“Dat?”
“That’s a fence.”
“Dat?”
“That’s a cherry tree.”
“Dat?”
“Where—? Oh, that’s called a laburnum. Hands to yourself, okay?”
“Dat?”
“Those are goats.”
“Peenie!”
Daddy laughs, loud and hard. “Very good, Gerard. Yes, that goat has a penis, doesn’t he? Come on, up you get.”
Gerry concentrates very hard. He’s still getting the hang of doing this on his feet and not by crawling, and Daddy is always proud of him when he does. He picks his foot up very, very high and puts it down in front of him. It makes a very satisfying thunk. He stops and looks up at Daddy.
Daddy smiles, looking proud. “That’s it. Now the other leg. Go on, I won’t let you fall.”
Gerry trusts Daddy. If Daddy says he won’t fall, then he won’t fall. He stares at his foot, squats down, and pushes very hard, and he manages to pick up his other foot and put it on the step next to his first foot, then looks up to Daddy for approval.
“Keep going, Gerard,” Daddy says encouragingly. “Two more steps, come on. Up, up, up!”
“Up, up, up!” Gerry chants back. He squats a bit, then lifts his leg up to get on the next step. He wobbles crazily, nearly falling, but just like he promised, Daddy has a tight, tight grip on Gerry’s hand and he doesn’t fall. He manages to get his foot on the step, hauls his other foot up to match, and then carefully takes another step up. He beams up at Daddy. “Two!”
“That’s right, Gerard! You went up two steps. Now can you step up on the porch?”
Gerry frowns, because that’s three, not two, but he makes himself take the step anyway. Daddy ruffles his hair. “Good job, son. Now you can come meet Daddy’s friend.”
Gerry likes walking with Daddy. Daddy walks just as fast as Gerry does, so they can stay together; Mother always drags him and gets mad when he can’t stay on his feet, and especially mad when he cries because his arm and shoulder hurt. Daddy never makes him cry.
Daddy also isn’t home all the time, and Gerry doesn’t usually get to spend a lot of time with him, although he wants to. So today when Daddy was getting ready to go out the door, he’d asked to come, and his daddy had said yes right away, and they went on a long, long drive and Daddy told him all about everything they passed. And now they’re here at this pretty house that’s much nicer than where Gerry lives and smells different and is open and warm, and there’s a big red door in front of him.
Daddy picks him up and points to a round white button next to the door. “Can you ring the doorbell for me, Gerard?” He demonstrates how to point his finger.
Gerry concentrates, curls his hand into a fist, and extends one finger. With Daddy’s encouragement, he leans forward and presses the button. He’s delighted when, somewhere inside the house, a bell rings. Daddy pulls him back, out of reach of the button, before he can keep experimenting to see how long it will ring or if it will do the same thing if he pushes it more.
A moment later, the door opens. Standing inside is a man Gerry doesn’t know, but Mother owns a shop and people Gerry doesn’t know come into it all the time, so he’s not afraid of strangers. This stranger is tall and thin, with very, very pale hair and a big bushy mustache that comes down over his mouth. His eyes are bright, bright blue and shine like Daddy’s do when he’s happy.
“Eric,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly and warm. Gerry likes him already.
“Alastair,” Daddy says, and when Gerry looks up, he’s smiling too. “It’s good to see you again, old friend.”
“Good to see you too, good to see you too. And who’s this, then?” The man tilts his head at Gerry. “Didn’t know you had grandchildren, what?”
“Not for at least another fifteen years or so,” Daddy says. “This is my son Gerard…Gerard, can you say hello?”
“Hi, I Gerra,” Gerry says dutifully. He flashes the tiny pearls of his milk teeth in a big grin.
The man smiles back at Gerry. “Well, hello there, Gerard. You can call me Uncle Alastair. That all right with you, Eric?”
“Of course. I was going to ask you the same.” Daddy looks down at Gerry. “Can you say Uncle Alastair?”
“Unca Stair,” Gerry repeats. Daddy and Uncle Alastair both laugh.
“Well, come in, come in, have a seat. Tea?” Uncle Alastair steps back and gestures into the house.
The inside of the house fascinates Gerry. It’s big and open and light, pale wood floors and white walls with light blue trim and curtains in blue and white checks tied back with gold tasseled cords. What immediately draws his attention is the bookcase on one wall. There’s only one, which is a bit of a novelty to a boy who’s lived his whole life in a very crowded bookshop, but all the books look well-read, as opposed to the ones Mother is always looking at, which just look old. He thinks about asking his daddy to read him one of the books—surely he won’t mind, or at least he’ll be able to pick one that he doesn’t mind reading. Sometimes Daddy doesn’t want to read any of the books in the shop. Gerry supposes it’s because Mother gets mad.
Then something else catches his attention, and Gerry falls in love for the first time in his life.
Hung on the walls are pictures. Gerry’s only seen pictures in some of the books Daddy reads him, simple drawings of rabbits in waistcoats and cats on windowsills, flat lines and bright colors that show what’s happening in the stories. These are different. For one thing, they’re big, bigger than Gerry, inside square frames of wood and gold. And the colors—Gerry’s never seen anything like them. The trees aren’t just green, they’re flecked with orange and gold; the clouds have little swirls of pale, pale purple in them. There’s a field of flowers that looks real enough to run through even though it’s painted with big, wide brush strokes that don’t really make clear shapes, and he thinks it’s his favorite until he lays eyes on the ocean.
It’s even bigger than the others, almost taking up the whole wall, in a simple weathered frame. Daddy read Gerry a book about My Trip to the Seashore, and the pictures were of yellow sand and dark blue water with little black lines to show waves under a pale blue sky. This ocean looks nothing like that. For one thing, there’s no sand, just water and sky. The sky is grey and purple and black like the bruise Gerry gets sometimes, and the sea is choppy and all sorts of dark colors with unexpected slashes of dark orange. And there’s a boat, a boat with sails, but they’re white and purple like the clouds in the other picture, and it’s tilting to one side.
Gerry wants to touch it.
“Like that one, do you, laddie buck?” Uncle Alastair says, sounding pleased. “Fond of the ocean, I take it.”
“I don’t know that he’s ever seen it,” Daddy says. “Certainly not like that.”
“Well, perhaps someday, then. Meanwhile, you’ll have to settle for the painting.” Uncle Alastair heads to another room. “Let me get you that tea.”
“Where did you get it?” Daddy asks. “The painting, I mean. Looks old.”
“It’s an Aivazovsky,” Uncle Alastair calls from the other room. “Or so Kieran said. Milk for the boy?”
“Yes, thank you. Kieran?”
Gerry gazes raptly at the picture—no, painting, he reminds himself, Uncle Alastair said it was a painting, or—or something else? He doesn’t remember. Just to make sure, he tugs on Daddy’s shirt and points. “Dat?”
“That’s a painting, Gerard,” Daddy says kindly.
“Pay-ting,” Gerry repeats. He smiles and stretches his hands out to it. “Pitty.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”
Uncle Alastair comes back in with a tray. “Need to take the boy down to the sea.”
Daddy looks at Gerry’s face. “I think I need to take him to a gallery, actually. You didn’t answer my question. Who’s Kieran?”
Uncle Alastair huffs. “That’s right, been a few years, hasn’t it? Kieran Blackwood—”
“Not Salesa’s first mate? I’d be careful of anything I got from him, if I were you.”
“He knows better,” Uncle Alastair says. “Anyway, don’t think Salesa lets him handle…our side of the cargo.”
“Hmm.” Daddy sets Gerry on the sofa next to him and hands him a cup of milk. “Be careful, Gerard. Don’t spill…so how did you come by anything off Salesa’s ship, if it’s not something better off in Artifact Storage?”
“It was a Christmas present last year, joint from him and Lily. They got married three years ago.”
Daddy chokes on his tea. “Sorry, Lily? Liliana? Since when did she decide she wanted to be married, for heaven’s sake?”
“Surprised me, too, to be honest,” Uncle Alastair grunts. “She was smitten with him. Never heard her talk like that, not even about you.”
“Don’t remind me. I’m glad I never told Mary about that.”
They both laugh, and Gerry laughs, too, because when Daddy laughs it’s impossible not to laugh, even if he doesn’t understand what’s funny. He takes a careful sip of the milk. Mother gets upset when he spills, so he tries very hard not to, even if she isn’t here.
“Did she move out?” Daddy asks. “Or is she just at…I suppose she’s out of school by now.”
“Took a Second in Archeology just before the wedding, and yes, they’re living in town. She works part time at the local history museum.” Uncle Alastair pauses. “Or did. She’s just gone on leave for a while, maybe for good.”
There’s a brief pause, and then Daddy prompts, “Is something wrong?”
“Farthest thing from it, what?” Uncle Alastair’s eyes twinkle. “I’m going to be a grandfather.”
“Well, isn’t that something.” Daddy sounds surprised. “Congratulations. When is she due?”
“Early October. Kieran should be back by then. I’ve been over helping her with the nursery most evenings.”
Daddy smiles. “Well, I’m glad I caught you earlier in the day then.”
Uncle Alastair smiles back. For a little while, there’s silence, and Gerry sips quietly at his milk and stares thoughtfully at that painting. It keeps drawing him in, making him look for patterns and new colors and all sorts of things.
Could he ever make something like that?
“Hold on a tick,” Uncle Alastair says suddenly, getting up. “I have something for you, you young rip.”
“You didn’t know he existed an hour ago,” Daddy points out, but Uncle Alastair is already moving. Gerry watches him curiously, wondering what a young rip is and who he was talking to. He rummages around in a drawer somewhere on the other side of the room, then comes back with a stack of white paper and a small wooden box.
“Here you go,” Uncle Alastair says. He sets the paper and box on the table and slides back the lid. Inside are long, thin sticks in bright colors, and Gerry looks at them, then up at Uncle Alastair, who pats his head and winks. “Why don’t you see what kind of picture you can make while your daddy and I talk, eh? Bet you can make something just as good as that.”
“What do you say, Gerard?” Daddy prompts him.
“T’ank you,” Gerry says, beaming up at Uncle Alastair. He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do with these sticks, but he knows that what do you say means say thank you.
“You’re welcome, laddie buck,” Uncle Alastair says.
Daddy takes out one of the colored sticks and drags it across the paper. To Gerry’s astonishment and delight, it leaves a line behind the exact same color as the stick—a bright red, this one—and then Daddy hands it to him, and Gerry gets it. These are painting sticks. This is how you make paintings, like the field and the forest and the sea. These will get the pictures in his head out where people can see them, and then…and then…and then, well, something. But Uncle Alastair and Daddy are letting him make something like that, and that’s good enough for Gerry.
He studies the paper seriously, trying to decide what he wants to draw. Maybe he’ll draw him and Daddy. Or Daddy and Uncle Alastair. Or all three of them. Or just Daddy. Or can you do paintings of people? None of Uncle Alastair’s paintings have people in them.
While he concentrates, Uncle Alastair asks, in a voice that sounds like he’s pretending not to ask, “How are…things? How’s the Institute?”
“Ticking along,” Daddy says, and he sounds bitter. “Finally replaced Fiona…”
“Did she retire?”
“Right, right…you haven’t heard. No, she died. Or…something. There’s a coffin—sounded like the Buried—I’m, I’m not too sure of the details. Emma was with her, not me. That was…gosh. Five years ago?” Daddy shakes his head. “Time flies. Anyway, she got too close, and it got her. Gertrude made do with just the two of us for a year or two, but she hired a new boy a couple years back. Michael Shelley.”
Uncle Alastair hums. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Young, I take it?”
“Can’t be more than twenty, and he’s so…innocent. I have no idea how he got into this life. He doesn’t belong here.” Daddy sighs. “He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Do any of us?” Uncle Alastair sighs, too. He takes a sip of his tea, then asks, “How’s Trudy?”
Daddy snorts softly. “I can’t believe she lets you call her that. Emma called her that once and I swear it’s the only time I’ve ever seen Gertrude angry with her. She doesn’t strike me as the nickname type.” He pauses. “Then again, I suppose you don’t call her that to her face, do you?”
“Haven’t seen her in a while,” Uncle Alastair says softly. “But I’ve always called her that.”
“Emma said you two worked together before she became the Archivist.”
“Emma is a gossiping, nosy pest and you can tell her I said so. She came from the outside, same as you did.” Uncle Alastair huffs. “Worked together? No. She was in Research, I was in the Library. We knew each other before that. Matter of fact, Trudy’s the one who got me the job in the first place.” He hesitates. “Don’t tell her I told you this.”
Daddy snorts. “Gertrude doesn’t have time to listen to me gossip these days. She barely listens to Emma.”
“Or Mary.”
“You don’t tell things to Mary.” Daddy doesn’t usually talk about Mother in that tone of voice, and Gerry looks up, momentarily distracted from scribbling purple over blue to try and mimic the color of the sea in the painting, then goes back to what he’s doing. “She tells you.”
“Well…all right.” Uncle Alastair takes a deep breath. “She’s Lily’s mother.”
There’s a crash and a clatter, and Gerry jumps and—he can’t help it—starts to cry as something hot and wet splashes over his arm…and worse, over his painting. He tries to snatch it up, but the edge is already wet.
“Gerard! Gerard, shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Daddy scoops him up and pats at his arm, then gently picks up the paper and flaps it back and forth, bouncing Gerry on his knee as he does so as he tries to still his tears. “Shh. It’s okay…Alastair, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“My fault, I did rather spring that on you. Let me go get a rag.” Uncle Alastair leans over and chucks Gerry lightly under the chin. “Cheer up, laddie buck, that will dry in no time…and look at the colors!”
Gerry whimpers and sniffles and swipes at his eyes and looks at the painting…and stops crying, reaching for it in wonder. Uncle Alastair is right. There’s light brown staining the white paper, and it’s mixing in with the blue and purple and it looks exactly the way Gerry wants it to. He looks from his painting to the one on the wall and back.
“Pay-ting,” he says, happily.
“I’ll buy you a set of watercolors on the way home,” Daddy promises, and Gerry doesn’t know what watercolors are but it sounds good. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Uh-uh.” Gerry shakes his head and snuggles against Daddy, still staring at his first painting with pride.
Uncle Alastair comes back and wipes up the table, with a bit of clinking and scraping, then drops it in a pail and sits back down. “There, no harm done, what? But…yes. Trudy and I knew each other in school, we were…close. Very close.” He huffs. “Mary’s not the only one who chose not to change her last name.”
“Jesus.” Daddy lets out a breath that ruffles Gerry’s hair and makes the painting flutter. “If I’d known that, I’d…” He shakes his head. “She’s…fine. Determined. Ruthless. Things are getting…I-I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s getting bad, Alastair.” He tightens his arm around Gerry. “Gertrude’s in the middle of it, and I don’t doubt she’ll come out the other end smelling of roses. I just…don’t know what she’s willing to sacrifice along the way.”
“I…can’t really argue with you,” Uncle Alastair says slowly. “That’s rather why she left Lily with me. We both saw that…thing Angus Stacey fell to, and after she took it out, she came to me and said she couldn’t stay, with either of us. That we’d be safer away from her and the Institute. It will use whatever it can, and I must be prepared to lose whatever it finds to use.”
“I can hear her saying that, too.” Daddy kisses the top of Gerry’s head. “I’ve already decided. I can’t let it find me.”
“Not sure you have a choice, old chum. It’s an appointment for life, isn’t it? Not like anything above ground.” Uncle Alastair huffs. “Thought you ranted to me about that a few years back.”
Daddy is quiet for a long moment. Finally, he lays Gerry’s painting carefully on the table and gathers Gerry close. “I think I’ve found a way.”
“To quit? You’re not—” Uncle Alastair gives him a sharp look, then turns to Gerry. “How old are you, laddie buck?”
“I two!” Gerry says promptly and proudly, holding up two fingers to demonstrate. He knows his numbers—well, some of them anyway—but two is his favorite, and not just because that’s how old he is. He and Daddy make two people, and that’s his favorite thing in the world.
Well. Maybe his second favorite thing now, he thinks, looking at his painting. His painting. He did that.
“He’s two, Eric,” Uncle Alastair says, almost pleading. “You wouldn’t leave him with Mary, would you? At this age?”
“No!” Daddy sounds appalled. “No, it’s—there’s a way to quit that doesn’t involve death. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m…I’m hoping it will work. I think it will work.”
Uncle Alastair doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Finally, he says quietly, “Are you going to tell Trudy?”
“No,” Daddy says, just as quietly. He begins rocking back and forth, probably without thinking about it. “Not until it’s done.”
Gerry is getting sleepy. Daddy is warm and comfortable, and the rocking motion is lulling him to drowsiness. He cuddles against Daddy’s chest and blinks slowly at the painting on the wall. The ship seems to rock back and forth, back and forth with him, and he wonders dreamily if he’s on the boat or the boat is dancing with him.
“You think she’ll try it herself, what?” Uncle Alastair’s voice seems to be coming from far away.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Not while she still has work to do, anyway. I’m more worried about her trying to stop the others from finding out about it. Doubt Emma would quit, she enjoys the job too much, but Michael…” Daddy sighs. “Maybe not. He thinks she’s a frail, helpless old woman and gets offended if I suggest otherwise. I can’t convince him we’re all the same age.”
Uncle Alastair laughs, for just a moment. “We’re safe enough here. What’s the plan, eh?”
Gerry doesn’t hear Daddy’s answer. Sleep overtakes him in the pause between Uncle Alastair’s question and Daddy speaking again. But as it does, the last thing he thinks before he drifts away into pleasant dreams full of color and light and art supplies is that Daddy’s plan is sure to be a good one.
Daddy’s plans are always good.