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As Alison took careful steps to the breakfast room, her attention was almost entirely focused on not spilling her too-full mug of tea. When she finally came to the table and began to set it down, she was startled by a voice that seemed to come from nowhere.
“Well done, you! Not a drop on the rug!”
“Shit!” Alison cried, and jerked her hand out in shock, sending a small splash of tea across the tabletop.
“Ah. Yeah, shit. Sorry to scare you… Still, though— None on the rug!”
After swiping at the spilled liquid with her hand, Alison looked up from her tea to see a head resting on the far end of the table.
“Humphrey,” she said, slumping her shoulders with relief. She collected herself with a sigh before saying, “No, you shouldn’t be the one apologizing. I’m sorry for not noticing you when I came in, really.”
“No, no, don’t be. Everyone sort of does that now and then…” He said it mildly, though his voice trailed off in a tone that was far too melancholic for her to ignore. She pulled out the chair beside him and sat down, taking her mug with her. She took a sip of tea once she’d settled, glad that she’d at least stumbled on the ghost most likely to enjoy her company without too much fuss.
Humphrey's head was balanced neatly on the tabletop for once; He was sitting up straight on his neck, regarding her with casual interest. If Alison was honest, she often found it somewhat amusing to try to puzzle out exactly how he’d been left in various positions about the house— sideways on a shelf, upside down in the garden, on his ear under the kitchen table— but it appeared, today, that whoever had set him down here did so with very deliberate care.
In fact, she hadn’t seen his disembodied head jammed into any amusing spots in what must have been at least a few weeks, if not over a month. Come to think of it, Alison didn’t normally see Humphrey around all that often to begin with, often as a direct result of his apparent knack for getting stuck in the most ridiculous places possible. Despite that, she’d probably seen Humphrey more times in the past couple days than she’d even seen Thomas, who really should have started hovering around her like a gnat by this late in the morning.
“You know, Humphrey,” she began curiously, interrupting herself for a sip of tea as Humphrey hummed to acknowledge her. “...I feel like I’ve been seeing you around a lot more than usual.”
“Is that so?” he said with another inquisitive hum. “Huh. Funny.”
“Well, when we first moved here, it felt like you were usually, like, up on the roof somewhere, or in a corner, or out by the front door, or—” Her eyes tracked down to Humphrey, who looked somewhat exhausted by her list. “...Anyway,” she said, lips tightening awkwardly, “Now I feel like…” She was about to say ‘Lately I pretty much just find you on a table or something, which is kind of boring,’ but decided at the last minute to swap it out for, “...Now it feels like you’re… More a part of the family?” She forced a sheepish grin to sell her mid-sentence correction further.
“Oh, well... That’s very kind of you to say, Alison."
“Yeah, well, you know,” Alison rambled, blowing absently at the surface of her tea even though it was already beginning to cool. She took another long sip, thinking over what to say next. She’d heard mention from Pat, once, that Humphrey’s body had had a thing with Lady B. It had apparently gone belly up very quickly after both halves of him had been reconnected, but she still wondered which of the ghosts was now looking after his head so much better than the standard she’d become accustomed to. After all, a disembodied head didn't just sit itself up on a table.
“Can I ask, Humphrey, ah, would you say that you have a particular, um— Okay, do you think, in your opinion, that any of the other— So, like, out of all the—” Suddenly, Alison's faltering line of impolite questions were interrupted by a searching voice.
“My love? Hello—o?” Thomas’ calls for her echoed through the hall outside, and she and Humphrey both tracked their eyes to the door at the sound. Alison was glad for once to be accosted by the poet if it meant she could forget the stuttering mess she’d just expelled from her mouth. She’d have to remember to ask if Humphrey had got back with Lady B. another time.
“Oh, that Thomas. What is he even like, right, Humphrey?” she joked feebly.
“Tell me about it," he said, and rolled his eyes in a way that, oddly enough, Alison almost would have described as affectionate. "Sorry, though, what is it you were going to ask?” he asked politely.
“Er, I was just going to ask if you had a favorite spot to... Be set down at?” she lied.
“I suppose here is alright, but the reading room and the library aren’t bad. Settee in the drawing room’s also nice, a lot of foot traffic there. And the ballroom, too. Really anywhere that’s not the floor is good for me.”
“Dearest?” Thomas’ head peeked around the doorframe. “Ah, there you are," he said as he stepped fully into the room.
"Hello, Thomas," said Alison.
“...Alison!" He faced her and gave a little flourishing bow. “And you’re also looking lovely as ever, of course.”
Alison offered a tight, perfunctory smile in return, taking another drink from her tea before she replied. “I hate to say it, but I'm a bit occupied at the moment. Having a very important chat with Humphrey, here.” She hoped that would be enough to ward him off, but it was unlikely.
“I see..." said Thomas, “What a pity. I was just about to take him to the lake with me. An attentive audience can bolster one's writing prowess so well, especially when revising a first draft.”
"Huh?" Alison frowned in confusion. "Is... Is that so?" She took a hesitant sip from her mug. Shouldn't Thomas be asking her to sit through his tedious poetry drafts? ...Not that she would say yes, obviously, but she was fully expecting to have to figure out the best way to turn him down without possibility of argument or willful misinterpretation.
"Is something the matter, Alison?" asked Thomas. His overblown level of concern seemed contagious, and Humphrey darted his eyes from him to Alison somewhat fretfully.
"Hey, if something's the matter and you really need a chat, I'm sure the two of us can reschedule another date," Humphrey offered, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. "You know— if Thomas doesn't mind too much," he added in a slightly quieter tone.
"Oh, no," she said, "not at all—" Unwrapping her fingers from the handle of her mug, Alison raised her palms in apology. "Sorry, I guess I sort of assumed that you'd be asking me to sit thr— listen to your new draft."
"Would you like to?" Thomas asked with a hopeful smile.
"Uhm... It's not that I don't want to, so much as, eh," she smacked her lips sheepishly. "Do you know what...?" she said, and slurped down the rest of her tea to give herself a moment to come up with a passable lie. She was lucky most of the ghosts were fairly easy to deceive— especially these two, whose deaths had been as a result of being lied to in the first place. When she finally swallowed, she stood from her chair and blurted out, "I've just remembered: I promised to help Pat out with some tapes. I really should check if he needs me to pop the next one in the VCR. Sorry that I can't listen in, Thomas; and Humphrey, you'll have to excuse me from our chat. We'll catch up later. Right. Yeah, sorry," she said, bumbling her way out of the room and into the hall, ignoring their goodbyes as she abandoned her mug, absconded up the stairs, and walked briskly toward the snug.
When she made her way there, still moving on autopilot as she processed the fact that she was —blessedly— not Thomas' first choice as an audience to his composition, Pat actually was sitting on the sofa waiting for her.
"Alison?" he said, with delighted incredulity, "I was just about to come find you!"
"Lucky for you, I'm very occasionally psychic," she said blandly, and bent to pop open the first in a stack of clamshell VHS cases. "This is the next match, yeah?"
"That's the one!"
After pushing the tape into the slot, she sat down beside him, picking up her phone and gazing down at the home screen— she'd discovered before that Pat recognized it as a cue that she wasn't paying attention, so it was really just to signal in advance that she wasn't going to respond to his commentary. After all, her phone wouldn't be of any use in figuring out what was going on; she couldn't exactly go on an online advice forum for help with interpersonal dealings between her undead housemates. Or, at least, she couldn't without getting accused of being absolutely mad. She stared blankly at the screen of her phone, puzzling out what she had done to grant herself such a long stretch of time free from Thomas' previously incessant habit of angling for practically every spare moment she had. She just hadn't thought to question it before now, really. It was fairly understandable to not see any one of the ghosts for a few days— they got up to their own activities all the time. After all, even Robin —who was fond of shadowing her around the house to startle her at times like this— had started watching over a family of hedgehogs in the garden a couple weeks or so prior, and was virtually nowhere to be seen for about as long. In fact, along with Robin’s absence, Julian seemed to be making himself scarce too. Alison made a mental note to check up on him just in case he was getting up to something she’d have to fix later as consequence for his boredom.
All in all, though, there hadn't been anything too odd about not having Thomas around for a bit. It was just that the idea of him not even thinking to ask Alison to listen to his poetry bordered on the absurd; and in addition to that, not being at her side whenever he could was entirely out of the ordinary compared to how often she'd bumped into the typically fairly elusive Humphrey lately. She could guess, then, that neither Lady B. nor his body were involved at all— Thomas was the one leaving Humphrey in actually sensible places in the house for once.
It just didn't add up.
She could have believed the simple fact of Thomas being nice enough to Humphrey to shuttle him around for a bit, especially when he was getting something out of the arrangement with an audience that was physically incapable of walking away, but to the point of ignoring her? She wished it had been that simple all along. No, there must have been something else to motivate this change in behavior. And she was going to find out what. ...Not because she was jealous, of course, but because it was sort of like her job, as the only one able to see the ghosts in the house, to keep abreast of the goings on, and—
"Ooh, open your eyes!" Pat cried beside her, clapping his hands together at the match playing out on the television. "Gotta be more observant next time, mate! It was right in front of you!"
Maybe it would be best to think it over another time, and simply enjoy the fact that, for the time being, there was one less ghost to make a hobby out of interrupting her day. Yeah. She could do with a spot of not being responsible for their antics.
Having just finished up a quick lunch with Mike in the kitchen, Alison was making her way up to the first floor to continue her rounds of dusting. With so many pieces of decor in the house, they had let it slide for a bit too long, and some of the vases on the first floor especially almost looked to be wearing gray woolen jumpers. Luckily, she had all the time in the world to fix the problem. In fact, she'd been able to get so many chores done that week, so many little things she'd let slide, that it almost felt like a trap; Aside from Thomas not being in her hair, courtesy of Humphrey, Robin was still invested in his hedgehogs —even showing Kitty how to tell the difference between all the babies— and it turned out Julian had been harmlessly spending his time following The Captain around to critique his survey of the grounds for prime vantage points in the off chance that another war were to break out on British soil. Lady B. and Mary had been absorbed in watching a community-beautifying gardening project by the roadside that was just visible from within the property boundary, with Lady B. having plenty to say about their apparently poor choices in flowers, and Mary seeming happy just to watch modern people who still dug in the dirt. And Pat... Well, Pat had never really bothered her all too much anyway. He only needed a daily VHS tape or an occasional page flipped in the reading room. Lately he'd been completely enthralled by a book that she'd picked up for free at a car boot sale she and Mike had gone to, all about the history of CB radio and its usage by lorry drivers.
With her feather duster raised to a decorative plate, Alison was incredibly pleased with herself; happily thinking over everything that she had been able to accomplish. The faint sounds of muffled conversation floated in from nearby, but she ignored it, more focused on how good it would feel to cross another item off her seemingly neverending to-do list once she was done with the dusting. When she'd finished with all the notorious dust-collectors in the room, though, there was obviously nothing to do but move onto the next, and it was as she came closer to the archway into the adjoining room that she heard the conversing voices more clearly.
"How I love you; from head to toe," said one dramatically pitched voice.
"Could use some work on your phrasing, there, you know," came the more reasonable-toned reply.
Ah. Those two again. And more of Thomas' godawful poetry. Alison still found it odd that they were hanging out so much these days, but her curiosity in the matter had dropped pretty sharply since the initial discovery. She told herself that she'd be better off not looking a gift horse in the mouth— Humphrey could enjoy all the wordsmithing he wanted in her place. Either way, though, she had to get into that room sooner or later— she only hoped her presence wouldn't inspire Thomas to get in the way of her chores. Even if it was impossible for him to physically interrupt her, it was surprising how derailing he could be at times. The knowledge that you could just stick your arm right through someone didn't come without the fact that it was psychologically pretty difficult to do— especially when you knew it was impolite. Bracing for the worst, she popped around the corner when their conversation went silent.
"Another poetry recital, guys? Sorry I don't have the time to attend, again," she said, figuring it was best to head the eventual question off in advance.
"Never apologize for your duties as sole keeper of our humble abode," Thomas assured her, picking Humphrey up from a side table and holding him in his lap to look toward Alison instead. Humphrey shot her a strangely amused long-suffering look over Thomas' remark. Before Alison could point out that Mike was definitely also a keeper of the house, Thomas went on, "It's plain to see that you're overwhelmed by your work— Why else would the house still be so caked in dust?" Alison's left eye twitched. He'd said it pleasantly enough, but it was certainly phrased backhandedly.
"Honestly, we haven't done much with poetry today, anyway." Humphrey's much more courteous response came just after Thomas finished speaking.
"Oh?" Alison cocked her head. "But I thought I'd heard..." She decided to put a lid on her thinking aloud just in case it did bring about an actual request to listen in on some kind of composition or recital or reading. It was best to keep the topic on neutral ground; she wasn't too keen on the idea of having to waste time being in more constant demand for page-turning, either.
"No," said Humphrey. His neck shifted slightly, like he was trying to shake his head. "Someone—" he looked upward, gesturing up at Thomas with both his eyebrows and gaze, "—got a bit frustrated over a lack of one-syllable synonyms for said, and my suggestions weren't helping much, so we've put it on hold for the day. At least until inspiration strikes again."
"I hardly think that's a fitting description of events, my dear," Thomas grumbled quietly, pouting down at the head held in his hands before turning back up to face Alison.
Alison rolled her eyes to the side. She easily bought Humphrey's explanation over Thomas' objections, no matter how many pet names Thomas addressed her by.
"Well, good luck," she said noncommittally, "Maybe let Humphrey help you out a bit more, huh?" Humphrey gave a little triumphant hmph at that, and Thomas merely heaved a labored sigh.
"The muse can seldom act as co-author, Alison," he said, sounding woefully exasperated, "You of all people should be very aware of this."
"Well, you never know— Two heads are better than one, and... Ah," she gulped, realizing her faux pas. Predictably, Humphrey frowned at her phrasing. Thomas took little notice, still grumbling about the sacred rites of authorship. Alison grinned in an embarrassed show of apology and took her leave to go dust somewhere else.
As she hurried off, though, her mind lingered on Thomas' statement from just before she fled. Sure, it made sense that she would know what was entailed in being a poetic inspiration, since Thomas had expressed that she was his easily a dozen times by then. She got that. But what exactly was with the first thing he said? Did he seriously mean that Humphrey was now acting as his poetic muse? Thomas bloody Thorne, taking a man's severed head as his new muse?
Alison slowed her pace, raising her eyebrows in an appraising look to no one. She had to admit that she was impressed— There was some real character growth going on just outside of her notice. Thomas was apparently shifting his poetic sensibilities from overwrought romantic drivel to the gothic macabre of decapitation. But how exactly did that fit in with the line she'd heard earlier? 'I love you from head to toe'? She placed a hand to her lips in thought. It must have been some kind of metaphor on severed body parts or something. She never really got gothic poetry, even when she'd had that brief, two month pseudo-goth phase. She shuddered at the memory. Thank God there was no photographic evidence of that little endeavor of self-discovery.
In any case, though, she was probably still better off continuing to dodge any involvement in Thomas' writing, even if he was going through a genre shift. She shook her head and wondered why Humphrey put up with it. Poor guy must've been bored out of his head. Ah. His head. Alison frowned a little at her own ability to repeatedly make the same phrasing mistakes, even if it was contained to the privacy of her own mind that time. She decided that she ought to work on that if she was going to keep seeing him as often as she did these days. Luckily, she'd only have to watch herself on that front until Thomas got bored with the whole thing; it probably wouldn't be much longer, now, anyway, for better or worse.
A few days later, things seemed more or less back to their usual state. The ghosts were running about the property —most of them bothering her incessantly, as no one had their own solo excursions going anymore— and she and Mike were trying their best to overcome yet another crumbling aspect of the house's antique architecture. This time, the issue was an archway on the ground floor that had begun to show little cracks in it. Mike's Googling had turned up the explanation that it was either nothing to worry about, or that it meant the entire floor above could come crashing down at any moment. Alison wasn't willing to hedge her bets on the former, just given their track record with floors giving out, so she was currently involved in aimlessly fretting up and down the steps between floors to put off the eventuality of having to call someone capable of giving her a professional opinion. An inspection like that might cost money they didn't really have, but it would likely even out with the money they would save by not having to repair another giant hole in the floor.
She'd already shouted at Kitty and Lady B. for interrupting her pacing, and even if she'd immediately apologized, she had the feeling it wouldn't be quite enough. She already knew Lady B. would stew over it for at least a week no matter what she did— it would be unpleasant, sure, but mostly doable. Kitty, though, she wasn't so sure of. Alison's eventual solution was to kill two birds with one stone and distract Cap from trying to give her unhelpful suggestions on the flooring by assigning him a made-up secret mission to go and get Kitty on her good side again. Whether or not that would work was debatable, but she had a better feeling about that plan's chances than about Mary and Robin's idea for the larger issue— they'd both told her that they would try going upstairs to the room above the questionable archway and sticking their heads down into the floor to see if they could locate any failures in structural building code. She had half a mind to stop letting them watch so many DIY programs. Pat had gotten in on that little endeavor, too, at some point, as he had some secondhand DIY knowledge himself, and he was currently taking lead of the project— much to Julian's chagrin. Apparently, in Julian's opinion, having paid for more properties to be built up in his name gave him seniority in the matter— he kept trying to get Alison involved in the debate, which she had staunchly declined to cast her vote in. Then Julian had implied she was taking part in the downfall of democracy for not exercising her right to have a say in the matter, so she'd voted for Pat purely out of spite.
Finally, she could only assume that the two ghosts she hadn't run into at all that day were likely together somewhere again— somewhere that was thankfully out of the way. Probably still keeping busy composing gothic poetry using the advantage of having permanently visible flesh wounds. Alison shivered at that— then wondered, briefly, why Thomas hadn't corralled Pat, too, given his own highly visible cause of death. Maybe something about his death was too modern to meet his standards, with the bus and all? Was the arrow too brightly-colored? Not macabre enough? She didn't entertain the thought for long— there was a more pressing anxiety to mull over, and the important thing was that she was alone for the moment. Still anxious and pacing aimlessly, sure, but completely alone in doing so, which allowed her to finally make up her mind to call a professional to inspect the integrity of the floor and archway. Decision firmly made, she started over to the drawing room for a quiet location to make the call in. On her way there, one of the two ghosts she hadn't seen hide nor hair of that afternoon crossed her path; apparently making his own way over to the library— alone.
"Good day, Alison," Thomas said with a light, casual air; and then he did the most surprising thing of all: he kept on walking. It was immediately baffling. He'd only managed to get a few steps away before Alison's brow furrowed into a deep wrinkle at the situation.
She frowned, calling out to him, "Hey, Thomas?"
"Yes?" To his credit, he spun on his foot to face her attentively. That was more like the Thomas she knew, but the fact that he required prompting was still incredibly disconcerting.
"Have I done something to upset you?" she asked, and felt particularly stupid. It just wasn't the natural order of things— She wasn't supposed to be wondering if she'd upset Thomas, he was supposed to upset her, and then not even take into account the possibility that he might've done so. "I just feel as if you've been a little... distant, lately."
"Oh, Alison," he said, and she didn't care for his tone in the slightest. She rested a fist at her hip, tilting her head at him and waiting for the lengthy explanation she could already sense coming. At the same time, Thomas wrung his hands together in front of him and said, "I fear I've made quite the mess of things, haven't I?" He sounded somber; almost tearful. "Oh, I knew you were due an explanation, eventually —it's only right— but I couldn't find it in myself to be the one to break such unfortunate news to a lady of such gentle disposition."
"What news?" she said, "Is something the matter?" She began to fear the worst— was something wrong? Did ghosts know when they were going to move on or something? Did they move on? Maybe, in his cocked up worldview, he was trying to wean her off of his (seriously unwanted) affection before he was gone entirely? Was that why his poetry had gone so dark? Because he knew his time was coming? She hadn't minded being let alone, but if that was his reason, she wasn't sure this was the right solution.
"That frisson we both felt— as passionate as it was, you must have known, somewhere, deep down, that it could never be between us; that even if you didn't want to accept it, there was nothing for us, Alison— I am dead, you see. A mere specter. Unable to wipe a tear from your rosy cheek if need be, nor soothe the wanton desires of the flesh." She cringed at the blatant lie —Thomas had certainly been fine with their hypothetical inability to hypothetically physically consummate a hypothetical relationship before— and then cringed harder at his odd emphatic pronunciation of flesh. "No. To ask you to deprive yourself of the many remaining years ahead of you would be unimaginably cruel," he said, head bowed. Alison was, again, galled by the revisionism, and thought back to all the times Thomas had suggested that she off herself for the chance to be with him. In fact, she was pretty sure it was one of the first things he'd said to her. She let out a curt sigh and decided not to bring it up, just in case it further derailed his already meandering explanation.
"So you aren't in love with me anymore?" she said, in an attempt to cut to the chase, "Is that all?"
"Once again, Alison, I am shocked by your naiveté. Does one ever truly stop loving another, once the seed is sown? Do the delicate mayflower's blooms not linger on once the Summer has— No, hold on." He raised a crooked finger to his lips. "Metaphor's gotten away from me."
Alison's eyelids drooped down. The relief that he wasn't going anywhere turned into toying with the idea of what life in the house would be like if he did. "So you are still in love with me," she sighed. It had been worth a shot.
"Yes," Thomas said. "Well, no," he added on, quickly. "But still yes? But not quite, really, it's sort of..." he trailed off and wiggled his hands in front of him in a noncommittal gesture that explained absolutely nothing. "You can be so clever— I'm sure you understand now, yes, Alison?"
"I really can't say I do, Thomas," she huffed. She began to wonder if it was a belated stress headache coming on, or if Thomas' new ghost ability was to cause actual, physical pain with the power of sheer annoyance.
"Oh, how to put this..." He shifted weight from one foot to the other, propping his elbow on one open palm to rest his chin on the other. "I believe the modern tongue is perhaps best suited after all, in this case."
Alison heaved another sigh; this time of relief.
"It's not you— it's me." He said it with a slightly scripted affectation, but it was easy enough to digest. Alison hummed out an accepting noise, ready to assure him she was more than fine with his change of feelings, but then Thomas spoke again: "And I'm leaving you for a man."
"You what?" she sputtered, more out of shock than anything else. "A ma—? Who?!" the question tumbled from her mouth before she realized she probably didn't want to know.
"Alison, I know it must be hard to bear, but please know that I don't think any less of you for your terse, and quite frankly intolerant reaction."
"That's not—!"
"Love is love, you see, and as painful as this is for you to accept, anger and prejudice won't do you any good. Nor will retaliatory violence against poor Humphrey."
"Humphrey?! Wh—?! Oh-kay..." she paused, and took in a deep breath. She had only barely stopped herself from asking which half. "Listen, Thomas," she said, at a more suitable volume, "I'm not angry, I'm not jealous, and I'm obviously not prejudiced— I held a bloody lesbian wedding here for God's sake! ...I'm just very, unbelievably surprised. I thought you were just being your typical brand of fickle when you started hanging out and writing poems together—"
"Fickle?" Thomas said quietly, "I don't think..."
Alison ignored it, continuing, "—but I didn't think the reason you'd stopped harassing me was that you were shagging Humphrey in the library all this time, right under my nose!"
"I—! Well—! That is hardly an appropriate accusation to—! We haven't—! Or at least, not technically—!" Thomas blustered out each fragmented sentence with an almost impressive lack of conviction.
Alison put a palm over her eyes. "Thomas, there's no point in you lying anymore, I already—"
"Hey! There you are, Tom! Look who I've reacquainted myself with!" With possibly the worst timing imaginable, a tall figure clad in red sidled into Alison's peripheral vision from the direction of the drawing room. "Oop," he said. It was barely audible; just a little awkward noise of apology.
"Ah," said Alison, and cut off whatever properly witty and scathing remark she had for Thomas before it could pass her lips. "Humphrey."
"I was just coming round to brag that I'd found my head on my own for once, but it seems it's a bad time?" he hovered uncertainly by the wall, casting a couple furtive glances toward Thomas.
"It's really nothing," she assured him, if only to save him from embarrassment. "I was just..." she trailed off. There was really no good way to explain what they had been discussing.
"No, it's alright. What's he done to deserve a telling off this time?" he said, with a knowing tone of voice.
"I maintain that I've done nothing to intentionally wound fair Alison— it is our own misguided hearts that must share in the blame for such cruel circumstance," said Thomas, apparently recovered enough from his earlier blabbering to return to his habitually florid speech. He raised an upturned hand toward Alison, seeming to beckon for her own in a consoling gesture, then realized the obvious in their inability to touch. He let his arm fall lamely to his side, and retreated a few sheepish steps toward Humphrey.
"Thomas, I wasn't hurt by anything you've told me," she assured him, "trust me. I'm actually glad." She crossed her arms, and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Well, mildly disturbed, fine, but not for the reason you seem to think. Look," she said, and glanced between the both of them. "I really am happy for you, I was just caught off guard. That's all. No hard feelings. I promise."
"I know you're just saying that to make me feel better, but I do dearly appreciate the words," Thomas said. He beamed at her with a slightly watery smile, and she couldn't help but smile back in spite of how ridiculous it all was.
"Um," said Humphrey, and shuffled a bit in a way that only highlighted how odd it was for Alison to see him in one piece. "Not to interrupt what I'm sure is a very touching moment, but could one of you please explain what exactly it is I missed?"
Thomas turned to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "She knows," he said gently, smiling in her direction, then back at Humphrey.
"Knows what?" he asked cluelessly after a moment of confused silence. Alison couldn't help the weary smile that crossed her face. God, they were all hopeless.
"Good luck," she said, and took her cue to leave, quickly passing by the pair of them as she made her way toward the drawing room to finally make that phone call.
"Is that all? I told you she wouldn't care!" was the last exasperated shout she heard from afar as she plopped down on a settee and unlocked her phone.