as kindred should

nineteen

Pip watched him dress as if she expected him to explode. In one hand she clutched her stuffed octopus, and in the other she held a small pink blanket in a vise grip. She had not made a noise today, had jumped when he'd closed his dresser drawer, and so Dorian clothed himself in near-silence, broken only by a steady stream of assurances.

It seemed to help, if only a little. At the very least she did not cry, and he hoped that that was a good sign.

His jacket was heavy. He felt it in every movement, in the way the hem brushed his thighs when he sat, in the grate of fabric against his scarred shoulder, in the finger-like press of the collar against the sides of his throat.

He wanted to tell her everything, wanted to ask her even more, but knew that to try would be insane. She could not speak. She could not even walk. How would she know what to say, what was wrong and what was right, how to vocalize what had happened in the Bowles house?

Dorian looked at her for a good, long minute, and she stared right back. The most he could manage was a half-hearted nod. Pip did not emote.

A soft knock. Pip whined. Dorian turned.

"What's your plan today?" Clara asked, concern barely concealed by a mask of brightness. Her voice was thick today, hoarse in the way of a long night of crying. Dorian gestured for her to come closer, and when she was within reach he pulled her into a sideways hug.

"I have work," he said. "For a bit. Then I have a funeral. Pip's father."

"Does her mother have a funeral today?"

Dorian shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think she'll have one for a while."

Clara looked at Pip, the veil of happiness burning like a scrap of dry paper. A wrinkle formed between her brows.

"What happens to her when all this is done?"

Dorian fiddled with his belt, looping it one length then tighter, so that the hard leather cut into his belly like a dulled blade. The pinch ushered away the vestiges of lousy sleep and summoned a wince, gone before it could manifest.

He sighed, smoothing wrinkles from the arms of his jacket.

"I suppose that, when this is all over and done, when everything's settled, I give her back. She has an uncle. His name is Christian. When he's gone through the process - and at this point I can't imagine it'll take more than a few weeks — Pip goes to him," Dorian said flatly, hoping that a lack of emotion would erase what burned inside of him: anger and resentment, fear and grief, like a cocktail made of fire.

"So you'll lose her?"

Dorian froze, his fingers stuttering over a button. The words were like a slap, though he knew Clara did not mean for them to sting. Such was the nature of life. Short, unintentionally cruel. He ruffled her hair with one big hand.

"Yes," he said softly. "Then I'll lose her."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just..."

"It's okay. I'll lose her, you're right. I'll have to learn to live with it."

And he would lose Clara, too. This time he would be at the airport, would be able to bid her goodbye on terms that bordered comfortable. He would not watch her and her siblings as the door shut behind them, would not break down the moment she was out of his sight. He would be an adult. He would face it with the courage he should have had so long ago.

A knock came from the front of the house.

"Could you answer that?" He asked, relieved to have a moment to gather himself.