To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 23

When Timothy woke up the next morning to the tink at the window and the thump of Mrs. Mason's broom handle, nothing seemed to have changed. There was the same wan light filtering through the dirty glass panes, the same ache in his bones, and the same low, dispirited murmur from his parents' side of the room—but somehow there was new determination taking shape within. He wasn't sure it could really be called hope; his circumstances hadn't changed. But Timothy Wright found himself sitting up, no—standing—without having to work up the courage to do it first. And what's more, this shift wasn't driven by fear.

Wondering at the difference and half afraid to dwell on it in case it should vanish, Timothy made it through his morning routine, fed an unusually quiet St. Vincent, and headed out the door. He wouldn't go to work fearing what gossipy old ladies had to say about him, but to prove that he was worthy of what he'd been given—that this time, he wouldn't stray from the path.

Timothy scarcely noticed the clamor rising like a cloud from the other young men filling the room as he stepped through the door of The Thameton Pry. Instead, he made a beeline for Sam, who was leaning against the typewriter table with his hands in his pockets, looking very much like the kind of rustic figure an impressionist painter might choose to occupy a field bounded by an old stone wall.

"Did Lyman give us the article?" Timothy asked, not bothering with the usual formalities. If Sam thought himself entitled to invading his personal space, he could dispense with a good morning.

Sam turned to him as if he'd been roused from a deep train of thought. "Oh—yes. But wouldn't you know, he doesn't like articles on fruit prices if his favorite wordsmith doesn't write them?"

Timothy frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Sam shook his head dramatically. "Only that I was abandoned—abandoned in my hour of need by your good self. 'Mr. Paine,' Lyman said, 'I have only one writer that can carry off fruit prices and make them interesting, and you aren't him.' So you see, after spending all day on that dreadful article, I found my work had been in vain."

Timothy wrapped his arms tightly about himself and set to studying his shoes. He didn't believe Lyman had really said such a thing, but he let it pass. "Has it ever occurred to you that you might be in the wrong business?"

Sam shrugged noncommittally, but before he could reply there was the sound of rapid footsteps approaching, and Timothy looked up to find himself face to face with Adrian Graham. He tensed. The very fact that he'd sought him out boded ill, but if he was honest with himself they'd had this confrontation coming. Mr. Graham hadn't earned his place in The Thameton Pry by being nice.

"I see you decided to come to work today," Mr. Graham said, looking down his nose at Timothy, as if Sam wasn't even there. "It must be wonderful to have the luxury of arriving when you please."

"I had a previous engagement," Timothy said, stiffly.

"Is this 'previous engagement' the reason you're suddenly in Lyman's good books, and writing my articles with the Elesolian?" If ever there was acid in a tone, Mr. Graham had perfected it. He really ought to go into the vinegar business.

Sam took a step forward as if he were about to give Mr. Graham's irritatingly perfect face a crooked nose, but Timothy held out a hand to stop him. He'd dealt with Mr. Graham many times before and knew that fighting would solve nothing. "Charmed, I'm sure," he said drily. "I wonder what makes you think articles you haven't spoken for are yours?"

Mr. Graham stepped forward, and Timothy tried not to shrink back. Too close. He was too close. "There will be consequences, Mr. Wright," he said, voice low. "The name of Adrian Graham will be remembered. So if you'll excuse me—" he paused, looking down almost lazily at their feet. He ground a passing spider under his heel, and Timothy swallowed hard. "—I must go. I have a 'previous engagement.'"

Timothy sat down almost as soon as the door closed behind Mr. Graham; all his joints seemed turned to water. He rubbed his forehead, trying to recollect the shattered pieces of himself before anyone noticed. There was something awful in the slow deliberation in which Mr. Graham destroyed the creature—and why had he looked at his feet? Did he know more than he let on?

Timothy's courage was well and truly shaken.

"Are you well?" Sam asked, and Timothy grimaced. Was he ever? He wished Sam would stop playing doctor.

"I've never understood why someone would destroy something simply for existing," he said instead, ignoring the question. When an uncomfortable silence followed, he forced himself to get up and put his hands in his pockets as if no such thing as deep dark fears haunted his footsteps. Mr. Graham had put his finger on the source of all Timothy's pain without saying a word, and it left him feeling shaken down and turned inside out.

"Since Lyman has given us the article, we could do worse than to find somewhere more comfortable to talk it over," he said, affecting nonchalance.

Sam scowled in the direction of the door, shaking his head. "Someone needs to take Graham down a peg or two."

"Well then, let's," Timothy shrugged, hand closing over the key-shaped object in his pocket. There was comfort in its cool solidity. "If we write the article Lyman wants before he does, he'll just have to take it."

Sam snorted, a smile brightening his countenance despite himself. "I like the way you think."

Timothy spent the cab ride to Thebault's scolding himself back into his former shape, wishing he didn't unravel so easily. Nothing ever seemed to shake some people—his parents, for all their flaws, were never unduly worried by small irritations. What had happened to the courage he'd felt not two hours previously? The prospect of the charity ball left him drained now; exhausted before it had even begun.

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Adrian Graham was one of my few characters that spring into existence already named.

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