The next morning brought the confirmation of what he'd feared the night before, but Timothy was too numb to feel anything about it. He'd hardly slept, and what sleep he did get was punctuated by feverish moments of clarity in which he'd run over and repented of almost every conversation he'd had at the ball. Sam would finish the article alone, and there was nothing more to be said. He couldn't make it to work.
Oh, he'd tried to get out of bed—but this time not even his stubborn willpower could push past the pain. So his mother took out his crutches from the dusty corner they'd occupied, and he'd been granted enough freedom to make it out of the bedroom and to the table, where he occupied himself with St. Vincent and a book.
The bird climbed up one shoulder and down the other, croaking his displeasure when Mrs. Wright began her interrogation and Timothy gave more of his wandering attention to her than to him. The interview was short, and soon Mrs. Wright went to her rocking chair and darned stockings with a rapidity that told Timothy more than socks were on her mind.
He couldn't seem to concentrate either; not even the well-beloved copy of David Copperfield could keep his attention. The words seemed to vanish before his eyes, and in their place was only everything he'd done wrong the night before.
Timothy and his mother had been in this state for nearly an hour when a knocking at the door made them both look up in surprise. They didn't expect visitors, and Mrs. Mason rarely knocked. When Mrs. Wright got up to open the door, a wild-headed youth stood clutching his hat in the passage outside.
Timothy looked, and looked again, disbelieving his eyes.
"Samuel Paine," he said, bowing to Mrs. Wright. "Good morning!"
Timothy shut his book to the sound of his mother inquiring whether he were not the same person who'd brought her son back last night, painfully conscious of both St. Vincent and the fact that he hadn't put on his wooden leg. The bird in question climbed to the top of his head and let out a screech. "Hallelujah!"
Sam grabbed a chair next to him and plopped a stack of papers and a notebook on the table. "So this is St. Vincent, eh? Lovely bird," he grinned. "I take it he would have said something less savory just now if your friend hadn't taken offense."
"Lovely bird," St. Vincent grumbled, then descended to Timothy's shoulder, muttering it to himself again. "Lovely bird."
Timothy hardly dared move, but he twisted ever so slightly until his right leg was well hidden beneath the table. Sam knew, but knowing and seeing were two different things. "Careful, he'll get a big head," he warned, and Sam laughed.
"Well, since I thought you might not make it to work today, I brought work here," Sam began, giving Timothy a sheet of paper and pencil, and opening the notebook.
Timothy took the paper, fighting to understand such generosity. Why would he do such a thing after seeing how weak he was? "But you could write it yourself, you know, and take all the profit home. I wasn't any help at all with the interviews."
"You had other things to attend to." Sam flicked through the notebook. "Such as that young lady in the frilly dress—who was she?"
"My cousin." Timothy couldn't believe Sam's implications. Court Prissy! He felt sorry for the man who was ever so blind as to fall into that trap. Being related to her without a choice was bad enough.
Sam's eyebrows lifted. "Oh." He found the page he was looking for. "Well then, the other—the servant—"
Timothy glanced at his mother in alarm. "—which has nothing whatever to do with the article we're writing! Stay on task, if you please."
Mrs. Wright chose that moment to offer the unexpected guest the hospitality of a leftover scone that everyone had been much too full to eat that morning. Before Timothy could warn him Sam said yes, and Timothy reflected that he'd soon see what the Elesolian was really made of. Only a truly iron constitution could digest his mother's scones. They weren't quite as hard as last time, but gravel was little better than paving stones.
Sam took a bite and winced, chewing bravely. "Delightful scones, madam," he said. Mrs. Wright smiled.
"You really can't stop lying, can you?" Timothy whispered, earning him a punch on the arm.
Sam swallowed a second bite with effort. "I'm in love; it makes me able to bear anything."
Timothy stared at him. "Good heavens, are you ill?"
"Edith Gladstone is a marvelous creature," Sam went on dreamily, and Timothy wondered if he had not better take possession of the notebook too, or if Sam could concentrate long enough to do anything useful. He was beginning to suspect Sam hadn't come for work as much as to sigh about his newest love interest.
"Marvelous creature!" St. Vincent croaked, preening himself with satisfaction.
Timothy shrugged him off and deposited him in the back of a nearby chair. "Not you, you conceited featherbed. Sam, are we going to work on the article, or—?"
Sam produced the model ear from his pocket, causing Timothy to jump. "I even showed her this, and do you know what she said?"
Timothy rubbed his forehead impatiently. "No, Sam, I don't."
"Not 'good evening' or 'go away'—she actually asked me how it worked!"
Timothy placed his palm flat on the table. "Sam, I'm happy for you, I really am, but we have work to do, and it's about prosaic things like factories and the children that work in them. So please, find it in yourself to concentrate for half an hour."
Something that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter rose from his mother's side of the room, and Timothy was relieved when Sam pushed the notebook in his direction, open to the notes from the night before.
"'Pastries: excellent,'" Timothy read. He looked up in disbelief.
"Keep reading," Sam folded his hands across his stomach composedly.
Timothy pushed the notes back towards their owner, suddenly terrified by the suspicion that the next thing he'd see would be Edith: marvelous. "You'd better have something to do, or else nothing but moor-wandering will cure you."
Sam took the notebook with a theatrical sigh and a look that made Timothy wonder if he was not the one being cured.
–––––––––
The names that Timothy calls St. Vincent were inspired by the creative insults used in the Redwall series by Brian Jacques.
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