Page 41 of Better in Black
Before they could protest, she had disappeared upstairs with an alacrity Thomas would not have thought possible in her fatigued state. He wondered if his own mother had been so eager to hand him off to just about anybody when he was a baby. He decided it was better not to know.
He carefully cradled Alice, who cooed at him, and wiggled his fingers experimentally. She dimpled. Alastair sat down on thechair Charlotte had vacated, and instinctively began bouncing Branwell on his knee, to the boy’s apparent delight.
“I say,” Alastair said after a moment. “These are much easier than a child who can walk on their own. I don’t think you’d put up with this bouncing for long, Zachary, but look how this one likes it. It’s like entertaining a puppy.”
Thomas realized that he’d rather instinctively begun rocking Alice back and forth. “Do puppies like being bounced up and down? I don’t think they do.”
“You poor boy,” Alastair said to Branwell. “You’ve been given your father’s last name as a first name.”
“Perhaps they decided it was only fair,” suggested Thomas, “since Henry gave up his own last name. And Branwell is a perfectly normal name. We could call him Wells for short. Wells Fairchild.”
“Sounds like a law firm,” said Alastair.
“And ‘Branwell Fairchild’ doesn’t?”
“If they both keep being good and not wailing,” said Alastair, “I’ll call them whatever they like. Zachary,” he added in the direction of the divan, “be a good boy yourself and stay there until the nanny comes, and then we’ll go get you that ice cream.”
“Alastair,” Thomas said, keeping his voice as calm as possible, “Zachary is no longer on the divan.”
Alastair stopped bouncing Branwell. “What?”
A crash echoed from nearby; Thomas and Alastair realized at about the same time where it had come from, and Alastair stood up in alarm.
“He’s downstairs,” he said grimly, “in the laboratory. The laboratory full of acids and knives and—”
He thrust Branwell at Thomas, who had to rapidly but carefullyjuggle both babies into being comfortably held, the way Charlotte had been holding them. By the time he’d got them both upright (and looking at one another in puzzlement), Alastair was already thumping down the laboratory stairs at a clip. Thomas followed, holding both twins, at a much more careful pace.
From halfway down the stairs Thomas could see into Henry’s lab. Zachary was immediately evident as a small whirlwind rocketing his way around the room, too excited by all the wonderful, fragile, dangerous objects to even choose which one to smash into next.
“Come back here!” Alastair cried.
The only meaningful effect this had was that Zachary clambered up onto a chair and then onto one of Henry’s worktables, giggling in a way that Thomas could only describe as maniacal.
“This is very bad behavior,” Thomas whispered to the twins in his arms. “Definitely you two should never do this.”
“Get down from there,” Alastair ordered firmly.
In answer, Zachary grabbed a pair of scissors in one hand and a magnifying lens in the other, and immediately threw them to the floor. This was clearly the most fun he’d had since his mother had dropped him off.
“No, Zachary,” Alastair said, his voice even more severe, but no more effective. Zachary picked up a corked metal flask of liquid and it joined its brothers the scissors and lens on the floor with a loud clank.
“Alastair,” Thomas said as urgently as he dared, “you can’t just yell at him; you have to go pick him up!”
To his credit, Alastair took this advice and crossed the room toward his brother. Before he could get there, Zachary had seized up what looked like an ornate silver mirror with slightly cloudyglass. He held it up, blinking at his reflection—orwasthat his reflection? Thomas only had a second to note the twisted, roiling silver skein within the glass, which broke apart to show a face that certainly was not baby Zachary’s—
There was a flash of light that filled the room, briefly blinding everyone.
Both of the twins had started to cry and wriggle, but Thomas couldn’t address that problem yet. On the table where Zachary had been now sat a middle-aged man who looked a little like Alastair (dark hair, long lashes) and a little like Cordelia (wide eyes, stubborn mouth), with an expression that reminded Thomas of their father, Elias. Unlike any of those three, the man sported a narrow mustache in the modern style, and was wearing a natty pinstriped suit.
“By Jove,” the man cried, over the sound of the twins’ wailing. “What in God’s name is going on here? Who are you? Why am I perched up here like an imbecile? And why are those two creatures crying?” He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed gently at his face. “Why am I crying?” he added, incredulous.
Alastair was staring, his pupils wide. “Are you—what’s your name?”
“Zachary,” said the man, which did not so much surprise Thomas as sink his heart into his shoes. “Zachary Carstairs, not that it’s any of your business.”
“It is,” Alastair said, hoarsely. “You’re my little brother.”
The man snorted contemptuously. “Don’t be absurd. You’re younger than I am. And I hardly ever see my brother.”
