that I said, I could only imagine how amused she would be by my stammering, how she would read between the lines and see the truth I still wasn't certain I wished to accept.

"I don't think I need to tell you a word about her as I am certain Eliza filled you in on every possible detail, probably better than I ever could, but I will say she's ten years younger than me. She's nicer than I deserve, to be honest, walks so incredibly slow that I could probably walk backwards and still be faster than her. And she's short. Does that seem problematic? I hadn't thought of that as being an issue until now. Actually, that's the reason why she's so slow. Her legs aren't long enough."

I swore there was a twinkle in Carmen's eyes, a bit of satisfaction that came as unexpected. I leaned forward, stroking Carmen's cheek with the backs of my fingers. She would have told me to stop thinking so much, to cease making excuses. For God's sake, my dearest brother, get out of your own way.

"Her name is Lucille," I whispered, kissing Carmen on the forehead. "Luci. I am not marrying her," I said firmly. "We are speaking and nothing more, so don't you dare say that we should be married and start a family or anything of that nature."

In the silence that followed, I imagined Carmen chuckling to herself while she shook her head and goaded me into a courtship. You are not getting any younger, she would say.Nor any more handsome.

"The most I am doing is drawing a picture for her," I said.

My love language; creating sketches for people I cared deeply about, giving parts of myself that I was able to hand off. It was perfectly intimate without being personal. Of course, what I had in mind for Lucille was a part of me that I had never shown anyone else. I wanted to give her more of me, in hopes that those parts would be worth residing within the confines of her magic cloth bag.

"There is still a very good chance I will become a priest," I said. "Although I can't imagine living a celibate life after…after everything that I've done."

Carmen exhaled a long, slow breath, her eyes heavy. I knew she was tired, so very tired from the life leaving her body. As much as I didn't want to think of Bjorn, I recognized the weariness in her.

"That's enough of you asking about me," I said lightly. "You and your insistence that I speak of my dull life. Perhaps you are the better priest and I am merely confessing my sins to you."

My breath caught. I felt loneliness encasing me like a tomb. It had been years since we had the pleasure of speaking in whispers, analyzing neighbors and gossiping about the wealthy. After all the years of silence between us, I had hoped we would have months, possibly years of resuming where we had left off. Instead, we'd had weeks.

"I know you have never met him, but if you see Erik, will you tell him that I love him?" I asked, keeping Carmen's hand in mine. "He has passed away, I'm afraid. I never had the chance to speak with him."

Carmen looked at me one last time before she closed her eyes again, her breaths barely detectable. I inhaled sharply and turned to the physician, intending to ask him to open the door and allow Joshua and Elizbeth back inside before it was too late.

Just as I stood, Carmen exhaled, a guttural sound coming from her parted lips. The physician placed his book aside and briskly walked to her bedside while I opened the door.

"Is she…?" Joshua asked.

The physician placed an instrument against Carmen's chest, which he moved to several different spots. At last, he bowed his head and frowned.

"Monsieur Kimmer, your wife is gone," I heard the physician say. "She's at peace."

Elizabeth gasped for her next breath, the sound that followed a wretched, bone-chilling wail of despair. I put my arm around her, one hand at the back of her head, drawing her face to my chest. It was as much as I could do to shield her from the rip of emotions I still felt pulsing through me, a fresh wave of grief threatening to pull me under again, this time take Elizabeth as well.

I closed my eyes, the prick of tears no longer kept at bay as Elizabeth sobbed for her mother's passing.

Death had become inescapable.

oOo

The house felt cold. Not in a sense of temperature, but the overall feel was like an appendage that had circulation cut off, numb and tingling.

Joshua sat in the dining room with the physician while arrangements were made for the funeral while I sat with Elizabeth on the sofa, listening to the murmur of their voices and tick of the clock.

Carmen's body remained in bed. I had no idea who would remove her or when that would happen, but I couldn't bear the thought of watching her be carried away.

I wondered if Erik's body had been discovered or what had ultimately been done with his remains. Surely he was not at a funeral home; too many people would have wanted to see him for themselves, one last perverse view of the terrifying monster. Perhaps he was buried in a mass grave with unknown and unclaimed bodies, left to bloat and rot until there was nothing left but bones.

The thought made me sick to my stomach.

"Uncle Phelan," Elizabeth said suddenly.

Her head was on my shoulder, her handkerchief balled up in her hand.

"Eliza?"

"Do you think Mother is in heaven or do you think it takes a while to get there?"

I turned my face, resting my cheek against the top of her head. If Erik's obituary had not been in Friday's paper, if I had not been awake all night long or mentally stretched thin as paper, I probably could have conjured up a wise reply.

"I don't know the answer, Eliza," I said. "Forgive me, my darling girl."

I questioned whether hell could exist on the opposite side of heaven or what made eternal damnation worse than the one I had survived, more brutal than the nine years of beatings and starvation Erik had endured. How could there be a worse hell than what Celeste Guin had lived or Celeste Frane had encountered after she had run off? What had Bernard Montlaur possibly done that warranted his daughter being abducted and what justified an innocent girl like Beatrix being murdered?

Hell was everywhere. Suffering was all around me. None of it seemed fair or made sense.

"I think she's there right now," Elizabeth said. "She is able to stand on her own and be free of her bed. She could dance if she wanted."

"Your mother hated dancing," I commented.

Elizabeth lifted her head. "She did? I never knew that."

I nodded. "Despised it, even. Loathed. Abhorred. You get the idea. She didn't care for it one bit."

"But she wanted me to be a dancer," Elizabeth pointed out.

"Yes, because you were good at it and you liked it."

"I didn't love it."

"No? I always thought you did."

"Not the last few years. After years in ballet slippers, my feet looked like…what's an animal with truly wretched looking feet?"

"What makes you think I am an expert on animals with horrid feet?"

Elizabeth giggled. "Aren't you supposed to know everything?"

I closed my eyes. "Where did you get that idea from?"

"From you, of course. You know everything. At least that's what you've always told me."

I inhaled, amused by her words. "And you believed me?"

Elizabeth exhaled. "Of course I did. You're my uncle and I trust you."

I held back a yawn, hoping she would always have faith in me when I had lost all trust in myself.

The conversation lulled and exhaustion took hold of me. I felt myself start to drift, like a separation of mind and body splitting me in two.

"Uncle Phelan?" Elizabeth said. "Uncle?"

I jerked upright, jolted back awake. "Hmmm?"
"Were you sleeping?"

"Resting my eyes," I answered, feeling the tug of sleep tempting me. "What do you need?"

"Does Luci like dancing?"

"I've never asked her."

"You should."

"I will tell her that you inquired."

"No, don't do that. Ask her if she likes dancing, and then if she says that she does, take her out to one of those places where people dance all evening."

I inhaled and opened my eyes. "I'm not much of a dancer myself."

"You could be. If you tried."

"Could I?"

"Yes, of course. I bet you would be wonderful. And besides, you can't tell your awful jokes and scare nice ladies away if you're busy dancing."

"I could most definitely do both at the same time," I assured her.

Elizabeth leaned away from me, grabbing first the pillow on the opposite side of the sofa. "Move your head."

I sat forward and she placed the pillow behind my head.

"Better?"

"I should get up before I fall asleep."

Elizabeth proceeded to drape a heavy blanket over my legs, which she drew up to my chest.

"You are not helping," I said.

Elizabeth huffed. "I am helping, just not the way you wanted."

I made no protest, wanting nothing more than the void of sleep to envelop the waking nightmare of Erik's obituary and Carmen's death.

"Do you remember the tea parties?" Elizabeth asked, keeping her voice low.

"The pretend ones?"

"Yes."

"Of course I do. You thought I was going to drown everyone in pretend tea. A splash of liquid in reality was like an ocean in your imagination."

"Well, Gray Cat and Miss Rabbit couldn't swim," she reminded me.

I smiled to myself, thinking of how often Elizabeth reprimanded me for spilling imaginary tea everywhere. She had made me do the most ridiculous things, like mop up pretend spills and being so bold as to tell me when I had missed a spot.

"You were very fortunate I loved you so much, you bossy little thing you."

"Well, it was my tea party."

"And I was your guest," I reminded her. "You made your pretend guest tidy your make believe house."

"Guest, maid…You were a queen once, I think. And a unicorn multiple times. You were a very good unicorn."

"I'm not being a unicorn for you again, if that's what you are about to ask me," I teased, lifting my head to look at her. "I've retired from my pretend duties."

"I'm not asking you to be a unicorn. But if I did ask you, I think you'd still do it."

She was absolutely correct. I would have walked off a bridge for her, dressed like a unicorn, if only to see her smile again.

"Uncle, your eyes are very red," Eliza commented.

"As are yours," I replied.

"Because we have both been crying," she observed, resting her head against my shoulder again. "This has been a very difficult day."

My throat tightened. It had been more than a difficult day. It had been a difficult thirty-one years and there was no end in sight. Now Erik was gone and so was Carmen. I mourned both of them.

"I know," I whispered, unable to muster my full voice.

"Will you stay a little longer?" she asked.

"For you? Yes."

I adjusted the blanket over Elizabeth and closed my eyes again, far too comfortable to move from my spot beside her.

It felt like she was six years old again, sitting beside me as she always did, head on my chest as she was too small to reach my shoulder. I remembered how she would wiggle her legs and constantly ask if I were listening to her as she required my full attention at all times.

"But I need to stand for a moment and wake myself," I said. "Otherwise I will be passed out here beside you for hours."

"Rest, Uncle," Elizabeth whispered. "I will take care of you."

"Eliza…"

"I want to take care of you," she insisted. "Please."

At any other time I would have told her no, that was not necessary. I was there to take care of her, not the other way around.

But she had always taken care of me in her sweet way, always asking me to sit with her for a moment longer, always leaning against me with her head against me or feet on my lap.

There were times when she was much smaller and I imagined she was Erik. I imagined she was my brother sound asleep beneath the protection of my arm draped over her.

She was the child in my life that I had not lost or denied being in my life. My constant. My most beloved and cherished niece.

I inhaled, floating further past the boundary of consciousness, drifting into the expanse of sleep where I could escape from the turmoil of death at least for a little while.

In dreams I was seated on the floor in front of the coffee table, which was draped in a flat bed sheet as there were no tablecloths that would fit. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, dust motes in the air.

The make believe table was already filled with toy guests when I arrived; the cat from Papa Milo's, a filthy, ragged toy duckling, the rabbit with a missing eye, and then me, forced to wear a top hat that Eliza had rescued from the back of a closet.

Oh! A special guest! Uncle…No, you're not Uncle Phelan. Forgive me, I have forgotten your name.

Umm..

Surely you have not forgotten your name, Sir?

Unicorn?

No, you are a unicorn, but your name can't BE 'unicorn'.

Fine. Mr. Hooves.

Welcome, Mr. Hooves! Now, please, pour us some tea and do refrain from spilling it everywhere again.

oOo

It was three in the afternoon when I woke beside Eliza, who had curled up next to me and fallen asleep as well. The parlor windows had been opened, the curtains billowing with the soft breeze, the interior dark and comfortable.

Joshua sat across from me in his chair, looking up from the newspaper when I inhaled and moved my legs.

"You don't have to leave," he said quietly. "I would prefer if you stayed, actually."

My arm had gone completely numb. Eliza started to rouse and I wriggled out from beneath her, flexing my hand to regain feeling.

"Have they taken her yet?" I asked.

Joshua sullenly nodded. "An hour ago."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I regret the length of time I spent at her side."

"Don't," Joshua said firmly, smoothing the paper in his lap. "We were with her all night. Carmen was not awake the entire time Elizabeth and I were with her. I don't think she knew we were there anyhow."

My lips parted, and I considered telling my cousin that his wife had opened her eyes one last time, but decided to keep that thought to myself.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"The obituary will run on Monday. Services on Friday."

I slowly nodded, eyeing the newspaper Joshua still had open.

"I wasn't as prepared as I thought I would be," he commented.

My heart stuttered as he scanned the contents.

"I suppose nothing prepares us to live after we have lost someone."

"No, it doesn't," I agreed.

"You know," Joshua said, "I was worried about you last night when you didn't come here at once. I thought..." He looked away from me. "I thought perhaps you had gotten yourself into a bit of trouble."

I had gotten myself into a bit of trouble, just not the kind that involved iron bars and bail.

"I was out late," I answered. "I apologize for missing your note."

"No apology needed." Joshua rubbed his nose. "Still nothing from Erik?" he asked, looking over the top of the paper at me.

For a long moment I stared back at him, unable to tell if he was being serious and hadn't seen the obituary or if he had already read it and his words were meant as a cruel joke.

Joshua set the paper aside and sat forward. "Phelan? Are you unwell?"

Elizabeth sat up suddenly at the sound of her father's voice, inhaling sharply as her eyes popped open.

"Papa? Uncle Phelan? Where's…" Reality settled into her features, her mouth turning down into a frown. "Oh. That's right."

"I should go," I said.

"You don't need to leave," Joshua said.

"I'll return later," I offered. "Give you time to yourselves."

"I don't want time to myself," Joshua argued.

I couldn't stay, not with the agitation I felt. I couldn't face my cousin once he saw the three words in the bottom corner of the classified ads and quite frankly it was only a matter of time before he noticed the ad and started to question me.

"I'll return later," I promised.

Joshua frowned at me. "Very well. If you must."