To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 48

With Sam's help Timothy was able to leave the crutches at the police station, and when they got home Mrs. Wright was gracious enough to betray little to no surprise at Sam's presence. Timothy wanted to go right to bed, but settled for sitting at the table long enough to help Sam and his mother across conversational lulls. When Mr. Wright came home there was an uncomfortable silence for the space of a moment or two, and then the evening progressed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Timothy half wondered if having company had deferred his own inevitable interrogation.

When it came time to retire, Sam was given a bed of blankets in the common room, though Mrs. Wright was profuse in her apologies since nothing else could be done. Sam said he didn't mind in the least; he'd spent nights sleeping in the dirt while hunting with his brothers. Mrs. Wright didn't seem to know what to do with such information.

It was a wonderful feeling to shut the door between himself and the company and know that Timothy had a good eight hours ahead of him in which he didn't have to perform. He lowered his aching body into bed and let his mask slip. A single hot tear traced its way down his cheek to his ear, then wet his pillow. Mr. Webb had died. He and Sam had almost followed him to an early grave. His head still hurt, and his heart was oppressed by the knowledge of so much suffering and corruption. Last of all, he'd lost his only way to some semblance of normalcy and been reduced once more to the humiliation of crutches. The mere thought of facing The Thameton Pry like that made him sick.

He tried to make sense of it and sort out the threads of his thoughts like Theseus recalling himself to life, but it only left him more tired and confused than before. Heartsick and weary, he committed it to the Lord and drifted off.

The next morning he was awakened by Sam's face inches from his own. Timothy yelped and clutched at his blanket. "Good morning!" he gasped. "What are you doing in here?"

Sam backed off, evidently restored to his former capacity for mischief by a night's rest. He walked over to a dresser on the wall by the door and began poking through an open cigar box on the top. "You know, I never took you for the type that woke up wishing the world well," he said, holding up a string of false pearls.

"Stop that, that's mother's!" Timothy exclaimed, but was utterly powerless to enforce the wish. He paused. The room was awfully bright. "What time is it?"

Sam replaced the string of pearls and inspected a locket instead. "A quarter after eight. Your father left half an hour ago, and I got tired of waiting for you to get your beauty rest so we can go to work. That parrot would argue with a wall—he reminds me of you." Sam smiled at the photos inside the locket, then dropped it back into the box and held up a cabinet card instead. He made a noise of recognition and turned it towards Timothy. "Is that you? My, but you were a sour-faced child."

Timothy saw with dismay that he'd found his baby photograph—frilly baby dress and all. Mother had once told him he'd found the birdie more concerning than amusing. "Put that back!" he hissed. "If your aim is to vex me into getting up, you've done a splendid job of it. Give me a quarter of an hour and I'll be decent and then you can tell me why you thought I needed to be harassed. Go!"

Sam shut the cabinet card and dropped it back in the box, expression an odd mix of sadness and gratification. "It is one of the defining features of my existence to never be overly burdened with the things I should be—you're welcome." When the door closed behind him, Timothy heaved a sigh of relief and began the laborious process of struggling into his clothes. Every muscle in his body seemed to hurt, and there was a decided welt on the back of his head, but he was still alive. His stiff muscles wouldn't let him forget it.

Using his crutches to haul himself to his feet was pure agony, but Timothy grit his teeth and hobbled through the door. "All right, what is it?" he asked, finding Sam next to the birdcage.

Sam left off tickling St. Vincent under the chin. "I want to interview Mr. Bradley."

Timothy stared at him, then pointed stiffly to the room he'd just left. When they had both entered it, he shut the door firmly. "Say that again, but quieter." Sam's persistence was staggering.

Sam obliged him with a stage whisper. "I want to interview Mr. Bradley. Lyman told us to find out who killed Mr. Graham, didn't he? We found out—now we just have to get the story."

Timothy gripped his crutches until his knuckles turned white, and scowled at the door. There was no earthly reason not to follow through with Sam's idea, except that he didn't want to. He'd been in Mr. Bradley's presence three too many times already. One of the times had nearly been the end of them both.

He was quiet so long that Sam broke the silence by gesturing to the door like he was selling it. "I am sensing that this is the kind of question that is best answered on a full stomach. May I suggest some of your mother's delightful porridge?"

The idea of anyone calling Mrs. Wright's porridge delightful was so ludicrous that Timothy snorted, then broke into a sort of suppressed laughter that came out as an incredulous wheeze which made his ribs ache. "You'll make a doctor yet."

Sam grinned.

Half an hour later, they were on their way to the police station to find out what prison Mr. Bradley had been taken to.

–––––––––

During the nineteenth century both young boys and girls wore dresses. "Breeching" was the process of transitioning boys from wearing dresses to trousers, which happened somewhere between the toddler years and the age of eight.