clutching them tightly.
“My little monkey.” Alba picks up her niece and squeezes her tightly. “I’ve missed you.”
“Miss you.” Tilly presses her face into Alba’s neck. “Miss you much.”
To her surprise, Alba feels a lump in her throat. “You’ve grown . . .” She swallows. “You’ve grown so big.”
Realizing he’s still staring at Greer, Edward turns to his sister. “She grows like a beanstalk,” he says. “She’s going to look just like her mother.”
“She’s beautiful.” Alba smiles. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Edward steps forward so he’s only a few feet from his sister and his daughter. The sight of them hugging makes him want to join in, to tuck them both against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.
“I know.” Alba, a little embarrassed that Greer is watching them, starts walking toward the kitchen, Tilly still in her arms. “I know, and you don’t have to be anymore, okay? Now, come and have a cup of tea and some more of those ginger biscuits you don’t like.”
Almost overcome with relief, Edward starts to follow his sister, then stops and turns back to Greer. He holds up his hand and gives a little wave. “’Bye.”
“’Bye.” Greer leans against the wall, watching Edward disappear down the corridor. The photographs remain perfectly still until he closes the kitchen door behind him.
“Well, well.” Florence Nightingale grins. “Now, what was that?”
“I’m not certain,” Emily Davies says, “but I do know it made me tingle all over.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Greer shakes her head, dislodging the fantasies that have collected there, ignoring the thump in her chest. “It was nothing.”
Edward sits at the kitchen table, still a little distracted. Tilly slides into his lap while Alba makes two cups of tea and, as his daughter amuses herself with the buttons on his shirt, Edward thinks of the woman in the corridor.
“That was Greer.” Alba hands him a cup and Tilly a ginger biscuit. “She’s single.”
“Sorry?” Edward frowns.
“Oh, don’t bother.” Alba laughs. “I’m not blind.” She won’t tell him about the colors, not yet. And perhaps he doesn’t realize it right now, but she knows that she just saw her brother falling in love.
Edward blushes. “So . . . how are you?”
“I’m okay. I’m better, much better.” Alba sits and Tilly, clutching her biscuit, switches allegiances and laps. “So, how’s the job? Designed any great monuments to capitalism lately?” She pushes the plate of biscuits toward him. “They’re a few days old but still delicious, I promise.”
Edward obligingly takes one. “Actually I’m doing some pro bono work at the moment, building a community theater in Camden.”
“So we’re both broke right now.” Alba tickles Tilly, who giggles. “How inspiring.”
Edward dunks his biscuit in his tea and chews. “And what are you up to?”
“I’m not sure.” Alba shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “I have to leave here in three weeks.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I should get a job. Goodness knows what I’m qualified for.” Alba smiles, pretending she’s not as worried as she is. The questions of where she will live, and what she will do with her life, have been taking up far too many of Alba’s thoughts.
“You can do anything you want to,” Edward says, “of that I’m quite certain.”
“I should probably just get a proper job, like the rest of you.”
“You should do what you like with your life,” Edward says. He glances at his daughter, who, oblivious to them both, is working her way methodically through the plate of biscuits in front of her. “You should do whatever you want.”
“That’s funny,” Alba says, “I always thought it didn’t matter what I wanted, all that mattered was that I lived up to the family name. Although, I suppose I’m not really an Ashby after all, am I? So perhaps I should just make up a pseudonym.”
“Woodenum.” Tilly giggles, spluttering a shower of crumbs onto her aunt’s lap.
“Why a pseudonym?” Edward asks.
“Well, I’ve started doing a bit of writing. I’m sure nothing will come of it, but . . .” Alba shrugs, too nervous to confess the full extent of her hopes.
“Oh, okay, well that sounds great.” And because Edward is too nervous to pry, they sit in silence for a while, sipping tea and chewing biscuits. Tilly licks her lips and kicks her feet under the table.
“We’re thinking of selling the house,” Edward says. “The upkeep is enormous, and now that mother’s gone, none of us really want . . . Anyway, it’d give us all a nice little nest egg. Then you could stave off the lackluster