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If she had the chance, she would’ve blamed her poor eyesight. Only her eyesight has never been sharper.
So she resorts to blaming her maternal instinct, of which she has plenty, made so much stronger now that James is engaged to Lily and Sirius has moved into his own little flat. Their moving out of home is nothing like their leaving to Hogwarts. When they went to school, they left a pre-emptive silence in their wake; one that would be shattered by their barging back into the house. But now, there’s a permanent stillness, barely stirred by their sporadic visits, that makes her seek their shadows in strangers walking down the streets.
Which is exactly what happened three minutes ago, when she caught that familiar frame and that head of black hair.
‘Sirius!’ said Effie, cheerfully whirring the boy around to face her. ‘Didn’t think I’d run into you…’
Oh.
Her heart sinks.
Quickly, she scours for a name.
‘Regulus, is it, dear?’ tries Effie. ‘You look an awful lot like him. I’m Effie—’ she says quickly, realizing he probably has no idea who she is and why she’s assaulted him. ‘Short for Euphemia, but nobody calls me that. Rather unfortunate since I do rather like the name. You barely find any Euphemias. Mrs Potter,’ she adds, remembering, with a wince, that he’s probably seen her King’s Cross and surely must’ve recognized her. ‘James’ Mum,’ she adds again, out of habit. ‘Regulus, dear, is it? Yes, an awful lot like Sirius. I didn’t even think twice.’
It he were Sirius, he would’ve rambled along with her. Always good for a conversation, that one. This one, on the other hand.
‘I know,’ says Regulus, finally, after a heartbeat of silence. ‘Who you are, I mean. I remember you from King’s Cross.’
‘Of course. You were a tiny little thing. Look at you now.’ Gaunt and pale, with bruised eyes and bitten nails. ’It’s like the world’s spun to a time turner with the rate it’s going at. Are you keeping well, dear?’
He offers her a wince. He then offers her an excuse. ‘I’m running late—‘
‘It’s good I ran into you. You see, I was on my way to a little coffeeshop— Monty’s waiting for me there— only it’s been awful with this crowd. My eyesight isn’t what it’s used to be and I’ve made the wrong turn more than once. I hope it’s no trouble, but would you mind terribly helping a doddering old woman?’
Not that she considers herself an old woman at all. She’s always been spritely.
She can feel his reluctance. But rigid upbringing and impeccable manners will out. Regulus schools his face and nods. She half-expects him to offer her his arm.
‘Where is it?’
Effie thinks of the farthest shop down Diagon Alley. ‘Taffles. By the crossing.’
She takes the chance to study him as they walk. Hunched shoulders and dull hair. The image of a handsome boy, now reduced to shadows. He’s an inch taller than Sirius, with thicker brows and a thinner nose. He takes after his father. Sirius, with his expressive mouth and broad shoulders, takes after his mother.
‘Cold night,’ she offers conversationally. ‘Bit nippier than usual, this December. There’s rumors we’ll be having a white Christmas this year, which I wouldn’t mind. I do love seeing the seasons set in. Were you getting in some last minute Christmas shopping?’
‘No.’
‘People watching then?’
He gives her an odd look.
‘I do enjoy it,’ says Effie. ‘Seeing people out and about buying all sorts.’
‘With you poor eyesight?’
She doesn’t stumble. ‘It comes and goes, you see.’
Regulus raises his brows, deadpan.
‘You’ll understand when you’re my age dear. Enjoy the sweet luxuries of your youth while you still can.’ She adjusts her scarf. ‘It’s your final year at school, isn’t it, love?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seventh year. Always a tough one.’
‘Hm.’
‘Any ideas as to what you’d like to do when you’re done?’
‘No.’
‘Surely you’ve something in mind?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, things always sort out in the end. They always do.’
Regulus visibly swallows.
Taffles sits at a cramped corner, windows decorated with winter lights. Cinnamon and nutmeg waft through the peeling, orange door, a lovely come inside! hanging off the brass doorknob. Effie makes a show of searching for Monty (knowing full well he’s at Quality Quidditch Supplies, collecting James’ custom-made Christmas present) and an even bigger show of looking distressed.
‘Won’t you wait with me, darling?’ says Effie, already ushering him to the cosy little table by the window. ‘His eyesight is just as horrible as mine and wouldn’t it be a laugh if we missed each other? He shouldn’t be too far along. Knowing him, he’s probably at the loo. The cold weather never does anyone’s bladder a favor. Sit, sit,’ she says, ‘let’s get us something nice and warm to drink.’
‘I really—’
‘Nonsense,’ says Effie, even though she has no idea what he wants to say. ‘My treat. Do you like hot cocoa? I, personally, don’t, but they’re rather good here. Or else, a nice honeycomb brittle— yes, I think that would do nicely. Shall we go for two? Let’s. Excuse me?’ she calls the waitress.
Regulus watches her theatrics like a toddler watches the massacring of his pet kitten. Any moment, and she expects him to suddenly get up and bolt. But something in him concedes, and, with painful acceptance, he loosens his shoulders and sinks into his chair. He picks at his fingernails and she studies the brush of his lashes on his sunken cheeks.
Barely eighteen. A child.
Her heart twinges.
She wants to ask him if everything’s alright because she knows everything is not.
The look in his eyes had frightened her.
‘An extra spoon of honey,’ says Effie, mixing his drink when it arrives, and then her own. ‘For more depth.’
It had been full of despair.
Effie sends a quick tracking charm under the table so that Monty would know where to find her. He comes within the hour, after she’s exhausted every bit of small-talk out of the ghostly young wizard she’s holding hostage.
‘Sirius, old chap!’ says Monty, clapping Regulus on the shoulder. It results in a spilled drink, clattering cutlery, and Monty squinting. ’No, no! Not Sirius at all. Not collecting lookalikes are you, Effie? Merlin knows one of that boy’s enough.’
Effie catches the catastrophic look on Regulus’ face and tries to salvage what she can.
‘Regulus, darling, wait—’
But he’s already pulling on his coat. ‘Thank you for the—’ waves a nondescript hand. ‘Goodnight.’
He leaves and the cafe door slams shut. Monty frowns.
‘What was that about?’ Then: ‘Was that the younger one?’
‘That’s the younger one,’ sighs Effie, sitting back down. ‘Poor thing.’
Monty sits opposite her and peers into Regulus’ mug of untouched honey-brittle. He casts a warming charm and the milk bubbles up to the rim.
‘Didn’t he look dreadful?’ says Effie.
‘Didn’t he make a run for it is the question.’ Her comment sinks in. Monty fixes her with a stern look. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He’s a child.’
‘A dangerous child.’
‘Oh, Monty—’
‘Don’t you start.’ He folds his menu and leans close. ‘With the war on one side and disappearances on the other, the last thing we need is to coddle you-know-whats we pick off the street. These are perilous times. How certain families use their children is none of our concern and not our responsibility. And not just any family, but the Blacks. We know, firsthand, what they’re like, and if it weren’t for this war, we’d be at the magical courts this very minute for kidnapping their heir.’
‘They were never serious about the allegation,’ huffs Effie. ‘Walburga’s all bark and no bite.’
‘Orion, on the other hand, was bite, pure and simple.’
‘Lord rest his soul.’
Monty gives her an exasperated shake of the head.
‘Point being,’ he says. ‘He’s poorly and dreadful now, but Blacks rear scorpions. Push him, and he’ll sting. And if you want proof, there’s Sirius himself, and he’s the best of the litter.’
’Sirius is a sweetheart,’ says Effie, aghast.
‘A sweetheart who can be vicious when cornered.’
‘And good for him,’ because the thought of someone cornering Sirius makes her heart twist. He carries a bittersweetness to him, no matter where he goes. She remembers him at twelve-years-old, and then at fourteen, and then at sixteen: sobbing into his hands, breaths wracking out of his chest, words lost to tears. It was always my family, family, family, tinged by the hurt of abandonment and the thwarted dismissal of neglect.
It’s not stalking if one’s house-self (who may or may not have been instructed to stand by the lamppost across Number 12 Grimmauld Place and take in the views) happened to notice the comings and goings of one lanky noble-blooded teenager. It’s not stalking if said house-elf simply relayed the coincidence of how similar said lanky teenager seemed to their very own Sirius Black (only a tad bit down and rather wilted) alongside the expected time of departure, arrival, leg-span and walking speed. And it’s definitely not stalking if Effie, who coincidentally had an errand to run in London, walked past Number 12 Grimmauld Place at the exact same time that Pinky assured her she would run into said lanky teenager, resulting in a rather fateful run-in of utter chance.
‘Oh! We meet again! Twice in one week, who would have thought? I was running a few errands and was side-tracked by the shops. I haven’t the foggiest how I ended up here. Chilly day, isn’t it? Not a bit of frost in sight, and that’ll mean snow, you know. What are you doing here, love?’
Apart from looking at her as though she spawned two heads, that is.
Regulus manages a muttered: ‘walking.’
‘I love a good walk,’ agrees Effie. ‘And I also love a good cup of tea. I’ve my eye on that little cafe over there, the one with the decorated balcony. I love it when they string lights all over the railings. Well then, if you’re not too busy, I believe you owe me a drink. Off we go. Oh, come on now, don’t give me that look. You can’t have a lady sit all alone in public, not when there’s a dashing young fellow to lead her in. Come on now.’
He must’ve taken that comment to heart because, this time, he offers her his arm. Effie giggles, surprising herself. It also surprises Regulus, who simply flushes and looks down at his shoes.
The cafe is a quaint thing with painted teacups and freshly baked loafs. She spots cinnamon sponge with dustings of chocolate, softened lemon swirls with vanilla cream, and candied orange peels in crispy bake of honey and spice. It’s all unmistakably muggle. Regulus sits opposite her, picking at his thumb.
‘He’s my date,’ says Effie when the waitress comes for their order.
The waitress is bug-eyed.
‘She’s joking,’ says Regulus
And Effie allows herself an indulgent laugh. She doesn’t miss the small smile on his face, even though it disappears as quickly as it comes.
She orders them a pot of tea and a slice of lavender sponge.
‘Joking aside, I hope you’ve made room for some healthy romance?’ says Effie, spreading her napkin across her lap. ‘Exams and studies are important, but intimacy is equally important. Are there any lucky girls?’
’No.’
‘Boys, then?’
‘No.’
‘Neither?’
‘I’m not very interested.’
‘Well, that’s quite alright too. Though— Monty might disagree with me— but in this day and age, I don’t think there’s any harm in good dose of experimentation. You do know what I mean, dear, don’t you?’
He looks a bit annoyed at that. ‘I’m not five.’
‘I’m just making sure. You’ve a lovely innocence about you, is all. Handsome young man like yourself. Though, I do think that time is equally important. There’s no shame in waiting. And no shame in not trying anything at all, until one is ready. This may give you an idea of my age, but back my day, it was all done on paper before it was done in-person. Why, I hadn’t even kissed Monty before we were wed. And you can certainly imagine what the honeymoon was like.’
He looks openly confused as she blathers on about her two-week getaway to the south of France, how awkward it had been with a man she barely knew, and how terrible it had been in a country where she couldn’t speak the language. But his confusion turns to a tired form of curiosity, one that makes her think he’d enjoy this kind of wandering conversation if he weren’t so miserable. He actually drinks his tea (after adding five— five!— spoons of sugar), manages a bite out of the cake and, to her surprise, pays for the both of them with the muggle money in his pocket.
Well then. There’s a rebel in every Black.
‘I’ll walk you?’ offers Regulus.
‘That would be very kind.’
‘Keeping your eyesight in mind.’
Effie grins. ‘Very considerate.’
He knows his way around, taking her through narrow lanes and little courtyards. They reach a small floo spot just beside a sandwich deli.
‘I take it you’re a bit of a walker, aren’t you?’
Regulus shrugs. He hesitates before a resigned expression falls over his face. He opens his mouth to say something but Effie cuts him off.
‘Walking in the countryside is truly something. I don’t mean to boast, but our estate is beautiful, especially this time of year. There’s a gorgeous path through the forest that takes you to the local village. Oh! They’re hosting a lighting of the Christmas tree this week. I usually walk it from the estate and buy a nice drink at the local pub with all the other villagers. Do pop in. I would certainly appreciate the company. When it comes to social events, Monty is an absolute bore and his knees aren’t what they used to be. Just a minute now— I have a little notepad somewhere— Ah. Here’s the address.’ She tears it out and stuffs it into his breast pocket. ‘This Friday. Come an hour early. It’ll give us plenty of time to smell the winter roses on the way.’
Before he has a chance to refuse, she pats his cheek with her mittened hand and steps into the floo.
To her utter relief, Regulus Black steps out of the floo and into her garden shed. It’s a small, cluttered room filled with pots, potions and spell books. She has a wrought iron table and chair beside the furnace, surfaces covered in towers of forgotten cups of tea and stacks of stained silverware. Wearily, he brushes the soot off his navy hoodie, having opted for a more casual set of clothes rather than his usual wizarding garb. It suits him, and Effie says so, brushing the ash off his hair.
She wears a heavy jacket over her knit sweater, with a matching pair of socks peaking over the rim of her boots. She decides that his scarf is too thin and drapes a thicker one of hers around his neck. She also decides that his gloves aren’t warm enough and replaces them with a heavier pair, lined with fleece.
When he protests, saying that a simple warming charm will more than suffice, she shushes him, ‘the cold is to be enjoyed as it is: all bundled up rather than enchanted away.’
Effie slips her arm through his and pulls him into a walk.
Not before running back into the shed and fetching him a woolen hat.
(He protests against the pompoms but gives in when she begins rambling about frostbite.)
Snow covers most of the countryside, the forests powdered and the lakes iced into silver coins. Effie sends a little wisp of light down the trail, allowing it to guide them.
Though he remains reserved, he isn’t as tense as he was in Diagon Alley.
She points out a few of the local flora, most of which are magical and sprouting, and uncovers a few buried roses, their scent a pleasant whiff of spring against the winter snow.
It’s busy down at the village center and, though she likes a round of chitchat and local gossip, forsakes it for a comfortable booth at the pub. She orders mulled wine and a pot of stew, and hums to the carols of the local band. When a couplet promises inspiration, she pulls out her little notepad and jots it down.
‘You keep a pen and paper?’ asks Regulus.
He hasn’t touched his stew, but he wraps his hands around his wine.
‘Of course. I’m a novelist, you see.’
‘Really?’
‘Not officially now. I’ve only started dabbling in the arts last year. I’ve a draft at home. At the shed, actually, where you walked in. That little hut is my creative palace. It’s bits of me, everywhere, and it’s all mine. From the pots and gardening potions to the bits of tat and forgotten teacups. Monty’s all about order but I like a mess every now and then. Are you much of a reader?’
‘Not really.’
‘Nonsense. My draft will pull you back into the loop.’
It’s dark on the walk back. The skies are bright with stars. Astronomy was never her strongest subject and Regulus says that it’s not his either. He never liked Potions (‘too murky’) nor does he like Ancient Runes (‘complicated for no good reason’). Maybe Charms (‘it’s interesting’) and maybe Transfigurations (‘it makes sense’).
He takes off the woolly hat the moment they step into her garden shed. She pulls out a draft of her novel from a cupboard and shoves it into his hands.
Effie busies herself with the kettle on the little stove by the window, humming to the tune of the wind. Outside, the weather has taken a turn.
It takes a while for the tea to boil. She pulls out a tin of biscuits and brings the set to her rickety table.
‘What do you think?’ asks Effie.
‘Well, it’s… descriptive.’
‘I know.’
‘And… um.’
‘Go on.’
‘I mean…’
‘Don’t be shy; I need the critique.’
‘Do people actually read this sort of thing?’
‘Darling, you’d be very surprised. My book club in St. Albans goes through explicit erotica like a hippogriff goes through freshly caught weasels. It’s what’s inspired my writing journey.’
‘Oh.’
‘Has it inspired yours?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Don’t cross it off so soon,’ she laughs and, with a whirl of her wand, creates a copy. ‘That’s for you to keep and read. I’m expecting a thorough review. It’s not everyday I can get the insights of the younger generation.’
He laughs a little. It’s a soft, subdued sound, so unlike Sirius’ boisterous barking. It makes her want to brush his hair and hug him.
Effie settles for a pat on his pale hand instead. And then squeezes his fingers for good measure.
‘Thank you,’ says Regulus tentatively. ‘For the walk and…’
‘And?’
‘The company.’
’No, thank you. For the indulgence.’
‘I haven’t been much use to anyone for a while, so I’m glad.’
‘We don’t need to be useful to matter. We just need to be.’
She hopes for a reaction, but Regulus only shrugs. He looks around the room as though etching it to memory.
‘I should be going.’
‘Not in this storm.’
‘I’ll take the floo.’
‘We’ve had it sealed for the evenings. A security measure, what with the chaos happening across the country. I’m afraid it won’t be operational until tomorrow morning.’
Effie puts on her best apologetic look. Regulus stares at her, sensing the trap.
‘I’ll get you some spare clothes. I’m sure we’ve things lying around that are your size. Come now, dear, don’t look at me like that. An overnight stay in the countryside isn’t a scary as it sounds.’
Monty’s always been a night owl.
Effie had tried to convert him to her heathen early morning ways, of course. Every few years her motivation would spike and he would have no choice but to put his head down and simply get through her delusional attempts. She’d give up after a week of his poor temper and sluggish conversation, and he’d go back to his blissful routine of solitary evenings by the fire, a fresh pinch of tobacco in his pipe, listening to the countryside rain.
He expected tonight to be no different (only there’s a storm raging outside) until he hears an infernal clanging in the basement.
‘What in the world,’ he mutters, and readies his wand. He catches sight of a moving shadow (a stray?) and aims—
Pulling back the spell.
He sends a spear of light into one of the lanterns, illuminating the room. Regulus Black stands by the broom closet, a mess of splintered broomsticks at his feet. They curl like snakes on the floor, the old wood having long lost their enchantments. The one he holds, however, seems to be the best of the bunch. Not quite faded, but well on its way, bristles mottled at the tips.
‘I’ll send it back,’ says the boy.
He looks like a cornered animal, hairs standing on end. His eyes are wide and frightened.
Monty’s never seen such an expression on a child.
‘You’re mad if you’re thinking I’m letting you out in this storm,’ says Monty. ‘You’ll be blown across the channel, with the winds howling as they are. Tomorrow’s a few hours away.’
‘No. I can’t. I have to leave.’
‘Have some sense, boy.’
‘No.’
‘It’s a storm. And it’s the middle of the night.’
But the boy stares as though Monty were the mad one.
When Effie dragged Regulus Black into the house, chittering on about writing clubs and floo powder, Monty had been frustrated. There she goes again, he had thought, doing as she likes, however she likes, with no thought as to how it could harm them. And when he tried to say as much in the privacy of their bedroom, Effie rounded on him, said something about family, and then flounced off to find a spare set of clothes.
‘And where is it you’re planning on flying to? You won’t reach London on that broom. Not until next week.’
The boy doesn’t say anything.
‘Unless you’ve no interest in reaching anywhere.’
The boy flinches.
Monty feels his heart drop. ‘Come now, boy,’ he says gruffly, gesturing for him to get away from the door. ‘Let’s not act foolishly now.’
The boy doesn’t cooperate.
It’s easy to be hard-hearted when the politics are on the paper. It’s much harder when it’s in the flesh.
They go back and forth for a while, with Monty demanding he reconsider and Regulus Black (infuriatingly) saying no. He tries a different tactic, suggesting that Regulus wear a thicker jacket first so Monty might allow him through. Regulus relents and, when Monty insists he follow him to the wardrobe down the hall, obeys.
He pulls out a coat and holds it in both hands. It’s one of James’.
‘What would your family think,’ says Monty, ‘of such brash behavior?’
‘My father’s dead, my mother’s mad and my brother doesn’t exist,’ says the boy, all too easily. ‘Doubt they’d think much.’
‘What would Effie think,’ he counters, ‘of a guest that turned his nose at her hospitality?’
He gets no response.
Good. It means he’s found a wedge.
‘She’d be hurt,’ says Monty. ‘Disappointed. Wondering if her faith had been misplaced.’
‘I’d say it is. And I reckon you think it too.’
‘Perhaps. But I was proven wrong once. I won’t be surprised if I’m proven wrong again.’ He sets the coat aside. ‘Come now, boy. Disappearances bring no mourners. You’ll get no satisfaction.’
‘Satisfaction?’ and the boy is distant again. ‘I’m not Sirius. I don’t chase spectacles.’
He’s going to leave. Dear Merlin, he’s going to leave and Monty will have to watch him go.
He tries to think of a hex— anything to chain the boy to the grounds— but his mind draws up blank.
‘What’s going on here?’ says Effie.
And he is filled with relief.
Regulus visibly stiffens.
She’s in her nightgown and slippers, taking in the mess of brooms and the gaping wardrobe.
‘That won’t do,’ says Effie, as though it were every night she finds her guest and husband in the shadowed halls of the Potter basement. ‘A spot of tea and some toast will fix all this. Raspberry or marmalade?’
If Monty is confused then Regulus is flabbergasted. He barely opens his mouth before Effie loops her around around his and drags him up the stairs. He protests— of course he does— but there’s nothing of that flat-toned spite he had aimed at Monty. With Effie, he is subdued and stuttering.
Monty follows, watching his wife expertly decant the lanky teenager in the kitchen and toss away the broom. She conjures a blanket and wraps it around the boy’s narrow shoulders, chiding him for walking around in the cold. She has the kettle boiling in no time, slathering hefty amounts of butter onto a golden loaf. She smears a dollop of raspberry for herself and a smear of marmalade for the boy, sitting down beside him, fully intent on watching him eat.
Monty’s afraid she’s pushing it. He expects the boy to lash out.
But the boy’s shoulders droop and he picks at the crusts. Effie pours him a large cup of tea.
‘Monty? Will you be joining us?’
He mutters about a smoke in the living room.
A bit too much of a sweet tooth, thinks Effie, as Regulus spoons more sugar to his tea.
In her kitchen, he looks both out of place and exactly where he is meant to be. The plaid jumper and blue throw blanket don’t suit him at all. Nor do the cosy interiors, with its rustic tiling and wooden countertops. But his bony fingers wrap nicely around his mug and, even though he eats very slowly, she knows that a good feeding is what’ll make him right.
He doesn’t protest when she pours him another cup of tea, nor does he protest when she offers (announces) to make an early breakfast. She makes pancakes and eggs and bacon, fills a large glass with orange juice, and slathers another golden loaf with butter and fruit. He looks nauseous at first and only starts eating when she encouragingly picks at his plate.
A full belly, misery and exhaustion finally takes its toll on him and he sleeps on the living room sofa by the fire. He wakes up around sunset, groggy and confused, just in time for dinner. She plants a plate full of carved chicken, vegetables, potatoes and gravy on his lap and, when he tries to suggest leaving, brings him a bowl of bread pudding garnished with walnuts. He sleeps until dawn and she wakes up to the sound of a shower running. She catches him in the kitchen, still quite gaunt, but not as hollow as he had been when she first dragged him into the house. He allows her to take his measurements and he finishes most of his breakfast.
‘Won’t you stay for Christmas?’ says Effie, trying to match the best colour yarn to his skin tone.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he says, in that deflated way of his.
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Put in the same room, Sirius and I have a habit of ruining a good mood.’
‘What’s Christmas without a little chaos?’
He tries to smile.
She knows she can’t keep him hostage any longer. After breakfast, she escorts him to her shed. He allows her to hug him goodbye and, to her credit, he hesitates by the floo.
‘You’re welcome back anytime,’ says Effie gently.
He looks a tad bit nervous but he nods, stepping into the flames.
She doesn’t know how rude it is to turn up, uninvited, at someone’s house on Christmas Day. But the boys are flooing it at noon and she has everything prepared for tonight’s dinner.
Effie carries a canvas bag stuffed with tins of freshly baked mince pies and a delicately wrapped knit jumper. She knows how to find Number 12 because Sirius had written the address for her once. It squeezes through Number 11 and 13, windows popping out like daisies and the grand, black door glistening in the morning light. She knocks and waits, her velveteen shoes stained by the sludge of snow.
A crooked little house-elf opens the door. When she mentions Regulus Black, he brightens.
It’s a dismal house. Though clean, it is unbearably soulless. The portraits stare and the mirrors whisper. She can feel the weight of the enchantments.
Effie follows the house-elf into a little drawing room. He instructs her to wait and disappears in a crack. But curiosity has always gotten the better of her and so she steps out in the hall, taking in the narrow kitchen just across.
‘Sirius?’ says a raspy voice. ’Sirius, is that you?’
There’s another room just around the staircase. Oval-shaped and surrounded by windows. A plush armchair, its back to the door, seems to have been moved into the center of the room, probably with the intention of having its occupant bask in the morning sunlight. But with the curtains drawn and the hearth dry, it is as suffocating as a grave.
‘No, Mother,’ says Regulus gently. He moves around Effie and kneels by his mother’s chair. He takes her withered hand. ‘It’s Regulus.’
‘Sirius?’ whispers Walburga. ‘You came back. I was so worried.’
‘Let’s get you upstairs. You haven’t slept all night.’
‘I was waiting for you. I couldn’t sleep. I was worried sick. You were always so heartless with your poor mama.’ He helps her stand, keeping an arm around her waist the other at her elbow. She was once a domineering woman, Walburga Black. Now, she barely comes up to her youngest son’s shoulders, her back hunched and her shoulders stooped with defeat. ’I don’t want to hear apologies. Merlin knows I’ve had enough of them. Sorry about your husband. Sorry about your son. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Like it’s going to make any difference. Is the portrait done? I’m so tired of talking. When did you come home? Have you seen Regulus? He’s not dead, is he? Drowned, they say. That he’s drowned. That’s not true, is it? He’s just a boy. He’s too young to drown.’
‘I’m right here,’ says Regulus.
They’re halfway up the stairs.
‘Are you? Such a good boy. Better than your brother. Shame of my flesh. I should’ve smothered him in his crib. Did he come home yet? Is he back from school? Sick and tired of waiting. I’m so tired. So tired of waiting.’
Their voices fade. Effie stands in the hall, wringing her hands.
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ she begins.
‘Nonsense,’ says Regulus, when he returns. ‘You’re a welcome sight. It’s my turn, I think, to make us some tea.’
He leads her to the kitchen.
Effie sits by the stove and watches him fill a kettle.
‘She’s quite harmless now,’ says Regulus.
‘Yes,’ says Effie. She sighs. ‘I can see that.’
‘He’s just like her. Sirius. That’s why they never got along.’ Regulus pulls out two matching cups and sets them on a tray. He also brings out a sugar bowl. ’They used to snipe and bicker and argue in the same way. Grudges and snide remarks. He made it his goal to rile her up and she made it her goal to rile him up. A battle with no winners. They needed an audience of course. Father used to slink away. I would, too. Until they’d latch. They always needed someone to pick a side. If I didn’t pick Mother, I was a bad son. If I didn’t pick Sirius, I was a bad brother. As if those titles meant anything to them.’
He adds a curl of cinnamon in the kettle.
‘I’ve read your script. Or, your novel, rather. I’ve enjoyed it.’
‘Oh. I’m glad to hear it.’
‘I’ve…’ He looks around the room before selecting a cabinet. He opens it and pulls out the manuscript itself. ‘I’ve added some suggestions. Just things I thought about. I thought you might want to…’
Effie brightens. Well. ‘Does this make you my editor?’
‘It’s… I didn’t really add much.’
‘It’s certainly enough to add your name to the acknowledgements.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Nonsense! Credit must be given where credit is due.’
‘If it were any other kind of novel, maybe.’
‘But it was this kind of novel that got you out of a slump.’ She flicks through the pages, taking in his spidery scribbling at the margins. ‘No shame in our little obsessions.’
‘Obsession would be a stretch.’
‘That’s what you think. But now that you’ve started one, you’ll find yourself craving another. I’ve told you about the book club down at St Albans. We’re doing our first meeting on the 3rd. We’ll make a trip out of it: breakfast in London and then a nice scenic train to the village. There’s a handy floo stop just by the Brasserie at Covent Garden. Their jams are simply divine.’
The kettle sings.
He pours them two cups and Effie pulls out a tin of mince pies.
They talk (well, Effie talks) about the weather, Christmas cooking and Monty. There’s a lot being said about the new shows in the London theaters and she’s always wanted to go. But Monty doesn’t like the city and, at this age, he’s so set in his ways it’s difficult to stop him from taking his afternoon nap let alone spend the entire evening out and about. She’s just about to bring up the new fad with tap-dancing Christmas trees before she remembers his Christmas present.
‘Now, knitting,’ says Effie, ‘is something I’ve been doing for years. I’m quite famous down at the village. My two-toned double-knot is a thing of legends. See how it’s interwoven there? It’s two strands, but one is a shade darker, giving the illusion of shadows. A subtle touch, but it does wonders when you wear it. It’ll bring out your eyes.’
His guarded expression softens. ‘Thank you. Next Christmas, I’ll have to return the favor.’
‘Will you?’ says Effie, delighted. ‘I’ll certainly be waiting.’
When they’re done with tea and seconds, Regulus walks her to the door. Effie pats his cheek and takes him into a hug. For the first time, he hugs her back and, when she tries to let go, he tightens his hold.
‘Oh, darling,’ she says and kisses his cheek.
'The 3rd, is it?'
'It's a date.'
Regulus laughs. It’s still soft and subdued, but the smile remains on his face.