Star's Crossing

64: A Good Small Thing

It was a small thing he'd done, bidding Mr. Gilbert to let Lilith move to Thatcher House. The world was unkind to ferocious women, but Camden found he'd been wrong all his life not to respect them.

He owed Mare, Lilith, and Alison much more than a year of vacation at Thatcher House or a good business venture to employ their fathers. But it was a start. A good, small thing.

Christmas was nearly upon Star's Crossing, and Camden's father, like Lilith's and Teddy's, had uprooted their lives in favor of more lucrative ones in the city. Camden was grateful for it. After Matilde granted Teddy a large share in her and her husband's rail company, Teddy asked Camden to lead operations. He met with men from New York to San Fransisco most weeks, and travelled frequently. When work brought him to Philadelphia he stayed with Teddy at his townhouse in the city, where they'd drink and dream of the future.

It'd not been easy, this last year. He'd put on a good show, but beneath the thin veneer of ego there was a lonely man, who seemed to get lonelier as the days progressed.

Often he thought of Mare, the bold, ferocious way she'd spoken to him that day and many others. Often he thought of the pity she offered for his future wife and children; often he wondered if he might remain an eternal bachelor if only to avoid this fate.

A coward and a selfish man. The letter Teddy had written had referred no doubt to himself; but Camden saw transparently how true this was in reference to him as well. And so he did his work and drank his bitterness, and tried to enjoy the sun on the days it came out.

He did not have the will to lift a pen and write Mare, perhaps defending his ire and threats that day or perhaps hurling himself on her mercy. He was still a coward, if less a selfish man. And though for much of his life he dreamed of being rescued, stolen away from his father's fists and empty bottles, he'd come to acknowledge that he was the only one capable of doing the rescuing.

It was a harrowing thought, and so most nights he put it away, under his pillow or in a business ledger and, once in a while, at the bottom of a shallow glass of whiskey. Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow I will change.

When Geoffrey arrived before Christmas, it was like opening a shuttered window to let in the sun. He shoved Camden and lolled around the house and slid down the stairway banister in a way that would give Camden's father a fit. They sat to dinner together and spoke of the business, of Almagest, which Camden did not miss, and of Teddy and their fathers.

When they retired to the parlor for coffee, they sat in silence. It was pleasant. It felt like they were kids again, tired after a day in the sun, broken free of stuffy clothes and too many buttons. Then Geoffrey stood and crossed the room, and began to play the piano.

"You look happy, cousin." Geoffrey's voice was warm, soft as the melody he played.

Camden snorted. He'd tipped back his head and let his eyes flutter shut. "You're good at that. How had I never noticed before?"

Geoffrey chuckled.

Camden listened and Geoffrey played, and for a moment, the world felt simple again.