Geoffrey walked downstairs. He was fuming.
Malcolms was standing at the bottom of the stairs, in his pyjamas. He looked near to tears. Geoffrey had a pang of remorse, and bent down to hug the boy.
"Go and pack your things," he said gently. "There's been a change in plans."
Malcolm looked at him and Geoffrey gave him a gentle push. "Go on. And get changed into something smart, we're going out for the evening."
Malcolm said nothing, but went to pack his stuff. Geoffrey followed him up to his room. He could hear Nancy getting ready for bed. She'd been getting into work so late, that it was about time she had an early night. He didn't know how she could be so selfish as to go to bed, after wounding him so greatly, but what did he care?
The fire was burning brightly in Malcolm's room as he sorted automatically through his clothes. Geoffrey gave quiet suggestions, while he poked the fire, and Malcolm finished quickly, although his glassy face looked like a sleepwalker. The fire was beginning to burn down. Geoffrey smiled at his son fondly, and sent him to put on his suit. "I'll meet you downstairs," he said.
Geoffrey hefted the suitcase. As he went to leave the room, he turned back, as though he'd forgotten something, and threw three more logs on the fire. One half-fell out of the grate, but if Geoffrey noticed, he didn't go back to fix it. He shut the door, and went downstairs. Malcolm appeared, and they got into Geoffrey's car.
The club was quiet, and Geoffrey got Malcolm and himself lemonades. They went over to sit by the fire.
Neither of them noticed Claire Ursine walking quietly through the room.
"We could have done this at home, daddy," Malcolm said. "I have a fire in my room."
"Sit down, son." Geoffrey sounded tired. "I wanted to talk to you, man-to-man. The thing is, your mother and I have not been getting along well recently."
Malcolm nodded. "I know."
"And, well, we both love you, and want the best for you, so we've decided that, while we work things out, you should be able to live in a place where you don't have to worry about any of that."
"But... but I'll worry anyway. Mummy's really unhappy."
Geoffrey frowned. "And what about me, eh? Listen, the fact is that you can't trust what your mother says. She lies about all sorts of things. I bet she didn't even find that turtle, but just made up a story. The thing is, we're going to go on to the school tonight, after we finish here. The headmaster is expecting us. And, you know, if you don't like it, it's not forever. You might even be able to come home when your mother and I have sorted everything out. Who knows, it might be sooner than you think."
Malcolm sat, thinking about this. Then he said, "Daddy, you can play the piano, can't you? Can you go play that song I liked?"
Geoffrey smiled fondly at his son. What a good boy he was, his father's son. No doubt he meant that Sousa March that Geoffrey had liked to play loudly, when Malcolm was a toddler, and screaming through the din. Nancy had always sighed at him, even then, for making the baby cry, but she was stupid. Geoffrey had always known they would bond over it. He went off to the conservatory. Malcolm waited until he was out of the room, and then pulled out his phone. He needed to make a call.
********
Back at home, Nancy was not sleeping well. The house was quiet, and she assumed that Geoffrey was in their bed, and Malcolm was asleep in his own. Nancy was in the spare room, a small, plain room. She could not face the frills of her marital bed. She would have to leave next morning, and take Malcolm with her. She knew where she could go. The wooden hut, far out of town. Remote, beautiful, and lacking all amenities. Geoffrey had never been interested in roughing it, and so they had never been. She didn't think he even knew where it was. Certainly he would not think of her, such a priss, going there voluntarily. She herself had not been up there in years, although when she was a child, she remembered long summers swimming in the lake, running through the woods, chasing insects. She had not always been so prim, she remembered. How was it that the summers of childhood seemed to stretch out so long? These days, the years slipped by so quickly, and yet when she thought about last summer, it seemed as though it has lasted only a matter of days, and was years long gone by now. And the autumn... leaves had fallen, having grown strong and green for some months, then dried, raked, and - she remembered Erin's bonfire - burned. She could remember that day so vividly that she could almost smell the smoke still. That, too, seemed years ago now. The snow was what lasted, she thought, shivering. At least in bed, she was warm - very warm. She supposed that the fire in Malcolm's room was nearly out, but the heat remained... was getting stronger. And the smoke was not, she realised, a memory, but sharp and acrid in her nose.
She leapt out of bed without even pausing, and ran to her son's room. Opening the door, she was confronted with flames, but she only glanced over them before searching the room with her eyes for Malcolm. With relief, she realised that he was not there... but the flames were getting higher, and the sound and the fury was increasing.
She grabbed the small fire extinguisher from beside the door (oh, thank god she'd insisted on it when Geoffrey said that the boy would enjoy woodfires in his room), and set to. The fire was enormous now, and she could feel the flames scorching her face, leaping around her. Her heart pounded in her mouth as she realised how much danger she was in, but she could not... would not leave the fire in her son's room.
*********
Back in the club, Geoffrey came to a satisfied crescendo on the piano. Malcolm had been watching quietly, not mentioning that he had meant Rachmaninov's concerto, and clapped quietly when Geoffrey finished pounding the keys. Geoffrey beamed heartily at his son.
"Come on," he said jovially. "If I'm to get home by tomorrow morning to see your mother, we'd better leave now."
He got up from the piano, still grinning widely to himself.
As they left, Geoffrey smiled heartily at the barstaff, and told them goodnight, with eloquence uncharacteristic of his usual dealings with staff. "Long journey ahead," he said cheerfully. "Off to boarding school for this one. Hope to be back by morning, if the roads stay open." The barstaff said nothing, but watched the two Landgraab males as they walked into the dark night.
