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Boston, 1934
It was the first time he was allowed past the tall wrought-iron gate of the Beacon Hill community garden—the ornamental barrier that separated the neighborhood's well-kept sidewalks from that small, lush oasis. Only the older boys usually crossed it. And Burdock, of course, but his family lived in the North End, so he didn't really count.
The air inside the garden smelled of damp earth, magnolia blossoms, and freedom.
"You want to see something?" Burdock had said, his best friend's face lit by a mischievous grin. He brought his fingers to his lips and began to whistle a complicated, jazzy melody. To Haymitch's astonishment, a couple of sparrows on a nearby branch answered him, mimicking the rhythm with astonishing precision.
"That's—" He never finished the word "amazing," because something round and firm struck his temple with a dull thud. A painful tingling shot through his head, and he rubbed the spot with a frown, watching the shiny red apple roll across the perfectly trimmed lawn.
"Who's bothering my birds?" A clear voice, full of indignation, came from above.
And when Haymitch looked up, there she was. Tucked into the hollow of an old ornamental apple tree as if it were her private sitting room. She was leaning against the trunk, her feet in simple leather shoes dangling and swinging lazily. She wore a plain cotton dress of a faded color, just enough to reveal her grass-stained slender ankles.
"They're not your birds!" Burdock shouted beside him, pointing an accusing finger at the sky.
"They are too! They are too!" the girl in the tree retorted, crossing her arms. Then, her annoyed gaze shifted from Burdock and settled on Haymitch, as if she had just noticed he was there. Her eyes were a color he couldn't name—it reminded him of honey.
Under that curious gaze, Haymitch's irritation from the blow simply… faded, replaced by an unusual shyness. He adjusted his shirt collar and raised a hand in an awkward greeting.
"I'm Haymitch."
The girl studied him for a second longer, and her frown softened into something closer to curiosity.
"I'm Lenore Dove."
"Dove… like the birds?" asked Haymitch, nodding towards the sparrows Burdock had been whistling to.
She shook her head, causing loose strands of her dark bob to sway.
"No. Like the color."
Haymitch blinked, confused. His world was made of gray concrete, brown factory walls, and the city's black soot. He didn't know the names of colors beyond the basic ones.
"What color is that?"
Lenore Dove smiled then—a small, slightly superior smile, as if she held a wonderful secret.
"The same as the birds."
A soft "ah" of understanding escaped Haymitch's lips. It made no logical sense, and yet, suddenly, it made all the sense in the world. His mind, always seeking the angle, the advantage, or the sharp retort, simply… stopped. It went blank, suspended in the garden's cool air, fixed on the image of the girl with the confident smile and the color for a name.
From that day, Lenore Dove began to approach him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She would slide onto the bench beside him during lunch in the park, sharing her wrapped sandwich without ceremony, and by that same easy logic, they began to spend more and more time together.
---
Boston, 1949
Haymitch had discovered early on that he did not like high-society dances. It wasn't the dancing itself, nor the music; in fact, in the dim light of the garden, with the sound of a gramophone and Lenore Dove in his arms, he found a peace he couldn't find anywhere else. It was this: the crowded ballroom, the calculating glances, and the men swarming around her like flies drawn to the sweetest honey.
It was no wonder, he told himself as his fingers tightened around the whiskey glass. Lenore Dove was beautiful in a way that made him catch his breath. Her brown eyes, expressive and deep, could tell him everything she was thinking, from when she was being ironic to when her mind was wandering. And her hair, when the chandelier light caught it just right, revealed a hidden reddish tint beneath the chestnut, like embers under ash. She was a force of nature made woman, who by some miracle had promised to be his wife.
The problem was that no one else in that ballroom saw the storm. They only saw a well-behaved young debutante, the Baird-Clade heiress, her connections to Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber, and the bright, stable future she represented. And him, Haymitch Abernathy, they saw as a boy: too young, too impulsive, with a fortune too new that didn't weigh the same as those of Boston's old families.
He watched as Charles Hawthorne whispered something in her ear, making Lenore Dove smile uncomfortably. He saw Finch Pembroke's hand land with too much familiarity on the small of her back as he guided her to the dance floor. Every false laugh she gave, every nod of her head, every time her eyes searched for his in a plea for rescue, sent a jolt through him.
He couldn't stand it any longer. He left the untouched whiskey glass on a tray and walked toward the group where Lenore Dove was conversing with Pembroke. He could catch snippets of the conversation; Pembroke was talking about his great mansion and army of servants, something that couldn't interest her less.
"Mr. Pembroke, Miss Baird," he greeted them both, using that formality they didn't even need. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's my turn for the next dance."
Lenore Dove didn't give Pembroke time to say anything. She was already hooked on his arm, guiding him toward the floor and leaving the lemonade her "suitor" had fetched for her forgotten.
"Thank you for rescuing me," she said softly, as she placed her hand on his shoulder and he held her by the waist, maintaining, of course, a publicly acceptable distance.
"I gather he's not the sharpest tool in the society shed," he replied, amused.
She let out a low snort.
"He's tedious.He has a single topic of conversation," she whispered, the words tumbling from her lips.
"I hope your other suitors have been more entertaining. Perhaps one truly caught your attention," he said, without jealousy, with much humor in his voice.
The joke didn't sit well with her. He could see the fire ignite in her eyes.
"About as much as Miss Trinket seemed to interest you," she retorted.
Haymitch had to restrain himself from laughing. Miss Trinket was a very kind spinster, whom he saw as an older sister, just as he saw Maysilee Donner as a younger sister. Perhaps that was why the other men didn't take him seriously: he had many female friends he didn't see romantically.
"Ah, Miss Trinket," he replied, managing to keep his composure though a smile of pure satisfaction fought to emerge. "She holds about the same romantic interest for me as a phone book. And she doesn't know baseball."
Lenore Dove tried to maintain severity, but her eyes sparkled.
"Yet I saw you conversing with her for a full ten minutes."
"She was explaining, in great detail, the virtues of her new vacuum cleaner. It was enlightening. And an excellent tactic to avoid Mrs. Hawthorne, who wants to introduce me to her niece."
The waltz spun them in a gentle spiral. Lenore Dove looked directly at him, without lowering her gaze as supposed good manners dictated.
"You shouldn't have to resort to tactics," she whispered. "They should see you and know you're mine."
Her words, spoken with that ferocity she possessed, made him dizzy.
"Eight months, Lenore Dove,"he said softly, correcting the timeline. "Until the fourth of July. That's what your uncle gave me."
"And yet, he allows suitors to come calling," she replied, her lips tight. "Tomorrow that English lord, Pembroke, is coming… I think I'll have to talk to him about suffragism."
Lenore Dove was very clever, even more so than him, which was why he wasn't surprised that those revolutionary and union ideas were in her head. It didn't scare him; in fact, he loved discussing them with her.
"My aunt Mags can give you her latest essays on feminism, if you need more ideas."
This time it was she who let out a laugh. Lady Mags Flanagan, who had refused to use her late husband's surname.
"Your aunt is a darling. I want to see how long Lord Pembroke lasts listening about women's private property," Lenore Dove replied.
The music was beginning to fade. She shook her head slightly, as if she wanted to stop time.
"We just have to wait until the fourth of July,"she whispered.
By then, he would be a worthy man: a lawyer with a career, entering politics. And Lenore Dove by his side would be the happiest woman in the world.
"I love you," he told her, his voice a low, sure thread in the ballroom's dim light. "I love you like all fire."
Boston, December 1949
The summons arrived the day after the ball. Haymitch, twenty years old, entered the study of Clerk Carmine, which smelled of polished wood and old books. Clerk Carmine, a Massachusetts judge, waited standing, a closed file on the desk like the verdict of one of his trials.
"Four years," Clerk Carmine began without preamble, his voice cutting the quiet air. "Since you were sixteen. My niece told me she would marry you or no one." He paused, measuring Haymitch. "I granted that time, not out of romanticism, but because I believed that, with the years, the childish infatuation would fade. That she would see reason. Or that you… would prove unworthy."
Haymitch was not. He never flirted with other debutantes; in fact, women often said he was a safe friend. He had never visited brothels, even when his grandfather and father tried to force him at fifteen, because his heart, like his body, would always belong to Lenore Dove.
"But here we are," Clerk Carmine continued. "She is twenty years old. She has slighted half a dozen perfectly acceptable men. All because of you." He dropped the file, the contract his aunt Mags had forced Clerk Carmine to sign, with the valuable four-year wait that was about to end. "She tells me the deadline is now a matter of months, until you turn twenty-one. Do you know what I see in those months, Abernathy? I see the last resort of a man who doesn't know how to tell his niece no, but who also sees his last chance to avoid a catastrophic mistake."
Clerk Carmine approached Haymitch, all his judicial authority fixed upon him.
"So my question is not about love. It is about selfishness. Have you ever considered what this endless waiting is for her?" His voice was low, but each word was like a poisonous dart embedding itself in Haymitch's chest. "Society is cruel to women who wait too long. Rumors are already beginning; they call her capricious, difficult. In a year, if this comes to nothing, do you know what they will call her? 'Spinster.' 'Wasted.' Her brilliance, her intelligence, which you claim to so admire, will become a subject of mockery or pity. Is that what you want?"
Haymitch felt the heat of fury in his chest and stood up. He was a tall young man, taller than average, and could often be intimidating.
"She will not have an austere future by my side, if that worries you. I was the top of my class at university; I graduated with honors," he said, though it was hard for him; in fact, he owed that to Lenore Dove, who had patiently explained things to him. "These four years have been a battle, not just to be worthy of her, but to prove I am worthy of her."
He wanted to give her a perfect world. Whether she was Lenore Dove Abernathy, or he took her name, Haymitch Baird, if she asked. A place where rumors didn't matter.
"Words, I have heard many over these last four years," Clerk Carmine said, waving his hand, but Haymitch would not back down.
"In a few months I will be twenty-one, Mr. Clerk Carmine, and by that date you will not be able to tell me no, because I will have proven myself."
Judge Clerk Carmine raised both eyebrows and returned to his seat, calm.
"You have until the Assembly Ball. If you do not prove you are worthy of her, she will marry Pembroke."
Haymitch contained all his rage and nodded. Ready to leave, he found himself in the hallway with Burdock, his best friend, and Lenore Dove's maternal cousin and the judge's personal secretary.
"Hay!" Burdock said cheerfully, which faded when he saw him.
"He gave me until the Assembly. He's not going to wait for the contract to end." No, he had no time to lose. "I must go see Lenore Dove. I'll see you at the club this afternoon."
And he ran off to meet her.
Boston, January 1950
Lenore Dove had turned twenty-one in December. Haymitch remembered with some fondness how he had sneaked into her room to recite from memory the Edgar Allan Poe poem that bore her name, and she had told him it was the best gift she had ever received. He, in turn, had given her books by the feminist thinkers she so admired.
They were a few weeks from the deadline Clerk Carmine had given them. Lenore Dove was curled against him, dressed only in her nightgown, while he wore only his underclothes. They lay on a blanket in the attic of his bachelor apartment, away from prying eyes, even from his own servants. The heat of their bodies was enough to shield them from the cold and the snowstorm raging outside.
Lenore Dove ran her fingers absently along his ribs, then suddenly sat up.
"Let's run away together, tonight, to New York," she said suddenly. "I can't stand it anymore. My uncle thinks he can decide for us. We can get married. Tam Amber supports us."
In that instant, Haymitch was tempted to leave with her: sneak out the service entrance and go where no one would bother them. Get married, finally.
"No," he said finally, after thinking. He sat up and took her hand, as she frowned. "You don't deserve a runaway wedding, full of rumors." He took a deep breath. "I swear to you, my love, I will earn the honor of walking beside you."
"But I am your wife in every way but name." Lenore Dove's voice wasn't urgent; she knew the situation they were in, and she knew her frustration wasn't with him either.
"I know, and that's why we must do things properly." He took her hand and drew her to him, to continue feeling her warmth against his skin.
Lenore Dove was his home, and she was the one he would never give up. He pulled her by the waist, letting his fingers trace over the fabric.
"But my uncle, he always has an excuse." He couldn't respond to that; instead, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder.
"Tomorrow I'm going to see the port district attorney, it's a serious job interview." He lifted his head to look into her eyes. "If all goes well, before the Assembly Ball I'll be the assistant to the District Attorney."
Lenore Dove caressed his face with vehemence, leaving kisses on his neck and lips.
"If my uncle doesn't see how wonderful you are by the Assembly Ball, we're leaving for New York. I don't care about Boston gossip, as long as I'm your wife." Haymitch nodded, because that was what he wanted too.
"No matter how it happens, next year, in winter, we'll be in the same bed, without having to sneak out." Haymitch began while his fingers traced from her waist to her thighs.
"I can imagine it, we'll have a mirror pointing at the bed," said Haymitch, unable to contain a smile at Lenore Dove's confused look.
"Why would you want a mirror pointing at the bed?" she asked, but he didn't answer, pulling her back toward him to lay her beneath his body, burying his face between her neck and shoulder.
"Because when I make love to you, you won't miss a single detail of our bodies and how every part of me is for you." He responded, while Lenore Dove let out a laugh, leaving a kiss on his own shoulder.
"I love you like all fire, Haymitch Abernathy." She barely lifted her gaze. He had never doubted her sincere love, not when he first asked for her hand at sixteen, not now, when they were hidden in the attic.
"And I you," he murmured, kissing her again, forgetting for a moment that time seemed to be running against them.
---
January 1950:
The invitation had arrived unexpectedly. Clerk Carmine was inviting him to a dinner at the Clade residence on Beacon Hill and, seeing it was five in the afternoon, Haymitch guessed it had been a last-minute decision. He asked his valet to dress him formally and called for the car to be brought around; with Boston's cold, carriages didn't seem the best option.
He expected to find Tam Amber, who greeted him with the warmth of a father to a son. He, being the second son of a noble family, had chosen philanthropy, was an art lover, and one of the best artists living in Boston. Who he did not expect to meet face-to-face was Pembroke, who was chatting animatedly with Clerk Carmine.
He forced a smile to shake his hand like a true gentleman. It wasn't that he had anything personal against him, but his intention to ask for Lenore Dove's hand erected a clear wall between them. He wasn't even going to try to get along, though he could pretend, as Clerk Carmine was watching.
Then, Lenore Dove came down for dinner. Her hair was up and she wore a simple dress, no makeup or special adornment. Her face also showed surprise at seeing him, and she automatically sat to his right, to the clear dismay of Clerk Carmine.
"It's the first time I've seen you. Are you a friend of the family?" It was Pembroke who broke the silence, having not the slightest idea of what was going on. Haymitch could see Tam Amber trying to hide a smile.
We've known each other since we were six," said Lenore Dove. "He's my fian—"
"He is a dear family friend," interrupted Clerk Carmine, his voice sharp. "A friend of my nephew Burdock, whom you met last week, and also of my niece."
Haymitch raised both eyebrows and, under the table, sought Lenore Dove's hand, finding it and giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Ah, and what family are you from? I don't recall hearing your surname," insisted Pembroke. Why so many questions? How grating that heavily accented English voice was, dripping with self-importance.
"My parents are bankers. We haven't been in Boston long," replied Haymitch, keeping his voice neutral.
"Ah, nouveau riche," said Pembroke, with a slight curl of his lip.
Beside him, Lenore Dove let out a stifled snort.
"I don't know how it is in London, my lord, but here in Boston, commenting on another's fortune is considered very poor form," she said, with a false sweetness that cut like glass.
Haymitch squeezed her hand again, this time to calm her, though deep down every fiber of his being celebrated her defense.
"My apologies, my apologies," replied Pembroke, turning his gaze back to Haymitch. "I merely wished to know you better." He offered another smile that didn't reach his eyes. "She is a bit… spirited. In London, ladies tend to be more reserved."
Haymitch could see Clerk Carmine tense at the edge of his seat, a vein pulsing subtly at his temple.
"My godmother, Lady Mags Flanagan, is English," replied Haymitch, letting pride temper his voice. "And she is anything but reserved."
"Ah, the suffragist," said Pembroke, with a hint of condescension. "I'm sorry you have to deal with that. They say hysteria has affected her mind over the years."
Haymitch had to take a deep breath, feeling the sting of the insult course through his veins. It was a brazen provocation, a calculated attack on the woman who was like a mother to him. Under the table, Lenore Dove squeezed his hand tightly, a warning and an anchor.
"How strange," said Haymitch, and his voice sounded surprisingly serene, almost thoughtful. "It seems that when a woman is intelligent and has a voice of her own, she is suddenly called 'hysterical'… or 'spirited'." He let the words fall with deliberate calm, his gaze not leaving Pembroke. "My godmother has more courage and clarity of mind than most men in this room. And as for spirit…" his gaze shifted for an instant to Lenore Dove, and his expression softened. "I would choose it a thousand times over calculated coldness."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Tam Amber cleared his throat gently.
"Lady Flanagan is an extraordinary woman," he said, addressing Pembroke but with a look that included Clerk Carmine. "Her work with war widows is admirable. Boston holds her in the highest esteem."
It was a masterful intervention, because it not only defended Mags, but reminded everyone at the table of her standing.
Pembroke, sensing the ground shifting against him, opted for a more conciliatory tone without fully surrendering.
"I have no doubt misspoken," he conceded, taking his glass. "The… vigorous character of certain ladies can be disconcerting for those of us accustomed to more subdued manners. That is all."
"According to you, is my niece disconcerting?" For the first time that evening, Clerk Carmine decided to intervene, and Haymitch recognized the tone instantly: it was the low, cutting voice the judge reserved for evasive witnesses or presumptuous lawyers. It was the voice that had told him more than once he was a spoiled brat. An unexpected, almost electric relief shot down his spine.
"What?" asked Pembroke, confused, not understanding the host's abrupt shift in interrogation.
"You spoke of hysteria," Clerk Carmine continued, with the same calm he reserved for the jury. "You yourself have heard my niece these past weeks speak incessantly of her passions: birds, poetry, her social causes. She does so with a fire that, judging by your own words, you seem to assume we all find… obvious." He paused, letting the word resonate. "My question is simple, Lord Pembroke: Is that fire, that lack of quiet reserve, a bad thing in your eyes and for your customs?"
"N-no," stammered Pembroke, trying to defend his position. "Merely cultural differences. I find nothing wrong with Miss Baird; in fact, she is charming and most… composed."
It seemed the three men in the room had to breathe in at the same time to stop themselves from leaping at his throat, because Haymitch was sure that even though Clerk Carmine was a pain, he loved his niece as if she were his own daughter.
"Ah, the small cultural differences," said Clerk Carmine, dropping the words one by one. "How fortunate, because Lenore Dove is not someone to be tolerated. She is someone to be accepted, and any man who wishes to marry her should demonstrate he is her equal." Haymitch felt the words weren't just for Pembroke, yet he took a deep breath.
He felt Lenore Dove's hand on his again and managed to relax a little.
"My Lord," Lenore Dove called to Pembroke, though she stared fixedly at Clerk Carmine with a smile that promised everyone would regret what she was about to do. "It's not that I am composed. It's that there is no point in my taking the time to dress up for someone as insipid as you coming to my table."
He could feel it: Tam Amber nearly choked on his wine, while Haymitch fought not to burst into laughter.
This was pathetic. He didn't know what Clerk Carmine had hoped to achieve with this dinner, but it certainly wasn't this. He himself didn't even know what to do next.
Lord Pembroke did not take it well. Just like that, he stood up and called for his car to leave.
Clerk Carmine looked gravely at Haymitch as if he were the sole culprit for everything, but then his gaze fixed on the hand he and Lenore Dove were still holding. He said nothing for a few seconds; the tension in the room was palpable.
"Do you realize what you have just done? All this willfulness, Lenore Dove, all of this—" he gestured vaguely with his hand "—do you think he will still love you once you are no longer unattainable?"
Haymitch felt his chest constrict, not only because he was doubting his love, but because he seemed blind to what was right before his eyes.
"Uncle, it is not my fault that you are blind. Tam Amber sees it. Mrs. Willamae sees it. Why can't you?" Lenore Dove's voice was breaking, and Haymitch could not remain silent.
"My love for Lenore Dove is not a whim," he said. "I am not interested in her titles or her fortune. I love her, with all her passions, when she talks about books and birds, when she complains about the world's injustices." He met the judge's gaze. "I have loved her since I was a boy, and I will love her in the future." He took another deep breath.
"I know they sound like empty words to you, but today I received confirmation that I will be the assistant to the District Attorney, and I am in the process of..." He paused for a tiny moment, a final adjustment. "...purchasing land where we can both live." And this would be the ultimate challenge. "Your Honor, I am tired of fighting you, but I will not give her up based on whether you give us your blessing or not."
"What do you want the land for?" Haymitch was frustrated, yet he was going to respond with grace, as he had been doing.
"A free school, for the dockworkers' children, where they can learn to read, do sums, and learn a trade." He squeezed Lenore Dove's hand. It was a surprise he had wanted to give her when they were married, but he was desperate. "The Baird-Abernathy Public School."
Tam Amber tilted his head, and Clerk Carmine looked at him curiously.
"Baird-Abernathy?" asked Tam Amber, so Haymitch nodded several times.
"I will unite our surnames. That's what matters to the Judge, isn't it?" he attacked for the first time. "It's not common, but I don't care, as long as everyone knows I belong to Lenore Dove."
"It's sentimental nonsense," Clerk Carmine told him. "Don't think any of that moves me. It's not my surname that interests me, but my niece's happiness, her well-being. Tam Amber and I are getting older. What will become of her when we are gone? Who will care for her when we cannot? She is my daughter in everything but blood, and I cannot conceive of a world where she suffers."
"Clerk Carmine..." Before Lenore Dove could respond, it was Tam Amber who called to him. "We are both concerned for Lenore Dove's well-being when we are gone, but look at this young man." He pointed at Haymitch and stood to walk over to his brother. "He is a serious boy. He has kept his head down and accepted the conditions we set." He pressed his lips together. "Give him a chance, and if we see he does not keep his word, I will pull the trigger myself."
Well, that was hopeful.
Then, Clerk Carmine looked Lenore Dove in the eyes. "Do you truly love him?" he asked.
"How could I not? He is challenging society for me, he will use my surname without my asking, and he has given me a school." Clerk Carmine nodded at her answer and then turned his gaze back to Haymitch.
"Do you only have the land?" he asked again, and Haymitch shook his head.
"The first donation is from my aunt, Lady Mags Flanagan, and the second is from the District Attorney." Clerk Carmine gave a slight nod.
"Come to my office tomorrow, so I may sign my donation as well." Both Haymitch and Lenore Dove looked at each other, then back at Clerk Carmine.
"Sir?" He didn't want to tempt fate.
Clerk Carmine looked at Tam Amber, then at them. "I accept. The Assembly Ball will be where we announce your engagement." Lenore Dove jumped for joy and hugged him tightly. Haymitch did the same; he couldn't believe it. Everything felt unreal.
"But, young man," added Clerk Carmine, his voice grave and clear. "Just one mistake. Only one, and they won't find your body."
Haymitch nodded several times. He would not fail. He had a lifetime to prove he was the perfect husband.
Feberuary 1950
Haymitch Abernathy loved dances, especially when Lenore Dove had arrived in that pearlescent dress, the color of her namesake, and a small apple brooch he had given her as part of their engagement.
The announcement was not pompous, but it was authoritative; finally, everyone knew Lenore Dove was his, and he was hers. Their first dance as an engaged couple... well, it surely was like flying among the clouds.
"You seem happy, Mr. Baird-Abernathy?" Haymitch tilted his head. For the first time, he didn't have to hide.
"More than happy. There are no words to describe it." He fell silent for a few seconds, remembering he couldn't kiss her there, in front of everyone. "I love you like all fire," he told her.
"And I you," replied Lenore Dove.
---
Ten Years Later
"Margaret Maeve Baird-Abernathy, get down from that bookshelf this instant!" The voice of Judge Clerk Carmine rang out as he watched his grand-niece climb a shelf as if she were born a cat and not a little girl.
"But the best books are up here, Grandpa!" Tam Amber would have laughed if he weren't wrestling with William Asher, who was clinging tightly to the curtain while shouting:
"I'M A GIANT SPIDER!" A common chaos in the judge's house, given that his niece and her husband were off on another project to open another school, this time in the North End, and the children couldn't go yet. Not that Clerk Carmine minded; he and Tam Amber loved seeing the house full of shouts and joy.
"I will read you any book you want, but you must get down from there." The girl let herself fall into his arms and gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek. "I love you very much, Grandpa Clerk Carmine." Lenore Dove always said he spoiled the children, but how could it be otherwise? They were adorable.
Speaking of adorable, two were missing. And silence was descending... for too long. Then, a BOOM! sounded, followed by the footsteps of servants running. Behind them appeared the twins, Alasdair Cadmium and Duncan Claret.
"Grandpaaaaaaaas!" they shouted in unison. Both were more earth than children, leaving a trail of muddy footprints down the immaculate hallway.
"We're 'carcologists'!" announced Alasdair Cadmium with solemnity, holding up a grimy rock. Clerk Carmine opened his mouth to ask, but at that moment the servants announced the arrival of the Baird-Abernathys.
"What in the world is happening here?" Lenore Dove's voice was choked with disbelief as she and Haymitch took in the sight before them: the twins smeared with mud, their daughter clinging to Clerk Carmine, and Tam Amber dangling a wiggling, upside-down William Asher.
"Uh... Is everything alright?" asked Haymitch.
"Yes, son, don’t worry" replied Clerk Carmine, the words escaping his lips with a natural ease that no one batted an eye at anymore. His sigh sounded more like happiness than resignation. "I’ll have a bath prepared for these… little explorers. You can all stay for dinner".
Before Haymitch or Lenore could fully respond, a tidal wave of eager voices crashed over them.
"Mama! Papa! Look!" cried Alasdair Cadmium, brandishing a filthy rock like a trophy. "We found fossils! Real ones! Under the Roses!"
"They’re just mud-clods, Al" — corrected Margaret Maeve, sliding down from Clerk Carmine’s hold, her voice laced with superior eight-year-old wisdom. "But we did map the whole garden! It’s got a secret path!"
"And I was a spider! A giant one!" William Asher announced, finally right-side-up but still vibrating with energy, his hands still curled into claw-like shapes. "I hunted flies on the curtains! It was a mission"
Duncan Claret, quieter but equally smeared with garden soil, simply held up two grubby fists, opening them to reveal a collection of mismatched pebbles and a confused-looking beetle. "For the collection" he stated solemnly.
The grand hall, once a space of formal dinners and stiff conversation, filled with overlapping tales of adventure, muddy footprints, and the bright, unchecked energy of children who had spent the day conquering the small world of their grandfather’s estate. It was a beautiful, deafening chaos.
Haymitch and Lenore Dove shared a look—a silent conversation of pure, overwhelmed affection—before diving into the fray, gathering their muddy, chattering brood into a loose, laughing huddle.
As the parents herded the unruly brood toward the bathtubs, Tam Amber approached his brother, a teasing smile on his lips.
"Ah, to think you said it was a passing fancy," he reminded him.
Clerk Carmine furrowed his brow, but his eyes shone.
"You remember incorrectly. I was always a champion of their love. I merely said he was stubborn… but that there was no one better for our Lenore Dove." He was a judge. His word was law, after all.
His brother let out a laugh.
"Of course,of course. The good thing is that no one had to shoot anyone."
And Clerk Carmine had to concede he was right. His heart, once so cautious, was now full of a noisy, messy joy. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever the future brought, it would be difficult, yes… but infinitely happy.
Fin