*It isn't his birthday, and they aren't expecting company. That's why the very fist tip-off isn't Molly's pallor, or the way she's holding herself. They've had enough children together that Arthur can think of reasonable excuses for those. No, the first hint that something is wrong is how perfect the whole scene in the kitchen is. There's no bustling, enchanted culinary equipment, not so much as a crumb out of place, and the instant Arthur sets foot in the room, he goes very still. The boys are all still asleep, and the silence is deafening; his stomach turns uneasily as he studies his wife, and he hates himself for what has to come next.*
*It's a small rotation of the wrist and that's all, revealing what's under her palm. She speaks carefully, her voice a drawn, taut thread of normalcy about to snap.*
I wish--I wish you'd done a proper job on this clock, Arthur. Shoddy charm-work is the last thing I'd expect from you.
*In thirteen years of marriage, it's the first time that Arthur truly doesn't know what to do. He stares at the clock hands on the table and understands immediately what's happened, and his heart sinks horribly, but there isn't time for that now. Swallowing back the tightness that warps round his throat, he looks more closely at Molly's face, re-reading her posture and pallor and tone into a horrible understanding - she's been up God knows how long, the twins died sometime in the night, and she hasn't - won't, can't - accept that fact. So she's been down here cleaning, making enough toast to feed the whole village, because her baby brothers are dead
( ... )
*Her voice is shaky, still, and she lets out a long and shuddering breath before speaking again. Her eyes wander over to his and the truth is evident in them: she needs him to take this one. She is capable of managing breakfast, and that is all.*
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...What happened.
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I wish--I wish you'd done a proper job on this clock, Arthur. Shoddy charm-work is the last thing I'd expect from you.
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*Her voice is shaky, still, and she lets out a long and shuddering breath before speaking again. Her eyes wander over to his and the truth is evident in them: she needs him to take this one. She is capable of managing breakfast, and that is all.*
There's, ah, toast.
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