When the Colonel Came to the Estate

Wesley reached toward us, then stopped before touching my arm.

The restraint mattered.

“Can I hold her?” he asked.

Yesterday, I might have handed her over automatically.

Today, I looked at him for a long moment.

“Not yet,” I said softly.

Pain crossed his face, but he nodded.

“Okay.”

That single acceptance, without argument, was the first useful thing he had done since the party began to fracture.

Margaret signed eventually.

Her signature was sharp enough to tear the paper.

Dana witnessed it.

Charles signed too, though the rules were not addressed to him, and then Wesley added his name without being asked.

When he finished, he removed something from his jacket pocket: the apron Margaret had given me two Christmases earlier, folded into a square.

Know Your Rank, the embroidery said in cheerful red thread.

My throat tightened.

“I found it in the hall closet,” he said. “I kept telling myself it was harmless because you never complained. That was convenient, not true.”