Zachary’s Day Out
Zachary’s Day Out
It was a fine summer morning, and Thomas Lightwood was enjoying the serenity of his domestic surroundings.
The dining room of the Carstairs house in Cornwall Gardens, London, was one of its nicest rooms when the sun was shining, perfectly placed as it was for light to beam down upon breakfast and its breakfasters.
Said breakfast had just been cleaned up, Alastair Carstairs had unfolded one of his gigantic mundane broadsheet newspapers, and Thomas was ready for more tea.
He squinted into the picture window, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the quiet sounds of the morning as he poured: the merry stream of water from pot to cup, the rustle of paper.
And, of course, the gentle hmphs and well-wells coming from Alastair as he read the paper.
It was all part of their morning routine, and even after a year of living together, Thomas was thrilled that he and Alastair had a morning routine.
When he’d first moved himself in (“You can always leave if Alastair becomes frightful again,” his sister Eugenia had said, unhelpfully), Thomas had been amused to discover that Alastair, despite his collections of spears and daggers, not to mention his sharp and cranky wit, was as domestic as a house cat.
When not actively hunting demons, Alastair wanted his newspaper, his slippers, and a crackling fire in front of which he could fall asleep.
At which point Thomas would tuck a blanket around Alastair’s shoulders.
He loved watching Alastair sleep, his long dark lashes lying against the soft brown of his skin.
And when Alastair woke up, either on the sofa or in their bed in the morning, he always looked first for Thomas, sometimes reaching out for him before his eyes were even open.
He would pull him close, and Thomas would revel in the fact that Alastair Carstairs liked to cuddle.
With him. In fact, he wouldn’t have minded if their plans for the day had included nothing but cuddling, but, in fact, they had a task to complete—one that had nothing to do with chasing down supernatural evils.
“The calm before the storm, eh?” he commented in Alastair’s direction, dropping another sugar cube into his tea.
“Eh?” said Alastair, from somewhere behind his newspaper.
If Thomas didn’t know better, he might have thought Alastair wasn’t paying attention and become annoyed. But he did know better. “Just enjoying the quiet this morning,” he said, “B.Z.”
“Before Zachary?” Alastair lowered his newspaper with a grin. “I’m sure he’ll be perfectly well-behaved. My mother raises only well-behaved children.”
“I don’t know if that’s the first term I’d think of in relation to you or Cordelia,” said Thomas.
“Well, you only knew us as surly adolescents, and then as respectable adults. When I was Zachary’s age I was the picture of perfect comportment. My father insisted, for one thing.”
His tone was light, but Thomas felt a small sharp shard poke his insides at the mention of Alastair’s father.
This, after all, was why Thomas hadn’t been surprised by how domestic and settled Alastair acted at home.
Alastair had spent years and years trying to be his father; when Thomas first met him, Alastair’s desperate desire to seem older than his age had made him seem instead younger to Thomas, and vulnerable in a way Alastair would probably have hated.
Even as he’d grown into himself more, and come to understand his father’s weaknesses, there was still a part of Alastair that would always see himself as the head of his family, stepping in to be the father that the alcoholic and angry Elias Carstairs could never be.
Alastair had always protected his younger sister, Cordelia, and he was protective in the same way of his even younger brother, baby Zachary, though Zachary lived a much more peaceful life than Cordelia and Alastair had as children. Not that that prevented Alastair from hovering.
“What’s that look?” said Alastair, interrupting Thomas’s reverie.
“What look?” Thomas had been sure Alastair was back behind his paper, but apparently not.
“You’re smirking,” Alastair said.
“I am not.”
“You are,” Alastair said severely. “I would go so far as to say you are smirking impishly.” He paused to consider this. “That’s a strange mundane word, isn’t it, ‘impish.’ I’ve killed many an Imp. Never seen one crack a smile.”
“I expect they have more fun with mundanes,” said Thomas. “Fewer blades coming fast at their heads.”
“So why the smirk?”
“The impish one?”
Alastair lowered his newspaper fully; Thomas considered this a major point he had scored. “Yes, that smirk. You’re doing it again.”
“I don’t think I stopped.”
Alastair leaned forward. “If you do not tell me what is entertaining you so,” he said in a low voice, “I shall come over to that side of the table and I will kiss you until you do.”
Thomas burst out laughing. “In what world is that a threat?”
Alastair threw his newspaper onto the table and rose gracefully to his feet.
He had just started toward Thomas when the doorbell jangled.
Drat. Thomas made a disappointed face at Alastair as Mrs. Killigrew, their new housekeeper, dashed down the hallway to answer the front door.
“Mrs. Carstairs, do come in,” Thomas heard her say, and then the sound of Sona, Alastair’s mother, murmuring a greeting in response.
Thomas sighed inwardly. He was disappointed not to be kissed, of course, but that wasn’t the main source of the sigh.
He loved it when Alastair was playful, but he usually showed that playfulness only in flashes.
He was already rewrapping himself in his invisible cloak of dignity, preparing himself for his mother’s imminent appearance.
It was Thomas’s quiet opinion that Alastair was only twenty, and that his playfulness should not be limited only to moments alone with Thomas.
It was one of his favorite sides of Alastair, and the world, he felt, should see it.
Thomas rose to his feet as Sona breezed into the dining room. She was pushing a mauve pram in which Zachary was sitting up and looking around like the King on parade. To Thomas’s amusement, he waved a chubby hand at Alastair when he saw him.
“Good morning, Mother,” Alastair said. “Good morning, Zachary.”
This was exactly the sort of thing Thomas had just been thinking about. Why say a calm good morning to a baby? Why not pick Zachary up and tickle his tummy? But Alastair would never.
“Boys,” said Sona briskly—this was always how Sona addressed the two of them together, and probably, Thomas thought, always would. “Are you quite sure you’re prepared for this?”
“It is not the Battle of Waterloo, Mother,” Alastair said. “We are perfectly capable of looking after Zachary for a day while you spend time with the ladies.”
(“The ladies,” in this case, being Thomas’s own mother, Sophie, along with his Aunt Cecily. They had all been doing as much as they could to welcome Sona into their circle, as she was really quite shy.)
“I believe my mother said something about your needing a rest, based her their own memories of raising an eighteen-month-old child,” said Thomas. “We are only pleased to be able to help.”
“And to spend more time with my brother, of course,” Alastair added, reaching into the carriage to pick Zachary up.
He held him a bit stiffly, as if he were a dangerous incendiary device, while Zachary regarded him with a wide, dark-eyed gaze.
The baby had something in his hand—a wooden toy, Thomas realized, in the shape of a lion.
“Zachary,” said Sona, “you know Alastair. He’s your brother. He’s much bigger than you, but that’s just how it is with brothers and sisters sometimes.”
“Lion,” said Zachary, showing her the toy.
“Yes, that’s your lion,” Sona said kindly. “You can keep him with you today if you like.”
“You remember your sister Cordelia?” Thomas said to Zachary. “She is almost as big as Alastair. And she has a whacking great sword.”
Zachary considered this. “Delia,” he offered after a moment.
“So,” Sona said, hands on her hips, “what do you have planned for the day? Visits to friends, perhaps?”
“Well, no,” Thomas said. Alastair had carried Zachary over to the dining table, where it sounded like he was telling him the names of all the flowers in the vase at its center. “James and Cordelia are still in Constantinople; Matthew’s there too. Anna and Ari are in India.”
“I thought Matthew came back to London to meet his new brother and sister,” Sona said.
“He did,” Thomas said. “And then he left again. That’s Matthew for you. I expect we’ll take a walk, get some sunshine. Alastair dug out his tin soldiers from somewhere; I’m sure he wants to show them to Zachary. And perhaps he’ll want a nap in the afternoon?”
Sona looked amused. “I’m sure Alastair will want a nap in the afternoon.”
“Stair!” Zachary called out, waving his lion.
“That’s right, Zachary,” said Alastair encouragingly. “That is some of my name.” He looked over at Sona; for a moment Thomas was amused by the resemblance between the two brothers. “We’ll be fine, Mother,” he said. “There are two of us and only one of him.”
With only a little more prodding and instructions on the topics of feeding, nappy-changing, entertainment, and sleep, and how to tell which of the four Zachary needed at any given time, Sona departed.
A moment after the door closed, Alastair said brightly to Zachary, “Well, shall we go back in the pram and take a little walk?”
Instantly Zachary burst into tears. Not just tears—loud, racking sobs. Alastair looked over at Thomas in horror.
“It’s all right,” Thomas said to both of them, coming to join them. “Shh. It’s all right, Zachary. You know us. Your mother will be back in a few hours but we’re going to spend some time together today.”
Zachary let out a howl of protest.
“Maybe he’s hungry?” Alastair suggested.