She’d be here soon. Though he told himself he had released his dreams, it would be awkward. He planned to smooth things for them both, for everyone, really. Her letter made him suspect she’d help him in this.
He’d considered selling the necklace in New York, and he’d taken it to a few merchants in the Diamond District who’d quoted low prices, claiming it was unfashionable.
But he knew May would like it. He’d been picturing her wearing it.
The thought of her with him at his going-away party had been a well-worn and much-used source of fantasy for months. A force of habit, familiar and effective in its ability to satisfy. Without thinking of it too closely, and with a certain amount of enlivening defiance, his hand found his belt buckle, unbuttoned his trousers. When he’d heard of the wedding, his anger had stopped this practice. In the last few weeks he’d revisited this vision—only a few times, and always with a pang of conscience. His excitement was refreshed by the new taboo of it. He shouldn’t be thinking of her like this, shouldn’t be thinking of her at all. With a sharp tug up and slower stroke down, he gave himself over to memory. And in the privacy of his mind it was just a memory, an efficient, disembodied daydream. It didn’t mean anything.
He was cleaning up, confirmation of his aloneness settling over him as his heart stopped racing. Chimes rang from the front hall. Mrs. Gilder ringing them down for cordials and then dinner.
He crammed the necklace in his jacket pocket without the case and glanced in the mirror. His disheveled clothes telegraphed how little he cared, a reassuring costume and something to live up to. He was not unaware of the effect he achieved on women. Part of the appeal lay in his height, his trimness, but also in his eye and his energy, which now radiated an easy assurance. While there were men more handsome, there were few more daring, a trait Ambrose had learned to leverage in his favor on his trip. It wouldn’t suit him to come down in polished evening clothes and their attendant conformity and planning. He liked rolling out of bed with satisfaction on his face, fortified in his own pleasure. He would get this over with and then everyone could move on.
As he came down the stairs, he heard voices on the threshold, which stopped when he entered.
“What did I tell you?” his father said to the room as he gestured at Ambrose. “Won’t even dress for dinner.”
Ambrose was frozen for a full moment, and then he forced himself to move toward his brother, who was standing with May at his arm, the two of them a complete portrait.
Ethan stepped forward, as if he were the master of this moment, welcoming Ambrose home.
But Ethan didn’t offer a hand; he raised his right arm and embraced Ambrose. And it was then, looking down, that Ambrose saw it clearly.
His brain quickly slotted pieces together like a puzzle, reorganizing assumptions and theories, recalculating his father’s disapproval and Ethan’s generosity. He felt anger draining away, alarm and shame filling their place.
Ethan hugged Ambrose tightly with his one good arm. Ambrose hugged back with two. The brothers were now locked together. Ambrose could feel the force in Ethan, as if he were intent on steering the evening, steering Ambrose in general, where he chose. Ethan finally pulled back after embracing long enough for Ambrose to collect himself.
“Welcome home,” Ethan said.
“I didn’t know” was all Ambrose could manage, nodding down. While he’d read about it in letters, it was another thing to see the raised lesions, the pale pink scars that wrapped around Ethan’s knuckles and disappeared up under the cuff of his shirt.
“Didn’t you?” Ethan asked, a brisk sting in his inflection and then a wide smile that looked genuine. “I got your letters and that funny elephant. God of healing.”
“New beginnings.” Ambrose noted that Ethan already had strategies for negotiating his injury.
They’d said he was still doing his massage therapies. He was scheduled for additional surgeries. They’d done everything to prevent flexion deformity. They were still trying things. This wasn’t the end. These were the thoughts Ambrose held on to now. He cast furtive glances at Ethan’s shiny, mottled hand and clearly lifeless arm. It looked painful. It looked permanent, and that permanence was the thing that stunned Ambrose. He’d thought there was still hope.
As Ethan took control of the conversation, chattering to smooth things over, the faint lingering stain of jealousy washed off Ambrose, replaced by a tint of pity and a hit of genuine sadness at the sight of his brother.
May, cool in white and pearls, stood silently beside Ethan.
Ambrose didn’t know what he’d been expecting. It had only been two years, and yet she’d changed—her face more angular, and her smile an insurmountable boundary. Her hair was chopped in a precise shingle. The severe hairstyle was so popular, and something he hadn’t gotten used to since his return. A few strands of silver sparkled in the part of her hairline. A thin band of diamonds glittered on her left hand.
A quick look passed between May and Ethan, a silent understanding that cut Ambrose deep. Ethan had won. Though looking at his brother’s curled claw of a hand, Ambrose was thwarted from feeling outrage.
“Sister.” It was out before Ambrose realized his attempt at levity was awkward. The room silenced to watch them.
May gave a little laugh. Her hand came forward, but dropped just as quickly as she fidgeted with a gold bangle etched with vines. Even she realized they couldn’t shake hands.
Ambrose stepped to her then, and she was in his arms for the briefest moment. Scent of soap and violets—or perhaps he imagined the violets. She embraced him gently, carefully, so that no part of her actually touched him except her forearms and her cheek, just barely brushing his whiskers. It was a second, an instant, a brief memory of her scent mixed with pond water bringing him back to the days before he’d left, and then it was over.
“Congratulations,” he said, his head swimming. The room collectively held its breath.
“Thanks, Am,” she said quietly, looking at his face, but not his eyes.
Ambrose turned toward the room. “Everyone’s been so busy while I’ve been gone.”
The party silenced at this.
“Especially me, auditioning for my role as the human Roman candle,” Ethan said, stepping forward.
Ambrose thought he saw May wince. The rest of the room laughed rather too loudly and then, with a communal exhale, the party moved on. He saw his uncle tidily brush his hands together before reaching for a glass of Mrs. Gilder’s ginger cordial.
If Ethan had changed, and May more subtly, too, the change in Loulou when she stepped forward was both alarming and delightful. She’d shot up to nearly his height and she’d chopped her hair, too, which dismayed him. He imagined she’d done it in emulation of May. Her eyebrows were plucked into twin thin arches, making her look older and her eyes look more wide set than he’d ever noticed before.
“Big brother’s back,” she said as she hugged him.