MC - CHP 11

Chapter Eleven – Wear It On Your Sleeve



'You are a sight for allergy-ridden, sore eyes.' Phil said thinly, having opened his apartment door to reveal Farrere on his threshold.
Farrere gaped at Phil's red eyes and nose. 'Since when–?' he began, but Phil cut him off.
'I don't know, I've never had any trouble with cats before. I think it's just that cat. I've been eating nothing but antihistamines all week.' Phil let out an angry, wheezy sigh, and then beckoned Farrere inside. 'So how was it?' he enquired in a grumble. 'Did you bond with nature?'
'It was good.' Farrere answered softly. Phil missed his tone, because it was at that moment he noticed the gauze taped around Farrere's palm.
'The fuck happened to your hand?'
Farrere emitted a sigh of his own. 'I was attacked by a vicious gutter,' he said dully.  
'A gutter?' Phil repeated dubiously. 'You went down to the farm and did chores?'
'It was relaxing,' Farrere shrugged before adding guiltily: 'Sort of.'
'Until you maimed yourself?' Phil's red-rimmed eyes were narrowing, his forced smile shrinking.
Farrere avoided his gaze. 'There's that.'
Phil straightened and crossed his arms over his chest, somehow seeming taller than Farrere now. 'Did something happen?' he asked gravely.
'Yeah.'
Phil looked thoughtful for a moment, and then spoke gently, every air of berating gone. 'Too soon to go down there, hey?'
Farrere inhaled, steeling himself. 'No, that was alright, initially. But then Cam found an old box up the back of the linen cupboard with some of Mom's things in it, stuff I'd never seen before, from when she was little.'
Phil was silent, taking this information on board.
'There was a journal in there, too. She wrote in it from when she was sixteen to just after she had me,' Farrere continued, his voice coming to him more easily as he spoke. He needed to get this off his chest.
'You read it?' Phil asked, knowing the answer.
Farrere nodded. 'It made a few things come together,' he paused, anxious– 'She was Cynimpial. When she was nineteen she had operations done to make her look Imp. She got her tail removed and her claws; Phil, they do this procedure where they iron their skin– you know how Iggy's skin is like velvet?'
Phil nodded, his expression growing graver by the moment.
'It melts, the velvet, just before it burns. It smooths together and scars in the texture of skin. You remember how she used to say she didn't have much feeling in her hands? That was why, it ruins their nerves, but it's common practice. I can't even...' Farrere stopped, despairing. 'You'll have to read it,' he finished, agitatedly running his injured hand through his fringe and wincing.
'Sit down.' Phil said heavily, indicating the lounge across from them. Phil's apartment was sparsely furnished; Farrere sat down on the couch, and Phil sat on the coffee table opposite so he could face him. After a silence he asked solemnly, 'You're alright, though?'
'Yes. Yeah, I'm fine. It just... It would've been nice to have known. Not that it was a big surprise, really. I suppose I should be thankful for finding the journal so I could be sure...' Farrere trailed off, looking anything but sure to Phil. 'I mean, before it wasn't as though I could've tracked down her family to ask someone. I never even knew her maiden name until now.'
'What is it?'
'Ripicola. It has the same spelling as the Latin word.'
'Latin?' Phil mumbled. He absent-mindedly scratched the back of his head as he continued to mutter. 'Ripicola... Don't make me think about Latin on a Sunday.'
'Living by a river, is what it means.'
'But of course, Dux,' said Phil dryly.
'I had to look it up. The funny thing is Mom wrote about her family being "southern River People". It can't be a coincidence. She talked about the "northern River People" too, who, by the way are our ancestors, apparently. Blue hair is Cynimpial,' Farrere added, gesturing exasperatedly.
'I'd believe that,' Phil said, shrugging. 'That'd be why you don't see it around much.'
Farrere nodded briefly in agreement, his eyes lowered and his fingers tapping agitatedly on his knee. Phil knew he had barely heard him.
'It doesn't make sense,' Farrere whispered. 'The original Cynimpial language is supposed to be Enuin, why would her surname be Latin?'
'Enuin has a lot of similarities to Old French and that's closer to the Latin root. Maybe once upon a time Cynimpials spoke Latin before it developed into French,' Phil suggested.
'Maybe.' Farrere said distantly.
'We'll never know.'
'No,' Farrere murmured, 'probably not.'
'Want a drink?' Phil stood, heading to the kitchen. Farrere tore his focus from his thoughts, glancing up.
'Sure. Water is fine.'
'That's what I like to hear,' Phil said vaguely, pulling a beer from the fridge for himself and then filling a glass with water from the tap.
'Never liked beer, anyway.' Farrere said as he accepted the glass.
'No, you were always more of a daiquiris boy.' Phil couldn't suppress a grin when Farrere groaned.
'That was such an awful night,' he grimaced.
Sobering, Phil said resignedly, 'They were all awful nights.'
They drank in silence for a minute or two, and Farrere was able to calm down considerably as they did so. When he spoke again his tone was weary, but relaxed.
'She mentions your dad, you know. And Franck's dad. Apparently Marc was really nice, so I don't know what went wrong with Franck. She also talks a lot about our grandmothers. I knew she grew up with Dad, it just never occurred to me she would have known his family. They were at school together.'
'My father.' Phil stated simply, staring at his beer as though he didn't want it anymore. 'So what was he like back then? Less of a wanker or more?'
'He gave my dad a concussion when they were eighteen. My dad did give him a black eye, though.'
Phil snickered. 'To Regis,' he said, taking a swig of his beer and then letting his shoulders shrink. 'I know this will sound bitter,' he began, his tone measured and dark, 'but we're well shot of our dads.'
Farrere lowered his eyes to his glass. 'I loved my dad,' he said tonelessly.
'Yeah, and I love mine. It's fucking cruel. I shouldn't have to love him, but I do. That isn't to say I wouldn't give him a black eye myself should we cross paths again.'
Farrere was silent, staring at his lap. He wanted to tell Phil something about the journal had seemed wrong. His father had been written as though he were a different man. And his mother had been so different, too. It made him feel as though he'd never known them, and, by extension:
'I miss them,' Farrere said quietly to save his voice from breaking. He breathed in deeply, trying to loosen his throat.
Phil watched him, becoming still. He thought about speaking, and then dug into the pocket of his jeans instead, pulling out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. He cocked a cigarette and lit it, handing it to Farrere, who chuckled faintly, thanking him.
'Buck up,' Phil said, lighting a cigarette for himself.
Silence set in once more, perforated only by Phil obligingly sliding the ashtray on the coffee table towards Farrere so he could reach. Eventually, Farrere was able to set his mind on an entirely new tangent of worry.
'I still haven't called the Nielle office,' he announced glumly, 'to ask them to send over that woman.'
Phil was inwardly relieved Farrere had changed the subject. 'I keep telling you, you don't need a translator. Just show the Chinese a photo of an oilcan and they'll start nodding.'
'And what does the rest of the team say?' Farrere asked tentatively. 'Please tell me there's something else we can pitch.'
'I think you're forgetting it's our job to make the sale, not lecture them about the evil of their consumer ways.'
'This is the wrong direction for the company.' Farrere said, his tone becoming hard and official, making Phil smile.
'Maybe if you said "yes" to a promotion or two, you could fix that to your liking,' he offered slyly.
'And end up just like Powell?'  
'You could always choose not to become a State puppet.'
'I wouldn't have a chance. You know the rules of negotiation, once they realised I couldn't be bought, they'd start making threats. I wouldn't last a year.'
Phil sighed, watching Farrere sadly. 'I think you're underestimating yourself,' he said honestly.
'I don't.' Farrere said tersely.
Phil finished his cigarette and ground the butt into the ashtray. 'This world is run by sadists and sycophants, and everybody knows it, yet we sit on our hands. At least in the fourth-world people make a song and dance about it, even if it never works.'
'Most people don't know it, Phil,' Farrere said, thinking of those he'd just spent the last week with. 'They've got no idea. And if we didn't sit on our hands we'd probably have them lopped off.'
'Pussy.' Phil said with a smirk, draining his beer.
Farrere laughed, and although it was slightly hollow it was earnest. For someone so bound by cynicism, Phil never failed to apply great energy where it was needed.
'Speaking of sadistic politicians,' Farrere said after a beat. 'Guess who else my mom mentions?'
Phil thought for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. 'Montague.' he said triumphantly.
'Yep. She talks about her sister having a thing with a "Jean Montague". Seeing as I know him and Dad both grew up in Aunice, it can't have been anybody else. Mom doesn't mention him as Dad's friend at that point, though.'
'Small world.' Phil marvelled. 'He had a thing with your mom's sister? How scandalous,' he added in a mock gasp.
'Oh, you don't know the half of it,' Farrere said dryly. 'Montague gets mentioned again right at the end. Mom wrote he was helping Dad sort out something to do with my great uncle Hugo. I looked him up, and I can only assume she's referring to the fact that in one-twenty-eight PE, a Hugo LeAmi, the then head-manager of TripleTech's aviation faction, got fifteen years for insider trading.'
'Fifteen years?' Phil repeated, astounded. 'What'd he do?'
'The Embassy,' Farrere said, smiling grimly. 'He ok'd the go ahead on some fantastic new engine he knew would never fly, and it was one of the first solely extra-world exports. There was a massive fanfare about it, so everyone bought up and Hugo sold. He cost the company millions, and he cost those charming Board Directors at the Embassy their cut. They made an example of him.'
'How the hell did they justify fifteen years?' Phil pressed.
'With a heap of complete trollop about how that sort of behaviour would put a black mark on our inter-world image,' Farrere said, rolling his eyes. 'They said it was tantamount to high treason. I got the distinct impression they would've shut us down there and then if we hadn't given poor old Hugo at least ten years.'
'Fuck,' Phil said weakly.
'Yeah,' Farrere agreed, and then he frowned slightly. 'Not even Montague could worm his way past the Embassy, so I dunno what Mom meant.'
'I would suggest that you ask Vianne, but this'll be your reason nobody talks about the LeAmis,' Phil said, chuckling bleakly.
At that moment, Todd the cat came padding noiselessly into the lounge from the hall. He sat down on the carpet, flicking his tail and watching them with bored hazel eyes.
'I loathe you.' Phil said simply to the cat.
'I'm not particularly partial to you, either.' Farrere told Todd lightly. 'Where's Ermi?' he then directed at Phil.
'I kept her in the bedroom. Made sure to keep the door shut in case Todd got hungry, not that she'd be much of a meal. Oh, and there may have possibly been an incident involving your sourdough starter and the floor.'
'What?' Farrere yelped, his eyes widening tragically.
'I'm kidding,' Phil said delightedly, though he had to stop chortling to sneeze.
'I'll get Todd into his carry case.' Farrere said meekly, standing.
'You do that.' Phil growled, glaring at him once he'd stopped rubbing his eyes.
As soon as Farrere's back was turned, however, Phil let his mask slip, watching Farrere with wary concern.





I wouldn't have thought this to be the kind of thing I'd do, telling a story, least of all my own. I don't mind, everything happens for a reason.
I probably don't need to introduce myself, you know me, although Cam's always been too kind when she describes me. It's the only contradiction I'd raise against her narration, I think the shadows under my eyes do make me look tired and ill, regardless of whether I'm smiling. Oh, I do have one other contradiction: Cam's very pretty. She shouldn't have made it sound otherwise.
It was sweet of her to create such a bright image of me, but you should know she's a little biased. While I may seem vibrant to her, I've never had quite enough charisma to make people outside our makeshift family notice me. I'm the master of slipping around people on the street, because nine times out of ten they just don't see me. The clothes help, but it's like dressing a ghost in vivid colours so he's marginally noticeable. At least a ghost could choose to float at eye-level, instead of being forever stuck under it like I am.
Sorry, I sound like I'm complaining. I'm not, I am that I am: short, thin and indistinguishable. That's part of the reason I work so hard at drama, I'm going to need theatrical skills to be heard. Not that I particularly like raising my voice outside drama class, though.
So I think it'll be nice that I can talk quietly to you.




The time we spent at the farm did something to all of us.
Although I'm not sure what yet, our dynamic felt like it had shifted. Everyone was very quiet and courteous for the first few days back home, as though we were embarrassed to be around each other.
This does apply more to some than others. Iggy tip-toed around Farrere as guiltily as if he'd finally realised being cruel to him for the last six months was wrong. As much as I love Iggy, I was right not to get my hopes up this might be the case. When he and Farrere began the project of making a herb garden on the balcony they fought over it like it somehow warranted fighting over. At least Farrere was now dishing it back.
It was a relief to return to school, even though it brought Iggy and me one term closer to our final exams. I've been worrying about the exams a lot, I've had to, our teachers are mounting up the pressure, but they've also kept my mind off other things.
And that's all I've really been doing over the past few weeks. Relying on distractions and trying to convince myself that even though one thought keeps circling my head it isn't important. Just because it hasn't gone away doesn't mean it's serious. Don't worry, I know I'm in denial, but there's nothing else I can do about it.
I'd thought Iggy's eighteenth birthday would be one such distraction, because it clashed with me going into school on a Saturday to do last minute rehearsals for a drama assessment. I barely got time to wish Iggy happy birthday in the morning before I had to leave, but he said reassuringly:  'At least you'll be home for dinner.  Farrere said he'd make something amazing if I let him have tarragon for the garden. I suppose I should be worried he's finally figured out negotiating with my stomach instead of me gets him his way.'
I didn't stop to think of that as ominous, although my heart did jump as it's been doing every time somebody mentions Farrere, making me wish I could reach inside my chest and knock some sense into it.

I rang the doorbell late that afternoon and Cam answered.
The first thing that struck me was her dreamy expression, and then a gorgeous, heavy scent of something sweet and spiced drifted past her from the hall and met my nose.
'Quince.' I said, feeling a rush of excitement.
'Quince.' Cam confirmed, nodding understandingly.
'Hey, Harry,' Farrere leant out of the kitchen, a package wrapped in butcher's paper in his hands. 'How'd rehearsal go?'
Although speaking to him has recently been very stressful, I manage to keep it internal. It would be nice if I could decide whether it's a blessing I can outwardly be normal around him, because if I couldn't I'd have to avoid him, and while I know that's unrealistic, it would be a lot less painful.
'Great.' I answered brightly. In truth rehearsal had been overly intense, but the prospect of quince had cheered me up in spite of my exhaustion.
I watched Cam return to the table, where she walled herself away behind a textbook, preparing for exams herself. I dropped my bag in the hall, and timidly entered the kitchen, wanting a drink.
Farrere's face was flushed and content. He was standing against the bench as he unwrapped the package he'd been holding, revealing at least thirty small flame-orange prawns. He made no effort to keep his fringe behind his ears as he set about shelling the prawns into a metal bowl, it hung jauntily over his forehead and his eyes, which were all but sparkling with the amount of fun he was having.
'Did Ig request quince?' I asked, impressed with Iggy at the prospect and eager to sidetrack myself from Farrere's luminousness.
'Not exactly,' Farrere said. 'He let me pick desert. Though he picked the theme for dinner.'
I looked about the kitchen, at the large pot on the stove, the granite pestle and mortar on the bench, and the chopping board beside it sporting squid, fish and several specimens of a small crustacean I didn't recognise. I wondered how Farrere possibly kept everything looking so neat.
'The theme wouldn't be seafood, would it?' I said lightly.
'However did you guess?' Farrere replied, pleased. 'I'm making risotto.'
'I didn't know Iggy liked seafood that much.' I commented, heading to the pot on the stove and lifting the lid. I could have melted right into it, the stewing quinces smelled that good. 'Thank you for making quince,' I sighed gratefully.
He'd made stewed quinces for us once before, and I would never forget it. They have the texture of stewed pears, and their flavour is heady, cloying and slightly tart. They melt in your mouth in a way that's almost indecent.
'That's perfectly alright,' Farrere said. 'That's been stewing nearly four hours, it should be just about ready to come off. It'll be nice, but I've made more this time so there'll be leftovers.' He turned to me, continuing to shell the prawns without looking, his fingers working so nimbly I couldn't tell how he was doing it. 'So I'll stick the leftovers in the fridge, and when they've had three or four days to really soak up the cloves and wine, then you try some. You think you like it now? Wait till then.' He paused, sighing gently. 'I've always been sure I'll never find a sexier food than stewed quince. Except maybe seventy-five percent cocoa chocolate with nibs and chilli.'
The obscurity of this helped me stop wondering if I'd ever heard him use any derivative of the word "sexy" before. 'Chilli?' I echoed, and Farrere smiled knowingly at me.
'Yes. It should be illegal it's that incendiary. You get the richness of the dark chocolate first, seventy-five percent cocoa is as dark as it gets before it becomes too dry in my opinion, so it's intense. The nibs give it a brittle texture. Nibs are crushed roasted cacao beans,' he added at my confused expression, 'they don't taste like you'd expect, they're not bitter, but gentle, almost buttery. And then right at the very end the chilli gives it a kick that makes you need to do it all over again.' He stopped shelling the prawns for a moment, gingerly flicking his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, becoming sheepish as he admitted: 'I swear I didn't know what lust was until I tried it.'
I think I managed a smile and a nod, I hope I did, but after that I buried myself in the fridge, intent on fetching a drink as I'd originally intended. At least until I stopped blushing, anyway.
'Sorry,' Farrere said when I emerged, 'it is hot in here, could you turn the fan on above the oven for me?'
I did as he bade me, thinking I would quite like to escape from this situation now.
'Hey,' Farrere began brightly, 'would you like to learn a life skill?'
'Ok.' I said, smiling apprehensively, fighting the urge to clap my hand over my mouth and run away instead.
'Come here,' he motioned me over. 'I'll teach you how to shell prawns the Enuin way.'
Shelling prawns the Enuin way didn't appear to be something I could ever hope to be co-ordinated enough to achieve, but Farrere looked so eager all I could do was agree.
'Cam, do you want to come learn, too?' Farrere directed over the counter at the table.
'Not right now. The smell of quince is detrimental enough to my concentration, thank you very much,' she mumbled from behind her book.
'Very well.' Farrere conceded, handing me a prawn once I'd washed my hands. I didn't like standing so close to him, I doubted it would make this any easier. 'Alright, first get your thumb under the back of its head and pull it off.' I copied him, saying a silent prayer for my already-departed prawn in which I apologised for decapitating it so unprofessionally. 'Now if you pinch one side of its legs and pull them over its back, its whole midsection should come off.' I copied again, and, miraculously, I did it as cleanly as he did. 'That's perfect. Now just pinch the end of its tail and the rest of the shell will slip off, voyez-voux?' He showed me.
'Oui.' I couldn't help grinning. 'Merci,' I added when I worried the last of the shell off my prawn quite successfully.
'Now eat it.' Farrere said incitingly, softly.
'What?' I looked up at him.
'Don't you like prawns?' he asked.
'Yes, but... don't you need it?'
'I can spare one or two,' he answered lightly, surreptitiously flashing the prawn he'd just shelled to his mouth. He chewed it, chuckling. 'It's alright, they're fresh, just look at their eyes.'
'I wouldn't want to,' I laughed, nibbling the prawn. It was firm and sweet, a world away from any prawn I'd tasted before. 'They'll watch me judgingly for eating them.'
'Perhaps if they had bigger brains. Oh, and they weren't dead. Come on, keep helping.' He tapped the metal bowl containing the shells.
'Oui, chef.' I mocked him, choosing the least upset looking prawn from the pile on the paper, which wasn't too hard, I admit, with faces like theirs. Farrere gave me a gentle dig with his elbow in response, and I stared at my hands, determined not to blush again.
'I was serious about the eyes, you know,' he said after a moment of working in silence. 'That's the easiest rule to go by when buying seafood. It's fresh if the eyes are bright. Might as well keep teaching you things while I've got you here,' he added in guilty explanation.
'I don't mind.' I said reassuringly. And I didn't. That was the worst thing about being with him, it was so easy if I let myself relax. 'Do people really try and sell a lot of old produce, though?'
'You bet they do. The fish market at Central Mall is usually pretty good, though, because it's open. You can pick things up and have a look instead of waiting for someone to serve you. See, these prawns are also supple,' he pulled the tail of one, and its body bent yieldingly. 'That means they're fresh, too. With fish you can check their gills, they should still be very red and not sticky. And they shouldn't smell like fish, they should smell like the sea. Calamari squid should still be slightly pink, not white, and bugs,' he pointed to the crustaceans, but I cut him off.
'Bugs? I've never even seen those before.'   
'They're called Pomme Bay bugs, they're just a little cousin of lobsters. There's only meat in their tails, but it's worth it. Um, so, with any crustacean, you can check if their limbs are supple, like those bugs' tails are, but the best way to know they're fresh is if they're alive.'
'I hate that,' I mumbled honestly, sure he would tease me because of it. 'I hate seeing them tied up.'
'I know,' Farrere agreed sadly, surprising me. 'But the best you can do for them at that stage is buy them. Give them a quick death.'
I had already accepted this as true, but when Farrere said it the logic no longer seemed cold, but comforting.
'Of course,' he began shyly, 'you don't have to worry about any of this in Nielle.'
Once he'd started describing the seafood in Nielle he found it difficult to stop, and while I offered comments here and there, I was perfectly happy to listen. I leant against the bench once we'd finished shelling the prawns, and watched him as he filleted the fish, slit the squid into rings, chopped the bugs in half and began heating oil, onions and garlic in a pan on the stove. All the while he told me about the fish taken straight from the ocean to the restaurants and stalls on the coast of Nielle, seared with herbs and salt right there and then, while the blistering sun beat down on the busy streets. I'd never heard him talk about a place with such fondness, even the farm didn't seem to capture him so entirely. I thought about asking him if Nielle was where he called home, but I kept quiet, sure it was too personal a question.
After watching the deft way he boiled, peeled and deseeded several tomatoes, I suddenly realised the question had been answered for me. Were Farrere to talk of any place, or anything for that matter, while he was busy cooking... he made it sound as though it meant the world to him. It wasn't Nielle, it was the kitchen.
Come early evening the smell of quince had given way to the scents drifting from the pan, and they had been alluring enough to finally coax Cam from the table to the kitchen. She helped Farrere fry the fish, squid and bugs for the sauce, while I grated lemon rind and parmesan cheese to flavour the rice.
When Farrere's mobile rang in his pocket it was a perverse interruption to the atmosphere.
'Damn.' Farrere muttered, glancing at the screen angrily before he answered. 'Bonsior, Gabrielle, I guess they must be eager, huh? Give me a couple of minutes, I'll have to get my laptop,' Farrere slipped his hand around the phone, muffling the receiver. 'Unavoidable work phone calls are so lovely on a Saturday night,' he grumbled. 'Harry, if you could measure out a cup of the rice into a bowl and rinse it till the water's clear that'd be a big help, it goes a bit gluggy, otherwise. Cam, there's a bag full of mussels in the fridge, could you stick them on top of the sauce and then just put the lid on the pan?' Cam nodded and Farrere smiled gratefully, heading towards the hall. 'Thanks guys, I'll be back as quick as I can.'
'He really is remarkable.' Cam said wonderingly as she retrieved the mussels from the fridge. There looked to be about twenty of them in a sealed, plastic packet filled with water, their black-green shells glistening winningly. 'How is it he can seem like such a scatterbrain and yet be in complete control at the same time?'
'I don't know,' I chuckled, my smile fading when I rinsed the rice through once and the water all but turned white. This was going to be a time-consuming task.
I'd been so intent on the rice that I received a nasty shock when Farrere returned and announced his presence by saying sharply: 'What happened, Cam?'
I turned to find that Cam was crying, clumsily wiping the tears off her cheeks. Farrere hastened to her.
'Did you burn yourself?' he asked seriously. I moved the rice bowl out of the sink, stepping back in case she needed to run her burn under the tap, but Cam shook her head.
'I'm fine, I just... I just didn't know they were alive,' she mumbled. It took both Farrere and I a moment to realise what she was talking about. 'I'm an idiot, I know, they were in salt water, of course they were alive, but it didn't click until I moved one in the sauce and it stuck its little tongue out.' Cam seemed very unwilling to make eye-contact with either of us. 'I just feel awful about killing them, and I probably have PMS, I don't know.' She hid her face in her hands, sniffling.
A further second slid by, and Farrere smiled.
'You goose,' he murmured gently, wrapping his arms around her. She uncovered her eyes, quite surprised to find herself sheltered against his chest.
'You've never hugged me before,' she said when he released her.
'Now seemed like a good time to start.' Farrere replied kindly.
Incredulously, Cam stretched out a finger and poked him in the chest. 'Well, that's formidable,' she muttered. 'You should really warn people that being hugged by you is like being hugged by warm brick wall.'
I could tell as soon as she'd poked him Farrere regretted his actions, and so could Cam. She grinned widely, recovering promptly from mourning the mussels.
'You actually work out, don't you?' she asked eagerly.  
'When I get the time,' he admitted, starting to go red. 'There's nothing wrong with that.'
'That's hilarious,' Cam giggled, 'you really are the complete package.'  This made Farrere's blush spread as far as his ears, and Cam seemed to feel her work was done. 'I'm going to go wash my face. Puffy eyes are so becoming... Almost as becoming as I bet your stomach is.' She laughed, poking him once more for good measure before heading down the hall to the bathroom.
Farrere breathed out an unhappy sigh, wringing his hands over his offending stomach.
'That was sweet of you.' I said quietly, attempting to be reassuring.
'She was upset,' he shrugged haplessly. I watched his expression grow steadily more conflicted, and I was about to ask him what was wrong when he looked to me and blurted out, 'Harry?' like the world was weighing on his shoulders.
'What is it?' I asked, surprised.
'Cam doesn't... uh... she doesn't...' he trailed off lamely.
'Doesn't what?' I said slowly, raising an eyebrow.
Farrere exhaled. 'She doesn't like me, does she? I just figured she'd tell you if...' he watched me imploringly.
'No,' I said quickly, 'no, she– she thinks of you as a friend.'
'Oh, good,' Farrere relaxed considerably. 'I don't know why I thought– well, she kept making comments about my butt at the farm.' He chuckled uncomfortably. 'And I don't suppose it helps that I've never met anyone as bad at interpreting people's intentions as me. It's amazing how forward someone has to be before I realise,' he added demurely. I was silent, so he blushed anew, sorry he'd said anything. 'I'll just go back to murdering the mussels, shall I?' he mumbled, humiliated, turning to the stove.
I remained unresponsive, I couldn't help it. I was lost completely to a single thought:
I was glad Farrere had little skill in that department.



Dinner was very successful.
Come desert I realised we seemed to be back to our normal routine. Cam, Farrere and I talked, and although Iggy and Xeeva were mostly quiet, they were happy, appreciative of the quality of the food.
When Iggy finished his third helping of stewed quince and vanilla ice-cream he sighed yieldingly, looking over at Farrere.
'Alright,' he said, smiling, 'you're allowed to have tarragon.'
'How kind of you.' Farrere replied thinly, but he was smiling, too.
'You know what?' Iggy began leisurely, serving himself a few more slices of quince. 'Go crazy. Have both kinds of basil as well, even though they've got nothing but culinary purposes.'
'What do you mean, "nothing but culinary purposes"?' Xeeva said incredulously to Iggy. This was the first direct thing she'd said to him since their mysterious falling out at the farm, and everyone but Xeeva was now wearing an expression of surprise in acknowledgement of the fact. Determinedly oblivious, Xeeva added: 'It's a herb garden, what are you going to do other than cook with it?'
Gathering himself, Iggy explained hastily, as though anxious she might change her mind and stop listening to him again. 'We've been trying to choose plants that can be used for more than just cooking. Lavender helps with headaches, rosemary and peppermint are calming, sage is good for coughs... that sort of thing.'
'Yes, and parsley is a diuretic,' Farrere offered, withholding laughter.
'Bullshit,' Iggy said irritably, 'and I already said you could have parsley.'
'It's true! I looked it up,' Farrere argued, now chuckling.
'None of us need a diuretic,' Iggy growled.
'Luck favours the prepared.' Farrere shrugged.
'Whatever. Thanks for dinner and the present.' Iggy spoke while fixing his eyes on something just beyond Farrere's face, his ears shifting a fraction. I hadn't known Farrere had got him a present, he must've given it to him while I was school. I wanted to ask what it was but Farrere was replying.
'You're welcome. Thanks for turning eighteen. You're out of my custody now, I can't help but feel relieved,' he said wryly.
Iggy's gaze was back on Farrere in an instant, his toothy grin spreading across his face.
'I revoke the basil,' he said gleefully, and Farrere didn't seem to mind at all.




Iggy's mind was blissfully blank. Any form electronic entertainment did that to him, unless he made an effort to think, but currently he had no such intention.
Prior to hooking up the Ubis40 game console Farrere had given him, Iggy had spared a thought to the fact he hadn't had a day this good since he'd left the orphanage. Now it was nearly one a.m., and he'd out-lasted even Harry, who had gone to bed over an hour ago, tired from his busy day.
There was nothing more relaxing than playing video games, especially on your own. It was easy to pretend the outside world didn't exist. Any troubles could simply dissolve, forgotten, into the pixels of the screen – unless, of course, they emerged from their bedroom and joined him on the couch.
Iggy stared at Xeeva mutely, too struck by her presence to even ask why she was still awake. She was eyeing the console disapprovingly.
'Farrere is such a sap,' she said plainly.
Iggy bristled. 'Not really, Xee, he didn't have to buy it, he just had to ask for one, and I think it was kinda nice–'
Xeeva flicked her eyes to his and words failed him, but he quickly shut his mouth, pretending he'd intended to stop speaking.
After a moment Xeeva's lips curled into a strange little smile, as though the effort pained her. 'You're also what is commonly known as a sap,' she said softly.
Iggy watched the screen unseeingly, feeling tiredness seep through him now that he wasn't concentrating on his game. 'What do you want?' he murmured.
'To ask you a question. Since when have you liked seafood?'
Iggy's heart skipped a beat. Her tone hadn't been resentful, it had held no inflection of anything, so maybe...
He looked across at her, giving her a hopeful smile, but it faded at the sight of her impassive expression.
'I don't mind seafood,' he said quietly.
'But it's not your favourite.'
'No,' Iggy admitted, feeling trapped, 'it's not.'
'If I recall correctly, it's my favourite.'
Despite being filled with dread, Iggy gathered together all his courage and smiled at her again, even managing to show a little teeth. Xeeva wasn't quite expressionless this time, but whatever countenance she was displaying, she didn't give him time to decipher it.
'Such a sap,' she muttered, and then she moved against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him lightly. 'Happy birthday,' she said, staring across the room over his shoulder.
In the seconds it took for Iggy's brain to compute that she was hugging him and he should drop the game controller and hug her back, she was letting him go. Their cheeks brushed as she pulled away, and she paused, her face a tad too close to his.
Anger – Iggy sensed it, but there was a moment before he believed it could be coming from Xeeva. Her expression was blank once more, but it was nowhere near as blank as his mind.
He watched her eyes, wide, cold and beautiful, and felt her anger bloom into fury.
It was an overwhelming relief when she pulled her hands from his shoulders and clambered off the couch, saying, 'Goodnight,' without looking at him. She headed back to her room, slamming her palm against the switch on the wall to turn the hall light off as she went.
Oh, hey, Iggy thought dimly, video games aren't the only things that make me think of nothing.
It was at least a minute before he realised he'd forgotten to pause his game, and he looked back at the screen just in time to see his character violently killed.
He couldn't help but feel he'd deserved it.




This past week has been bedlam for me. It's been wonderful, I haven't had a chance to think about anything other than my drama assessment.
But that was due today, and now I can barely distract myself from the fact it's almost six o'clock. Guess who gets home from work at six o'clock?
I chewed my lip angrily, adjusting my glasses as I tried desperately to concentrate on my book and not the minute hand on my watch. Ermi was in my lap, watching the room with her large, brown eyes. I heard the clock in the kitchen give a little beep to announce the hour and Ermi started, sitting bolt upright, her ears twitching as she looked about for the source of the noise. Blessing her, I put down my book and pulled her to my chest, calming her by scratching the thick ruff of fur around her neck.
'Well done,' I murmured, 'you didn't hide, you looked for the noise, good girl.'
'Why do you bother talking to her?' Xeeva said contemptuously from the table. She'd been in a remarkably foul mood these past few days. She was currently sitting next to an untouched mug of tea, her chin in her hands while she surveyed the room as though it had wronged her.
'Animals can understand tone,' I said quietly, very aware of her short fuse. 'If I talk to her in a gentle tone she'll understand.' I didn't add that perhaps if Xeeva talked to Todd he would enjoy it, because I was certain Xeeva did talk to Todd, and that was why he relished in shredding things.
'She's a rodent, not a dog, she can't comprehend tone, unless you talked to her in those chirpy noises she makes.' Xeeva argued mutinously.
Surely she knew the "chirpy noises" were the strongest piece of evidence in my favour, because whenever Ermi felt safe enough she would chatter away, warbling softly when you spoke to her. This was irrelevant, I could tell Xeeva was only looking for an excuse to start an argument.
'Xee,' I began, using the same placating tone on her as I had on Ermi.
'No,' she said miserably, not looking at me as she slid her elbows across the table and hid her face in her arms. Astonished, I meant to ask her what was wrong, but I heard the front door open, and immediately felt as though my heart was trying to strangle me from the inside.
Upon seeing Farrere, however, my heartbeat assumed its normal pace. He looked more upset than his sister.
'Hey,' he said heavily to Xeeva and I, after he'd cast a wary eye around the lounge. 'Is Cam in her room?'
'Yeah. What's wrong?' I replied concernedly.
Farrere pulled off his suit jacket and loosened his tie, drawing a calming breath. 'Several things,' he forced a smile. He crossed the room to the doorway of the master bedroom and knocked on the door.
Cam answered, surprised to see him. 'Hello,' she said slowly. 'Do you want help with dinner? I was only drawing on my textbook, anyway.'
'No, I need to talk to you. May I come in?' Farrere was using the gravest form of his official voice, speaking as though he were informing Cam of a death.
'O-ok,' Cam stammered, stepping back from the doorway. Farrere went with her inside her room, shutting the door behind them.
'What the hell?' Xeeva muttered. I silently agreed.
Both Cam and Farrere emerged only a few minutes later, and now Cam was looking equally sombre.
'Your guess it as good as mine,' she told Farrere sadly, crossing her arms over her chest.
'So it's never happened before?' Farrere asked gravely.
'Of course it's happened before,' Cam gave a half-hearted chuckle, 'just not to this degree. I'll go ask him what his side of the story is.'
'Are you talking about Iggy?' Xeeva said sharply.
'We–' Cam began, but a defensive voice from the hall cut her off.
'Who's talking about me?'
Iggy was poking his head out of his bedroom door, glowering. Farrere didn't reply, appearing struck, probably by Iggy's prolific sense of hearing. Cam settled her hands on her hips.
'Iggy,' she began reservedly, 'what happened with Mr Coullard?'
Interestingly, Iggy looked hugely relieved. He let out a derisive snort. 'Oh, that,' he said, venturing into the lounge, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 'He's been a dick to me ever since Ben Jacobs hooked up alligator clips to his braces. Coullard said I should've stopped him. I said, as Jacobs' lab partner, it was for the good of science he discovered what happened when he circulated twelve volts through his own head. Plus Jacobs is an asshole,' Iggy paused, watching them appraisingly, waiting.
'But didn't that happened ages ago? That's the only reason you haven't been to chemistry all week?' Cam raised an eyebrow dubiously.
Iggy shook his head. 'Surely not, Camille,' he said delicately, trying to hide his reluctance. 'The reason I haven't been to chemistry all week is because on Monday Coullard called me up to the whiteboard to solve an equation, and he gave me a purple marker, saying it'd match my hands. Naturally, the class thought that was very funny, so I walked out. Haven't been back since.' Iggy was blushing slightly, his anger well-contained, and at the sight of Cam and Farrere's expressions falling to shock he smiled bracingly. 'Coullard should be thankful I didn't shove the marker up his pretty, pale nose. And if they told you I left the grounds during school hours it's a lie, I sat in the library instead of going to chemistry. Don't have any willing witnesses, though.'
'He really said that to you?' Farrere asked.
'Yes, Farrere,' Iggy replied witheringly, and he hesitated before adding: 'Most Bunnies aren't as lovely as you.'
'Ig,' Cam said sharply. Iggy gave a semi-apologetic shrug, but Farrere was not offended.
'They've got some nerve calling me to say you were at fault. You were perfectly within your right to leave,' he said with such disgusted fervour even Xeeva looked alarmed.
'Calm down,' Iggy frowned reprovingly. 'I'll go back to class on Monday. Chemistry's one of my best subjects. Coullard can go fuck himself if he thinks I'm going to quit.'
Iggy's choice in language seemed to bring Farrere back from the brink of his mildly terrifying anger. He exhaled wearily, pushing his hair off his forehead. 'Good,' he said quietly, 'that's the right thing to do. If he says anything else like that tell me, ok?'
'Why?' Iggy smiled nervously. 'Gonna throw your weight around?'
'You bet I am.' Farrere replied firmly. 'Cam should be their first preference for your affairs, but they called me because they know who I am. Well, they assume they know who I am, but contrary to their assumption I'm not going to side with your teacher just because our ears are the same size. The lack of substance between his ears greatly concerns me.'
'Um,' Iggy said, openly affronted, 'it's not that big a deal.'
'Yes, it is.' Farrere was entirely composed now, but his icy determination was no less confronting.
'Right.' Iggy mumbled. 'Seeing as I'm not in trouble and I wouldn't have listened even if I was, I'm going back to my room, because you're starting to scare me.' He turned, still eyeing Farrere over his shoulder as he disappeared through his door.
'Is it alright if I call the school tomorrow about this, not you?' Farrere asked Cam.
'Go for your life.' Cam said, impressed. 'Are you alright?'
'I'm fine. What do you want for dinner?' Farrere was rolling up his sleeves, looking hopeful Cam might suggest something intensely laborious.
Half an hour later, Farrere was significantly calmer, having vented over the arduous process of making pasta. Xeeva had relocated her moping self as far as the couch, and was watching television with a glazed look in her eyes, her mind clearly miles away. Cam could be heard cursing periodically from her room, fed up with what her outbursts hailed as: 'The most utterly ridiculous essay question ever set!'
I got up from my armchair because Ermi had started nibbling my hoodie, a sure sign she was hungry, and I carried her back to her cage in my room. I decided I'd give up trying to read, knowing I should do some homework so there would be less for the weekend. Wanting to be neat, I went back to fetch my book from the coffee table.
'Harry,' Farrere said over the counter as I went past. 'I forgot to ask how your assessment went, sorry.'
He was smiling hesitantly, entirely back to normal.
'That's alright,' I said quickly, 'it went really well.'
'Did Janie come good?'
Janie was a girl in my drama group, and she'd been sick leading up to the assessment. I couldn't even remember when I'd told him that.
'Yeah, she was fantastic. She learned all her lines at home and her voice came back just in time.' I fretted inwardly, sure my reply had been too enthusiastic.
'That's great your group was so dedicated,' he said sincerely. There was something hopeful in the way he was watching me as he pipped black olives for the pasta sauce. What was he waiting for me to say?
I hid my hand that wasn't holding the book in my hoodie pocket and squeezed it into a fist, trying to steel myself.
'May I ask how your day was? Even if I think I know the answer,' I said softly.
It was so idiotic of me to worry about everything I said to him. He'd obviously had a rough day, and if he wanted to talk about it I needed to listen, instead of focusing on my mind raving about how obvious I was making my small infatuation. I'd asked him about his day many times before, so there was no way he could conclude I liked him from such a simple question.
'Ah,' Farrere said, smiling and setting his dimples into his cheeks. 'I've had better days.'
Could this still be classed as a "small infatuation" if I was actually anticipating his dimples?
'What happened?' I asked, wrenching my gaze from his lips, furious with myself.
Farrere considered for a moment. 'Three unfortunate things happened today, which I've just realised now could be promising, because bad things are supposed to happen in threes. Maybe they would if I actually believed that,' he chuckled tiredly. 'First I had to hire someone, then I got the call from your school, and then I was offered a promotion.'
He was smiling knowingly, and it wasn't until I said: 'Usually two of those things are positive,' that I realised why.
'Mostly, yes, but I'm not sure even you could find a bright side to the contexts of those two things in this instance.'
'Try me.' I said determinedly, and his smile spread wider, but I kept my eyes on his.
'I was hoping you'd say that,' he said. He lowered his eyes, concentrating on the thick bacon he was now dicing. 'I suppose this is somewhat selfish, but I didn't want to hire someone because I hired her for a job I wish didn't exist. I say only "somewhat selfish" because I truly believe in the grand scheme of things the job shouldn't exist.'
'What's the job?' I set my book on the counter and leaned against the wood, settling down without really realising I had.
'She's a translator, she speaks Chinese. I'm supposed to start business negotiations with a fourth-world Chinese company next quarter. Here I was telling myself I'd only worry about the extent of fourth-world dominance on our culture when they started teaching Mandarin in schools,' he sighed, looking back up at me, and there was something different in his eyes, powerfully sad and indignant. 'Turns out they already have.'
A moment passed before I could think of anything to say. "Culture" was not a word I'd ever associated with our world before. 'If it's inevitable, if there's really nothing you can do about it, then... I guess all you can hope for is that the girl you've hired is nice.' I suggested timidly.
'I haven't met her yet, but she won't be. She's under thirty, which in my line of work means she'll be a vicious, cut-throat career-woman.'
'But you're under thirty, and you're not vicious or cut-throat. Or a woman,' I added lamely, but Farrere still laughed.
'True, but I had connections. Connections that were so determined to have me sell my soul I never really got the choice.' Farrere's voice faded slightly as he spoke, and so did our smiles. Something about what he'd just said made my heart sink. It felt like a secret I shouldn't have been told.
'You haven't sold your soul.' I said softly.
'You're sure about that?' Farrere asked lightly, and his eyes were hopeful once again.
'Yes.' I answered numbly. 'There aren't many things I'm sure of, but that's one of them.'
'That and buttered toast being a charm for a good day?' He was being kindly flippant, embarrassed by the extent of gratitude now unguarded in his eyes.
'Exactly.' My smile returned. Joking aside, I knew he understood I believed what I'd said, and somehow that had been a comfort to him. A curious sense of warmth began to grow within my chest, and I found it worried me more than the persistence of my thoughts on his smile. 'So,' I ventured on boldly, 'what vexes you about the promotion?'
'The same thing, I guess, seeing as we've established I've got a soul to lose.'
'Can you say "no"?'
'I plan to, but the powers that be are getting rather suspicious about my reluctance to move up in the world. I'm a repeat offender for refusing promotions,' he told me wanly.
I frowned, abashedly curious. Farrere had never talked this much about his job before. 'What's it to them if you say no? You do your job perfectly, don't you?'
'Yes,' Farrere said, with no hint of pride, 'and that's what bothers them. World Relations is big, bigger than me, and they don't like having one person responsible for it. They think I'm keeping it to myself, that I'm fashioning the faction entirely for my own ends, or something like that. They're completely paranoid. They want to promote me to get me out of the way, and every time I refuse it affirms their fears, but they can't fire me, I'm too good.' He was a little breathless by the time he finished saying this, and he set down his knife, looking ashamed. 'You don't need to hear any of this, it doesn't matter anyway, it won't come to anything,' he drew a quick breath, continuing before I could reassure him. 'I'm just sick of everything that's going on under the surface, but that's business.'
He glanced up from the bench, saw my expression and winced. 'I'm sorry–' he said, but I cut him off.
'No, I am.' My heartbeat was picking up, spurred by his look of questioning confusion. I couldn't explain why I was sorry, could I? Maybe I could... but I shouldn't– 'I was supposed to think of something positive, but... that sounds horrible.' Yes, that would do, he didn't need to know how I felt for only making him more upset.
'Don't be sorry,' Farrere said gently, 'just talking to you about it is sufficiently comforting. Plus I'm well used to not liking my job, I'll survive.'
I stared up at him, my heaving mind finally settling. I was smiling, the warmth in my chest feeling as though it was humming delightedly.
Now I had to be making it too obvious. I looked down, pretending to check my watch, heat spreading in my face. I was being so stupid.
'How long till dinner? I should probably try and get some work done,' I mumbled.  
'Uh, it'll be ready around...' Farrere shook his wrist to bring the face of his Rolex into view and didn't finish his sentence. I could tell he'd just remembered something, and whatever it was it had frozen him with panic. After a second his shoulders slumped with defeated exhaustion. 'I forgot I'm going out with Genevieve tonight,' he groaned, stepping back from the bench. 'Why couldn't I have remembered in half an hour? Then it would've been too late.'
I didn't ask why he didn't want to see her. I'd pried into his personal life enough for one evening.
'I'll have to go get changed,' Farrere was muttering. 'I'll be back in a sec. I'll try to get as much of dinner done as I can, then I'll just have to leave it for Cam.' Mournful and exasperated, he headed next door.
I slid my book from the counter and took it back to my room.



'I don't get it, Harry.' Cam said sadly. I already knew what she was going to raise as the next topic of conversation.
We'd been talking on the couch for over an hour, ignoring the movie in front of us. Once upon a time we'd had the tradition of watching movies every Friday night, but ever since we'd moved it had disappeared, and tonight we were feeling too down to resurrect it.
In our discussion we'd covered Iggy and Mr Coullard, coming to the conclusion we were proud of Iggy for how he'd handled the situation, but we were none-the-less deeply saddened the situation had occurred at all. We'd talked about Xeeva, too, posing several unlikely theories behind her current funk, most theories involved her work load, and some involved Iggy. Finally, we'd come to Farrere. It had been disheartening to see him return from his apartment with his fringe pushed resolutely off his forehead and his grey sweater over his arm. As becoming as the sweater was, we agreed we liked his usual flannel more.
'He's such a great guy,' Cam continued. 'I cannot fathom how shit his luck is with women.'
I offered Cam a weak smile. 'Plainly put,' I said softly.
'You know me. Eloquence personified,' she let out a heavy sigh.
'I don't understand, either.' I had to guard my tone to make sure it didn't sound half as upset as I felt.
'Poor Farrere.' Cam muttered definitely. 'Sorry, Harry, I'm gonna have to go to bed. Very tired. I'll see you in the morning. With any luck tomorrow will be less crap.' She gave a little wave before she stood, stretched and crossed the lounge to her room.
I tried to remain thoughtless for at least a few minutes, I really did, but the images on the television screen didn't seem to make it past my eyes and provide an adequate distraction.
It just didn't add up.
Farrere was everything a girl could want, in terms of substance and the material. So why did he attract women whom he could only have abysmal, doomed relationships with? And even assuming all these women had completely ignored his personality and dated him based solely on money and status... six out of eight had cheated on him! What was wrong with them? What was wrong with him?!
He was sweet, caring, polite, fair-minded, intelligent... beautiful... he was dependable, he did have a sense of humour regardless of what Iggy said, he was an amazing cook, he actually listened, he had great taste in sweaters, he–





Oh.