Archive of Our Own

Many light-drenched afternoons has Pitch Manor spent with its drapes flung wide.

You used to insist. You would sprawl out in the sun-room and the light would ensconce you like a bronzed god and I'd look at you from the doorway. And you'd smile sleepily up at me and beckon, fingers curled.

"The sun," I'd say in lieu of refusal. Because we had a pattern by then.

"Trust me," you'd say, beckoning all the more earnestly.

I'd comply faux-reluctantly and you would drape yourself over me like a blanket, taking the brunt of the golden light.

You were beautiful like that. Beautiful always.

We would sit in the summer twilight and watch the gardenias in bloom. Oh, you loved your garden. I've let it wilt in your absence, curse my deathless enmity with plants. I try to get baby's breath and crocus to bloom, but flowers wither at my touch.

You'd pat my hair and say, "leave it to me."

And oh, what beautiful things you would grow. Hours you spent with your trowel in the soil, reaping sour cherries and plums. Leaving bouquets of lilies, still dripping with dew, at my door.

Our door, eventually.

I can't help but stare at what's become of your garden now. Skeletal trees with petrified leaves. Flowers battling for life. I swear I try, Simon. But I think they do better without me.

Nothing grows while you're gone, anyway.

There's a knock on the door. Nobody knocks anymore.

I ponder ignoring it. No one has reason to bother me here. I go about my life and let them stumble through theirs.

But you used to run at the door like a puppy, remembering all the guests' names, asking after their distant cousins and estranged nephews. Feeding them scones.

Sour cherry.

I hurry for the door, listening to the knocker pound the wood twice more before I reach it. I can hear their breathing on the other side, their heartbeats.

One is small and quick.

I nearly balk. What could they be here for? Nobody bothers to poke around this manor anymore; they know I'm about my private business.

(Reading and crying. That's my business.)

The door groans inward at my touch. "What is the meaning of…"

I have to stop. There are two gray-clad men in fancy coats. And between them is a little boy.

He's terribly thin, Simon, and he looks just like you.

Pale blue eyes. No fleck of green or gold in them, just true blue. His curls are looser than yours, a few shades lighter. It falls in his face, which is lowered. But as he stands in my doorway—our doorway—he straightens his shoulders and lifts his eyes to look at me.

We spend a moment like that, just blinking at each other, before he smiles at me. Your smile. I can't do anything but gape.

"Are you Basilton Pitch?" one of the officials asks sharply.

"What is your business?"

The boy has sad eyes. He's now studying me from behind one of the man's shoulders. Standing on his tip-toes, not saying a thing.

"You are Basilton Pitch?"

"And what if I am?" I am unaccustomed to speaking with guests. I can't remember what you would have said.

"This child has just lost his parents. His name is Peter Salisbury."

A cold knife slips through my chest. They may as well have staked me.

Through the muffled haze of my shock, I can still hear that man's cursed voice. "His father's will clearly stated he was to go to you. Most of us had ruled you out as dead."

I should be. It has been two centuries. Even if somebody knew that I was the master of this house, they couldn't know how long I have been. But hasn't… hasn't your family always held me in esteem?

I wouldn't be surprised if you had set something aside. Magicked the will or some such.

I meet the boy's haunted eyes again. He tilts up his chin, watching me curiously, never looking away.

"This is not a house for a child," I say sharply.

It once could've been. You wanted children. We might've had them, if things had been different. If you had not—

"He has nowhere else to go." I can feel the men growing impatient. They have better places to be than here—they want to cast the matter of this child away and never think of it again, go back to their self-important lives. "His parents perished only last week. Cholera."

And I look down at your boy, though distant from you he may be. He has keen eyes, though haunted and dark. I want to push a curl behind his ear and feed him scones (plain) and kiss him goodnight.

My heart creaks back to life.

"I will see to it, then," I say. "Are there any more arrangements to be made?"

"Sign these papers, Mr. Pitch. You are now and henceforth his legal guardian. He is eight years old. His birthday is in three months' time, so that on May tenth in ten years from now, your guardianship shall be terminated."

I don't know that I could let him go. Even if he asked me.

"Very well." I pull a quill from behind my ear and press its tip to the ledger. My signature is so familiar that I hardly have to look. I keep getting distracted by your boy, Peter. He's gazing at me wearily, head drooping forward. My hands are shaking from being pressed to my sides, trying to keep from tucking him into my side.

"Thank you, Mr. Pitch. We will take our leave."

None too gently, the men push Peter into the foyer, making him stumble. As they close the door, I reach out a hand to steady him.

He flinches. Shivers. I've forgotten how to do this. How pale and inhuman this house has made me.

"Come in," I say—low-voiced, gentle. He still looks frightened. "There are rooms for you. They should be made up and ready, but it has been some time since anyone has stayed there."

He doesn't say anything. I'm shaking harder. I must look unkind, with the draw of my mouth and the sharp angles of my face. You always used to soften them.

Or, you sometimes did. Though early in our lives, we fought like mad. I quell the memory, knowing the road it will take me down.

"Would you like something to eat?"

Peter stares at his toes. He might be in shock.

(It took me days after you left. After your body went cold in my arms. I had to leave; I couldn't look at you. Penelope came over to bury you. I stared into nothing and shredded a pillow.)

(For two days.)

"Come inside," I say softly. I can't quite tease the sharpness from my tone; he feels it.

I think he will be better off without me. At least for now.

"I will be in the library," I say, turning on my heel. "If you have meed of anything, you need only ask."

This is how you were at eleven—silent, uncomprehending. Haunted. Magic spilling over. I can't imagine how it must've been at eight.

I need your help. I don't know how to exist without you.

I set out plates for him. I keep forgetting to eat—it was worse after you died. Dev and Niall had to spoon-feed me while I sobbed into their shoulders. Now I keep myself alive merely out of spite, but there isn't enough for Peter in the cupboards. I empty all of them and attempt to mimic your prowess in cooking.

I was never a good cook. I once tried to make you dinner; you nudged me playfully and said, "stay out of the kitchen, darling."

Do you remember?

(Of course you don't. You're not here anymore.)

I lay out what I can for him. Bread and cheese and honey. I haven't gone out for produce in years. I pull out canned pickles and peaches. Try to make it look nice for him, so he knows he's worth a well-set table.

I can hear him in the hallway. He's finally moved, but I think he'll do better without me looming over him. I finish up quickly and retire to the library.

A couple of hours are wasted there. I make a note to purchase more books for him—the fairy tale volumes you so loved are kept in a case, so brittle now that a stray wind might destroy them.

I go to bed, like I have so many nights before (though nowadays I fall asleep at my desk. Niall isn't around to carry me to my room anymore.)

(Although… sometimes… I swear I wake up with a sheet around my shoulders and a pillow beneath my head. And I see you from the corner of my eye, dissipating.)

Your side is untouched, and when my mind is feeling doubly cruel, it conjures you in the low light. Humming softly with your head tipped back. Kissing my cheek.

"Can we close the drapes, love?" I'd gripe. "It's freezing in here."

"I'll keep you warm. It's so dreadful in here without the light."

I have kept them open ever since.

It takes me hours to even approach the brink of sleep. I keep thinking of all those years and wondering if the reason I've lived this long is to take care of him. Peter.

Even still, I'm not fit for the job. I could never be.

Just as I'm slipping into unconsciousness, I feel a tug on my sleeve. I gasp awake and I'm not here for a moment. I'm somewhere else. All the countless dark places where the demons of my past wait to cut me down.

But there he is. Tiny hand still locked around the fabric of my nightshirt. He opened the door without my noticing, and is now looking up at me with huge blue eyes.

"I'm scared," he whispers.

"What of?" My voice is scratchy with sleep. "Were the wraiths bothering you?"

His eyes blow yet wider.

"Don't worry," I say, a bit of playfulness entering my voice. It's eroded all these years into something darker, but I try to keep the bitterness at ban. "They don't enter here."

"Why?" His voice is so fragile. He doesn't look like he's eaten, but I don't have the knowledge to tell.

"Because they are frightened of me," I say plainly.

He blinks. "You are frightening." He also says this frankly. Like it's not an insult so much as a fact.

"Maybe so." I laugh softly, but I'm unpracticed. Afraid. "Go back to sleep."

He clings to me tighter.

I don't know. I don't know how…

"Child?" I whisper.

He looks up at me.

"I am so sorry. You should not have to stay here."

Seemingly unsatisfied with just my sleeve, he leans up and grips my other hand with his, squeezing with all his might. He doesn't say a word.

My breath catches. "What is it?"

"I—" He tries to climb onto my lap but the bed is too tall. I help him the rest of the way. He smells of herbs and libraries.

I look into his eyes—your eyes. I am not even an excuse for a father. But I don't tell him this. All I can do is hold him gently and whisper, "would you like a story?"

His entire face lights up. He crawls closer and puts his head in the crook of my arm. I smooth his hair like I've been waiting to do.

With my other hand, I open the nightstand. I'd promised myself I would not take this book out. It was your favorite. I didn't want to taint it with my touch.

And yet. Here it is, a delightfully hefty book, round in the middle with thick, soft pages. I let him draw his fingers over the soft wooden cover.

It's a book full of dragons and queens. Mermaids and foolish sailors. Fairy dust winking from the corner of a cozy village.

"Right, then." I try to smile, but there are tears in my eyes. "Chapter One…"

I read him to sleep. Put him to bed in a mound of blankets on the floor. He sleeps with a crease between his brows. Little hands balled into fists.

I swear I can hear you sometimes, especially at night. Singing. Calling out through the drafty halls.

Tonight, I tuck Peter in and feel the cold of your absence all the way down to my bones.

…

He wakes up crying in the middle of the night. I can tell he's trying to do it softly. He's curled into a ball, clutching at the blankets, wails of despair being wrenched out of him and with each breath, he's attempting to be silent.

It hurts me, that he thinks he has to cloak his pain.

"Peter?"

He looks up at me, scared silent. Tears still rolling down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, sir," he says. "I hadn't meant to fall asleep here."

"You can fall asleep here," I say gently, "anytime you like."

His eyes are wide. They brim anew with tears. "Really?"

"Yes. Every day, if it would suit you."

He stands on shaky legs, gripping the bed, and for one wild moment I think he's leaving. That he'll have to be alone like I am.

Instead, he looks shyly up at me. "Would it suit you if-" He trails off and shakes his head, continuing to cry silently.

I take his hands and help him onto the bed once more. He crawls beneath the covers and I reach out my arms, inviting, and he presses into my chest.

I hold him until he stops shaking.

…

The next morning, I look out the window and see that Spring thaw has crept over Pitch Manor. The flowers don't grow any stronger for it—they are a tangle of unruliness that I'm too afraid to touch, but it's Springtime all the same. And it seems that once I've gotten Peter talking, he can't seem to stop.

"There are so many rooms in here," he says, still clinging to my sleeve. I make no effort to shake him off. "Did a million people live here?"

"Not quite. But guests used to come sleep here sometimes."

"Why don't they anymore?"

"I no longer have friends to invite," I say honestly. They all died at some point—most peacefully, thank Crowley. I made every effort—I lived in denial until the day Dev left. Nobody can live forever.

Nobody but me.

"Why don't you have friends? Is it because you are a sour young man?"

I laugh at that. "And where did you hear such a thing?"

"Mr. Minos," he whispers.

"And how does he know?"

"I don't know." He lifts his chin, almost haughtily. "I didn't ask him."

"He is right, in any case." I guide him through the kitchen. My attempt at biscuits sit abandoned in the waste bin. "All my friends have left me."

"I will be your friend." He tugs at my coat.

I look down at him misty-eyed. "You needn't, child. You must hate me; hate this place."

It's likely not a thing to say to a child. But I don't know what else to do. I'm so sorry and so guilty and I wish I wasn't, I wish I could be good for him. For you.

He seems stunned. "Hate it? But you didn't take me away. You didn't even receive notice that I was coming."

"You're…" I pull bread from the cupboard. "You do not speak falsely."

He giggles. Sunshine-bright. I feel tears building behind my eyes.

"Might I…" He takes my hand. "Might I—"

I meet his eyes. "You may have anything you like."

He rubs his forehead. "Might I stay here? Are you going to cast me out?" At my sound of protest, he holds up his hand. "I understand if you must. But I wanted to be prepared."

I kneel in front of him. "Peter Salisbury, you may stay here until we finish a thousand fairy tales. Until the house crumbles and we must find new lodging. I am never going to leave you, not until you're ready. And even then, you'd get letters from me every day ensuring that you're all right and well-fed and that the world is being kind to you and that you have not run out of coats—"

Peter laughs and laughs and hugs me tighter.

Much as I try to hide them, tears still fill my eyes. Maybe this is why I have lived forever: to keep Peter Salisbury safe.

…

Days later—once Peter has settled in and I've felt the life come back to my limbs—I hear a knock on my study door.

This must be serious. Peter never knocks anymore.

"Come in, little puff."

He smiles at me from the other side of the door before it's even fully open. "I have a question."

"And I have an answer."

"Could I… could I have a bit of your garden?"

Blood pounds in my head. I don't often get dizzy, but now I feel like I'm floating.

"Uncle Baz?" Peter has now somehow arrived at my side. "Are you all right? I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that the garden is so forlorn. I thought I could make it look pretty."

He wants the garden. He wants your garden.

Of course he does. He is yours.

(Doesn't he know that plants die? Always, always, always.)

"That garden is dangerous," I manage, though it sounds like a hiss. "You must be careful."

"I will be—"

"No, Peter, you don't understand." I'm truly panicking now.

He takes my hand. Whispers as soft as new petals. "I know, Uncle Baz."

My heart aches. I meet his eyes.

I can hear you now. You're telling me to say yes. You're laughing and throwing your head back and putting a flower in my hair and we are dancing and you are swinging in the tree like you always do and—

The bough breaks. Nursery-rhyme quick. You fall and fall and—

"Peter," I whisper.

"Does it make you sad?" he says gently, all the pure understanding of a child in his voice. All the undimmed empathy.

He knows about sadness. About loss.

Even so, I could never burden him with this.

I must try to be brave, even as it hurts.

"I—no. Of course not. You may have every square inch of that garden. But know that it has not been touched in—" I cut myself off before I tell him how long it really has been. "—many months."

He nods and squeezes my hand. "I'll make it grow again. I promise."

And I don't doubt he would, your golden-haired boy. He's so careful. So smart, so keen.

I don't know what to do. How to drag myself from the past, from your broken body lying prone on the earth.

I've been avoiding that garden. I tell myself it's because I wouldn't be able to grow anything there but I think I'm afraid to see your ghost among the trees. Blaming me. Rightfully so.

I wasn't there to catch you.

It was such a simple, charming life we built. You were always afraid of dying for a cause that didn't even merit fighting for. I was scared of that, too.

We were going to grow old and die and be happy ghosts together. But I just kept living. Living and living and living. The taste of the world gone bitter on my tongue without you to sweeten it.

…

It's been months. I've forgotten all about the garden—or as much as I can forget. Peter is precocious and silly, when the sadness doesn't plague him so much. He leaves to-do lists for himself all over the kitchen.

'Sleep. Give Uncle Baz hug. Catch tooth fairy. Clean room. Ask Uncle Baz for puppy. Invent… everything not invented yet. Invite Uncle Baz to tea party.'

We have an amazing tea party. The royals would be impressed.

Peter hurries up to me one day wearing that nervous look that I've only seen once. I know without hearing him speak that it's about the garden.

"Will you… will you come look at the garden? I fixed it. And I… someone was helping me."

I startle. "Who? I've told you to be careful with strangers."

"I am careful, I promise. But it wasn't a stranger. He said he was your friend."

"People lie all the t—"

"He said his name was Simon."

"No. No, you're not making sense."

I scared him. He's looking down at his shoes.

"Peter… I'm so sorry."

He looks up at me. "He said you knew him. Was he lying?"

"I don't… I don't…"

"He said you would be scared," he says gently. "And that you might not believe me. He's not really a… a person. He lives in the garden sometimes. But mostly he's just mist."

"Peter, slow down." I can hardly breathe.

"He said to give you this." He takes a breath before running into my arms. I hold him tight and try not to fall apart.

Children are so imaginative. But I know he wouldn't lie to me, and I've never told him about you.

"He's bound to the garden. Before he died, he performed the ritual. He said not to worry, that he can still visit Lucy." He shrugs apologetically. "I hope you know who that is… he says he's been trying to reach you as much as he can. And that he loves you."

I think of moments in the garden. Feeling phantom arms circling me. Blankets to ward off the chill. Kettles boiling before I'm even fully awake.

I'm truly crying now. Peter wrings his hands. "Have I upset you?"

"Not at all, little puff," I whisper. "It's just… I loved Simon very much. We were married for many nears."

His eyes widen, then he nods. "I know what it feels like. Someone's tugging your heart from your chest and every time you think they're going to stop, they tug harder."

I gather him into my arms and he rests his chin on my shoulder. I want to be strong for him. I want to be brave.

I can't always be.

"Will you come see it with me?"

I swallow hard. "I… yes, I would like that. I'm sure you've grown beautiful things."

He smiles shyly and tugs at my hand.

…

It's yours, Simon. Crocus and pansies. Lilies and iris.

I can't see through my tears. Peter leads me to a sturdy tree. I wrap my arms around the smooth trunk.

"He told me we could have fresh sour cherry scones again. I could help make them, if…"

I pull him against me. "That would be lovely."

I see you in the fresh new boughs, the saplings pushing through the dormant earth. You're laughing among the bluebells. You're bending over the roses. You're singing.

You're telling me to live. Live, live, live.

All this time, I've been clinging to life because I had no idea what else to do. Now I have something—someone—to hold on to.

Peter reaches out and carefully begins to pluck flowers from their stems. Once he has enough, he weaves them into a bouquet and holds it out to me, the petals of the plants still gleaming with dew.

I press the cherry blossoms to my nose and smile and cry. The tears feel good out here in the Summer air.

Peter hugs my legs. "I love you," I whisper to him as I hug the bouquet to my chest.

"I love you," I whisper as we pick cherries for scones. For remembrance.

"And, "I love you," he whispers back as we enter Pitch Manor once more, with the drapes flung wide and the darkness nowhere to be seen.