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Layton now knew without a doubt that there was such a thing as miracles.
From the moment he’d watched helplessly as his best friend slipped into darkness, from the time he’d forced one heavy foot after another on a homeward path of unceasing regret, he had known that nothing could ever be the same again. Not for him, not for Stansbury. The life he’d known had vanished just as irretrievably down that ravine. As he’d mechanically communicated the story more times than he could bear, watched it penetrate and paralyze his friends one by one, the conviction had sunk in that he would never again know the simple pleasure of having them gathered about him. Just being together, all of them. No gulf of loss and confusion.
And yet here he was. Eighteen years later, against all odds, sitting in a balcony at the Ledore estate. Sharing a table with the very people he’d never realistically imagined to even see again, much less be having tea and sandwiches with. The old Stansbury crew of his carefree youth.
All of them.
“Angela. Cream and sugar.” Henry moved methodically around the table, unloading a tray of cups with practiced ease as he listed their preferences in his succinct way. “Dalston. Plain.”
Layton thanked him when his own cup, with a splash of milk, was placed before him. In truth, his tastes had long shifted from that of his youth, and he now generally preferred his tea black. He’d been impressed by Henry’s remembrance of his former favorite, however, and seen no reason to correct him.
“Do you remember how everyone likes their tea, Henry?” he found himself asking, with a touch of humor. He had always got the impression that the man’s mind ran like your proverbial well-oiled machine, storing and sifting through facts with great efficiency. His comprehension of the puzzle of Norwell, as well as his keen stewardship of a city like Monte d’Or, proved that well enough.
Henry seemed to consider that as he set down the tray and took his own seat. A gentle smile softened his stoic features. “Only my friends.”
It was an unexpected answer. It reminded him of their initial reacquaintance—an old friend, he’d said—but only now did Layton stop to contemplate the sentiment. Had he truly considered him a friend after those eighteen years—especially when they’d done little more than exchange pleasantries before that? Not to mention parting on undeniably shaky ground, as Henry had been pretty clear in his opinion of him leaving town during the search for Randall. A trace of that bitterness had surfaced during their later confrontation, he remembered with an inward cringe—more at his own lack of tact that day, than anything—but apparently Henry hadn’t allowed it to color his judgment entirely. However short-lived it may have been, he’d given him the welcome of a friend. Layton was forced to admit to himself that he hadn’t exactly responded in kind.
This reflective sort of self-recrimination, hardly a new sensation to him, was interrupted by Randall himself, shaking his head wonderingly. “I don’t know how you do it, Henry,” he said, deep respect for his childhood friend coloring his words. “I’m not even entirely certain what I had for breakfast this morning.”
Beside him, Angela made a sound that could best be described as the ladylike equivalent of a snort. There was something like gentle mockery in it, without meanness, and with an underlying fondness. She was well familiar with Randall’s peculiar idiosyncrasies; his brain often working somewhere miles ahead of the rest of him, engaged in some all-consuming goal or puzzle or dream, while the more menial details slipped to the wayside.
Layton hid a smile behind his tea. He may have the title, but Randall made the classic picture of the absent-minded professor. His friends had always considered it one of his most exasperating—and endearing—traits.
“Ha! Still suffering amnesia, Ascot?” Dalston piped up from across the table, edge of his mouth curling in a sardonic smirk. “Don’t tell me you hit your head again while it was stuck in the clouds.” He punctuated this show of wit by taking an impressive bite of sandwich.
Randall laughed good-naturedly. “Ah, that’s the price of genius, I suppose. How else will I make the discoveries that you ground-dwellers don’t care to see?”
The others exchanged a smile. It was good to hear their friend sounding like his old self again. They also understood that Dalston’s comments, though easily misconstrued as a callous reminder of the past, contained no malice. He simply wasn’t built to tiptoe around sensitive subjects or hard problems. He preferred meeting them head on, making light of them —to the point of making fun of them, if possible—perhaps in a bid to rob them somewhat of their power. Few folks bothered trying to comprehend him, but clearly Randall took it all in kind, and even seemed to have benefited from it.
Layton glanced at Angela, and guessed that she was thinking along the same lines. Over the past few months, she had sent him letters communicating their friend’s progress, and the outcome was encouraging. In the beginning, Randall had been so changed and broken that they feared he would never be the same. He’d struggled with shame and bitterness, holding him back from accepting the healing of his friends’ forgiveness, much less forgiving himself—not to mention the overwhelming ascension from obscure farmhand, to public spectacle, to one of the wealthiest men in the modern world.
But a strong spirit and mind will make the best of what’s handed to them, and Randall Ascot had both. With a lot of soul-searching, he’d come to accept that he had truly been handed a second chance at life—and, by goodness, he was going to make the best of it! In addition to his resolve to make up for lost time with the people he cared for, he’d made a public apology before the town, and poured a good deal of energy and resources into helping its citizens and repairing structures that had been damaged in the chaos. Though he often lamented that he didn’t deserve it, many of the townsfolk loved him.
Angela caught his glance and smiled. Randall may not be entirely unchanged—he was a bit quieter, more reflective, less sure of himself—but he was himself again, all the same.
Now Dalston was shaking his head as he finished chewing. “You can discover whatever you like, Ascot. The rest of us will send you a postcard from down here in reality. But don’t blame me when you keep forgetting basic information.”
“There’s just so much that interests me, I don’t have the room to organize it all!” Randall insisted. “Hershel knows what I’m talking about; don’t you, Hershel?” His eyes gleamed mischievously behind his prominent glasses. “I heard from your assistants that your office in London illustrates much the same concept, hm?”
“Oh! well…there may be some truth to that,” Layton admitted a tad sheepishly. He was always in the midst of reading or researching or examining any number of things, and his surroundings tended to be strewn with the evidence of it. “I think it would be fair enough to point out,” he continued, catching the jesting spirit, “that as I recall it, your quarters were hardly ever what one would call organized, either!”
“More like a hurricane went through,” agreed Dalston.
“It did,” Angela giggled, “Hurricane Randall.”
Randall took on a mock beseeching tone. “Henry? Surely my oldest friend will contradict such accusations.”
Henry pressed his lightly amused expression into one of gravity. “My apologies, but I’m afraid it would be quite impossible.” That sent chuckles rippling around the table as Randall lifted his hands in defeat.
At that moment, shouts drew their attention to the expansive grounds below, where Emmy and Luke were entertaining themselves while the others caught up. They’d been playing with Dalston’s impressive canine, who appeared to have mistaken Luke’s hat for a frisbee, and was gleefully absconding across the yard with it clamped between his teeth. Luke was yelling and straggling after him in vain, while Emmy spent a good while doubled over in laughter before recovering enough to help. Her long-legged gait easily reached the dog, who docilely surrendered his prize and rolled over for a belly rub. The others immediately complied. All three were unaware of the thoroughly amused audience in the balcony.
Though Dalston laughed heartily, he said, “Those kids’d better not spoil my guard dog, Layton. I can’t have him going soft!”
Anyone who was around the dog for long knew that he was ultimately, though intimidating on the surface, already a big softie—not unlike his owner. But Layton only smiled. “They mean no harm, Dalston.”
Randall continued watching the scene a bit wistfully. “We had some fun back in the day, didn’t we? Running around, getting into mischief…”
“Being dragged from pillar to post by our very enthusiastic friend?” Layton supplied, not unkindly. “Yes, we did.” No matter how often he’d balked and complained at the time, doing his duty as the ‘sensible’ one, he could honestly say those halcyon days of Stansbury, getting entangled in his best friend’s big ideas, were some of the best memories of his life. If he’d only stood his ground when they’d gotten too big…
Randall looked up with something like uncertainty. “I always thought that, but now I wonder how true it is.”
Angela placed a gentle hand on his. “Believe us. We all did…even when you drove us absolutely crazy.”
He blinked, and chuckled slightly. “I imagine that was often enough.” He rubbed his free hand thoughtfully through his recently trimmed hair, causing it to stick out on end. “I wanted to share the things that excited me with my friends, but I rarely stopped to consider what they wanted. I just told myself that as long as we were together, we’d all have fun in the end.”
She smiled. “That was true.”
“Yes, but—what I suppose I mean to say to is”—he swallowed “—I took you for granted. All of you, but especially you, Angela.” He struggled to meet her eyes. “I was selfish. If I had listened to you as well as you deserved…well. A lot of things would have been different.”
Her eyes shone with emotion. “Oh, Randall…you were a kid then. We were all just kids then.”
It was sobering to realize how true that was.
Randall shook his head. “I still had no excuse—”
“Inexcusable isn’t the same as unforgivable.” Her words were solid with conviction, and they all listened intently. “I should ask forgiveness just as much as anyone. I was selfish, too. Archaeology was an important part of your life, but I was always just tolerating it or shutting you down instead of supporting you.”
“You had good reasons,” he immediately jumped to her defense. “I was so heedless, and you were trying to protect me.”
“I was. But now I can also see that I was so engrossed in trying to protect myself, I didn’t even care about your perspective. After my brother…” she broke off, looking down.
“You don’t have to explain anything, Angela,” Randall said gently.
She lifted her head, giving him a grateful glance. “But there’s more. When I lost you, I tried to replace my sorrow with anger. I shut everyone out. Even poor Hershel, who was grieving just as much as I was.” She looked at him regretfully.
Before Layton could protest, Henry cleared his throat, gaining all of their attention. “There’s something I would like to say as well.” It sounded as though he had been thinking this over for some time. “Firstly, I’ve neglected to properly apologize to you, Dalston.”
Dalston’s eyebrows nearly lifted off his face. “I’m listening.”
“Simply put, I misjudged you.” Henry spoke calmly, but his face registered shame. “I know we’ve had our differences. But slandering your name, taking such extreme measures as I did with no real evidence to go on, was inexcusable. In my zeal for the town, I overlooked the fact that you are, and have always been, a valuable friend.”
No one could help but be touched by the admission. Dalston himself couldn’t seem to think of anything clever to say, so he settled for simple honesty, gruff and reluctant though it was.
“Yeah, well, there was no real harm done in the end. Any businessman worth his salt knows how to bounce back!” He fiddled uncomfortably with his spindly mustache. “And I ain’t exactly blameless here, either. I misjudged you too, Ledore. Talked a lot of dirt about you and Angela both,” he included her in his apologetic glance. “I’m not proud of it, but I guess after things went south, I let resentment get the better of me. I see what rubbish it all was now.”
Layton couldn’t help but pity him, so often maligned by misassumption, and always acting as though it never bothered him. He remembered that even in their Stansbury days Dalston had been aloof, and he’d sensed that he felt left out despite their attempts to include him.
Henry’s face also softened. “Let’s consider it in the past.” He turned. “Hershel, I owe you an apology as well. My behavior towards you during your investigation—practically turning you from the house—”
Angela drew a hand to her mouth in surprise. “Did you really do that, Henry?” Despite her disapproval, her expression seemed to hold a hint of amusement at the thought of calm, unassuming Henry turning anyone out, much less Hershel Layton.
“I’m afraid so,” Henry confirmed miserably, “and I hope you can forgive me for my regrettable actions, Hershel. They were undeserved.”
Layton was pained, not least of all by his own lingering guilt over the experience. “Henry, I told you before…it’s nothing. I should never have communicated my suspicions in such a tactless way. Your reaction was completely warranted.”
“No, it wasn’t. I know that I apologized previously, but I don’t believe I fully acknowledged the terribly unjustified things I said that day.” His clear eyes were troubled. “I was wrong about you. We owe you a great deal.”
Layton had not intended to make the outburst that followed. But when he saw everyone’s expressions of gratitude and warmth aimed towards him, with the refrain of I don’t deserve this ringing in his mind, it clawed its way forth of its own volition.
“None of you owes me anything!” he insisted. “Henry was right. I should have stayed to help with the search all those years ago.” He felt this even now, even knowing full well that they still wouldn’t have found Randall. He had been through the ruins. He could have led the search. Why had he been so quick to give up hope, and to spurn that of his friends? “I knew that I should. I left Stansbury because I couldn’t bear it,” he said, voice thick with emotion. He saw now that he’d only been concerned with protecting himself, like Angela had described. “I didn’t want to hope only to have it dashed. Not when I knew it was my fault. That I could have prevented it in the first place.”
The table descended into silence under the gravity of the outburst. It was utterly uncharacteristic of him, nothing like the rational composure that normally served him so well. Yet something about being around them seemed to take him back to those times, the good and the bad, and to lay that still-vulnerable place in his heart bare. He wished he had said nothing. Vaguely, he felt gratitude that Emmy and Luke hadn’t witnessed this.
Dalston was the first to speak. “Well, what do I always say? No one ever wants to take my advice. Didn’t I tell you years ago about that nonsense?” He leaned forward as if to drive his words in. “Bratscot here was set on going into those ruins no matter who else joined him. You still really think you could’ve changed anything? I say you should get over yourself, Layton.”
The poignant, uncompromising words were not unlike the ones Dalston had used in the past. At that time, his grief and shame had been too fresh for them to fully penetrate, though perhaps they’d offered a flicker of hope. Now they hit him like cold water to the face.
He grasped for words. “It’s—I—”
“So what if you could’ve done some things differently? You just heard it. We all could.” Dalston gestured around the table. “And what does it matter in the end? Everything already worked out a lot better than most of us thought it could eighteen years ago.”
Henry was nodding, his face appearing deep with reflection, and Angela’s eyes glistened with tears.
Randall found his voice. It broke slightly, though his words were fervent. “Dalston’s right, Hershel. You know how stubborn I was. Even though I knew I couldn’t go alone, I would have done it anyway sooner than give it up.” He shook his head bitterly. “You were my best friend, and I put you in an impossible situation. When I think of the things I said to you while I was under that cad’s thumb…” His dark eyes filled with stark regret. “He had twisted the truth against you, too, but I’m the real cad for believing it—just like with Henry. This much I’m sure of…I wouldn’t be here now if not for you, Hershel. You saved my life.”
He didn’t know what to say. After so many years of wrestling with his regrets, could that really be true? “Randall…”
A touch of a wry smile came to his friend’s features. “Pretty sure I wouldn’t have made it past the ambush of mechanical mummies, if you want to know the truth. Even if I was the champion at fencing—not to rub it in, mind you.”
Before he even knew what was happening, Layton found himself laughing—laughing, of all things—a deep, rolling chuckle pushing its way through years of debris. “I remember—it wasn’t funny at the time, but I remember—your, your face when the sword broke off in your hand—!”
In a moment’s recollection, Randall began to chuckle, and soon he was full-on laughing, too. They hadn’t laughed together this way since their youth, and the result was strangely infectious—all around their table and flowing merrily from the balcony, the musical laughter of unburdened hearts. They might well have been in Stansbury again—yet they weren’t in Stansbury; they had left it behind and gone their separate ways for eighteen years, and now here they were together again, laughing like nothing had ever changed.
And that was what made it a miracle.
Angela wiped her eyes, her face radiant. “Oh, look at us…sitting here laughing like anything, with our half-eaten sandwiches and cold tea!”
Layton hadn’t taken a bite, but he felt deeply nourished all the same. “I suppose…perhaps we should have done this a long time ago.”
Henry smiled thoughtfully. “I remember as children, we were always being made to apologize to each other. We had fights or disagreements on a regular basis.”
“Ha! That was practically part of the fun,” commented Randall. “But it felt good to always know that we’d still be friends, whatever we said or did. I suppose things were simpler then.”
Dalston grunted. “I think you’re missing the point, as usual, Ascot. It could be a lot simpler now, too. We’re the ones who make it complicated.”
Randall thought about that. “You know, perhaps you’re right, Dalston.”
“Well, it’s about time you all wised up to that!” He gave a cheeky grin.
In the ensuing banter, Layton looked about him at the familiar faces, altered but irreplaceable, with the sun playing gently on them. When they’d first reunited, he had distanced himself, whether intentionally or subconsciously, no longer sure that he deserved to have a part with them. Now that feeling was replaced with a conviction of belonging and contentment. That they always had been, as surely as they always would be, his friends.
It truly was the City of Miracles.
Perhaps, he thought to himself, looking up, perhaps one day we will look back on these days, too, as halcyon days.