Chapter Text
The candlelight bathed the bedroom in a golden blanket, making the scene even more fairylike. Penelope had asked for the copper tub, where the children usually bathed, to be brought to their master bedroom, something she had always done ever since they were born. Not in the nursery, but in their parents' bedroom, spacious, warm, a place where they could always feel protected and safe.
Penelope knelt beside the basin, her sleeves rolled up and a loose braid, some unruly curls unravelling. She gently stroked her baby's back with one hand and lazily traced lines on the surface of the water with the other, a veil made milky by the soap, releasing lavender and chamomile vapours, creating little clouds that dispersed across the room. Every time she bathed him, she found herself completely soaked, despite her best intentions, but even that didn't matter to her. It was a moment they shared, one she treasured and which made her smile broadly, until her face hurt.
She watched carefully as George, three years old, soft and mysterious, sat, quite regally, in the middle of the water, his cheeks flushed with warmth and laughter, his skin smooth and soft, and his blond hair plastered to his forehead. George hadn't started speaking yet, or rather, he was trying. It had started casually, at first with his attempts at syllables and then with his own ways of naming things, always accompanied by his little finger pointing at everything in an almost domineering manner.
He was curious, her little boy, and wanted to discover the world in his own way. Then Mama and Papa had appeared, not regularly, and this meant that every time he called them it was a surprise. Colin and Penelope had cried, sure, starting to breathe again, somehow, but they hadn't rushed him. He called and spoke when he wanted to and he was getting there in his own way, the words appearing little by little, and that was the important thing. Every day was different and his parents had learned to take things one day at a time.
“Here you are,” Penelope murmured, brushing his blond locks away from his forehead, “a kiss for my captain,” she said, placing her lips on his round cheek, sinking into that scent of talcum powder and biscuits that is typical of children, which she knew she would one day miss once he had grown.
George closed his eyes, drops of water falling like tears from his long lashes, and he smiled broadly, revealing his uneven, white teeth. When his mother pulled away, he said nothing, but his eyes snapped open, the emerald green he'd inherited from his father, which seemed to gaze into the soul. He simply turned his face, offering her the other cheek, and clung to her wrist with his chubby little hands, as if to hold her there with him, for that moment.
"Again?" Penelope asked, smiling, in the sweet voice that motherhood had given her. George whispered a "yes" so small it made her heart explode, and then, obediently, she began again, placing one, two, ten kisses on his cheeks, his forehead, his perfectly round nose, his shoulders. George let out a hearty laugh, so much like Colin's, splashing the water, rippling its surface like sea waves.
Penelope instinctively pulled back slightly, just enough to avoid being drenched, and whispered, "You are very much your father’s son," reflecting on the fact that the resemblance wasn't limited to the colour of their eyes, the sound of their laughter, or the dimples that appeared when they both smiled after thinking of some mischief, but also to their way of asking for love with touch and gaze, before words. "You are never to be satisfied."
George seemed to ponder her words, then smiled with satisfaction, as if the comparison filled him with pride and he wanted to imprint those words on his memory. He then reached out to the wooden boat that was floating lost in the tub and picked it up.
The little boat had been patiently carved by Colin, who had softened the edges with sandpaper and dipped it in beeswax to protect it from the water. It was George's most precious treasure, which he never abandoned, not during meals nor to sleep.
He placed it, meticulously, on a mound of foam, watching it sink in and roll, tilting and submerging, before finding its balance.
Penelope found herself holding her breath, almost cheering for the little boat to continue its journey, undisturbed, through the water, as if it actually contained a crew traveling on a stormy sea, while George, with his tongue sticking out, was focused on his work, like a small divine being who held their destiny in his gentle little hands.
“Look, George, it’s a little wobbly, but it’s back on its feet… kind of like when you’re walking and you stumble… and Mama and Papa help you up and…off you go again.” A bit like with words, my love, she thought, without voicing her worries.
“Go again,” he said in his still uncertain little voice, trembling slightly.
“Yes, my love, it always goes on,” Penelope smiled at him. She got up to retrieve a jug that had been left warming, covered with a cloth to prevent the heat from escaping, and topped up the water in the tub, warming it again, causing the child to utter a little hum of satisfaction. “See? Even water speaks. Cold water wakes you up… hot water embraces you. Like Mama and Papa, or your siblings. But you need a bit of both.”
Penelope took a handful of foam and let it fall like snow, letting it settle on the boy's blond locks. "Look, Captain George. Here's a sugar island, where mermaids live and fish laugh all day because they steal all the cinnamon cookies. And there", she let George's hand, which was steering the boat, lead her through the story, "there's a forest made entirely of bubbles, a fog of trees that can capture you. Their leaves burst as soon as you touch them," she said, as he approached the edge of the basin, where the foam had thinned and given way to a few strenuous bubbles.
“Pum, pum, pum,” he yelled, as he popped them with his index finger.
“Ah, well done Captain, you have saved your ship. And if you follow the song of the naughty mermaids… be careful.”, she lowered her voice.
George became very serious, mirroring the expression that had appeared on his mother's face, unsure whether to be worried or scared. "Back there," Penelope said, lowering again her voice mysteriously, "there's a sleeping giant who lives in a mountain of sugar. If he wakes up, he'll make a wave so big it'll overflow the river of sweet milk," she spread her arms, "and fill the whole room." George's eyes widened in disbelief, laughing heartily, clapping his hands on the water to imitate the giant.
“Ah, but then you are the mischievous giant,” said his mother, tickling his belly, “the whole island is yours, the sea, the caves, the beaches and the castles are yours and…”
It was then that the door, left ajar, opened, and his presence was announced by the flame of a candle that flickered for a moment. Colin always had the habit of entering rooms as if marching into battle, impetuous and loud, yet, over the years, he had learned to be silent and enter on tiptoe, weighing his steps, when moments like this presented themselves before him and he was afraid to shatter them, as if they were sacred.
Penelope turned and smiled at him, giving him silent permission to approach them, and Colin joined them with quick, soft steps, barefoot, as he used to walk around the house.
“Captain George,” he said, giving him a salute, to which the little boy responded in kind, a little clumsily. “The others are asleep,” he added, speaking to Penelope, not leaving George’s gaze. “Agatha fell asleep with her book of tales in front of her. Poor Jane will never know how that story ends. Thomas is surrounded by toy soldiers. I have no idea what war he wants to fight in, but he’ll tell us all about it at breakfast. And Jane…she kept her eyes open until the very end because she didn’t trust my word and honour.”
Penelope looked at him doubtfully and curiously. "She wanted me to close the curtains... otherwise the witches might see her. She listens to too many folk tales from Cook Merritt... and alas, she has too much imagination," he said, smiling and shaking his head.
Penelope smiled gratefully at the thought of all three beds in the nursery, their light breathing, and their adventurous dreams. It was the only moment of the day when the house was completely silent, but she wouldn't have changed a thing about her life. "Thanks, you've worked wonders, I daresay. They tend to negotiate more minutes of wakefulness with me."
"The trip to Hyde Park really exhausted them... and thank goodness for that. I love them, but... I'm starting to get old." But every now and then, a little silence is nice, right? she thought.
He knelt by the tub, next to his wife. He placed his calloused hands in the water to caress George. They were hands that had lived, the hands of a man who had written, travelled, and even worked. They were enormous, yet they could be so light and delicate. "So, what's our route today?"
“We were wandering toward the sugar cave, the giant’s,” Penelope said solemnly, earning an equally solemn nod from Georgie.
"Captain, you're entering shallow water... what Mother calls the sugar cave, I'd call the cliffs. Be careful, if the ship runs ashore, you can say goodbye to your conquered treasures."
“Oh no…mine,” said George, all serious and worried, his frowning brows forming a crease between his eyes, much like Penelope’s when something unsettled her. His parents looked at each other and tried to hold back a laugh.
“Of course they're yours. You won them, young pirate. In regard to…what kind of treasures have we found today?”
“Cimmie bikkits”, said George proudly.
“Ah, cinnamon biscuits. My favourite. You have rendered service to the Crown and to your father, young man”, Colin added with gravity, placing a hand over his heart.
Penelope giggled at that. “But look, up ahead is the honey rock,” she said, pointing to a mound of foam, illuminated by the candlelight, near the edge of the tub. “There’s your lair… your home. You just have to get past the marzipan shells,” she said, pointing to some slivers of soap floating in the water, “and only the bravest sailors know how to get through there unnoticed.”
“Oh Penelope, this way it isn’t a pirate story anymore,” Colin scoffed softly.
“Never has been, my dear,” she said, her nose in the air. “Do you presume to find fault with my methods? Ever the man of superior knowledge, are you not?” she said, smirking.
Before Colin could respond with his usual humour, they heard a rather directive “No” coming from the tub, causing them to abandon their skirmish and turn to look at him. “To…together,” George added, smiling.
“Always, darling. Always together. See? He likes us both”, he said, turning towards his wife”. He cleared his throat. “So, where were we…courage…to be sure…” he chuckled, and with a practised hand placed upon George’s, he started guiding the little vessel forward just enough, “Courage, yes…but we seasoned captains would say with the wind at our back, the helm steady, and the course true. What says the compass, Captain?”
George blinked at him. Then he grinned, looked at the palm of his hand as if it held a compass, and pointed with his index finger to the spot where the mound was.
Both parents smiled, hoping that his wild imagination would never leave him. "Perfect, Captain, excellent seamanship. See that white foam over there?" his father said, lowering his voice. "Better steer clear or the keel will break... or the sharks will…"
“No. No sharks. The hard-toothed, sugared almond fish,” Penelope scolded him.
“Oh, of course, the sugared almond hard-toothed fish might find us,” said Colin, a little disappointed at having to alter his pirate story, “…but see over there?” he added, pointing to the candle burning steadily on the chest of drawers next to the tub.
“The tower of light shows you the right way home,” Penelope added satisfied.
“The ship has passed…what has it passed, my dearest one?”
“The forest of bubbles and the sugar cave of the sleeping giant,” said Penelope with the same amiable pedantry that Agatha had also inherited.
“Of course, of course…we have to get to the tower of light, the lighthouse. See? It speaks with the light, not with its voice…it doesn't make any sound.” He stood up to walk toward the candle, wiping his hands as best he could on his breeches, and covered the candlelight, darkening the room, then took his hands off and put them back on, an alternation that amused the little boy so much. “They turn it on…and off…and the ship understands, it always understands everything.”
George's eyes shone, passing from one parent to the other, as if he were truly trying to learn both their languages, grateful for the magical world they had created for him. And his parents, over the years, had learned his. He was a child who felt, everything and too much, who understood even what couldn't be seen, because he had had to learn to communicate differently. George knew how to give meaning to silences, distant noises, glances and expressions. George spoke with his body and had led his parents to have to stay still, act, observe every action, because even they sometimes told a story.
“And that’s where we need to point to…get home,” Colin said, moving back to the edge of the tub, still beside his wife.
George stood up, hesitating, and walked toward his parents, placing a small hand on both of them. “Home,” he said, satisfied.
"Home," they both repeated in unison, their eyes shining. "Time to go out, my little pirate," his father said, gathering him into his arms, while Penelope retrieved a warm cloth from the stove.
Penelope dried him and dressed him again, in a routine all their own, which smelled of love and protection and then Colin, holding him tightly in his arms, carried him to the nursery, to join his siblings.
The room smelled of fresh cotton, and the silence was broken only by their breathing and the occasional words from Thomas, who apparently was truly fighting a war. Penelope looked around: Agatha, with her scruffy braid, Thomas with his blankets in disarray and one foot dangling, and Jane, wrapped in blankets like a mummy.
She instinctively looked at Colin, as if asking for an explanation, and received a whispered, "Witches can't take her like that," as he laid George in his crib, making sure to tuck him in carefully as well. Penelope placed a kiss on his eyes, "This one is for seeing beautiful things," one on the palm of his hand, "This is one is for giving love even without words," and one on his nose, "This one is because…you're adorable," making him chuckle. They wished him goodnight, leaving him with a mother-of-pearl shell as big as his head, a memento of one of Colin's journeys, pressed close to his ear, hoping the sound of the water would lull him into deep, peaceful dreams. She heard a "Mama... Papa", as he was drifting into sleep, and closed her eyes, knowing that even for this day they had given him sweet memories.
She took Colin's hand and he led her out of the room, closing the door gently. They remained like that in silence, embracing, outside the door, for a moment, while he kissed her forehead softly. Penelope thought that life often resembled the games they had played with George, learning to be warm and cold, to stay in light and dark, between words and in silence, and that often, they found themselves acting as a lighthouse not speaking, yielding to his current, but with a light that continues to shine and point the way.