Darcy Devereux and the Security Service

Chapter 18

I blinked in the dim sunlight and grunted. My neck had been in an awkward position.

Ambrose brushed shaving soap on his beard and under his chin. “Good morning.” He looked at me through the mirror.

“Morning.”

“How did you sleep?”

I blinked. “Hm? Oh, out like a light.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.” After a minute, I dragged myself up and shuffled to my bedroom before coming back with my toothbrush in my mouth and my shaving kit. I sat against the counter while I brushed.

Ambrose absentmindedly played with my hair.

I smiled drowsily.

After a few minutes, he paused and moved aside for me to rinse.

And then I prepared to shave as well. “Going into the office again today?” I went over my sideburns in short strokes, rinsing the blade under the faucet.

“Of course, not.”

“What? Why?” I blinked at him. “Ohh, we’re going to discuss the list.” I snapped my fingers.

“Noo.” He furrowed his brow.

“Why not?”

“Fizzy, do you know what day it is?”

“No. Why?”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Is it?” I widened my eyes.

“Mh-hm.” He tilted his chin up and finessed the safety razor under his jaw a few times.

“Oh,” I breathed. Maurice worked on a Saturday... Or used to. But Ambrose seemed to have a better work-life balance. That’s why his alarm hadn’t rung and why for once I felt full of rest even with all that had kept me from it. It was... I took a look at my watch. Half past nine in the morning. I’d slept more than nine hours straight. And we had the whole day were he wasn’t working. I smiled like a Cheshire cat.

“What?” Ambrose glanced at me.

“It’s Saturday.”

“Yes, it is.” He chuckled. “And how are you today?”

“I feel...” I didn’t feel tired for once. My brain was quiet. “Strangely okay. Like not even my version of ‘fine’. I feel like what people describe as normal.”

“That’s good.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Erm... Effervescent.” He kissed my cheek.

I laughed. “Ambrose, you got shaving cream on me.”

“You already had shaving cream on you.” He gave a self-satisfied smirk.

I took the brush and swept over his cheek.

“Ah— hey, I just shaved that.”

“I know.”

“That’s it I’m taking away your shaving cream privileges.”

I grinned. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh, really?” He raised an eyebrow.

“On second thought I think I forgot something in my room.” I backed away, keeping an eye on him.

“Mh-hm.” He grabbed the brush full of shaving cream.

“Ahem.”

Next thing I knew I was ambling around the house while he strode after me with a glob of shaving cream like in the Shining.

“Ambrose, that’s not intimidating. You’re just silly.”

“Then why are you still walking? I thought you forgot something in your room.”

“I can’t run.”

“I know.”

I jumped into the lift and laughed maniacally as the lift doors closed.

He scowled. Of course, he got me downstairs by a hair, and we went in predatory circles while George looked on. Oddly enough, the walking purposefully was funnier than running around.

“What is going on right now?” George said.

“The Great Shaving Cream War of 2007. Part 2.” I skirted the couch.

“Come here!” Ambrose chortled, making grab.

“Hey!” I darted aside.

“Shaving cream war?” George furrowed his brow.

“Ha, ha!”

I ducked.

“Damn.”

“Woah!” I tripped behind the couch.

Ambrose looked over me concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat.

“Come on.” Ambrose helped me up while he brushed my face with shaving cream in one go. “Ha.”

“Ah— Hey!” I pouted.

Alice giggled, walking in on the three of us. “Ho ho ho, Fitz.”

“I’m going to make coffee,” George turned into the kitchen, holding back a laugh.

“You know what, I feel like this is the perfect time for a hug.” I grinned mischievously.

Ambrose blanked. “Oh, no, no, no—”

I went in for a full hug, my face full pressed against his pajamas.

“Ohhhh, very nice. Well-played.” He patted my back.

“Thank you. I thought so.”

“Erm... Truce. ”

“Agreed.” I drew away. “It’s the small victories, Alice. Remember that.”

“Shaving cream victories?” Alice giggled.

“Don’t patronise my victory. I’m very sensitive.”

Ambrose harrumphed. “No, it’s true. He is. I used to fake chess wins to help his confidence.”

“You know I don’t like it when you point that out.”

“It’s true.”

“I earned those wins.”

“Of course.”

“Without help.”

“Yes. Very proud of you.”

Alice snickered.

“Shut up. I’m going to shave the other half of my face.”

“Same. I also need a new shirt.” He sighed forlornly.

“I’m sorry,” I tittered.

Ambrose tousled my hair.

After we’d finished up the necessary morning routines, I skipped PT again, so my muscles could recover. Swing echoed downstairs. George went out for a walk. Alice was in the library, and Ambrose in a new shirt was taking the eggs out when I got downstairs. Music played on his phone.

“What’s cooking?” I said.

“You’re cooking.”

“What?”

“The only things you know to make can be counted on one hand. We need to broaden your repertoire.” Ambrose went into the pantry.

“Yes, chef.”

We’d cooked together when I was younger, of course, but that had stopped later. Naturally after years, I needed a refresher.

“We’ll start with cracking eggs.” Ambrose placed a glass bowl on the counter.

“Okay. That should be easy.”

“Let’s take this whole experience as an experiment.” He leaned against the counter. “Crack one.”

The bowl clinked. I smacked the egg on the bowl twice and dug in with my thumbs. The egg slipped out well enough. “There.” I grinned. “Ohh.” My brow drew in. The yolk broke and shells swam in the white. “Well, there’s one thing I didn’t think I’d need to ask you again, but how do you crack an egg?” I chuckled.

He smiled. “First, tell me what you think happened.”

“Too many cracks when I smacked it. Too much force. Erm... I pushed inwards. That’s why egg shells made it in.”

“Very good. Grab another one. Learn from mistakes.” He removed the shards with the outer shell and then stood aside.

I grabbed another egg and smacked it once instead. “Shit.” But it was still too much force because it went on the floor and in my hand. “Oh. Erm...” I looked up, frozen, breath thin. Look what you did. Idiot. Stupid.

“That’s- that’s okay.” Ambrose waved it off. “That is fine. Playing with momentum. Good choice. We’ll just wipe up the floor and try again.” He grabbed a soapy paper towel and wiped it. “There. All clean.” He hugged me for a moment.

“Okay.” I took a breath. “Okay. Good.” I cleared my throat. Wasn’t about to have a panic attack because I cracked an egg onto the floor.

“Try again.”

I smacked it lightly and then bit my cheek.

“A little more would be good.”

“Yeah, I got it.” The yolk broke when it pulled it apart. Ehhh. “Too light obviously, and I forgot to not push into the egg.”

Ambrose scooped out the cracks again. “Nice. Another one. Try the counter instead of the bowl.”

I wiped my hands. Physics. Crack once. Quick medium force. Thumbs pull out. I exhaled in relief.

“Very nice. And that’s how you crack an egg. For one hand—” he picked up an egg and cracked it—“do the same thing. But use your middle finger to push into the crack. See that?” The crack opened.

“Yes.”

He demonstrated slowly. “Then it easily allows you to pull away the top shell with your thumb and index.” The yolk fell into the bowl.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Try.”

I took an egg. Crack! Then I accidentally crushed it. “Ugh!” I’m so stupid.

“Good try. Learn to enjoy mistakes. They’re secret future successes.”

I huffed. That would be difficult. Before, mistakes weren’t an option.

“You’re doing well.” He gave me a damp paper towel.

“Thank you.” I wiped myself again.

“All right, put your hand on top of mine as I do it. Watch closely. Analyse the feel.” He cracked another, and I felt how his fingers moved and flexed to pull the egg shells apart. “Do you feel the crack along the middle?”

“Yes.”

“It’s your leverage. You use it to your advantage with the middle finger. Now try again.”

I did it on my own. Did not smash the egg this time.

“Better. Usually that takes years of practice, but some tips go a long way.”

“Coming from a professional chef.”

“Of course, there is the very simple way anyone barely thinks of.” He grabbed a plate. “Regarder.” Watch.

I raised an eyebrow.

He took an egg, holding it an a moderate height with the wider side down, and— dropped it onto the plate.

My jaw dropped.

The egg cracked perfectly in the center. Ambrose picked it up pull the shell apart with the membrane intact. The contents spilled into the bowl. “Fool proof.”

“You mean you let me go through that process of trial and error when all I had to do was drop the egg onto a flat plate?”

“It’s physics. The energy is distributed across the egg and release across the area. The top and bottom are stronger because of the point and angle, and the middle is easier to break. Drop it? The crack makes itself.”

“Yes, but why did you— I tried for a few minutes. I looked stupid. In fact I am stupid.”

“No, no, no, okay, don’t start. You’re very intelligent. You can’t know what you don’t know or what you forgot. I’m teaching you to learn to appreciate mistakes and grow, not crucify yourself for them.”

I looked aside.

“I let you go through that to let you discover on your own and adjust. You know that. You were very good.”

I shrugged a shoulder.

“Besides it’s useful to know the various ways to crack an egg. Like I said, experiment. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, but no one ever said you could only crack them one way. Trying things is a privilege few people appreciate.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.” He held my head. “It’s okay to get frustrated.”

I budged a hint of a smile.

He tousled my hair. “All right, then. Crack a few more. We need eight.”

“And what am I making?” I got to it more earnestly.

“French omelette.”

“Ohh. Test of a chef’s skills, eh?”

“You know it. Salt. Splash of milk.”

“Done.” The stove wooshed alive. The butter slid onto the pan.

He sprinkled chives with a flourish. “Whisk up and under. Pretend you’re playing Chopin’s ‘Black Keys Etude.’ Quick and light.”

I poured the eggs into the pan.

“Lower the heat and use a spatula to scramble in even circles.”

While I did so, he sliced the bread and swirled oil on it.

“Why do you do that instead of putting it in the toaster?”

“You can control the browning more and the oil makes the bread taste different. Avocado, olive, coconut, all different flavor profiles.”

“Oh. And which is it today?”

“Avocado. Nutty, buttery. Mmh.” He gave a chef’s kiss.

The aroma of coffee beans filled the air. When the eggs were moist but not viscous, at Ambrose’s direction, I flattened it and folded half way over the herb goat cheese, albeit a little clumsily. Four omelettes later, we made tomato cucumber salad and set the table, Ambrose with his Italian coffee and me with the Huehuetango. George came back from his walk, and Alice joined us without needing an invitation.

“You made this?” Alice said, tucking in.

“Ambrose taught me.”

“But you cooked.” Ambrose nudged me.

I blushed. “He did the salad.”

“Both of you. This is restaurant level.” Alice moaned. “My taste buds are happy.”

“Did you hear that?” Ambrose took a swig of his coffee.

“Les Frères Devereux has found its first patrons.”

Alice and George cleaned up while I headed upstairs to change into one of the new suits we’d picked up from tailoring. Beige suit. Oxfords. Blue shirt. Fedora. I brushed the brim of the hat and met Ambrose at the door.

“With class, Fitz. With class.”

“As we Devereux’s do.” I winked.

He laughed.

It was fair weather outside, so we headed to the park. I looked over the sketches my journal of the nature and strangers. It was filling up in no time.

“That’s very good.” Ambrose said.

“Oh, it’s from experience. I’m no Picasso.” It had taken me a long while and lots of practice after my surgery to get back to my skills from before.

“No, because that’s Michelangelo’s technique.”

I cocked my head. “I guess.”

“You’re getting better.”

“You taught me.”

“Mmh.”

“Say, what if we go to the museum today? Explore like we used to.”

“I’m up for it. We can also stop by a churro shop before the tailor’s.”

“Great.”

And so we headed to the National Gallery hungry for discovery. As neither I nor Ambrose was a stranger to history, we discussed the exhibits with context yet couldn’t help but make up jokes and fictional stories about the paintings. New sketches of ancient artifacts and paintings, notes of historical remarks, all of it made it into my journal.

Before lunch we stopped at that churro shop and the tailor’s. We’d taken the suits for the final measurements and tweaks. Then we bumped into Ambrose’s friends since the tailor’s was at The British Gentleman’s Club, and we went to a Greek place for lunch. I had the pick of the week since winning the first poker game on Monday.

Afterward, Ambrose and I visited Constance during her rehearsals and then ended the day with chess, a call with my friends, and a few more rounds of poker at the club and an early night in.

Sunday, I studied the history behind Kings I and II, and later, Ambrose and I discussed the archaeology, etymology, philosophy, and history of those time.

Around ten, Ambrose went upstairs to change. He and George had agreed to take turns doing the shopping in every other week.

“How long will it take?”

“Not more than an hour I think. Maybe two.”

“Okay.” I shrugged.

He harrumphed. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Yes! I mean... Ahem, yeah, whatever. Fine.”

He chuckled. “It’s a little colder today. Take a jacket.”

“All right.” I grinned and rushed off to get ready.

We took the car for some errands at the shops. There were boring things on the list like soap, toiletry, shampoo, conditioner, pads, light bulbs, paper towels, etc. Mind-numbingly banal stuff. Of course, I cracked a couple of jokes and made Ambrose laugh while we got what we needed, and then we headed towards Pimlico Road in Orange Square. It was gorgeous.

“Ahhh. Here we are.”

“Farmer’s market?”

“Fresh cheese. Natural fruits. Vegetables like you’ve never seen.”

“It’s like seeing a kid in a candy store.”

“Remember how it used to be on the farm?”

“Oh, yeah.”

The farmer’s market was indeed a treasure trove. I ambled around with Ambrose, tasting the cheese and accepting a peach as he ticked off the items on the secondary grocery list. Fresh fish and more old style bacon. We picked up some odd new vegetables and fruits I’d never heard of, and my brother talked about what we could make with them and the tastes, flavor profiles. I smelled a lot of interesting things. Ambrose showed me how to find deals and which foods were in season and if they were ripe. Everything had the natural soil, no chemicals or washing off those rare nutrients. We talked about the things we would make that week and George’s ideas. It was nice not to think about anything resembling impending danger. I caught Mystique following us, but I forced those glimpses to the back of my mind. Ambrose noticed too and seemed to do the same. I held a couple of lighter bags, while he carried the rest. It was good time.

Somehow along the way, though, I got stuck at a magazine stand reading National Geographic’s History issue. It included a story about the London fire from the seventeenth century. I was so immersed that everything else blurred.

“There you are, Fitz.”

I jumped. “Oh, it’s you. Sorry, I got distracted.”

“No, I’m sorry I startled you.”

“It’s all right.” I put the magazine back to take some of the load from Ambrose.

My mouth came agape when my brother set it down to give the man at the stand a ten-pound note and placed the history issue in one of the bags.

“My treat. Come on.”

I smiled.

“What were you reading about?”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take a couple of bags from you?”

“I’m sure, thank you. Better to protect your hands and save them for the piano.”

“All right.”

“Well?”

“Well, I was reading about the Great Fire of London. Happened in 1666, during the Black Plague. Ravaged the entire city. It took 30 years to rebuild.” I looked about. “Of course, it’s all different now. St. Paul’s was a mess too, but it’s not much changed, I suppose.”

“We could go see it if you like. It’s bursting with history.”

“That’d be awesome.”

“Tomorrow after work?”

“Wait, you’re serious?”

“Of course.”

“Tomorrow, then.” I beamed.

He rubbed my shoulder.

With all the walking, I was glad to relax when we put the bags in the car, and I took the history issue with me. The drive was comfortably quiet, and the engine purred, deep and low. Once we’d arrived back home, I grabbed a bag or two, and Ambrose considerably more.

I laughed. “Ambrose, this is ridiculous. How can you carry all of that?”

“Fizzy, I’m fine. It’s pebbles. Could you unlock the door, though?”

“But, of course.”

Upon doing so, we entered the house and took relief in the kitchen.

“Ohhh, spinach!” Alice appeared as Ambrose let the groceries down.

I widened my eyes as she ate the spinach from the bunch like they were tortilla chips.

“What? I love spinach.”

“I can see that.”

“Goat cheddar?” Ambrose held it out.

“Mine.” George grabbed it.

I bit into a juicy peach.

Once Ambrose had gotten everything, we all cleaned the fridge and made something from the leftover food. Then the four of us did our laundry. Ambrose showed me how to iron my suits and polish my shoes while he did his. It was surprisingly nice. I’d learnt many small but no less essential things that day that added to the richness of life. The more time I spent around here, the more I appreciated the smaller things, the domesticity.

Later in the afternoon, I took a look at the garden outback. It hadn’t been maintained for a long while. Weeds overran flowers and intertwined. No healthy vegetation flourished. I’d missed maintaining the one back at school, and to find this one was a delightful surprise, and at the same time not so very delightful. There was a lot of work.

Although, I enlisted Ambrose in my mission. It was like old times back when we were just kids. I pulled the weeds I could take while Ambrose tackled the bigger ones that were deeper into the soil, often using a shovel to get all the roots. Having them grow back wasn’t very practical, and if I pulled them, it would only make the veins on my forehead pop out.

The shed had plenty of mulch and seeds for lemons, oranges, peaches, pears, blueberries, strawberries, peppermint, spearmint, parsley, leafy and root vegetables etc. The variety was so large, to list it would become mundane. At any rate, I could distill essential oils from the plants again. We took our time to lay the mulch thickly. Then we drank lemonade on the bench and took turns holding the hose to water the soil while the Beatles played. We’d seen our neighbours talking about random things while doing as such, and it was fun to imitate two old geezers shooting the breeze.

“You seen them squirrels last night, Larry?” Ambrose gestured an air cigar and contorted his features.

I crossed my legs. “Knocked over my trash cans again, Potter. I have half a mind to shoot ‘em up.”

“Ehh, throw ‘em some walnuts over the fence. They’ll stop.”

“They keep digging up my dog’s bones he’s been burying.” I sniffed.

“You mean they don’t remember where they buried and where they didn’t?”

“Yeah. You know. Squirrel dementia.”

I half-snickered, still maintaining character. “Dementia? They bury 3,000 thousand nuts a year and forget once in a while. You forget where you put your brain cells every day.”

Ambrose laughed. “What the—”

I cackled.

“Oh, my God. I was not expecting. That was funny.”

“Thank you.”

Chapter 19

Of course, my escape on the weekend always led to Monday mornings and the work week, aka the dreaded time Ambrose needed to leave half the day while I came up with a million ways to occupy myself. Loathed as it was. Nothing much was different, except that Constance was coming over for breakfast before she ran errands.

The door rang while George was poaching eggs, and Alice was up in her room in a sprint to finish homework before school.

“Fitz, could you get that? It’s Constance.” Ambrose checked on the sweet potatoes in the oven.

“Constance?”

“I told you it’s her day off. She’s here for breakfast, and we’ll go on a date later tonight.”

“Ohhhh.” I strode over and opened the door. “Hi.”

“Hello.” She smiled. Casual but elegant, jeans, a blouse, and a trench coat.

“Erm, come in, please. Ambrose is in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.” She set her bag on the table and hung her coat. “How are you, Darcy?”

“All right, I suppose. You?” I shrugged a shoulder, hands in my pockets.

“Glad to be off.”

I chuckled. “I can imagine. Exhausting trade yours.”

“Yeah, glamorous but painful. My feet still ache from yesterday.”

“I finished! I am awesome.” Alice laughed giddily and skipped down the stairs.

“Agreed.” I clicked my tongue.

“Oh, hey, how were rehearsals?” She saw Constance.

“Did some Giselle, and we’re going full speed on the Nutcracker. I have at least five ballets right now dancing in my head. I need a break.”

“Iconic queen. I aspire to be a girl boss in a tutu one day.” Alice gestured.

“Or with a gun.” Constance winked.

“That too. I can run in pointe shoes and take down art thieves. Girlboss, galvanize, glisten.”

Constance laughed. “Your studies are going well, then?”

“Top grades as I can. Dancing keeps me sane.”

“Well, I’m going to tinker at the piano.”

“I’m going to kiss my boyfriend.” Constance headed to the kitchen.

Alice followed. “And I’m going to steal George’s frozen yogurt.”

I sat at the piano, cooking up some slow jazz on the keys. George left the kitchen with a smile at Constance, and Alice made quick to pilfer her uncle’s froyo from the freezer. Constance tiptoed into the kitchen.

“Who is this gorgeous gentleman?” Constance hugged Ambrose from behind.

He jumped in surprise and laughed. “Stanzi.” Ambrose kissed Constance in an embrace. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“How are you, my love?”

“Tired and happy.”

He smiled.

“How’s everything?”

“Oh, very well. We’re adjusting. It’s good.” He spoke lowly.

“He’s all right?”

“Sometimes. Today he seems to be doing much better. He’s taking each day slowly. I’m proud of him.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am perfectly incandescent.” He caught her lips in a long kiss. “How’s your family?”

“Everyone caught a bad cold, so lunch with my sister? Cancelled.”

“Ohh, that’s terrible.”

“Oh, well. At least I get you all to myself today.” She drew him closer.

He chuckled. “Yes. It’s been a long week for both of us.”

“Very long.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

He kissed her forehead, swaying them a little. “Poached eggs and roasted sweet potatoes?”

“Scrumptious.”

I smiled. They were positively endearing. Hallmark movie right there.

After a few minutes alone with her, Ambrose took out the potatoes and set the table, where my cousins and I joined them. It was quiet in a cozy sort of way, like home. Everyone seemed to have their own pleasant thoughts, even though Monday was usually a dreadful day. The coffee was robust as ever. We took a thermos of tea to go walk a while before Ambrose went to work and Constance to her errands. After a while, I chose to rest on a bench with my journal while Ambrose and his soon-to-be fiancee strolled the grounds. It was my way of giving them time to themselves without being too obvious about it.

I did shading on the sketch of my brother and Constance with their arms linked and those laughing smiles. When would I give it to either of them? I didn’t know. Perhaps it would remain hidden in my journal for some undetermined amount of time until the fancy hit me. For now it was a capture of a secretly precious moment between them. They really couldn’t stop making each other laugh. Very cute.

When we got back, they embraced again.

“I love you. See you later, ma cherie.”

“I love you, darling.” They kissed. “Bye, Darcy.”

“Bye, see you.”

She walked away beaming.

Ambrose had a melting smile as well.

“Well, that was just sweet as a candy cane on Christmas,” I quipped.

“Shut up.”

“Ohh, you don’t mean that, Ambrose.”

“Nahh.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, I need to be off too.”

I sighed.

“I’ll run the plans we discussed yesterday by Harrow and Stevie. Then I’ll come by after lunch to brief you before making a few reports. I also might have some files you can shed light on at tomorrow.”

“Wow. Okay, sounds like full day.” At least he was coming after lunch.

“You wanted to be busy. There’s work when you’re well enough to do it.”

“I’m ready.”

“Oh, and when I’m off work, we’ll go over to St. Paul’s.”

“What? Wait a minute, I thought you had a date planned.”

He shrugged. “I said we’d go today, and we’ll go. I pick her up at seven. More than enough time.”

“All right, then.” I grinned.

Ambrose hugged me.

I pecked him on the cheek. “Love you.”

“I love you. Don’t burn the house down.”

“Don’t start a war.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckled.

The Mustang cruised down the road once more, and I found myself less peeved than before. It had been a good morning. I’d go and distract myself and try to extend it.

Of course, I found more odd snacks around the house on my way back to the lair. A small pack of crisps. A cookie in a bag. And spinach. As usual I took them to the lair with Twenty Leagues under the Sea. Kind of Blue played all the way through; John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Bill Evans, and Cannonball Adderly, they made it one of the best jazz grooves out there. Then there was Duke Ellington and John Coltrane’s 1963 album. A few pages here, and few reviews there. I read my book, nibbled, studied the driving craft... At one point I got lost in the music, then fell asleep. My day was a mish-mash of slow, enjoyable organized chaos.

Ambrose had lunch with Constance during his break.

I warmed up leftovers from last night. I didn’t want the first topic of discussion to be ‘did I eat’ instead of ‘what’s the plan?’

Around two, brother did drop by as he said he would, and we were to go through with Operation Fireworks. He briefed me on the adjustments, and we drilled the plans and backups, protocols for the next two hours. We’d continue to do so until New Years’.

Ambrose went back to the office for another hour or two to ‘write some reports’ as he’d put it. And my friends call to rant about the day’s exams between classes. As much as I’d hated school, I missed the times we’d had. Then Alice came back from school and her study groups, and we sparred in chess. She was as formidable as an opponent. Chaotic order. But very entertaining. Then I passed the time some more just thinking on the couch, looking at the ceiling, and listening to Beethoven’s piano concertos and Korsakov’s Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini.

When my brother got home, he grabbed a bite after refreshing in his room, and we drove off to St. Paul’s Cathedral. It. Was. A. Marvel. And the acoustics were gorgeous. My phone gained around a hundred photos. Give or take. I was awe-stricken. We spent about half an hour just looking around and talking, listening to the echo. We couldn’t resist singing a Rachmaninoff and some old tunes. And somewhere along we ranted about Michelangelo’s feud with the popes, which was always a hilarious subject.

We grabbed a churro on our way back, and Ambrose got ready for his date. Then he went out. He seemed very excited. I’d lingered at the piano the meanwhile, but I got hungry and wandered into the kitchen. A bout of chaos later. Ambrose found me staring at the running dishwasher while the scrambled eggs I made burned. I’d spilled some on the floor too and slipped on soap I wiped the eggs up with. He ended up hugging me and effortlessly made a huevos rancheros before we collapsed in bed with Star Wars.

As the undercover operation drew nearer and nearer, I’d finished the driving manual and reviewed out of boredom. My walks elapsed longer every few days, and in December I could take a few jogged steps within a few minutes of each other. It got me ghastly out of breath, but I’d done it. The month of exercises away from the piano had allowed me to start some slow more complex work on the keys. However, at first I went a little overboard. Once, I managed agonisingly slow scales and arpeggios, and then I struggled a few hours with a Czerny etude. Ambrose had to pull me away and get me outside for a walk to stop thinking about it. I got more than a little frustrated. My fingers didn’t always respond the way I wanted them to.

Then December 12th came by. It was the day I was supposed to have auditioned at the Royal Academy. Ambrose went to work and the came back almost immediately, having called in sick. I would never have told him to do that, but he did. And good thing too, I’d pretended to be fine before breaking down. He’d found me a right mess. That day stood in cooking and watching films.

The day after we went to my doctor’s appointment where I’d finally meet the elusive Dr. Benji Abner.

It was a lovely morning. Alice read Around the World in Eight Days and kept laughing to herself. George was catching up on the British Baking show. Ambrose had his reading glasses on as he studied The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis, a monk from the 15th century. I merely enjoyed the food and looking at everyone taking the morning slow. I periodically peeked at the book over Ambrose shoulder while he made notes. He rubbed my back while in focus.

The morning felt safe, comfortable, warm, something like the ‘normal’ Ambrose had described before. We found a rhythm in this new dynamic.

After breakfast, Alice was curled up on the couch with How to Steal a Million to forget about her period cramps and eating a bag of Cheetos. It was crazy to me that once a month women were either languishing for days in pain or going about their day like they weren’t leaking litres of blood. But then again, women were a force to be reckoned with, so it was only another thing that made them seem of an indomitable spirit.

Ambrose and I went for a walk after with our umbrellas, and I enjoyed the smell of fresh soil after the rain, the winter flowers. And then a surprise happened along the way. I felt good, took a gamble, and got to run a few steps!

Five, exactly.

Five. Whole. Steps. Ran, not walked, not jogged.

I was exhausted. But I’d run! Two months ago, I could’ve barely moved a finger much less gotten out of bed. For once, my recovery seemed to be looking up in a way I could hold hope for.

Ambrose high-fived me. “Whoo! I told you.”

I panted, leaning on my knees. “Did you see that?”

“I did. That’s well-earned from two months of hard work and patience.”

I caught my breath and smiled. “That felt good.”

“Just wait and see, in a few more months, you be up to a few miles.” He put his arm around me and hugged me.

We then headed to the art gallery where I mostly sat and sketched. I didn’t eat anything from that early hour until my appointment since he scans required a fast, so I managed with more water, and around noon, Ambrose and I took the Mustang to Dr. Abner’s office.

It was my medical assessment, about 11 weeks since I’d woken from my coma and 9 weeks since I’d begun rehab. I’d know whether or not I’d be cleared and how my post concussion syndrome was getting on.

“So Dr. Benjamin Abner. Who is he exactly?”

“An old friend from Oxford. Board certified neurosurgeon consultant and psychologist. We met at the Magdalen College during his seminar days. We were the seconds for a fencing match.”

“Ohhh, yes. I think I remember something about that. His friend fought your colleague because they wanted to claim the right to date this girl, which was ridiculous because they didn’t even know if she liked them and she could refuse whoever did win. How did it end again?”

“Abner’s friend won, but then they found out the girl was already in a long-distance relationship with an American.”

“Oh, my God, yes.” I laughed. “That was hilarious.”

“He and I went out for drinks after that and have been friends ever since.”

“Wow, what a way to meet people.”

We pulled up at the clinic and waited in his office. It was white and sterile, but a few leather armchairs and a few real plants made the space seem homey. It was full of people, though, and infernal hum-drum noise. The lights gave me a headache, and I used Ambrose’s backup of my medicine. Even after the headache had faded, I was irritated and bored by the time we walked into the room.

“Ahh, Ambrose, long time no see. How you’ve been?” Abner clapped Ambrose on the back and heartily shook his hand.

“Just fine, Benji. And you?”

“How’s Caroline?”

“She’s pregnant.”

"Oh, my God. Congratulations, Benji.” Ambrose hugged him.

"Thank you." Abner had a warm tone and a distinct charm. I didn’t get on with strangers very well, but I already felt` at ease right now, even with my mixed mood.

“Oh, this must be your brother. Darcy?”

“Hello.” I waved.

“Dr. Abner. Pleasure to meet you.” He gestured for me to sit.

I plopped myself onto the examination table.

“Today, I’m going to check your vitals before we do a few scans. I’ve received your medical files from Dr. Wilbur in Chicago, so I am all up to speed.”

I nodded.

“I’m going to start with checking your heart and place a stethoscope on your chest.” He rubbed it on his shirt. “Warming it up. I know it can feel cold. Ambrose tells me you’re a musician.”

“I play the piano and compose.”

“Very good work for the brain.”

“And a balm for the soul.”

“A relation and access to the soul is why Plato and Aristotle also believed it could control one’s emotions and change their character, and why Bach believed music was food for the soul and a means of glorifying of God.”

I smiled.

He put the stethoscope on my chest, moving it around at intervals and asking me to breath in between. He let me know before doing the same with my back. Ambrose looked on. “All right. Your heart sounds good. I’ll check blood pressure with the cuff.”

“You’re a learned man, Dr. Abner.”

“I should hope so. I went to Oxford. But no, I see what you mean. Not everyone talks about the philosophy of music, and just because you have a degree doesn’t mean you have substance and use your newfound mental sophistication.”

Abner wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my upper arm.

I fidgeted, trying to distract myself from the pressure. Ambrose held my hand.

“A little high.”

I blinked and looked at him.

He unattached the Velcro, unwrapping my arm gently. “It’s normal with patients post traumatic brain injury, though, so don’t worry. How is your sleep?”

I rubbed my neck, glancing at Ambrose. “It’s... complicated.”

Abner pressed his lips, as if he knew something of it. “Insomnia?”

“Something like that.”

“How are your stress levels?”

I chuckled nervously.

He gave a small smile. “I understand. Well, I see why your blood pressure isn’t as good as it could be. Can’t always be helped. I could recommend something for either issues, if you like.”

“Sleeping pills and Xanax?” I deadpanned.

He chuckled. “I’m not an American doctor, Darcy. I’m not just going to prescribe you some meds and send you on your way. I’d like to eliminate the problems if possible rather than mute them.”

“If it’s possible.”

“Well, I’ll do my best.”

“Hmm.”

“Let’s go on for now, though. I’m going to test your reflexes and your nerves.” He explained what and where before he took a tiny rubber hammer and lightly tapped my knee, my ankle, my elbow, and a few other joints. Every time my joints reacted in a short jolt. “All right, now, I’m going to test your pupil response with this flashlight. Just relax.” He flashed a light in my eyes. “Very good, now look at my finger, please.”

I squinted slightly and followed his finger to the left and then the right.

“Do you have other interests besides music?”

“I’ve also written a few essays on the history of languages and botany, in terms of specific herbal remedies and poisons.”

“That’s very specific.”

“The interesting lies in the details.”

“Even in my profession. All right, I know I saw you walking in here, but let’s see your balance. If you could walk along that line for a few seconds.”

I did so, perfectly steady.

“Very good. We’re almost done here. Then we’ll do your scans.” He tested my sense of smell and taste as well as my gag reflex and ability to detect a cold touch from a warm one. The MRI was short, but the CT scan took its usual 45 minutes with the contrast fluid injection and absorption, scans, and waiting for the results.

“Okay, well, your reflexes and your balance are on point. The scans show that your recovery is off to a good start. I suggest you keep writing those essays and exercising your reasoning skills and memory.”

“Is he cleared?” Ambrose asked.

“For driving and school, that sort of stuff? Well, yes. But still take it slow.”

“Oh, God.”

“He’s been hearing that from me for the past two months.” Ambrose shook his head in amusement.

“I see.” Abner smiled. “Well, you can’t rush recovery, especially yours. PCS is a delicate condition. If you feel tired, just stop. Better to rest and continue later. Gradual is the key.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Now, some swimming would do you good. The buoyancy and lack of impact on the joints help build strength. And if you want to beginning running again, take it gradually. Increments by yards, then a minute, then several. For example, one minute run, five minute walk decreasing to three minutes as you get comfortable. Same with two minutes and half a mile run increasing by half a mile as you can tolerate it. My point is oxygen efficiency. Breathe. And gradually allow for higher heart rates.”

“I’m familiar with the technique.”

“Good. For your martial arts likewise.”

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes.

“And if you get back to your gymnastics, focus on conditioning.”

“Obviously.”

“And as for your insomnia and the stress, I might recommend small doses magnesium and ashwaganda in the morning. The latter isn’t always effective and sometimes acts the opposite, so keep me posted on how it’s working. When you sleep, it’s perhaps best to do something pleasant and calming before you bed, leave your mind in a good state. Whatever that might mean for you is something you know better than I do.”

“Right.”

Dr. Abner wrote out a prescription and then handed it to my brother. Then he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, sitting across me. “On a more sensitive subject, Ambrose mentioned your history with your uncle. I needed it for medical purposes to correlate the severity of your condition in relation with your concussions.”

I shifted and looked aside. “Right.” I knew where this was going.

He lowered his voice. It was soft and paternal. “Darcy, I’m not just a brain surgeon. I am also a psychologist who’s come across many patients with PTSD and history of abuse. It is one of my specializations.”

I nodded.

“If you ever come to the point where you feel comfortable or ready to talk or trying coping methods, treatment, I am open to discuss or recommend you to someone. There are many extraordinary people like you that live full, happy and successful lives. Some have chosen to go to therapy and others not. Either path is valid and perfectly fine. Now, therapy can mean a lot of things, but more than just a place to vent or talk, it provides whatever guidance you need to live the life you want. Others have gone by fine without it, and some have preferred the help and think it’s better to have that sort of support than figure it out on your own. The decision is entirely up to you, and you’re not obligated to decide now or decide either path in particular. I merely wanted to open the subject in case you thought of it later. My door is always open.”

“Thank you.” I peered at him.

“From what I hear from your brother, you possess an extraordinary mind and a strong character. I’m intrigued to see where you musical career goes. Often complex people create the most relatable and interesting art to change the world. Rarely one sees the early beginnings of such a person. I feel honored in a way. I hope you recognise your life is very full of possibilities, no matter what obstacles lie in your path. Destiny hides in the battles we fight won by our human will. It’s stronger than most think. Remember that.”

“I will.”

“Well. I have to write my notes before my next appointment. It was an immense pleasure meeting you, Darcy. And Ambrose, we should catch up soon.”

“How’s tomorrow?”

“I’m free around lunch.”

“The old spot?”

“Why not?”

“I’ll see you then.”

When we left, the ride home was full of this wistfulness. My mind was on the appointment, how interesting Ambrose’s friend had been. He was comfortable, humble, quiet, and understanding in most ways other people weren’t. It piqued my interest.

“What did you think of him?” Ambrose turned into corner, parking in front of the house.

“Hm?”

“Abner.”

“Oh. Very... Different. Kind.”

Ambrose rose the corner of his mouth. “He’s a good friend.”

“You asked him to talk to me about... my... issues. Didn’t you?” I glanced at him.

“No, I didn’t ask him. I think he simply wanted to mention it because he cares.”

“Oh.”

“He was my therapist, you know.”

“Really?”

“After I joined MI5 and everything fell apart... I asked him if we could talk. I had barely anyone I could run to with what circumstances I was in during our estrangement. I trusted him, so I didn’t think it would be such a bad idea.”

“He’s the one that helped you?”

Ambrose nodded.

Knowing more who Abner was leant me more respect toward him. He wasn’t just a doctor. He’d been what my brother was to me now. An anchor. Someone to turn to when there was no one else around.

“When you were in the hospital earlier too, I called him and asked him for advice. I knew it would be difficult after everything, and I wanted to do my best to be there. He was very helpful.”

“Hmm.”

“His grandfather was... Not unlike Maurice.”

“You’re serious?”

“When he spoke to you, he spoke out of experience, not only as an academic.”

I propped my cheek against my hand. “He’s so...”

“I know.”

“I’d never would’ve thought.”

“As such, it proves however you choose to go on it is possible. He is one of the very few people I would trust with my life.”

I quirked my lips. “I can see why.”

Chapter 20

As the holidays approached, Ambrose took Abner’s all-clear as enthusiastically as I did, and he was going to teach me how to drive in the countryside.

“All right, now would you please take the driver’s seat?”

“Gladly.” I grinned and switched places with Ambrose, but as soon as I sat in front of the steering wheel, I froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“This your car.”

“Astute observation. You’re reminding me because?”

“Because I’m learning how to drive. Emphasis on ‘learning’. Which means mistakes according to you.”

“Oh, I see. Don’t worry, it’s insured.”

“Okay, then.”

“Seriously.”

“What— what if I—”

“Fitz, if you do anything to this car, if anything happens to it while your driving, the world will not end; I will be here; I will still love you, and I will still like you.”

“But-but if I hit it or crash it—”

“We’ll fix the car and keep driving. I won’t hold it against you.”

I ran my hands through my hair. “Why are you so calm?”

“Would you feel better if I were worried?”

“A little bit, but not much. If you’re worried, then we’re both worried, but if you’re worried, how can I be calm?”

“Fitz—”

“Maybe I shouldn’t learn to drive today—”

“Fizzy—”

“Or ever, really. You know, most people walk in London, anyway, or take the train. I could just—”

“Fitzwilliam.”

I looked at him, feeling like my lungs were on fire. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Take a deep breath.”

I inhaled deeply. One. Two. Three. Exhale.

For a minute we just breathed together. He wouldn’t have anything further in the discussion until I’d at least minutely calmed.

“Better?”

“Marginally.” I swallowed.

“All right, now, I feel this is about more than the driving. Talk to me.”

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Ambrose.”

“That’s why your learning.”

I inhaled shakily.

“All right, come here.” Ambrose got out of the car, and I slipped out as well. He wrapped his arms around me very tightly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“I’m fine.” On the verge of a anxiety attack, but... Sure. Fine.

“No, you’re not.”

I huffed.

“But you don’t always need to be fine, you know.”

“I feel like I’m crazy sometimes. I’m having a attack because of the thought of driving.”

“You’re not crazy, and I’m sure it’s a lot more than driving.”

The breeze blew. The sounds of the city filtered in and out. I focused on the warmth and the feel of air in my lungs. My mind pulled at distractions until I found myself matching the rise and fall of his breath.

“Now what is this really about?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing sometimes.”

Ambrose rest his head on mine. “Well, in the span of today, you’re learning how to drive. In the scheme of the general present, you’re living life.”

“But why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why am I learning to iron my shirts and shop for groceries? Why am I learning to cook or-or do laundry? Why... Why am I here as if we’ve got all the time in the world, and I won’t disappear in a few years or less and then we’re separated again? What am I doing? What’s the point? How does it matter? What if...” My eyes pricked. “What if I don’t deserve to live an ordinary life life and to do things that other people get to do? What if this is just fighting fate? What if all this won’t matter because I’ll be on the run in a few years, and I’m fooling myself thinking I can live a little before that happens?”

He drew back. “Fizzy, listen to me. You do deserve a life, full of the boring and dull, ordinary and extraordinary, full of love and vitality. You deserve to build something that’s yours. You are an extraordinary person, surrounded by people who love you, and you deserve to live life fully just as well as anyone else. Do you understand?”

“But what if I’m not extraordinary? What if I’m not who I think I am? Who everybody thinks I am?”

“Sod what people think. What matters is you want to be, what you think, and what the people who love you think. And you are not fooling yourself. It always matters. Every day is precious. Every minute counts. Every moment has value. Every second and every breath makes all the difference. You deserve to make a life for yourself no matter what the future holds. You deserve to live instead of surviving. We can’t base our entire lives on foregone conclusions thinking we can’t change our path, not with that attitude, at least.”

I glanced aside.

“I know it’s terrifying. It’s all very new, and it’s a lot. It’s a big change than what you’re used to. It’s scary when after nothing’s worked out, things start going well. You can’t help being tempted to wait for the next shoe to drop, even when there isn’t a shoe. Sometimes you worry about it so bad, you can make it into one just to make things feel normal.”

I huffed.

“Life is full of paradoxes and contradictions, and anything can go wrong or right at the turn of the wind, but you do your part, and the rest is taking it as it comes. You live to love, and you can’t lose something you never had, but what’s the point of life if not to experience, to dare to be?”

I looked up at him.

“It is possible to live one moment being true to yourself without worrying about the next calamity to happen. You don’t need to know always know everything or have it all figured out %100 of the time. And who you are is your choice, and you can anything at any given moment all your life. We are never static. We are constantly changing for better or for worse. And it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“All right. I love you.” He hugged me again for a moment.

I smiled. “What now?”

“Your choice.”

“Is it too late to, erm, you know...”

“Of course, not.”

I allowed a hint of a smile.

“Would you feel better if I said all you’d do today if press one pedal and move a lever without touching the gas?”

“Yes, I would actually.” I breathed a laugh. “Sorry for the existential crisis. I’m sure it’s not what you were expecting.”

“Fizzy, as a general rule, you should never have to be sorry about things that aren’t in your control, and I will never find being there for you something you should feel guilty about.”

No lies in his eyes. Not in his voice or his words. No challenge. It still had me confused and surprised. Every time.

He grinned. “Come on, then.”

I took the driver’s seat again. “Okay. I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Which is why I’m teaching you. We’ll take it slow.”

“What are these?” I looked down at the pedals.

“Gas pedal is on the right. The brakes are in the middle. Clutch is on the left.”

“What’s the clutch for?”

“To help change gears.”

“Why?”

“To change speed ranges.”

“And how do I change gears?”

“With the lever in the middle. And this is the emergency brake.”

“What, this? You mean this doesn’t detonate or eject anything?”

He laughed. “This is not James Bond’s Aston Martin. It’s a 1967 Shelby GT500, and if it had detonation then I would’ve beat morning traffic a lot quicker.”

I chuckled.

“Okay. Practice switching through the gears. There’s four, plus reverse.”

“Oh, that’s what this diagram’s for.”

“Yes.”

“All right, so I press the clutch and move this.”

“That’s it.”

“I see.” I tittered. Ambrose had me focus on familiarising myself with all the mechanisms for the next five minutes, and I shifted gears hundreds of times until I was comfortable with it.

“All right. Good. Now that’s it.”

“That’s it?” I licked my lips. What now? I didn’t want that to be it. I glanced at him. “Could you give me the keys?”

He grinned. “You want to drive around a little bit?”

“Yeahh.”

“All yours.” He put the keys in my palm.

“Just— tell me what to do, all right? Feel free to shout.” I thrust the key in the ignition.

“Ah, I will not shout at you unless it’s an emergency. I’ll tell you, and you’ll do fine. Now, here’s what you do: remove the emergency brake.”

“Done.” I exhaled sharply.

“Before you turn the key into the ignition, step on the clutch with brake pedal so you can change to first gear and not roll away.”

I pressed both feet to the pedals and turned the key. The engine purred. I switched to first gear.

“All right, now wait, this is important.”

“What?”

“Breathe.”

I quirked a smile. “Done. And?”

“Very slowly press the acceleration instead of the brake while easing off of the clutch. Take your time.”

“Or?”

“Or the car will simply stall. It’s not a big deal.”

“Ah.”

“On second thought, do press it quickly so you know what it feels like.”

I slammed on the acceleration while snapping my foot of the clutch. The engine coughed and faltered on for a while and then turned off. “Wow. Underwhelming.”

“See? Not a big deal. Now try again, slower. Not too much acceleration.”

As I rolled my feet onto one pedal and off the over, and the car jolted into movement. “Woah. Okay, okay, what now?”

“You’re driving. Use the wheel.”

I steered left to turn around in the lot. “Er, Ambrose- Ambrose, how do I stop? Brake?”

“No, no, merely ease off the acceleration. It’ll slow down naturally. Then you use the clutch to go into neutral.”

The gears made a grinding sound. “Shit.”

“Clutch then lever, Fizzy.”

“Right, forgot.” My foot shook as I held down the pedal.

“That’s all right. You’re doing well.” He rubbed my shoulder.

The car eventually slowed to a halt, and I turned the key before I applied the parking brake.

“Very good. Good job. You can switch gears without the clutch, but you’d need to match the speed, which comes with practice. If you don’t do it right, you can mess up the gears. But it’s fine. Once in a while won’t kill the car.”

“Uh-huh.” I spent a minute catching my breath.

“Well? How did it feel?”

“I drove a car.”

“Yes.”

“Ambrose, I drove a car.”

“Yes, you did.” He smiled proudly.

“Oh, my God. It was— an experience. Can we do more?”

“How about start the car back and practice shifting with the clutch a few more times, and then I’ll show you how to reverse?”

“That is doable.”

I relaxed for a few minutes to let the adrenaline wear off, though. I’d been nervous and a tad afraid all the same. We put some music on, and I shifted gears in and out, turn the car off and back on, drove in circles. Once I scared Ambrose when I kept backing up and wouldn’t stop. There was an apple tree, and I was just about to demonstrate gravity and inertia at the same time. I also kept turning left. Before we went back home for dinner, he gave me a crash course on parking too, or more of a preview, and then he drove us home.

“So, what do you think?” Ambrose glanced at me.

“That was fun. Nerve-wracking. But fun.” I beamed, still feeling the euphoria and shock of having driven a car for the first time.

“You picked it up quickly, and when you didn’t you kept trying. You did very well.”

“The parking. It looks complicated.”

Ambrose patted my shoulder. “It gets easier. You just need to remember the ninety degree angle for regular parking, and the diagonal for parallel while checking your mirrors and taking your time. We’ll do more tomorrow.”

And we did. Every day after work, he and I went driving. One time we went to a track, and he showed me protocols for chases, evasion, and spin-outs. The week after, he showed me how to slow down gradually at hypothetical stop lights with cones on a line. I had to shift gears down and eased off acceleration. In all, it’d been the makings of great memories.

When Christmas finally came, I could barely contain my excitement. Alice and I played ‘guess the meaning of the word from the etymology' using the unabridged dictionaries. Then my friends arrived, and we couldn't stop laughing and hugging. Even crying. Luke and I chased each other around the room because he cracked a joke about me being slow. I did run pretty well. No doubt he'd provoked me on purpose. It was fun. Then I gave them the tour before they unpacked. All the members of our circle were here. We cooked together in the afternoon.

Abner and his family stopped by before leaving for the week to extended family in the countryside, and so did Stevie and Matthew. The Christmas tree had already been decorated since a week ago, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas played in the background while George indulged in homemade peppermint bark. Constance had dropped by between rehearsals before he last show of the day, so she and Ambrose were talking in the kitchen and laughing about something or other while enjoying a cup of hot chocolate.

After an early dinner, Luke, Lucy and I assembled at the piano to play some slow jazz. It was phenomenal. It was the best Christmas. I couldn't sleep that night both from excitement and nightmares. Because of the latter, my friends stood up with me a while watching Friends and eating frozen yogurt. In the morning we had a pillow fight, and they teased me about the stuff I’d said in my sleep. I’d apparently lectured them on the importance life-saving abilities of the paper clip. Then I was late for a meeting with Voltaire because the bananas wouldn’t stop calling, and the cats were flying about talking about arresting the fridge. Insanity really. But we had a good laugh about it.

Then Constance came from breakfast, and we exchanged presents. I gave Ambrose and her the charcoal sketches I’d made of them framed. I’d also made one of Constance dancing. Their reactions were more than satisfying. I’d made a good gamble. Later Ambrose and I celebrated Christmas with Constance’s family. I mostly spent time with the children. Then we stopped by at the club and closed Christmas happily.

Leading up to New Years', I spent time with my friends a great deal. We picked locked. I taught them self-defense. Lucy read the book of Van Gogh's letters I gave her, and I journaled in the notebooks Luke and her had given me. Luke and I jumped into the Thames at the beach before Lucy scolded us about hypothermia and drove us home bundled in blankets. Either way, it had been worth it.

The entire wait had been worth it.

Although, we would be split up again soon enough, and after New Years’ it would be harder to say goodbye. Anything could happen. We had to be on our guard, and I knew I’d need to miss the party and disappear. My suit had hung on the closet door since morning. Black with the burgundy shirt. I’d dressed up and tied my shoes in the afternoon. My chin sported a well-kept 10-day beard. My excuse was being too tired to shave.

“So we’ll start at nine, right?”

I looked up, my train of thought derailed.

We three had been doing nothing again in my room for the afternoon. “I suppose. Ambrose and I are going out for another drive, but we should be back in time.” My phone vibrated.

Meet me in the lair

It was Ambrose. “Speaking of whom, I need to discuss something with him. Might take a nap in the library too.” I excused myself and headed downstairs. I went through the library, navigating through the little maze myself, through the passages to the stairs. It was curtain call.

Ambrose was on the phone and had just finished when I entered. “Ah, Fitz, there you are. Put this in your ear please.” He had a tiny earbuds.

“Two-way radio?”

“Yes. Newest from R&D.”

“Cool.”

“Cover identity for tonight. Driver’s license.”

“Ha! Nice, I can legally drive for six hours.”

“Tonight, you are Emrys Jones.”

“Emrys. Really?”

“I know. Our identity man reads a lot of Arthurian legends, but it’s only one night. And it does have its charm.”

“Right, then. Who am I?”

“You’re a young billionaire, self-employed entrepreneur in your 20s who handles investments. You use Paltrow Co. for security.”

“Nice.”

“You have a few hours to study the details.” He dropped a thick file into the coffee table.

“Wait, what?”

“You might be only observing, but if Kasim or one of the company’s superiors strikes up a conversation it would be suspicious if your records didn’t match up with your story. Entire backstory, state of your company, all in there.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Ambrose. This file is one inch thick, and the party is in a few hours.”

“You’re fast.”

“You’re just having fun aren’t you?”

“Fitz.” He withheld a smile.

“I knew it.”

“Just because I’m laughing on the inside doesn’t mean you aren’t required to learn all that.”

“Fine. Won’t work if I bump into Kasim. He knows what I look like.”

“Then you’d best avoid him.”

“Oh. Of course, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Fitz, there’s no possible cover that would explain your presence if you bump into him. He no doubt has his suspicions. However. We practiced exactly where the cameras were in the building and how to avoid them. He might expect you, but you’d do best to avoid confirming those expectations either way. We want to keep a low profile and disappear the next day.”

“Yes, all right. I know.”

“Now, I’ll be around the party somewhere with eyes and ears on the entire building. If anything happens, I’m there. Any questions?”

“What if we lose contact?”

“Act on your instincts and only rendezvous if needed.”

“And if I’m found out?”

“Simple. Maintain your cover and if possible, run.”

“Brilliant. I’m one of the most dangerous intelligence agents, and my backup is ‘run’. I can only manage two minutes on a good day, so I’ll be caught.”

“I’ll be there as backup. Don’t worry.”

“Yes, you keep saying that.”

“Look, keep a calm focus using the techniques we talked about. An anxious mind tends to miss things. If you find yourself spinning or something’s wrong tell me instead of brushing it off. It won’t help if you try to hide it. This is paramount. Are we in agreement?”

I huffed. “Look, I am fine—”

“Fitz, this is not the time to go lone wolf and shut down. We’re a team. Right now I need to know we’re on the same page, or I’m stopping this entire thing. I need to know I can trust you.”

“Yes, I’ll tell you if something’s off.”

“Thank you. Now, before you study up, I want you to walk up to me, introduce yourself, and shake my hand.”

“Okay.” I went back to the stairs and strode over. “Hello. Emrys Jones. I work in investments.” My hand gripped Ambrose and shook it once firmly as I held eye contact.

“Well done. Good handshake.”

I smiled.

“All right. We both have our work cut out for us.”

“Right.”

Ambrose worked on something at the computer while I put on some earphones and got to work memorizing every detail and putting it in a room in my mind. I had to delete it later. It was only useful for six hours. Nevertheless, I spent a while making associations and living it and had it down solid by the time we had to go. This was Shakespeare, just in reality.

We popped back upstairs under the guise of taking another quick driving trip in the country and planning to be back around nine in time for the party, but there was no telling how long we’d be gone really. I pulled on my long black wool coat and tugged my leather gloves on my hands with apprehension. I didn’t ask about taking a gun, though I probably should’ve. Except I had my reasons. I didn’t like guns much to begin with, and frankly, it would’ve put a certain look on Ambrose’s face. Either the ‘are you insane, little brother?’ or the solemn ‘I’m concerned but you’re right’ face. I didn’t want the weight and responsibility of being unfortunately right or the insensibility of being wrong.

The drive was quiet as we both retreated in thought, but before I knew it, Ambrose parked the car on a nearby street. It was around eight. We turned our phones off and put them in the glove compartment. He set up connection to the CCTV while I napped, and around nine, it was go time.

Chapter 21

I showed my invitation at the door and passed the scanners as I walked in. So far so good. Orchestral atmospheric music played in the background. I spotted Kasim but directed my attention elsewhere. Mystique was somewhere around here. She’d find me. Ambrose entered a minute after and took a seat at the bar on the other side of the room. He had his reading glasses on or rather another gadget from R&D since he rarely needed his glasses. I skirted the champagne trays and kept out of the camera’s view. And then gradually the number of people overwhelmed me. Too many conversations happening at once. The music was loud. Laughter echoed. People talked so much. I felt my pulse rise and my chest tighten, my mind racing.

I rubbed my face. “Ambrose, it’s, er... It’s- it’s a lot of people. A lot of noise. I can’t...”

“I know, Fizzy. Focus on your surroundings. How many exits are there? Points of entry? How’s the security?”

“Three- three exits. One way in with scanners. Two elevators. Passkey needed. Security around one back way. Must be where they keep the footage or access to the labs. There’s a few of Maurice’s associates here.”

“I’m activating the noise-cancelling. Tell me if it helps.”

“The what— wait, the comms have that?”

“I put in a special request. My friend obliged.”

“Oh.” In a moment, the music and conversation blurred, ceasing to become noticeable for the most part. I released a breath. “Why didn’t you do that earlier?”

“I’m sorry, slipped my mind. Better?”

“Yeah. Yes, thank you.” I glanced over at him.

“Of course.” He looked about the room, smiling a tad when he saw me.

As Ambrose had predicted, I bumped into the CEO and a few other businessmen, aka Orbis’ clients. I hadn’t remembered the last time I tracked my interest in stocks, but tonight it had plummeted. I had to fake future ventures and opinions.

Then I was left alone finally and hid in plain view. It was slow.

Around half past eleven, I thought I’d seen my brother in the crowd. And yet it wasn’t him, though he struck a curiosity in my mind. The man in his 40s had a tailored suit, clean chin, Aldershot accent, dark auburn hair, and hazel eyes that looked like deja vu.

“Ambrose, where are you?”

“I’m still at the bar, scoping the floor. Why? Did something happen?”

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Yes, but what in particular are referring to?”

“That man... He looked familiar.”

“Which one, Fitz? It’s a full room.”

I ran a hand through my hair. He’d gone. I grunted. “I don’t know. He’s out of my view now, but he was... very peculiar.”

“Orbis peculiar or plain peculiar?”

“I mistook him for you.”

“You’re right. That is peculiar.”

My gaze slid across the room from person to person as I tried to catch sight of the man again.

“If you see him again, let me know. Meanwhile, stay focused. Our contact’s walking towards you.”

Michael Bublè came on.

“Care to dance?”

Mystique. I bit my tongue and smoothly turned around. She wore a loose black turtleneck dress, short enough to run in. I could only think of what chaos might happen tonight. There was a reason my brother was wary of her.

Ambrose cleared his throat. “Fitz, say ‘yes’.”

“Of course.” I held my hand out.

Mystique took it with an intrigued smile. “I will need to check you for weapons.”

I sighed. “If you must. The scanners at the door not convincing enough?”

“Could’ve smuggled something in.”

“Oh, right.”

“I know what happened to Maurice. Young or not, you’re a crack shot, and I’d rather not have the tables turn the wrong way.”

“You’ll want to search me as well, I suppose?”

“Erm...”

“Don’t worry. My glasses already scanned her. X-ray. She’s clean,” Ambrose said. Knew it. Also thank God. Searching Mystique was the last thing I’d wanted to do.

“Nahh, I think I’m good.” I spun her onto the floor with the other pairs. My greatest worry was keeping my head down away from the cameras and trying not to step on any toes. The brass swung while the drums kept the syncopated rhythm. My eyes darted amongst the surroundings as I looked for the familiar man while trying to keep out of Kasim’s view. Meanwhile discreetly ran her watch over me. I was grateful she didn’t even need to touch me. That done, I twirled her, and she spun away. Our feet were in sync as we stepped to the side.

“Fitz, say something. You’re thinking again.”

I cleared my throat. “Good party. Lots of... faces.”

He chuckled. “Wow. Very smooth.”

Piss off.

“You seem distracted.” Mystique looked me.

“Hm? Oh, well, more preoccupied. If you need my attention, then by all means.” I lead us backward.

“Did Ambrose tell you about me yet?” She flicked her foot back with a flourish.

“I know what I need to know.”

“Ahhh, so he hasn’t.” She smirked. “It’s always been a habit of his to play things close to the vest. A stickler for the rules if I ever saw one. Very irritating.”

“On the contrary, I find him loyal and trustworthy.”

“Yet you still hate the word ‘classified’,” Ambrose quipped.

I harrumphed.

“You’re not curious?” She cocked her head.

“Curious about what?”

“About me. About tonight. What’s going on?”

“I know you can’t be trusted, and you’re a spy turned assassin. It’s more than I ought, less than I want, yet enough to keep a distance.”

“Glad you agree,” Ambrose added. “Also how can you tell she’s an assassin or a spy?”

I held back an amused smile. Ambrose didn’t think I was that in the dark, did he?

“You have the eyes of a person with a lot of burning questions who keeps getting tendrils of smoke for answers.”

“I could say the same.”

She sobered for a moment.

I quirked my lips. A hint. She was hear the same reason I was.

“Ambrose doesn’t trust me.”

“Neither do I.”

“But he has a reason, you barely know me enough to judge yet you’ve already decided to despise me.”

“No, I just don’t care.”

“Oh, it’s more than that. You care enough to need to hide it behind nonchalance. You think I killed that agent.”

“What agent?”

“Oh, come on. Ambrose must’ve told you about the girl who was in Kasim’s lectures. MI6 put her on to being their spy because she had connections with him. She was investigating that incident.”

“The one you created.”

“True, she nearly broke my cover, but I was also using her to spy on Kasim. I had no reason to kill her. In fact, I used my contacts to protect her until someone got sloppy and lost sight of her for a moment. She wasn’t very careful, and it got her killed.”

I bit my tongue.

“Fitz, I know she’s blunt and infuriating, but you need to hold your ground and breathe.”

Fine. I managed a slow calm inhale.

“Very good.”

“Even with my people looking out for her,” she continued, “she couldn’t get out alive. Kasim’s clever that way. Elegantly ruthless.” Her eyes gained a cold fire. The sort one gets when they’d been injured deeply. I recognized it because it was how I felt on that roof when Maurice had nearly killed Luke and tried to finish off Ambrose. Kasim had killed someone she knew and cared about. She was here for revenge.

The music modulated and thinned out as it ended. I twirled her out one last time before the music stopped.

“My employer’s waiting to meet.”

“Lead the way.”

Ambrose slid off his seat in the distance.

“How much do you know?” She strode toward the hall.

“Kasim’s been dealing arms with some disreputable people. IRA, Russians, people on the coast who prefer to live private lives. This is one of his clients, so either another deal’s going down or he’s here to pick something up.”

“And to grease some palms.”

“You said before you don’t know. Was that just to tease me, or you’re really in the dark?”

“Both.”

“What about your contact?”

“I have lots of those. But no one inside Orbis. It’s too... risky. You would know. You investigated one of the incidents.”

“His accountant passing on information to the FBI.”

“Almost everybody used him for intel. Without your interference, no one but the underground would’ve even known he was murdered. ”

“That’s how Maurice works.”

“Worked.”

“Oh, no, no, no, sorry, I’m still not convinced he’s dead.”

“My employer seems to think you’d be useful, but I think you’re just as in the dark as we are, only in addition damaged, desperate, and delusional.”

“And you’re clueless, callous, and careless.”

She smirked.

“Who is your employer exactly?”

“See for yourself. Oh, and you’re brother can come.” She entered the women’s loos.

I stopped outside. “You know, Ambrose?”

“What?” He appeared beside me.

“I’m getting de ja vu.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, and thanks for the colorful commentary back there.”

“You’re welcome.”

We entered the loos, and Mystique locked the door. Odd place for the meeting, but it was the only spot without cameras. The man I’d mistaken for Ambrose was there too.

“Er, this is your employer?” I raised my brow. My mind had that feeling again.

Ambrose stepped back.

“What, you two know each other?”

“Yes. The question is why now?”

“It’s the right time.”

“Oh, the right time— that was four years ago when everything went to hell!” Ambrose was furious, and yet kept his tone down.

“I thought you’d be happy I at least intervened.”

“Yes, of course, I’m grateful, but you could’ve jumped in a little sooner, don’t you think?”

“And do what? We’d be square one again and still might be if they find out. I’m taking a risk—”

“So am I. We. And you could’ve contacted me directly instead of—”

“Too dangerous, and I know you don’t trust anyone else, but Sabrina got your attention.”

“She tried to kill me, nearly exposed Fitz, and mishandled the incident with that poor young woman, not to mention she’s captured my superiors’ attention as well. You could’ve chosen someone less disreputable.”

“Ambrose, I work with who I have at my disposal. In my position, there aren’t many options. You know that. I came now because I could. Intervening a few years ago would’ve done nothing but stir up more trouble, and your brother exposed himself the moment he poked around Maurice’s business.”

“Where you left him.” Ambrose swallowed, defiant yet grave.

I furrowed my brow.

The man looked aside and shifted. “You’re right. But we’re losing time. We can talk about this later.”

Ambrose passed a hand over his face. “Fine.”

“Yeah, sure, let’s this later. I just have one question, Ambrose.” I bit my tongue.

“Yes?”

“When exactly were you going to tell our father both alive and after the same thing we are?” Yes, that man was our father, Claude Milton-Devereux, and Ambrose had lied . “And why would you even lie about something like that?”

Ambrose looked aside.

“Look, I’m not an idiot.”

“I know you’re not.”

“Then what’s he doing here?”

Ambrose tossed his hands in the air. “He’s been underground for almost a decade gathering former spies of Maurice’s and mounting a large army of intelligence as it were. Aside from you and our uncle, there’s no one who knows more about Orbis than him. I found out when I was in Home Office. Favor from an old friend. No one else knows. Maurice used our family to blackmail him into working for him, and he could in too deep, so to protect us, he ran. Ever since, he’s been recruiting people who used to work for Maurice in order to take Orbis down from the inside. I haven’t spoken to him since I tracked him down, though I’d expected him to intervene when I joined MI5 and Maurice threatened you.”

“Why! Why keep it a secret? You lied to me the second we met again.” My eyes stung.

“No, I couldn’t find— I couldn’t find the right time.”

“The right— It’s a little hypocritical to be using the same argument as him.”

“Fitz, we can talk about this later. Kasim is—”

“No. Oh, no, no, no, you don’t get to pull the priority card on me, to pretend you’re in the right when our father is standing right there, and you knew he was alive and how to contact him all this time!”

“I’m not. You’re have a right to be hurt, and I know it’s a shock and it doesn’t make sense. However. Remember what we’re here for in the first place. We can either argue now and let Kasim get away or talk later and deal with this. You decided to come tonight so it’s your choice. Either way I fully intend to talk about this as long as you need.”

I bit my cheek and took a slow breath. Was this entire going to be crap show? “What’s next then?”

Just like Ambrose, Father was able to act like nothing happened and go down to business. “Check the cameras. I think you’ll find Kasim has disappeared by now.”

Ambrose looked at me, as if lost in thought.

“Ambrose.”

“I’m checking.” Ambrose searched on his phone.

“And?”

“He’s gone.”

“Maybe look over previous footage. We can see where he was heading.”

“Maybe his next deal’s going down,” I thought aloud. “But why would he do it here?”

“Well, the party’s going downstairs. Good cover—”

“Wait, found him.”

“Where?”

“He’s chatting up some investors, but he disappeared to the basement for a minute. That’s why we couldn’t see him.”

“Basement? The vault or the labs?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Both.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

A train of thought sparked. The news articles came to the surface of my mind. Paltrow’s stock had been fluctuating and crashed once. Rumours of an embezzlement. The company was broke, but they were trying to pretend the opposite for as long as possible. This was a company that manufactured technology for arms. So the basement... “Oh!” I palmed my forehead. The research had paid off.

“What!” The three said.

“He’s stealing the guns to cover for that embezzlement a few months ago. It was in the news. I remember glancing at it a month ago.”

“You remember news articles you ‘glanced at’ a month ago?” Our father raised an eyebrow.

“But why would stealing from his own client solve the problem?”

“Money can do peculiar things,” Sabrina said. “Especially if it’s involved in insurance fraud.”

“That’s why the client’s throwing the large party. For a diversion,” Ambrose said.

“Bingo. The embezzlement made the company’s stock fall through the floor, and it’s been fluctuating ever since. They’re losing money and barely managing to do damage control. Kasim’s having trouble with his own clients because they don’t trust him as much as they did with Maurice faking his death and us on his tail. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Kasim gets it from managing interests of those who require the syndicate’s services, and the FBI froze Maurice’s accounts and those under the shell corporations I’d given them. If this didn’t catch or the heist failed, he had nothing. In stealing from his own client, Kasim gets the arms to make another deal free of charge from his client and recovers some assets and trust, and the CEO of Paltrow gets to claim the insurance money on the theft and start a new life of retirement before the board forces him out anyway. Win, win.”

“Interesting.” Father peered at me.

I harrumphed. “And this isn’t exactly the first time Orbis has done this. Maurice has boasted about it a few times. I’m not going to lie. It’s a good scheme.”

Ambrose cocked his head at me.

“Er, er, I mean ‘terrible.’ Very bad. Mlegh. Insurance fraud. Don’t do it.”

He snorted. “That’s what you’re going with? ‘Insurance fraud. Don’t do it.’?”

“We should put that on a t-shirt.”

“With ‘I’d commit insurance fraud for you’ on the back.”

“I’d buy it,” Sabrina said.

“She committed it at least three times.”

“Wait, really?”

“Anyways.” Father rolled his eyes. “If Kasim’s going to steal the guns then, we need to get out of here before they lock this place down when the the alarms go off.”

Sabrina nodded. “And then we need to follow Kasim.”

“To find where the guns are going,” Ambrose said with me. We looked aside.

Sabrina took out her phone.

“What are you doing?” Ambrose furrowed his brow.

“I’m getting our inside woman outside to follow Kasim after he steals the guns.”

“But every time they’ve disappeared, so the question is how do we get a tracker on the shipments?”

“Easy. We get down there, have a meet and greet with your uncle’s favorite psychopath” –she held up a key card for the elevator– “Then we run.”

My eyebrows shot up. If I’d had water in my mouth, I’d have spit it out.

“Er, no, I’m not letting you compromise his safety, again,” Ambrose said.

“Ambrose—”

“I need a diversion to put the tracker on the crates.”

“Fitz needs to keep his cover. If Kasim knew he was involved—”

I huffed. “He already knows—”

“Not everything,” Father said. “Sabrina, go. Ambrose—”

“I’ll create the diversion.”

“Right.”

I rolled my eyes,

“What’s our rendezvous in case—”

“Is the house satisfactory?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Done.”

An alarm blared. Sabrina ran out, and Ambrose followed.

“We should get out of here. Come on.” Father passed me.

The heist was already going down. Someone should’ve been on Kasim. I looked about for the vents.

“Darcy, we need to get out of here!”

“I’m going after Kasim.”

“What, no! Security is locking the place down. We need to get out. Now. ”

I looked between him and the ceiling. This is why Ambrose’s people didn’t trust me. Because I did what I thought was best instead of what others thought. I grunted. “Fine. Which way?”

“The back door.”

He passed me a black cap and a security jacket. “Pull this over your head and wear this.”

I put both on as he followed suit. Easier to keep our faces hidden from the cameras and get by the security men running around.

We strode out into the hall. Keys jangled in his hand. We skirted around the security guards and turned the corner. The lights were too bright. A jolt of pain struck my head. I scrunched my face.

“Where are you and Ambrose supposed to meet?” We burst outside through the exit.

“What?” I breathed, trying not to vomit.

“You and Ambrose. Rendezvous.”

“Two streets over at the car... behind an alley.” I told him the street before I stopped and gagged.

“What’s wrong?” He looked me over.

“Migraine,” I grunted, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Do you have anything for it?”

“Forgot.”

“Okay, come on. I’ve got you.”

“What—”

He picked me up before I could protest, and time passed like a blur as my main focus was to remain lucid and not puke. Then all of a sudden we were on the move. He didn’t stop until we were behind that alley way. I staggered forward and threw up on the brick wall.

Father held me up as my knees shook. “There we go.”

My eyes watered. I coughed and spat out the bile. My lungs drew in ragged breaths. “Ambrose—”

“He’ll be fine. He always is. And Sabrina is good to have in your corner when you need backup.”

“How did you meet?”

“It’s complicated.”

I huffed. “Isn’t everything?”

“Precious few things are simple nowadays. It’s one of the things I miss.”

I sunk against the wall as I caught my breath, filled with things I wanted to say. “You know it was hell for him when you left. I was there, and I know it still hurts even though he tries to hide it. Just because he’s always been fine doesn’t mean it was easy.”

Father shifted.

“While you’ve been playing James Bond, he’s been trying to hold everything up by himself and best the odds he was given. All I know about you is that you ditched us when it got to hot instead of fighting. And even after all this time, it seems like you haven’t noticed just how much has gone on, and it shows. Ambrose deserves better.”

“Darcy—”

Ambrose ran down the alley at that moment.

“Did you get the tracker on?”

“With some improvising before they sped off. Sabrina went another way.”

“Our rendezvous.”

I bit my lip hard and shut my eyes for a moment. The pain was getting worse.

Without a word, Ambrose held me up and got a small bottle from his jacket pocket. My medicine. It was either an extra bottle or he’d noticed I’d forgotten it.

I winced as I sprayed it into my nose. My eyes teared up more, and my nose ran a little. I sneezed.

“Bless you,” Ambrose and Father said.

“Thanks?”

“Well, I should go meet her.” He glanced at me and then Ambrose.

“All right.”

Father hugged both of us. “I love you, boys.” His expression held guilt and pain when I looked at him.

“Four o’clock then.” Ambrose looked between us as if trying to read what had happened while he was with Sabrina.

“Yes.” Father nodded. “I’ll see you both soon.” Then he left, almost turning his head as if to look back.

He didn’t.

Ambrose and I watched him walk away until he was out of sight.

“Here.” Ambrose gave me his handkerchief.

I wiping my eyes and blew my nose.

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing much.”

“Hmm.”

“Come here.”

He blinked, hesitant and confused as I hugged him. Ambrose squeezed me. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I sighed. “I know.”

Fireworks erupted some distance off, the sounds mingling with police sirens. Big Ben chimed off midnight. Cheers could be heard.

“Happy New Year, Ambrose.”

“Happy New Year.”

I imagined he’d regretted getting to celebrate with Constance and perhaps the traditional midnight kiss. Luke and Lucy must’ve been worried. Everybody probably was. I loathed to use the cover story, and even more I loathed that I’d missed celebrating the end and beginning of a year with my friends. This was another sacrifice of going after Orbis. “Let’s go home.”

He nodded.

Although home wouldn’t feel the same now. I was at odds with Ambrose and reluctant to lie to my friends. And I couldn’t decide whether to trust my own father. I’d thought he was dead all these years. Now he wasn’t. Tonight had been a pandora’s box.