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Sunlight fell across the sofa in pale streaks of blue, passing through the folds of the curtains and the soft, pink skin of Ray's eyelids. He blinked slowly against the light, then closed his eyes. A dull pain fluttered from his ear down to his shoulder, and beneath his cheek he felt the warm, unfamiliar contour of an armrest.
He lay there, unmoving, listening for the sound of footsteps, or running water, or the muted murmur of voices in another room, but beneath the wisps of his own shallow breathing everything was quiet. Rolling over, he pulled the blankets up to his chin and wondered at the time. There was enough light to make out the soft variations in the upholstery, faded and worn and scratched against the grain. Ray stared at the back of the sofa and curled up even tighter, until his bare knees brushed against the suede.
A voice spoke through the fickle haze of his half-sleep. It sounded like his name. Ray opened his eyes and turned over again to face the window.
"Raymond. Good morning."
Mr. Edgeworth stood on the area rug with his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, peering at Ray through polished lenses. His hair was limp and in his eyes.
"Morning," Ray told him. He sat up and folded his legs beneath the blankets. Near Mr. Edgeworth's slippered feet lay a pillow in a white case. He must have knocked it off the sofa in his sleep. Fold lines ran faintly across the top in a wide grid.
"I was about to take a shower," Mr. Edgeworth said.
"Oh," said Ray. "All right."
"You can too, of course. I mean take a shower. I won't be long."
Ray nodded.
"Well—maybe you want stop at home. Do you need to go home first?"
"No," Ray said. "That's all right." He looked down at the worn plaid of Mr. Edgeworth's slippers. "Except." It felt chilly now that he was sitting up. His own house was chilly in the morning too. "Except I don't have any extra clothes."
"Oh," said Mr. Edgeworth. "Right. Of course."
Ray leaned forward on his elbows and pulled the blankets back up to his chin. He'd slept in his shirt, but maybe it would be all right to wear. "It's okay," he said, shaking his head. "I'll go home after—" He stopped. "I can go home when—after it's over. I'd rather go to the courthouse with you. Now, I mean."
Mr. Edgeworth looked at him and nodded.
"I'll use the shower as soon as you're done," Ray said.
"You could probably wear something of mine."
"All right."
"I have a few shirts that are a little small on me. I think they'd fit you."
"All right," Ray said again.
Mr. Edgeworth brushed the hair from his eyes and gave him an afflicted smile.
"Thank you," Ray added. He waited for Mr. Edgeworth to say something else. When he didn't, Ray tipped his head slowly to one side. "I think I slept funny," he said.
"Oh," Mr. Edgeworth said. "Does it hurt?"
"A little. Not really."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"I would have—it's just if Miles had had a nightmare," Mr. Edgeworth began.
"Oh, I know."
"It's not often, but I wouldn't—you know."
"It's okay."
"I didn't think—" Mr. Edgeworth slid his hands back into his pockets.
"It's a decent couch," Ray told him. "8 out of 10, at least."
Mr. Edgeworth let out a small laugh. "All right. Well." He looked at Ray as he brushed his hair back with his fingers again. "All right," he repeated, and Ray folded his hands in his lap beneath the blankets as Mr. Edgeworth walked down the hall and disappeared.
The muted rush of running water began to roar quietly somewhere in the apartment. Ray sat back and blinked into the sunlight. He'd been over for dinner often enough, but anywhere he'd ever been had always seemed different in the morning. The bookcases along the wall appeared pale and dusty, their colored spines washed out by the sunshine. In the corner sat a music stand, a wooden chair, and a black case with a tiny brass lock. They belonged to Mr. Edgeworth's son.
A large chair in matching suede stood beside the sofa. Ray stared at the clothing draped over the armrest, chewing absent-mindedly at his lip. "Oh," he said suddenly. Crawling out from beneath the blankets, he went over and lifted up a pair of pants. They seemed all right to wear again.
It was funny. He couldn't remember laying them out like that, all neat and folded. He remembered the pillow though, the one still on the floor. Mr. Edgeworth had gone to the hall closet to get it, and the pillow case had smelled just like a closet. He remembered thinking it smelled that way, although he couldn't have said what made anything smell like something as imprecise as a closet.
After he put his pants on, Ray crouched down on his heels and gazed into the shadows beneath the sofa where he'd slept. There was nothing there except his socks and the arts section of the newspaper from three days ago. He folded up the paper and placed it on the end table, then checked under the sofa again, just to be sure.
When Mr. Edgeworth returned he was dressed in a suit, and his hair was combed back away from his eyes. "I laid a few shirts out on the bed in my room," he said.
"Thanks."
"Do you want any tea or coffee?"
"Tea, please."
"I'll have it ready for you," said Mr. Edgeworth. "Do you like eggs?"
Ray was pretty sure he'd eaten eggs in front of Mr. Edgeworth before, but it was easy enough to forget something like that. "Who doesn't like eggs?" he asked.
"Miles will only eat them scrambled," Mr. Edgeworth said. "The consistency of runny yolks seems to upset him."
Ray tilted his head. "I get that." His neck still bothered him a bit.
The dishes from last night's dinner were stacked at the edge of the table when he walked by, sticky with bits of rice and yellow, congealed grease. He and Mr. Edgeworth had stayed late at the office after court, reviewing the files they'd read a thousand times before, pulling page after page until they fell like dry, dead leaves to the floor.
"How do you stand a chance when the truth can be so easily manufactured?" Mr. Edgeworth had asked him coldly. "Sometimes I wonder if it even matters in the end."
It had made Ray sad to hear that. "I would never lie to you," he'd offered meekly, feeling childish and unhelpful, but Mr. Edgeworth had looked at him with that faraway smile and placed a warm, tired hand against his back.
"Let's go," he'd told him, and they'd picked up Mr. Edgeworth's son and ordered dinner.
Ray took the blue shirt from the bed and held it to his chest. It smelled the way the pillow had, like a stranger's things. He held one sleeve down over his own rumpled shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. The blue was nice, but maybe the brown would be better. It was a pleasant, warm shade of brown, like something Mr. Edgeworth would wear.
Ray brought it into the bathroom with him and hung it on the door. Balanced on the edge of the sink was a clean, white towel. He looked around to see if there was a spare toothbrush as well, but only two stood erect in their little blue cup. Squeezing a glob of toothpaste onto his fingertip, he opened his mouth and ran it over and across his teeth, up and down and back and forth, stretching the corners of his lips with his knuckles. He spit into the sink and brought a handful of cold water to his face. The mirror was smudged with ghost-ripples of childish fingerprints. Ray blinked into the glass, studying his mouth as he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth.
The water rushed from the showerhead with a cold hiss. "Brrr," Ray murmured, pulling his shirt up and over his head. As he reached for the buckle of his belt he faltered, looking down as his fingers traced the small, smooth dip of a button. Behind him the shower sputtered noisily. He would have to wear his same socks again, he thought as he slid his pants down over his hips. Mr. Edgeworth probably had fresh socks he could wear, but he wouldn't bother him about that. Ray pulled back the shower curtain and stepped inside, shivering as the water fell warmly over his skin.
When he came back, Mr. Edgeworth and his son were already seated at the table. The dishes from the night before had been cleared away, and in their place were three small plates of scrambled eggs and toast, two teacups, and a glass of juice. Mr. Edgeworth motioned for him to sit down.
"Hello," Miles said politely.
"Morning," said Ray, taking the seat across from Mr. Edgeworth.
"May we eat now?" Miles asked his father.
"I think so," said Mr. Edgeworth as he adjusted his glasses. "Raymond?"
"Go for it," Ray said, and they began to eat. One side of the bread was nearly burnt, but the eggs were warm and fluffy and there was butter and strawberry jam in the kitchen, which Mr. Edgeworth had forgotten to put out. "Bet you're surprised to see me already," Ray joked with Miles.
"No." The boy swallowed a bite of egg and took a long drink of juice, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Papa told me it got to be too late and the trains stopped running."
"Oh, yeah."
"And that it's probably your last day. At the courthouse," Miles added. "Because the case is going to be over very soon."
"I think it is," Ray agreed.
"That's why I get to come along today. To watch."
"Oh yeah?" Ray asked.
"Yes." Miles nodded, then took a measured bite of toast.
"You can sit with Raymond in the gallery," Mr. Edgeworth said when he returned to the table. "If that's all right with him, of course. Did you want any butter or jam, Raymond?"
"Oh, um. Butter, please," Ray answered, carefully taking the dish from Mr. Edgeworth's palm. "And sure you can sit with me." He gave Miles a sideways glance. "Your dad sure asks dumb questions sometimes."
"Hopefully not in court," said Mr. Edgeworth. "Do you want any jam, Miles?"
"Maybe for my second piece."
"Okay."
"Strawberry," Ray observed. "The only way to go."
"I'm also partial to apricot," said Miles.
Ray had never tasted an apricot in his life, but he nodded in agreement. "Yes, I'm partial as well."
"I'd be content with a working toaster," said Mr. Edgeworth with a wry smile.
Miles chewed reflectively on his eggs. "Papa?"
"Yes?"
"Will you win?"
"Win our case?"
Miles nodded. "I hope you do."
Mr. Edgeworth's smile thinned. "Well, you know, Miles. It's not quite that simple."
"Don't you think that man, Mr. Master, is telling the truth?"
"I'd like to," Mr. Edgeworth said at length. "What's more, I can't help him if he doesn't."
Miles frowned. "What do you mean?"
Across the table, Mr. Edgeworth looked down at his half-eaten eggs. "It's a delicate situation," he said finally, and his son nodded slowly and asked someone to please pass the jam.
There wasn't much time after breakfast before they had to leave for the courthouse. Ray sat by himself on the sofa, waiting as Mr. Edgeworth conversed inaudibly with Miles at the back of the apartment. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and spread his arms across the upholstery, up over the back of the sofa and down again, running his fingers along the rift behind the cushions. Suddenly his hand closed around something long and flat and firm.
Slowly, he extracted a belt from the crevice behind his back. There was a scar in the leather, just beside the final notch, where the buckle had left an imprint. He'd slept right on top of it, he thought. It had crawled in there just like a bug. He stood up and pushed the end through the first loop, pulling it slowly along his waist until the buckle knocked into the button on his pants.
"Shall we go?" asked Mr. Edgeworth when they returned. He put his coat on and carefully adjusted the lapels, then took his hat from the top of the rack.
Miles looked up at his father. "Can we still have a special dinner tonight?" he asked. "Even if you lose?"
"Of course," said Mr. Edgeworth, retrieving Ray's hat from the lower peg.
"Can Mr. Shields come as well?"
"Raymond?" Mr. Edgeworth circled the brim of the hat with his fingertips. "Well, yes," he said. "Yes, of course he can. If he'd like to."
"Oh," Ray hesitated. "I don't want to intrude or anything."
"Don't be silly."
"Oh. Well..."
Mr. Edgeworth smiled thinly. "You need to go home at some point, I suppose." He gave Ray his hat and slipped his hands into his pockets.
"I guess I should," Ray agreed.
"What if," Miles said gravely, "you go home and then come back."
"Miles," warned Mr. Edgeworth.
"I—could," Ray admitted. "I could do that." Looking down at the floor, he lifted his bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. Inside were papers pertaining to the case and his dirty, balled-up shirt. "All right," Ray said at last. "If you're sure."
Beside him, Mr. Edgeworth nodded. His hands were still obscured, pulling at the taut shadows of his pockets. The apartment was quiet now that everything was settled. They were all quiet. Ray let out a sudden laugh.
"After all," he said, smiling broadly as he held out his upturned palms. "What's a fancy dinner without Uncle Ray?" Then he stepped forward and went to open the door.
Out in the hall, Miles charged down the stairs ahead of them. Ray could hear the clatter of his shoes against the wood, soft and uneven as he rounded the corner of the landing, then clack clack clack as it gradually faded away. Ray adjusted his hat and went to follow, but Mr. Edgeworth just stood there at the top of the stairway, watching him.
Ray looked up. His chest felt odd and tight for some reason, like his lungs were too small for the rest of him. "What?" he said weakly.
But Mr. Edgeworth just looked back at him with that sickened smile and asked, "Are you all right?"
And for a second Ray wanted to laugh again, because he himself had asked that question the night before, standing over the dirty dishes long after dinner was over, and Mr. Edgeworth had let go of the plate and looked at him with those dark, sad eyes, and the back of his hand had been hot and his palm damp and cold with sweat, and Ray could see the stubble beginning to grow back along his jaw and over the lines of his mouth, they were so close, everything was so close, and finally Mr. Edgeworth had said, "I'm not sure," and it was just that there was always so much more to it than that, and Ray had wanted it so badly and for such a very, very long time.
But he was all right. Of course he was all right. Everything was all right. He laughed out loud.
Then he put his arms around Mr. Edgeworth's waist and pressed his cheek against his coat. It smelled pleasant and familiar and wonderful. He stayed that way for a long time, until he felt the weight of Mr. Edgeworth's arms around his shoulders. He was all right, he thought. He was all right. Everything would be all right.