Page 2 of Familiar Things New

Edwin swallowed thickly. He really hoped so.

After a beat of silence, Edwin knelt down to retrieve his notebook from his pack so that he could check the list of tasks he’d made for himself. William walked over to a long table and hoisted himself up onto it. Kicking his feet back and forth, he leaned back and rested his weight on his hands.

“How’s Agnes? I haven’t seen her in a while,” William asked casually, though there was a slight but obvious heaviness in his voice, one that was a stark contrast to the bright, cheery smile he still wore. “She hasn’t made any new church friends, has she?” He cleared his throat. “Men, I mean?”

“Not that I recall,” Edwin replied as he unfastened his bag’s clip.

“Oh. Good.”

Weight settled in Edwin’s chest, and he pretended to rummage through his pack for a few seconds. He prayed that William’s reluctance to pursue Agnes wasn’t because of him in some way. But if William really did believe that his parents were lovely enough people to potentially embrace him for who he was, then Edwin couldn’t imagine what other explanation there might be. Ergo, he couldn’t not assume that it was because of him.

And that was a heavy thing to bear.

All of a sudden, William hopped off the table. He flashed Edwin an easy smile, one that was so convincing, Edwin couldn’t help but want to believe in its sincerity.

“I’m going for a walk,” William said. “Do you think you’ll still be here in an hour or so?”

Edwin fished inside his waistcoat for his pocket watch and clicked it open.

“I have to return home soon. Agnes is expecting me to help her stitch up a couple of garments for our neighbors.”

Worry lines immediately rippled across William’s forehead, his eyebrows pinching. Edwin’s cheeks warmed as he pulled out his notebook and pushed himself to stand. He knew precisely what William must have been thinking.

Before Edwin had begun living as his authentic self, he’d found it difficult to help his mother and sister with their seamstress orders sometimes. Or even oftentimes. For the longest while, certain tasks—specifically, the ones connected to femininity in some way—had made him feel uneasy, at least a little. But most of that discomfort had begun to fade over the last few months. And even though he still felt a little like the caladiums sometimes—out of place and out of sorts—he had been surprised to discover that he was able to handle the seamstress orders more easily lately. At least, on most occasions.

Before William could express his concern, Edwin held up a hand and said, “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

William’s expression softened, and he threw Edwin a nod. After a pause, he started for the door.

“Take care, Edwin,” he said. “I’ll come by the conservatory tomorrow.”

“’Til tomorrow, Will.”

And then Edwin was alone with his thoughts. And way too many plants.

***

Hands shoved inside his front pants pockets, Edwin kept his head low as he cut through the crowd on North Pearl Street, lifting his chin only for the briefest moments here and there so that he could enjoy the cold breeze on his face, which was still slightly flushed from contending with the inconsistent steam heat that emanated from the conservatory’s pipework.

After a few minutes of fast-paced walking, he arrived home to find his sister, Agnes, in the sitting room, putting what looked to be the final touches on a child’s dress. Her hands were working nimbly to finish the lace trim on the cuff of the right sleeve, her brow furrowed in concentration. Edwin removed his flat cap and hung it on one of the hooks by the front door.

Agnes looked up.

“How was work?” she asked, setting her needle and thread onto the side table. Before Edwin could reply, she held up the dress and shook it out. “There,” she said through an exhale.

“It was fine,” he replied. “I think William might have to burn the conservatory to the ground in the near future, though.”

“Mmm . . . that’s a shame,” she said, sounding incredibly bored, as though Edwin had relayed something as uninteresting as the best soil mixture to cultivate a primrose.

Unfortunately, the ideal soil mixture for growing a primrose was not something Edwin knew offhand right then, even though it probably should have been. Regardless, he couldn’t imagine the information, whatever the specifics, would have been terribly interesting to Agnes. Or to most people.

Edwin let out a fast breath through his nose, close to a snort.

“Don’t you want to know why he might soon feel the need to set it on fire?”

“Not particularly,” she said. “Because we both know he’d never do it. William says a lot of outlandish things. It’s one of the reasons everyone finds him charming.”

“Even you?” Edwin asked, a playful lilt in his voice.