Fantastic Hearts and When to Trust Them (2)

The Missing and the Alone

The next day Tina came to walk Celia home from class, as Newt was having further trouble with his wifflewings, and was immersed in something he couldn't pause. When Tina and Celia came down the stairs, Queenie and Newt sat opposite each other at his worktable, each propped forward on their elbows, Newt hunched over whatever Queenie held cupped in her hands. She kept a piece of her scarf over the head of the adolescent—judging by the feathers—wifflewing to discourage it from squirming. Celia had done that with the hens and the geese when she needed to work on them for one reason or another.

Celia stood off his shoulder, curious, and waited for him to tell her what he was doing. It looked like he was putting tiny stitches in leather bracelets halfway up the wifflewing's scaly legs.

"He's got spraddled legs," Newt eventually explained, and Celia wondered why he didn't use a magnifying glass. He'd cut one of her rubber bands and looked like he'd soon adjust it to a length to keep the wifflewing's legs from shooting out sideways.

"Ah." Once again Celia noticed how his hair flopped over his forehead, and returned to his workroom for her comb and a cup of water from the barrel. She then leaned over his side—his narrow shoulders poking up through his shirt—and began gently sorting out his stubborn hair.

He murmured, absentminded, "Concerned I'll reflect poorly on you?"

Celia smiled as she patiently dipped her comb back in the water, shook off the drops, and figured out which ways his hair naturally fell so she wouldn't have to push it against its nature. "Honey, all I care about your looks is that you look healthy."

He blinked. "W—well then why are you combing my hair?"

"Keeps it healthier, stronger. You won't go bald as young."

Celia caught Queenie and Tina smiling.

When Newt climbed out of his case the next morning, Celia was at the kitchen table writing letters with her address book open before her.

"What will you be learning today?" he wanted to know. He looked at the remaining layers of Celia's disorganized birthday cake, looked at the clock, and cut himself a piece regardless of the early hour.

Celia's eyes rolled up toward where he stood over the sink with his slice of cake in his hand, humored. "That depends," she drawled. "It is a Saturday."

Newt opened a cupboard to see the calendar inside, eyebrows raised. "I suppose I should be asking what your plans for the day are, then."

"You could ask," she mused, turning a page over and starting in on the back, pen flying.

His chewing slowed, and he turned to look at her over his shoulder, still bent over the sink in the event of crumbs.

Celia chuckled. "I'm teasing you, hon. I got no specific plans besides writing and mailing these letters. Oh, and I should check at the hotel and the post office to see if anything's come for me from the shop." She sighed.

"Do you know where the post office is?"

" 'Course I know where the post office is. They don't sell international stamps at the library."

"Oh. Well, perhaps we could take a walk sometime. There's a very nice park...."

Celia glanced up again, rereading her letter for anything she'd missed. "Yes," she said, "that would be nice. Weather providing."

"It isn't meant to rain today," he said, "though tomorrow is questionable."

"My only concern is that I didn't bring galoshes," she remarked. "Rain's never been something for me to turn my nose up at."