He raised his eyebrows. “How so?”
“Well, they’re published under his name, you see,” she said, peering down at her steps. She didn’t seem to notice that he still had hold of her hand, and he felt no need to bring it to her attention. Her slender fingers were cool in his. “He’s… well, he’s better able to sell the plays than I.”
“Why?”
She kicked a stone in the path. “He has better acquaintances. Better friends.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “He just is better at it, is all.”
He was silent, but felt confused. How did “better friends” make it easier to publish a play?
“My father was a porter,” she finally muttered, sounding faintly ashamed. “A common porter. Apparently he often fetched things for the actors in the theater where my mother was appearing. Costumes and props and a cooked hen for dinner and whatever else needed moving or fetching from one place to another. Oh, you know what a porter is.”
He squeezed her hand gently instead of replying.
She broke off a twig from a tree as they passed. “Edwin’s father was a lord—well, a lord’s son, which, compared to a porter, is much the same thing. Mama said my father couldn’t even read his own name. But he was handsome, so there’s that, I suppose.”
“You…” His damnable throat tried to close, but he forced the words out. “You did not… know… your father?”
She shook her head, glancing at him apologetically. “Mama had a great many lovers, I’m afraid, and none ever stayed long.” She inhaled and shook herself. “Anyway, Edwin’s been very helpful, taking my plays and finding where to sell them. He keeps some of the money and gives all the rest to me.”
“How much?”
“What?”
“You write… the plays—very good plays, I’ll… warrant—and he trots off… and sells them. How… much does he… pocket for such… hard work?”
She stiffened and attempted to pull her fingers from his.
He didn’t let her.
She glared, her lichen-green eyes sparking. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
He stopped and faced her. They were nearly at the pond, at the site where his oak had toppled. He’d found the lead branch broken from the fall and ordered a new tree, but it had not yet arrived. “How much?”
She held his gaze defiantly for a moment more and he couldn’t help but admire the way the late-afternoon sun’s rays made a nimbus around her face of the fine hairs escaping her coiffure.
Her eyes dropped. “Twenty-five percent.”
“Twenty-five percent.” His voice was flat, but inside he was horrified. “Does he know… you don’t have… acting work?”
“Yes, he knows, that was partly what we argued about.” She’d raised their joined hands to her chest level and was examining his fingers, probably appalled at the ingrained dirt. “I told him that I wanted him to take only twenty percent. But Edwin isn’t always very practical when it comes to money, you see.”
Apollo would bet his right hand that Edwin could be entirely practical when it came to his own money. “How do you… even know he’s… giving you the proper… amount?”
She looked up, startled, from his hand. “Edwin wouldn’t lie to me. You must understand.” Now she was holding his hand between her own two. “He… well, Mama drank gin, you see, and by the time I was born she was no longer very much in demand, either in the theater or with men, and it was hard for her.” She ducked her head, studying his fingers, spreading them against her own, comparing their lengths. His hand dwarfed hers. “Very hard. And later there was Maude, but when I was very small, all I had was Mama and Edwin. He made sure I had a place to sleep—for often we moved, from theater to theater or even from one rental room to another. He made sure I had food and clothes and taught me to read and write.” She curled her fingers into the spaces between his, tightening them as if she wouldn’t ever let go. “I owe him… everything, really.”
“Perhaps you… do,” he said softly, for he knew what it was to be beholden to someone who is unable to fully reciprocate one’s devotion. “But do you… owe him Indio’s life… as well?”
She looked up at him, her brows knit. “What do you mean?”
“Indio needs… food and clothes and… a place to sleep, doesn’t he?”
She nodded.
“Naturally… he does,” Apollo said. “And how… is he to have… all those things and… more if you let… your brother leech… from you?”
“I just…” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to hurt him. I know Edwin is fickle and cruel at times, but he’s my brother. I love him.”
“How can you not?” he replied, and brought their twined hands to his lips, kissing each of her fingertips one by one.