The remainder of the weekend passed without incident.
No confessions.
No suspiciously convenient moments alone.
No further opportunities to examine fountain pens while forgetting how breathing worked.
Saturday lunch featured Mother's charitable initiatives. Dinner involved Richard Evans discussing quarterly projections with the enthusiasm of someone reading tax legislation aloud. By Sunday breakfast, our mothers were proposing that Augustus and I attend next month's museum gala.
We declined simultaneously.
Vivienne looked delighted by our synchronized refusal, which suggested we had somehow made matters worse. Mother merely said she would send us the details anyway.
I spent the drive home staring at the passing lights and remembering how carefully Augustus had stepped back when his mother interrupted us.
He had not tried to corner me afterward or demand an explanation. Somehow, that consideration made the memory harder to dismiss.
