To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 56

They sat together in companionable silence for the most blissful quarter hour of Timothy's existence, and then the door creaked open behind them and Kathleen screamed. "Mum! Mr. Wright is holding Mary's hand and she likes it!"

St. Vincent's "Help! Help! Murder!" was cut off as the door slammed shut again, and Mary laughed just before Timothy was alarmed by the sudden appearance of Mr. O'Connor.

"Mary, my darling, what's all this?" he asked with such a tone of fatherly sadness that Timothy almost regretted occupying a place like that in his daughter's affections. Not that he still couldn't believe he did. It must be all a dream. She'd loved him as a friend, once—but not—not like this. It couldn't be real.

Mary got up leaving Timothy's hand feeling strangely cold and empty, and told her father that they had come to an understanding, after which Timothy was escorted inside to be interrogated for the good of O'Connors everywhere. If Timothy had not had the memory fresh upon him of being questioned by the inspector, this would have petrified him. As it was he was only terrified, and left the meeting—miraculously—with Mr. O'Connor's blessing.

The news set the rest of the family in an uproar the moment they heard it, and in the overflowing of her good heart, Mrs. O'Connor fixed Timothy another cup of unwanted tea which he was obliged to drink. While he did so, Mary's siblings drilled him with questions more probing than Mr. O'Connor's, and Mary sat next to him to fend off the worst queries. It was all so open, and warm, and, and—right.

When he finally set out into the dark to go home he was in far too pleasant of spirits to waste time being frightened by the possibility of robbers, and so managed to catch a cab without feeling anything less than invincible. The most wonderful of miracles had occurred, and he wanted to savor the feeling while it lasted. Not even the cabby's shock at seeing a real-life pirate climb into his conveyance could worry him.

After ascending the stairs to his rooms and announcing that he'd had a very good time in answer to his parents' questions, he put St. Vincent away and closeted himself in the pantry with only the stump of a candle, pen and ink. He'd tell them soon, but he wanted to do it with Mary at his side.

Tonight, he wrote. He wrote of the agony of bliss that not only did his Creator love him, but so did Mary—and how he didn't think he'd ever know so deeply in his heart what perfect happiness was. It wasn't the absence of trouble, but the knowledge that the trouble was worth it. He didn't know how he'd ever deserve Mary, or even how he'd afford independence, but the foundation for his loftiest hopes had been laid and that was enough to dream on.

That night he went to bed with hands stained blue.

The next morning Timothy was able to face routine with more courage than he had been able to muster for a long time, and he even believed the gruel his mother fixed was not really as bad as it had been. Perhaps Mary's advice was helping—either that, or Mrs. Wright had been able to get it to boil sooner.

The moment he appeared in the office of The Thameton Pry, Sam raised his eyebrows. "You've been taking laughter, haven't you?"

"Rather too much, I'm afraid," Timothy said, sinking into the chair across from him. The cold predictability of the smoke-filled, bustling, noisy office sank into his soul with an oppressive weight. It reminded him that not everyone was as happy as he, and two of those unfortunate souls were his cousins. He wasn't so cold-hearted that he couldn't feel for someone whose father turned out to be a murderer—or whose mother treated him like a poorly planned business venture. He hadn't any right to be so happy. "Was Mrs. Paine pleased with the thalers?"

Sam snorted and picked at the edge of the table. "I believe she thought I'd stolen them, but she was happy enough."

Timothy didn't know what to say to this. "Have you thought of any more delightful story ideas?" He wished he was better at words of encouragement. That was Mary's forte, not his. She'd have to teach him.

"I don't suppose your uncle's inquest appeals to you?" Sam asked, still picking at the table.

Before Timothy could deliver an emphatic no, a square-set, balding, middle-aged man appeared at their table, paper in hand. Timothy sat up straighter. It was the man who'd been looking over the writers of The Thameton Pry like they were cattle headed to market. What was worse, Lyman was behind him.

"Which of you wrote this?" the man demanded, pointing at the very first article inside the front cover. "The story from Mr. Bradley's perspective."

"I did, sir," Timothy answered, wondering where the conversation could possibly be headed.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" the man exclaimed, extending a hand so quickly Timothy barely had time to take it before his arm was shaken off. "My name is Hamil Ainsley of The Evening Telegram, and I have been looking for promising young reporters that are interested in moving up in the world. I do believe we have use for a man of your talents."

Timothy stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"He wants to hire you," Lyman translated, taking an irritable puff of his cigar.

Sam bowed his head. With a lurch, Timothy realized what this might mean. The story had been Sam's idea, and Sam had interviewed Mr. Bradley. All Timothy had done was write it up for submission. It wasn't right that he should get all the credit. "With all due respect, sir," he began slowly, "I believe the man you're looking for is Mr. Samuel Paine. It was his idea to follow that lead, and he conducted the interview. I only wrote it."

Mr. Ainsley appeared fully bewildered by the concept of teamwork, so Lyman again bridged the gap. "They often write articles together," he explained, sounding as if any admission of their virtues cost him physical pain.

"So if you really want to hire me, you'll have to hire the both of us," Timothy finished, then swallowed. The Evening Telegram! It was the largest paper in the city. This could be his key to everything—and he might have thrown it away.

But Sam was sitting up looking as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard Timothy say, so his regrets stopped there.

Mr. Ainsley looked from one to the other of them like he was presented with a more costly but promising investment than he had been prepared for. "You'll have to share the profits," he said slowly. "But I believe we do have positions for both of you."

Sam let out a whoop the like of which had probably never been heard before in Thameton, and which startled every last Solarian within earshot. Lyman rolled his eyes, Mr. Ainsley shook their hands as if hoping to be done with the business as soon as possible, and Timothy grinned.

"'Thameton Pry news rats catch the eye of big-name paper,'" Sam said, framing an invisible headline the moment Mr. Ainsley was gone and Lyman had returned to his desk. "'In a shocking turn of events, Mr. Wright proved his friendship with Mr. Paine in what some have called an outstanding move—'"

"Not one more word!" Timothy laughed, then crossed his arms to show he meant it. "We've still got to think of ideas for today, and since we can't possibly write about ourselves, that one isn't useful."

Sam leaned forward, palms flat on the table as if ready to impart a secret. "You said once that you wanted to live; I think we're about to do it."

The idea knocked Timothy back in his chair, fully floored by the possibilities opening up before him. His castles in the air weren't so airy anymore. And yet—wasn't the act of living independent of his means? He'd done the things that scared him—chasing Sam's crazy stories, telling Mary how he felt—and done it without knowing if he'd ever get out of The Thameton Pry. Gratitude welled up in his heart.

"What if we wrote about Lady Lancasters' animal menagerie?" he asked, and Sam grinned.