One more official chapter after this and then maybe an epilogue. Or five. :)

There's also an A/N at the end of this one.

Chapter 99

The newspaper for the previous day had been left downstairs, beneath the post boxes rather than delivered door to door. I considered leaving my copy behind, but grabbed it along with the mail, assuming everything would be tossed into the rubbish bin.

I was halfway up their stairs, head down as I rifled through the envelopes when I heard someone gasp from the top of the stairs.

I fully expected to see the woman who lived across the hall from me, who was around my age if not slightly older and who hated Elvira with quite a bit of gusto, for which I couldn't completely blame her, especially since I had left Elvira unattended overnight.

"My apologies, I will keep the bird quiet," I said as I started up the stairs. From the top of my vision, I caught sight of a large cloth bag, which forced me to snap my gaze up to see her face.

"Lucille?"

Out of all the places in the city, I had never expected to see her outside of my front door.

She smiled back at me, her cheeks reddening as she gestured wildly in different directions before she clutched her skirts.

"Fway-lawn," Lucille said fondly. "I wasn't sure I would see you and now you've materialized."

"Materialized?"

The blush to her cheeks reached her throat and neckline. "I just left you a note since there was no answer. And flowers. And a cinnamon roll in a tin. Two, actually, as I was thinking we could eat them together."

I ascended toward her, seeing a vase on the mat in front of the door as well as an envelope on top of a blue tin tied with a ribbon. The display of gifts was unexpected, and I stood gaping at the arrangement on the doormat as if it would all disappear the second I looked away.

"I'm so sorry to hear about your brother and your sister-in-law," Lucille said before I could ask. "Cecil told me after he returned from Hugo's house."

"Thank you," I replied. The words seemed wrong, but I wasn't sure how else to respond.

"How long were they married?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your brother and sister-in-law. Cecil said they both passed away a day apart. Were they ill?"

"Oh," I said, realizing why she would have thought they were married. "It was my younger brother and, well, technically Val is my cousin, but I've always referred to his wife as my sister-in-law. Carmen was ill for many years, so her death wasn't unexpected, but still very much tragic."

"Old Val? From Sterois?"

I nodded. "Yes, the pianist," I replied, meeting her at the top of the stairs where she remained on the landing. "Do you want to come inside for a moment or are you preoccupied with running errands?"

"Oh, heavens, I'm very busy," she answered. "Nothing quite like a fully scheduled Sunday, running here and there from dawn until sunset."

I felt more disappointed than I probably should have, but nodded. "In that case, it was lovely seeing you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness more than you know."

"Oh." Lucille grimaced. "I was actually joking," she said. "I did all of my errands yesterday."

"Of course. Because you don't work at the train station on Saturdays."

Her close-lipped smile widened. "You remembered."

I smiled back at her. "I did."

"I'm currently free for at least the next four hours. Not that you want me to stay for that long as that's supper time and I have a pork roast going into the oven at five that I would have Cecil put in for me, but he will probably forget to turn on the oven and–" Lucille pursed her lips. "Forgive my ramblings. I had the largest cortado of my life at the little place across the street from here. I am a bit…much at the moment."

Lucille could have chosen to ramble for eight hours and I would have listened to every word, grateful for her company and enamored with her observations.

"I believe I prefer a bit much over not enough," I said as I unlocked the door while Lucille gathered the vase, card and tin.

She followed me inside, handing me the flowers, which I placed onto the table by the window.

"Elvira!" Lucille cheerfully exclaimed.

"Hello, my love!" Elvira replied.

"Oh, what happened to her feathers?" Lucille asked, looking from Elvira to me.

"She plucked them out while I was gone."

Lucille looked absolutely devastated by the news and approached Elvira with her hands extended.

"Careful!" I said in unison with Elvira, "she bites!"

Lucille stopped before she was able to touch Elvira, drawing her hands back from the perch.

"You cannot comfort her as you would a dog or a child," I said gently. "Swift movement startles her."

Lucille slowly nodded. "My apologies, Elvira." She turned to face me, still clutching her bag.

"Stay where you are and I will bring her to you," I offered.

Elvira willingly left her perch in favor of my arm and was quite delighted to see me gather a handful of sliced carrots.

"What's her favorite food?" Lucille asked.

"Snails, actually."

Lucille blanched at the mere thought. "I'm not feeding her snails, am I?"

"No, I wouldn't do that to you," I said, chuckling to myself. "I don't even enjoy hand feeding her snails."

"I would feel bad for the snails."

"That's honestly the reason I don't enjoy it." The crunch of the shell was also a very close second.

"Thank you for sparing me the trauma of snails," Lucille said, smiling back at me as I handed her all of the carrots and allowed her to feed Elvira one by one.

For years I had kept Elvira away from everyone, nervous that she'd rip off the finger of some well-meaning person. I wasn't sure what it was about Bernard and Lucille, but Elvira was quite curious and welcoming to the two of them.

Once all of the carrots were gone, I returned Elvira to her window and arranged the chairs back to where they normally were. I offered Lucille a seat, which she accepted.

"Tea?" I asked after we both had a chance to clean and dry our hands.

"That would be lovely."

"You are welcome to look at the pictures I have hanging if you like," I offered.

"How are you?" she asked as she began to look around while I put a kettle on the stove and searched for tea on the shelf, which I knew I'd purchased at the market, but had never drank.

I glanced up at her from the kitchen. No one has asked how I fared and I hesitated to answer honestly.

"I suppose about as one would expect," I said.

Lucille politely nodded. "It's difficult to lose one person, let alone two at the same time."

I found the tea behind a collection of spices in a small tin with the painted label partially scratched off. With my back to Lucille, I evaluated her words and what Val had said to me in the heat of his anger.

As far as I was aware, there would be no funeral services for Erik, which was for the best as there would be a crowd of gawkers, not a gathering of mourners.

But Carmen? She would be laid to rest with family and friends in attendance and Val did not want me present. My reaction to his words was quite delayed, but it stung to think that come Friday he would ask me to leave–or worse yet, have me escorted away in front of his friends if I walked into the funeral parlor.

"These are not yours, are they?" Lucille asked, pointing to two framed sketches.

"No, one is from a student and the other is from Eliza when she was much younger."

Lucille smiled to herself. "I can tell how much your niece adores you."

"I adore her as well," I replied. "Hence the tennis lessons with the boy she fancies."

"Elizabeth is fortunate to have you in her life."

"I am truly the one who benefits," I assured Lucille.

That benefit may have come to an end hours earlier as I wasn't sure if Val would allow me to be in his home ever again, or around his daughter. It wasn't something I wished to think about, at least for the time being.

"Forgive me, but does tea go bad?" I asked, pulling out the bag of loose tea from a small tin as if Lucille would be able to confirm it was still viable by looking at it.

Lucille blinked at me. "I'm not sure. I never drink tea."

Her reply caught me by surprise. "Neither do I."

We both stared at one another. Lucille quickly smiled back at me.

"Fway-lawn, are you going to poison me with old tea?" she teased.

"Yes, I have every intention of poisoning you so that I am forever haunted by the ghost of Lucille La Behr."

"I would be a vengeful and noisy ghost," she replied. "You'd never be able to get anything done."

I removed two cups from the cupboard, amused by her words, and turned to face her from the kitchen. "You've given this thought?"

"No, not really. Not until you mentioned it."

"Then you've given it no thought at all and settled on vengeful and noisy?"

"Yes, because if you poison me, I'll have no choice."

"I see," I said.

"Why are you smiling? You should be terrified."

"Terrified of you as a ghost? Never."

"That's what you think until you see me at the foot of your bed every evening at midnight."

"If you appeared at the foot of my bed every evening at midnight I'd probably–"

My thoughts were not exactly appropriate and Lucille was definitely aware considering the crimson making its way across her cheeks and ears.

"I'd probably be awake five minutes before your arrival to thwart your plans of startling me," I said, pouring water over the strainer. The conversation amused me and I couldn't help but think that talking to Lucille felt like playing a verbal game of chess.

"Then I'd arrive at eleven or sometimes two in the morning so you'd have no idea when to expect me. And I'd knock over your firewood and slam the door."

"Rude," I replied.

"Justified." She smiled back at me. "You poisoned me before my twenty-fifth birthday, remember?"

"I can certainly wait until the day after your birthday if you want," I offered.

"That's very thoughtful, but I cannot sit here until July waiting for you to poison me."

"July?" I questioned. "You were born in July?"

"The third."

I furrowed my brow. "Your birthday is the third of July?"

She nodded.

"Are you serious?"

"Why would I be joking about the date of my birth?"

"I have no idea."

"What is wrong with the third of July? Is there some bad omen associated with that date?"

"I certainly hope not. Mine is the same day."

Lucille's lips parted. "Now, Fway-lawn, if you are making this up to tease me…"

"I am not," I assured her as I delivered two cups of tea on a tray along with sugar and utensils for the cinnamon rolls to the sitting room. "Shall we see what my fate may be?" I asked.

Lucille eyed me as she returned to her seat. "Your fate? I believe you mean my fate. I'm the one in danger of being a ghost."

"True. Mutual fate?" I replied. "The ghost of Lucille and her victim, although I still do think you'd be a very benevolent and charming ghost."

I blew on the surface of my teacup, steam rolling as the liquid rippled.

"What if we're both poisoned?" Lucille asked just as I started to take a sip.

I may as well have thrown out the mental chess board as there was simply no competing with Lucille's voracious imagination.

"That is quite the conundrum," I said.

"I suppose I'll simply follow your ghost around for eternity, seeking an apology."

"I suppose you will," I agreed, taking a sip.

Lucille narrowed her eyes and watched me for a moment as I set my cup onto the table between us, lightly coughed, and pretended to slump over in death.

It was a completely juvenile act on my part, but still earned me quite the hearty laugh from Lucille, who collected herself once I sat upright again and took a dainty sip.

"Well," she said, smacking her lips together. "I'm alive, but I still prefer coffee."

"Agreed."

Lucille asked about the stack of tattered sketchbooks on the table while we picked apart cinnamon rolls.

"How many sketchbooks do you have?"

"At least one on me in my satchel at all times and probably dozens between this table and in my studio."

"At the university?"

"No, the spare room is my studio," I said, nodding toward the door that was cracked open.

Her eyebrows shot up. "You have a home studio?" May I see some of your paintings?"

"If you'd like," I offered.

She was on her feet immediately, cup of half-finished tea abandoned beside mine. I walked into my studio behind Lucille and watched as she looked around.

"There must be hundreds," she said.

"One hundred and thirty-seven in this room," I said.

"You know the exact number?"

"I have a notebook with the date I finished the painting and how many I've finished for canvases and boards. Sketches probably number in the thousands, but most of those are for practice, so I don't have the same system in place."

Her lips parted. "You are quite prolific. May I look through them or is that not allowed?"

The room was the equivalent of popping my head open to peer inside. There were a number of paintings I didn't want anyone to see and was glad she asked for permission.

"I can show you a few of you're interested," I offered.

Lucille readily nodded, and I walked around the perimeter of the room, selecting various canvases to show her.

"Who is this?" Lucille asked as she stood in front of my easel.

"Beatrix," I answered over my shoulder. "Bernard Montlaur's daughter."

"Montlaur? The boxer?"

"Yes," I answered, surprised she knew of whom I spoke. "Do you know him?"

"No, not personally, but I've heard the name."

"Do you follow the sport?"

Lucille shook her head. "Cecil wouldn't stop talking about him for a week when he was at the university for his matches. You'd think Cecil was trying valiantly to court this man by how he spoke of him." Lucille took a step back to better examine the painting. "Was his daughter here with him to pose for her portrait?"

"Bea is no longer with Bernard. She was killed a few years ago."

Lucille covered her mouth with both hands. "How awful. That poor girl and her poor parents."

"With Bernard's guidance, I was able to recreate her likeness for him. This should be done in a few weeks."

"It's a lovely commission."

"More of a gift than a commision," I said. "I couldn't possibly accept compensation after all he's been through."

"What an extraordinary gift," Lucille said.

I placed the unfinished portrait onto the shelf and displayed a portrait of Elizabeth that I had completed over Christmas. Lucille immediately smiled.

"You're a portrait artist, then?" Lucille asked.

"I'm an artist artist," I said, replacing the portrait of Eliza with a rare still life of flowers that I had brought home from Cassandra and Clary's shop. The flowers were starting to wilt and the girls had given them to me for Elvira to enjoy. While handing them to my impatient bird one by one, I swiftly sketched the flowers, adding notations for the colors so that I could paint it later.

"This is beautiful," Lucille said, smiling to herself. "Beautiful despite the telltale signs of withering age. If I could reach through this canvas, I would cherish these imperfect petals, pressing them with care into a book and keeping them like a promise even when the colors are muted and they are brittle. They would still be loved, as all things deserve to be even when they are no longer at the peak of their perfection."

I watched from the corner of my eye, seeing her cheeks redden while she blissfully smiled at the canvas.

"Cecil said you were a poet."

Immediately Lucille pushed her hair behind her bright red ear. "No, not really."

"Your critique was certainly poetic." I turned to face her. "You have the imagination of a writer."

"I have the imagination of someone who wastes too much time daydreaming."

"To see the world better and more fanciful than it is hardly seems like a waste of time."

"You think so?"

"Absolutely."

"Cecil would disagree."

"I am assuming by the state of his office at the university that your brother is not the creative type."

"You mean by how he keeps the curtains drawn and has beige walls with no decoration and absolutely nothing on his desk?"

"All of that, yes."

Lucille frowned. "Cecil is extraordinarily level-headed," she said. "Which is a very polite way of saying he's absolutely no fun." She chewed on her bottom lip, looking straight ahead at the painting. "Of course he has his reasons, the biggest being that he has taken care of me since I was very little."

"Be as that may, there is no suitable reason for discouraging your poetry."

"Well, perhaps if you heard my poetry you'd agree with my brother."

"I heard part of your poetry just now and I stand by my evaluation."

"Perhaps I am merely inspired by your artwork and everything else I've committed to paper is rubbish."

"You do not strike me as someone capable of rubbish."

Lucille smiled in response and crossed her arms. "Perhaps you are mistaken."

"I don't believe that I am."

Lastly, I presented a landscape, my eyes trained on Lucille to see her expression. As expected, she gasped, looking from the painting to me and back again.

"My train station!" she said, clasping her hands, her features brightening. The reaction pleased me greatly, and I found myself smiling back at her. "Oh, this is lovely."

"It needs to be touched up," I said. "The grass in particular is not the shade I intended and the trees need a bit of work. I have drawn this scene multiple times and am still not satisfied with it."

"The sketch you made for me is perfect."

"I wouldn't say that.."

"It is," she said, swatting me in the upper arm. "How dare you insult my train station."

"Apologies for insulting the train station sketch I made for you."

Lucille inhaled, turning her attention back to the painting. "I can picture myself right there, on that empty bench in the shade, using the train schedule as a fan while I scribble in my notebook."

"What would you write?" I asked. "A sonnet?"

Lucille cleared her throat and straightened her spine. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate."

I turned my full attention to Lucille. "I believe that particular sonnet has already been written by a gentleman named Will."

"Yes, but I'm fairly certain he's been dead for quite some time and wouldn't mind me borrowing his verses."

I huffed and gestured toward the painting. "In Calais, there's a shop inside of the station that sells caramels," I told Lucille. "When the breeze hits just right, the air smells so sweet you can almost taste it in the back of your throat."

"Hmm," she said with a nod of approval. "Nothing quite like the taste of something delicious melting in your mouth. One of life's pleasures indeed."

I snapped my head in her direction, both of us staring at one another. Her face turned a predictable shade of red.

"Luc–Lucille," I said, unable to keep the amusement out of my tone.

"You know very well I meant caramel."

"I do," I answered, turning back to the painting, unable to look at her without bursting into laughter. "But still…you certainly have a way with words."

"You have a way of misconstruing my words," she assured me.

"Perhaps I do."

"Can I tell you a secret?" Lucille asked after a long moment, keeping her voice low. She turned to look at me, smiling in the most delightfully devious way.

"As long as I can tell Elvira later. I tell her everything."

Lucille wrinkled her nose. "I want to attend a poetry reading," she said. "At the salon on Rue de Rivoli. They have open reading on Thursdays."

"You should go," I said.

"Cecil would never approve."

"Do you need his permission?"

"No, I suppose I don't. I have wanted to attend for a year now, but I don't think I want to read anything. I would prefer observing."

"What fun is that? You should definitely read something."

"No, I shouldn't."

"Why?" I asked.

Lucille thought for a moment, staring straight ahead. She sputtered for an answer, which ended with a shrug. "My poetry is personal," she said. "It's intimate. It's…it's…my heart and mind cracked open, I suppose, allowing others to look inside. What if they look inside and feel repulsed? Or think it's just simply awful?"

"What if they don't think that at all?"

I felt Lucille staring at me. "I do not want to find out."

"You do realize that this entire room is my heart and mind cracked open, as you put it," I said. "You are standing in the middle of a place I don't typically allow anyone."

Her gaze wandered around the room. "I am truly honored to be your guest, but you're quite good at art and having nothing to hide."

"It's not hiding," I said. "It's…I'm not sure the best way to describe it."

"It's showing others how you view the world. It's part of you, same as writing, I would think. Every word makes me vulnerable, but at the same time, that vulnerability is magical. I'm not certain I wish to share that just yet."

I stepped away from her, searching through the canvases until I found the one that Val had looked at without asking. With one hand, I removed the landscape from the easel and replaced it with the painting I had done at Bjorn's bedside.

Lucille examined the painting for a long moment in silence, her dark eyes filled with emotion.

"This evokes feelings of despair," she said at last. "The figure is quite haunting."

"I painted it while my father was dying," I said. It was one of the largest canvases I had worked on and barely fit inside of the trunk.

"Is this him? Your father?"

I shook my head, slightly dismayed that we had once again been mistaken for one another. "It's me, actually. Or at least the version of myself in that moment of waiting for him to pass."

"This is mourning then?"

I inhaled. "Mourning, anger, confusion, resentment…"

"What would you look like today if you painted yourself?" she asked.

I inhaled, staring at the visual representation of my suffering. "Similar," I said. "But rather than surrounded by darkness, there would be light up ahead, a glimmer of hope."

Hope was my survival; it always had been and I didn't want to lose hold of it as I had done the previous day.

Still studying the portrait, I took a small step back.

"I'm actually very proud of how this turned out, but I have no inclination to put it within a gallery because it's so deeply personal. I don't know if I will ever be ready to share that level of vulnerability with strangers."

Lucille offered a wan smile. "I am so deeply honored to view your art."

"You are under no obligation, but would you care to recite something?"

Lucille looked horrified. "Now? To you?"

"Why not?"

"Because you'd hear my poetry."

"And I would be honored to listen."

"No," she said. "No, I couldn't, not with you standing here staring at me."

"Then I'll turn away or close my eyes if that makes you feel better."

Lucille searched my face. "You're being serious, aren't you?"

"Very." I inhaled and walked out of my studio and returned to my chair where I took a sip of cold tea, which was far more dreadful than I had anticipated.

Lucille appeared a moment later and I realized she'd left her magic bag behind in the sitting area. She said nothing as she sat next to me, retrieved the bag on the rug, and produced a notebook barely bigger than her hand.

She thumbed through the contents, pausing here and there to study a dog-eared page, swallowed once, and licked her lips several times.

"The Simplest Words," she said.

Taking a breath, I closed my eyes and sat back, waiting for her to read aloud. I listened to the tick of the clock and her breaths filling the silence, hoping she would not reconsider.

"Let's take a moment," she said, "savor the way it feels, knowing we shall not travel this virgin path again. I cannot tell which parts of these moments are real and which are the longings of my heart, chemically enhanced by the workings of my wandering mind.

"Am I here because I want to be? How do I know the difference between what I want and what I need? The conflict is disintegrating all of me, and soon I shall be nothing more than a puddle at your mercy on the floor.

"You render me incapable of rational thoughts. I had something to say, but the sight of you has left me speechless. And so I am incapable, forgetting how to say the simplest words.

"Let me take a breath and then another until the feeling slows. Perhaps we can try again? I will meet you there on the crossroads, somewhere between the beginning and the bitter end.

"The trouble is, I am not capable of navigating out of this, it grows until I'm nothing more than a jumble of nerves on the floor.

"I had something to say, but these days are a struggle, and I've forgotten my hello and your goodbye.

"I suppose it was nothing important at all. One look and you make me forget the reasons why I want to say the simplest words."

I heard Lucille softly close her notebook, and when I opened my eyes, she sat sitting forward, looking quite expectantly at me.

"Well?" she warily questioned.

"That was…" I leaned toward her, our knees touching. Without thinking, I took her hands in mine and kissed her on the mouth.

oOo

We rose at the same time, hands entwined, her lips to mine. I pulled her closer, feeling the tremble of her breaths.

Lucille cupped my cheek with her hand and I snaked my arm around her waist, drawing her toward me. The taste of her lips was unfamiliar, the feel of her soft fingers against my face gentle and new. There was so much of her needing to be explored while at the same time she was familiar to me in ways I'd never known anyone else.

It was terrifying and comforting at the same time, to know her love of cortado and swimming laps while I learned the curve of her spine and the feel of her tongue prodding mine.

I kissed her harder, my hand spread against her lower back, her hips tilting toward mine. Her palm left my cheek, fingers skimming down my throat where her hand settled flat on my chest.

I would have kissed her for a lifetime, memorizing the cadence of her breath and the heat of her body against mine. I would have simply held her to me, feeling the beat of her heart, listening to the murmur of her voice.

But I felt her hand push against me, a barely noticeable gesture that made me draw my lips from hers.

Lucille looked up at me, a conflicted look in her eyes. She turned her gaze to her hand against my chest, then looked up at me again.

"Phelan," she said. "I…"

I waited for her to speak whatever was on her mind, permitting me to continue or requesting that I step back.

Lucille bowed her head, and I guessed her choice. Taking a breath, I stepped away from her and nodded.

"Phelan," she said again without looking me in the eye. "I want to." She took a deep breath. "I want to be closer to you, I honestly do."

I gently took her hand in mine, stroking my fingers over her knuckles.

"But I don't want to spend a few hours with you and not see you again for three years," she said. "Or never again."

Eyes closed, I kept her hand in mine and nodded. As much as I desired to kiss her again, even a gesture as innocent as a kiss to the forehead, I refrained. The need to see her again and again, to speak of ghosts and hear the sentences she committed to paper and shared with me, far outweighed the physical want.

"Your writing is beautiful and I am glad you shared it with me." I stepped further back, releasing her hand as I opened my eyes. "It was a pleasure seeing you as always, Luci."

"You're not angry?"

"Of course not. Why would I be angry at you?"

"You're not frustrated?"

"Frustration is not mortally wounding. To never see you again? I am inclined to think that would be difficult to survive."

"Then…"

"Then I'll see you tomorrow at the pool?"

She looked surprised by my response. "And Tuesday for tennis lessons?"

"Thursday for your poetry reading? I may be a little late to that. I have an art critique group meeting at the Carlyle Club."

"I don't think I'll be reading Thursday."

"If you don't mind my company, I'll stop by to–"

"Yes," Luci said before I finished. She grinned up at me. "It starts at seven-thirty. You are under no obligation to attend, of course."

"I'll see you at seven-thirty," I said.

She looked up at me one last time before putting her notebook into her bag. I walked her to the door and down the stairs to the street where I offered to walk her home, but she declined.

"I'm very sorry to hear about your brother and your sister-in-law," she said.

"I appreciate your time and your company. And surviving my attempt at tea, although I am quite certain that you'd be a charming and benevolent ghost, even at two in the morning."

Lucille smiled to herself. She looked away, then back up at me and stood on the tips of her toes, which I took as an invitation to kiss her one last time. My lips gently brushed a chaste kiss against her cheek, feeling it was best not to overstep.

"I'll see you tomorrow at five-thirty, Luci," I promised.

"I shall see you then, Lan." The moment the last word left her mouth, she gaped at me. "Forgive me, I don't know if I should call you that considering..."

"It's honestly nice to hear someone use that name."

She nodded back at me, and I stood outside of the door for a moment, watching her walk down the street. As expected, she looked back at me when she reached the corner, waving one last time.

The sun was on her face, and as she turned to round the corner, I smiled to myself, satisfied that there were plenty of opportunities for the wolf to be graced with the presence of light.

oOo

"Oh, praise God! I've been worried sick about you," Hugo said as I walked into his parlor. "I cannot express how relieved I am to see you–and in one piece no less."

"I apologize for the manner in which I departed yesterday," I said.

"May I ask where you went in such a rush?"

I sat beside him and bowed my head. "Nowhere good," I said.

He grimly nodded back. "That is what I was afraid of."

"It was foolish of me," I said quietly.

"Yes, it probably was," Hugo agreed, "but mourning is not dictated by good sense. Quite the opposite, really."

"I probably would have been incarcerated overnight," I admitted, "not due to anything that I did, but I stumbled upon a man being beaten in the street that swiftly turned to pistols fired."

In the back of my mind, I could still see the bullet strike the window, shattering the glass. I realized how close I'd come to facing my own mortality.

"That sounds like the sort of trouble you should actively avoid."

I nodded in agreement. "I cannot put myself into that position again."

We chatted for a while. Hugo asked about the funeral arrangements for Carmen and I told him that Val didn't want me to attend.

"He'll come around," Hugo said, reaching out to pat my arm.

"I honestly don't think that he will," I said.

"It's only Sunday," he reminded me.

"He has an entire week to stew in his anger."

"In this instance I hope that you are wrong."

"I suppose we shall see come Friday."

oOo

The week would have been impossible to navigate without Bernard and Celeste visiting and Lucille's company.

After dinner Sunday evening at the Teal Drake, we walked back to the hotel where Celeste wanted to read in bed, apparently bored to death by the conversations of old men. The night was cool and comfortable for an April evening, and Bernard and I took the lift to the top floor then walked up a short flight of stairs to the rooftop overlooking the city.

"I didn't know this hideaway above the city existed," I said, gazing over the edge of the building.

"Neither did I."

"This is very romantic," I said, turning toward Bernard as he tossed another log into the fireplace.

"Yeah, but don't expect no kisses from me," Bernard said with his permanent scowl giving way to the slightest of smiles.

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, Bernard lighting a cigarette while I stared at the rooftop fireplace, enjoying the warmth.

"You doin' alright?" Bernard asked without looking in my direction.

"I don't know," I answered.

Bernard nodded.

"How would I be able to tell?"

"That's probably different for everyone."

"I have spent the last thirty years surviving merely to see Erik again," I said. "Now that I know for certain that we will not be reunited, I don't know what to do with myself."

"Just keep moving forward. You ain't got to figure it out tonight or tomorrow or a year from now."

I ran my hand over my hair. "I think perhaps Val was correct."

Bernard pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead. "I'm gonna tell ya right now, ain't nothing he said to you worth considering. I've met all kinds of people who were full of shit, but he's overflowing."

"No, he was correct."

"In what way?"

"I've spent my entire life and a good deal of my finances looking for my brother. I have fixated on finding him and I came up short. I failed him. I failed my brother."

Bernard took a long drag of his cigarette, his eyes narrowed. "You didn't fail Erik."

"I did."

Bernard shook his head, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "Nope. That ain't how it works."

"Then you will have to explain to me how I succeeded," I said, feeling the heat of anger in my veins. "Because from my vantage point, I have done nothing correct."

Bernard regarded me for a brief moment, ignoring my tone. "You been looking for Erik since you was seven, yeah?"

I nodded.

"You're thirty-four now?"

Again, I nodded.

"Twenty-seven years spent dedicated to one person?" Bernard whistled and shook his head. "That's a hell of a feat to never give up hope of finding him, so I'm gonna say it again. And if you still don't believe me, I'm gonna tell you every damn time I see you, Professor. You never failed your brother. The search didn't end the way you wanted, but that don't mean you failed him."

I exhaled.

"Eh. If you weren't no good, Celeste would be in that shit hotel across town instead of downstairs in that big ass bed with a book. Hell, she might not have survived much longer. You know who got her out?" Bernard nodded in my direction. "That guy right here who thinks he's a goddamn failure. You know who thinks you're a pretty decent fellow? That girl in the big ass bed with the book. And this guy right here? He agrees with the kid."

"How did you come to terms with losing Beatrix?" I asked.

Bernard sniffed. "I didn't," he answered. "And I don't think I ever will."

"How do…how do you function on a daily basis without…without breaking down or killing someone?"

Bernard took another long drag of his cigarette and smashed the end into an ashtray.

"Who says I don't break down or break a neck every day?" He smirked at me. "You saw first-hand how I react when someone says something about my Bea on a bad day."

"I suppose I did," I admitted.

"It gets to me all the time," Bernard said, striking another match to light another cigarette. He paused, blowing out the match. With the pack of cigarettes put back into his pocket, he sat back and crossed his legs. "It gets to me right here," he said, tapping his chest. "And I gotta let that out or it'll rip a hole in me, so I meditate or I go into the gymnasium and I lift heavy shit or punch a bag until I don't feel like there's this massive hole in my heart. And you know what? I cry like a big damn baby, too. Sometimes when it's just me at home and Bea's the only person I can think about, I'll sit there and talk to her and sob and talk some more." He turned his attention back to me. "I sure as hell wish I had someone to not talk to about it though. Kinda like we ain't talking right now. I like that a little better than the rest of it."

"What about Helena? You were never able to speak to her?"

Bernard shook his head. "She didn't understand how much I loved Bea." He reached into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes and pulled one out, then placed it back inside and muttered under his breath. "I gotta stop smoking," he said more to himself than to me. "The kid don't like the way my clothes smell after I smoke a pack and she's gonna know the minute walk back into the hotel room. Then she's gonna lecture me."

"That's quite considerate of you to think of Celeste," I commented.

Bernard shrugged. "I love the hell out of her already. She's sweet as can be, but I gotta tell you, Professor. She don't ever stop talking. Christ, she can ramble on about anything for hours." He looked at me and offered a crooked smile in return. "That's why we had to come back here."

"So she would stop talking?"

"Hell no. That was a whole train ride of blabbing. I had to come back so I could sit on this rooftop and not talk to someone about old man things."

"It's good to discuss old man topics," I said. "Even though I do disagree on the 'old man' part."

Bernard huffed. "Professor," he said.

I lifted a brow.

"You're not a failure. Do you believe me yet?"

"Not yet," I answered.

"I'll keep saying it then."

oOo

I was early to the pool by almost a half hour and found Lucille had arrived before me.

"It's lovely to see you," she said as I unlocked the door, beating me to the phrase I typically said first.

"You as well," I replied.

"I would like to recite another poem," she said as we walked inside.

"I would like to listen."

"I'm thinking about reading it Thursday."

She looked up at me, her expression slightly uncomfortable.

"Then I am very interested in listening as long as you don't deliver a single line, swim a lap, and then deliver another line. That was maddening the last time."

"Oh, yes. My apologies for the last time…"

"I'll see you in the water in five minutes?"

Lucille nodded and we both walked to the separate changing areas. When she met me on the pool deck, I took a running leap into the water, drawing my legs to my chest. I heard her shriek before I hit the surface, sinking quite deep into the water. When I wiped my eyes and looked up at her, she had both hands on her hips and shook her head in dismay.

"Now I'm soaked," she said, sounding displeased.

"I'm fairly certain that's the point of being in a pool, Luci."

"Yes, but I don't have my cap on, Lan."

"What do you need a cap for?"

Without warning, she ran toward the edge, flopping into the water belly-first with an impressive splash.

"Retribution," she said, wading toward me, giggling in the most menacing way possible.

"Living Luci and Ghost Lucille are equally vengeful, I see," I said.

"Living Luci might be worse," she warned. "But that's only because Living Lan splashed her first."

"Apologies for getting you wet," I said.

Lucille's eyes widened, her face flushing. "Fway-lan!"

"Luc–Lucille," I said with a shake of my head. "I meant in the pool and you know it."

She grinned back at me. "Why Phelan, I shall not assume."

A/N Lucille's poem is borrowed heavily from a song called 'The Simplest Words' by The Narcissist Cookbook