couple of hours after, knowing the gir
ls were safe in their morn-
ing chores. His body ached from holding its rigid sentinel position
on the peak of the roof yet again, and he felt the sort of bone-
weary tired he hadn’t since losing his mother.
All his vigilance haunted him, though. If one of them was
under the very roof he was watching from, how could he possibly
see everything he needed to?
He cut a chunk of yesterday’s bread, smearing some of Mrs.
Johnson’s strawberry preserves on it. He wanted something
weightier but was too tired to prepare anything. Turning to go
back to bed, he nearly ran into Thomas.
“What are you doing in here?” Thomas asked.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “The kitchen is off-limits to guests.
I am not a guest.”
Thomas’s shoulder stooped, then he straightened deliberately.
“Mrs. Johnson told me I was welcome to get whatever I needed,
whenever I needed it. I’m making tea.”
The dark circles under Thomas’s eyes told a story of more than
one sleepless night. With a sympathetic pang, Arthur wondered if
perhaps Thomas kept his own nightly vigil over his brother.
“Tea is in the pantry. Here, I’ll show you.” Turning, Arthur
opened the door and felt for the jars by memory.
They both heard footsteps outside the kitchen. Without think-
ing, Arthur grabbed Thomas and pulled him into the pantry,
closing the door so only a sliver remained for them to see out of.
“What?” Thomas whispered.
“No one should be down here yet.” Arthur was suddenly
embarrassed at this display. His first reaction was always to hide,
to watch unseen. He had no way to justify it to Thomas. Cringing,