Elijah's POV
I sit with my son at the piano bench, lovingly teaching him to play. It's slow going and frustrating, but I'm not about to give up on him just yet. I remember when my mother taught me. I wasn't a very good pupil.
"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf," I sing, and Philip's clear little voice echoes mine. This way he gets French and music studies at the same time.
I smile at him, and he squirms happily, almost falling off the bench. "Good!" I say, then continue. "Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf..."
He repeats it, and I change the line slightly. "Sept, huit, neuf..."
Adjusting to the flow of the music perfectly, Philip answers, "Sept, huit, neuf..."
"Sept, huit, neuf..."
"Sept, huit, neuf..."
Then the both of us sing the numbers again, this time in English. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!"
Hamilton's POV
Strains of my husband and son singing bleed through the walls, but I barely notice them as I sit at my desk, composing a letter while simultaneously stressing about my debt plan. After I finish, I read through my work with satisfaction.
My dearest, Angelica,
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day." I trust you'll understand the reference to another Scottish tragedy without my having to name the play.
They think me Macbeth, and ambition is my folly. I'm a polymath, a pain in the ass, a massive pain. And Madison is Banquo, Jefferson's Macduff, and Birnam Wood is Congress on its way to Dunsinane.
And there you are an ocean away. Do you have to live an ocean away? Thoughts of you subside, then I get another letter. I cannot put the notion away.
"Take a break," says a voice, frustrated. I look up and see Elijah standing above me, arms crossed over his body and his forehead creased. Dismissing him, I turn back to my work.
"I am on my way," I mutter absent-mindedly, already back in my own little world. It's not that I don't love my husband, it's that he never seems to understand what I'm trying to accomplish. Some of us were meant for more than this monotonous lifestyle.
Suddenly I feel the earth shift under me, and I sway violently, instantly alert. My head whips around, and I notice that he's simply pulled my chair back. Bending down, he makes eye contact with me and says clearly, "There's a little surprise before supper, and it cannot wait."
Waving my hand, I say, "I'll be there in just a minute, save my plate." I can feel Elijah's stare boring a hole through my magnificent brain in a moment of silence that is absolutely terrible.
Then: "Alexandra..."
Conceding, I throw my hands in the air and rise from my seat. "Okay, okay," I laugh, but there's no humour in the statement. We make our way down to the living room, where my son is waiting.
"Your son is nine years old today," Elijah says, in a much lighter tone than before, and behind him, Philip blushes furiously. "He has something he'd like to say. He's been practicing all day. Philip, take it away!"
He steps forward, keeping his eyes down and rubbing anxious circles into the palms of his hands. "Mummy, mummy, look," he mumbles, before starting the portion he made up all on his own.
"My name is Philip. I am a poet. I wrote this poem just to show it. And I just turned nine. You can write rhymes but you can't write mine." Philip says this all without emotion, all the while shaking in his shoes.
Then I chime in, "What?" I've never been so proud of my son as I am right now. He looks up, then melts into the happiest little boy I've ever seen.
"I practice French and play piano with my father!" he shouts happily, becoming more and more excited with every encouraging comment I make. "I have a sister but I want a little brother! My mummy's trying to start America's bank! Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq!" he yells, then attacks me in a giant hug before dashing off, no doubt to tell his sister what just happened.
As I watch him go, a hand presses gently on my shoulder. I turn, and see Elijah standing behind me, all frustration or malice or whatever gone from his face. Instead I see the caring and kind man I married.
"Take a break," he says softly, pulling me in for a soft kiss. I know he's worried about me, but I shrug it off. I can't afford to leave, what with the position I'm in.
Inspiration strikes. I pull away, then change the topic swiftly, exclaiming, "Hey, our kid is pretty great!"
Disappointment clouds my husband's face and I know I haven't fooled him. Grabbing my wrists, he persists, his concern evident in his mannerisms. "Run away with us for the summer, let's go upstate!"
I sag. He's making all of this so mush harder than it needs to be. I put my head in my hands to fend of the incoming headache and say, "Elijah, I've got so much on my plate. We've talked about this."
Hands explore my back, working at and dissolving the tense knots my muscles have twisted themselves into, and I can't help but sigh in relief. As he massages me, I hear him talk, the words hypnotic. "We can all go stay with our father. There's a lake I know..."
And again with the lake! It nearly breaks the spell he's put on me. We've had this discussion so many times that I can recite it by memory. "I know!" I growl, hating that stupid lake, and my loving husband, and Jefferson for being such an insufferable ass. But I also feel like crying, and Elijah's steady hands are just making me want to melt into them so I don't have to deal with the pains of my existence.
"In a nearby park..." GOOD GOD MAN! Forget about taking a break, how about you take a hint?
Rubbing my eyes, I say more kindly, "I'd love to go," despite the fact that I actually wouldn't really fancy it, and this situation, though stressful and undesirable, is a wonderful excuse not to go visit my well-meaning father-in-law.
Elijah pops his head over my shoulder and into the corner of my vision, and smiles a smile that melts my bones and turns me into a mass of goo. "You and I can go," he says, incredibly suggestive with his eyebrows, "when the night gets dark..."
I concede, grasping his hands and touching my forehead to his, forgetting my worries and that stupid lake. "I will try to get away," I promise, and he smiles softly once more before kissing me gently on the cheek.
As he stands and exits to put Philip to bed, I feel the secure feeling leave with him, leaving me alone and shivering with my thoughts.
Time skip
My dearest Alexandra,
You must get through to Jefferson. Sit down with him and compromise, don't stop until you agree. Your favourite older sister, Angelica, reminds you there's someone in your corner all the way across the sea.
In a letter I received from you two weeks ago, I noticed a comma in the middle of a phrase. It changed the meaning. Did you intend this? One strokes and you've consumed my waking days. It says: "My dearest Angelica," with a comma after "dearest." You've written, "My dearest, Angelica."
Anyway, all this to say. I'm coming home this summer at Elijah's invitation. I'll be there with your family if you make your way upstate. I know you're very busy, I know your work's important, but I'm crossing the ocean and I just can't wait.
You won't be an ocean away, you'll only be a moment away.
I smile down at her elegant handwriting, swift and cunning and witty, just like her. I bring the letter close to my heart, and her soft voice flows around me like steam, pulling me back from the precipice that I know I am perched on, saving me from the black abyss of broken dreams and fallen soldiers.
"Alexandra!" I hear my husband call, and I'm momentarily puzzled by the childish ecstasy in his voice. "Come downstairs! Angelica's arriving today!"
I tear myself away from my desk and papers, I trip down the stairs in my rush, and barely avoid landing flat on my face. At the foot of the stairs I hesitate, my eyes raking over Angelica, playing spot-the-difference. Suddenly I feel the most irrational insecurities grip me. She's not here for you, a nasty voice rasps in the back of my mind, and I shake my head to dislodge it, choosing to focus on the reunion in front of me.
My husband is embracing his sister, letting tears stroll leisurely down his cheeks. In a heartbreaking whisper, he says, "Angelica. It's been... too long." His voice breaks, and he leans in further.
Stroking his back, Angelica murmured comforting words into his ear, slowing his breathing back to its regular pulse and stopping his uncontrollable shaking. "Elijah. Elijah, it's okay. It's okay. It's all okay."
Finally I gather the courage to step into the light. "The Schuyler siblings," I sing, remembering that tune from a night out with the boys, although the memory is bittersweet, like most of my life seems doomed to be. Without Peter, the room is too small, too empty, too dark. I never knew how much we needed his vibrant energy and wardrobe.
She turns to me, and my heart stops. I see the thin veil of moisture shimmering over her amber eyes that she's desperately striving to hide. She says my name, and I feel something inside me break. "Alexandra..."
I smile, now trying to hide my own tears. All I manage is, "Hi."
Angelica lets go of Elijah and says, "It's good to see your face," as if she's talking to her brother, but I know a part of it is directed my way. I'm just left to wonder how much she means by it, if she thinks of me what I think of her.
"Angelica, tell my wife John Adams spends the summer with his family," Elijah says, and his statement saps me of all my strength. We're back on this. I told him I'd try, and I really did, but it wasn't enough.
Strapping on my fake happiness, I retort good-naturedly, "Angelica, tell this man John Adams doesn't have a real job anyways."
Immediately her face falls. "You're not joining us?" she asks, and I can taste the hurt in her statement. "Wait!" she begs, and I want to throw myself into the Hudson for what I have to say next.
"I'm afraid I cannot join you upstate," I explain, and turn my back to the two of them, calling on every scrap of strength I have to get me through this endeavour.
Angelica's not giving up. She moves to face me, and I see the cogs, wheels and bells toiling away behind her visage as she peels away every strip of what makes Alexandra who she is in an attempt to understand. I open my mouth to speak, but she places her hands around my face and I can't remember how to breathe.
"But Alexandra, I came all this way," She pleads. I stand, transfixed, praying to a God I've never asked anything of before to deliver me, or for a lightning bolt to strike me where I stand.
No divine intervention. I wish I could say I was surprised.
Well, I tried.
My husband walks to stand beside her, and everything immediately gets that much worse. "She came all this way," he says, and I want to scream. I know she did, and I was thinking how great it would be to see her again, but then y'all got to go and do something like this and my heart rate goes up and my breathing gets ragged and my hands get sweaty and I start panicking and hyperventilating, and HOLY SHIT I'M HYPERVENTILATING! (And I'm rambling, and do you know how bad that looks on papers? I mean, nothing says amateur like a run-on sentence, you know what I'm saying?)
"All this way..." Angelica finally drops her hands, and I feel the feeling come back into my cheekbones.
Both of them say together, "Take a break!"
Um, no. "You know I have to get my plan through Congress," I say, like it should be obvious, because it is! I mean, it's not like it's super important or anything!
"Run away with us for the summer, let's go upstate!"
I play another card, this time saying, "I lose my job if I don't get this job through Congress!"
The two of them don't even acknowledge me, they just keep on going. "We can all go stay with our father!"
Then they branch off and each does their own thing, and the only way for me to handle it is to tune it out. How does neither of them notice what this conversation is doing to me? I can't deal with this kind of pressure!
When they end, I look back up at them. "I have to get my plan through Congress."
Angelica goes to say something, but I cut her off, and something about my manner ends the debate once and for all. I've won.
"I can't stop until I get my plan through Congress."