To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 32

Timothy made his way to work the next morning, bleary-eyed and muddle-headed, wondering why he couldn't tame his thoughts long enough to sleep. His father's silence unnerved him as much as his mother's immediate acceptance of Mary pleased him, and he couldn't find a way to put them all out of their misery of suspense without incriminating himself in the process. Was meeting for coffee really such a bad thing? It was almost a relief that he and Mary didn't have plans for the coming week.

When he limped through the door of The Thameton Pry and stepped into all the usual disagreeable bustle and smoke, he found Sam was already seated at their table, and in an uncharacteristically antisocial attitude. He was hunched over his notebook, elbows on the table and hands over his ears as if warding off a headache through the power of mental acuity.

"Good morning," Timothy said, collapsing into the chair opposite.

Sam didn't look up. "I suppose you mean that, and you're not just using it to shoo me off?"

A pang of guilt struck Timothy. "Are you quite well?"

Sam sat up, but only long enough to dig four thalers out of his pocket and plop them on the table in front of Timothy. "I'm only feeling very poorly and stupid this morning, but it'll pass soon enough I suppose," he said, with unconvincing melancholy. "Here's your share of the loot."

Had Timothy ruined this, too? He was too bewildered by Sam's behavior to notice that their last article had won them more thalers than anything previous. "What are you talking about?"

Sam glanced briefly at Mr. Graham, who could be seen on the other side of the room. "Lyman's pet told me this morning that he always stops at the police station before work, to see if anything interesting has happened. Why didn't I think of that? I should have. It's no wonder I'm always writing what others have written before, and clinging to you to even keep my position here."

Timothy began to suspect that "told" was a weak substitute for "tormented," but he couldn't think of anything encouraging to say except that Sam had kept his position for several weeks without his help.

Sam sat back and crossed his arms. "That's the probationary period."

Timothy blinked, and suddenly found immense curiosity in a piece of lint trapped in the keys of the typewriter. After several moments of utterly painful silence, he asked if Mr. Graham had "told" Sam anything else of interest.

"Yes," Sam muttered, frowning at the table. "Mrs. Armstrong was murdered last night."

Timothy stopped collecting lint and stared at him. "Mrs. Armstrong? The Mrs. Armstrong?"

"Yes," Sam repeated, almost impatiently, "And with her your backwards country's last hope of ever ending the enslavement of childhood."

"The enslavement of childhood?" Timothy echoed, incredulous. "Good heavens Sam, do you really think it's as black-and-white as that? They're voluntary workers! I can think of another 'backwards country' that nearly tore themselves apart over the issue of enslaving a person based on the color of their skin, something this 'backwards country' reconciled long before yours."

Sam's eyes snapped fire. "The Paines fought for the blue, sir."

"I'm heartily glad to hear it!" Timothy exclaimed, then gestured at his coattless ensemble. "Do you know why my family is like this? Why we have to live in an attic belonging to a mad cat lady? It's because my father decided he would no longer suffer himself to work for a man that saw nothing wrong with maiming children in the name of thalers. So don't tell me that Mrs. Armstrong's death was the end of the abolition of child labor and then insult Solarium, because we've paid the price of living in such a society many times over."