Bird turns to his mother, waiting for a cue. To fight or to flee. To brace or to take cover. Margaret doesn’t move. A thousand scenarios flicker through her head, each worse than the last. Where Bird will be taken. Where they’ll take her. Stay calm, she tells herself. Think. But there is nowhere for them to hide, and even if she takes him by the hand and flees through the front, out into the street, where would they go, in the rain, in this city of strangers? Into whose hands?
Footsteps thud out in the darkened hallway. Someone trying to move quietly, and failing. And then the door to the living room creaks open. It’s the Duchess, in a black raincoat. Shaking the wet from her feet.
Fuck, Domi, Margaret says. You scared me.
She lets out her breath, and Bird finds this more unsettling than her profanity, even more than their unexpected guest: that his mother, too, could be frightened.
I couldn’t exactly ring the bell, could I, the Duchess says. Or call ahead.
She and Margaret exchange a shrug, and Bird understands: cell phones, of course, can be traced.
What time is it? Margaret asks.
Almost four.
I thought we said tomorrow morning.
The Duchess unzips the raincoat and peels it from one arm, then the other. With a glance she takes in the table, the litter of wire snippings and bottle caps and the shiny coins of the batteries.
So you’re still going through with it, she says.
Margaret stiffens. Of course, she says.
The Duchess’s gaze sweeps around the room like a searchlight, illuminating things Bird himself has barely even noticed. The garbage can in the corner, overflowing. The foam cup from yesterday’s noodles, still slick with oil, on the floor at Bird’s feet. Bird himself in three-day-old clothes, his hair unbrushed and untidy, half-obscuring his eyes.
I thought things might have changed, she says. Now that— Her eyes pause on Bird.
Nothing’s changed, Margaret says sharply.
The Duchess drapes her raincoat over the back of the armchair. As always she moves like a ship in full sail: puffed with purpose. She settles herself on the arm of the sofa, beside Margaret.
You can still change your mind, she says.
Margaret fiddles with the knob on the soldering iron, lifts it from its wire sheath, touches its tip to the damp sponge. It gives off a faint, resentful hiss.
It’s not just about me, she says. You know that.
Under the tip of the soldering iron a drop of molten metal shines silver, then dulls to gray. His mother’s eyes are shimmering, like sunlight speckles on wind-rippled water. They tighten and twitch, as if she can’t quite make them focus.
I have to, she goes on. I promised them. I owe it to— She hesitates. I owe this, she says.
The Duchess places a hand on top of hers, and Bird sees the tenderness there. The affection.
Margaret looks up, her eyes meeting the Duchess’s, and the Duchess sighs—not convinced, but resigned. I’ll come tomorrow morning and take Bird, then, she says.
Bird’s head jerks up. Take me, he demands. Take me where?
To see Sadie, Margaret says brightly. Domi will take the two of you out of the city. Just for one day. While I get this—she waves a hand at the table—this project under way.
Somewhere nice, Domi says. I think you’ll like it.
Why, Bird says. Unconvinced and wary.
His mother sets the soldering iron down, leans across the table, takes his hand in both of hers.
There are some things I have to do, she says. Which I can’t do with you here. Domi’ll take you, and bring you to Sadie, and then we’ll both come and fetch you back. Do you trust me?
Bird hesitates. On the table, the soldering iron lets off a thin curl of smoke. A hot scent, singed metal and pine. He looks at his mother, her hands calloused and rough. But still they are strong and warm and gentle on his. The same hands he remembers lifting a seedling from the soil, plucking an inchworm from his T-shirt and setting it in the grass. Almost by instinct, they align their hands together, finger to finger, palm to palm, the way they used to when making promises. Now his hands are nearly the size of hers. He looks at the deep brown pools of her eyes, and finally he sees her. His mother. She’s still there.
Okay, he says, and his mother closes her eyes, lets out a breath.
Tomorrow morning, she says, in Domi’s direction. Say ten o’clock. Come for him then.
She opens her eyes and peels her hand away, then picks up the dangling ends of the wires and crimps them savagely.
We don’t have much time left, she says. Still a lot to do.
By the time the Duchess leaves, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. As the afternoon begins to fade, Margaret snaps a lid onto the last cap. It is Wednesday. Tomorrow will be three years since she left home.