Chapter 13 #2
She slips her hand into mine again as we walk. The fairy lights blink. A snowman mascot collapses gently against a fence. Lucy begins humming Jingle Bells in a key of her own invention.
We’ve just passed the duck pond—currently frozen over and guarded by one extremely unimpressed mallard—when Lucy tugs on my arm again.
“Uncle Jasper?”
“Mm?”
“When are Daddy and Ivy coming back to get me?”
I glance down. Her face is calm enough, but she’s chewing the corner of her mitten, which usually means she’s thinking harder than she’s letting on.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “They’ll be back for lunch. After their trip.”
She nods, processing. “Are they having a grown-up adventure?”
“Something like that.”
She skips a few steps ahead, then twirls, nearly slipping on a patch of frost. “Do they get to have pancakes?”
“I think it’s legally required.”
She grins, then keeps walking, content with the answer.
I watch her for a moment, then let my gaze drift ahead, to the shape of the house waiting for us just past the bend.
Theo hadn’t wanted to go.
He never does, really. Not because he doesn’t want to spend time with Ivy—he does, desperately—but because the man treats stepping away from the coffee house like abandoning a newborn on a roundabout.
It had taken both me and Geoff a solid week to convince him. Reassurances. Backup plans. Geoff had promised to be at The Kaisers Mug all day, every day, and brought out the big guns: “You’re not the only person who can pour milk into a cup, Theo.”
We’d also had to deal with the sacred ritual of Theo’s “head waiter anxiety,” which involved a laminated checklist, colour-coded notes, and a deeply suspicious look at the phrase managerial initiative. I think he fully expected the café to be reduced to ashes and espresso within twelve hours.
But eventually—miraculously—he relented. Packed a bag. Took Ivy off for a weekend without distractions. Just the two of them, somewhere with wine, silence, and sheets neither of them had to wash.
They both needed it.
Ivy, especially. She’s been holding everything together with patience and duct tape lately. And Theo’s the sort of man who forgets his own needs if you don’t write them on a Post-it and staple it to his forehead.
So off they went.
And Lucy—to absolutely no one’s surprise—had demanded to stay with me.
She’d arrived with a pink suitcase, her favourite dinosaur pyjamas, and three separate bedtime books, all annotated with Post-its reading NO SKIPPING.
She also gave me a lecture about brushing her hair gently, because “your man hands don’t know about knots. ”
Which is possibly the best insult I’ve ever received.
“Home!” Lucy shouts triumphantly.
I catch up and ruffle the top of her hat. “Let’s get inside before your nose falls off.”
I’m halfway to unlocking the front entrance when the door to the annexe bangs open behind us.
SJ appears, hair wild, socks mismatched, face very serious.
“Mr Corbin!” he calls, urgent and breathless.
I close my eyes.
“Jasper,” I say, automatically. “Just Jasper.”
He ignores that entirely. “You need to come and help my mum. It’s an emergency.”
I turn.
He’s bouncing on the spot now, full eight-year-old adrenaline, waving one hand like he’s directing traffic. “One of the pipes in the kitchen burst and there’s water going everywhere and she’s saying things I’m not allowed to repeat and she doesn’t know where the water button is.”
“…Water button?”
“You know. The tap switchy thing.”
“The mains?”
“Yes! The main tap switchy thing! Please, come fast or she might drown in tea towels.”
Lucy lets out a gasp. “Is it a FLOOD?”
SJ spins dramatically. “It’s spreading. There are puddles everywhere.”
I scoop Lucy up before she can launch herself into the rescue effort like a very small, heavily accessorised fire marshal. She squeals with delight, clinging to my coat as I follow SJ at pace across the gravel path.
“It’s a real emergency,” Lucy whispers in my ear, eyes wide. “Like in Frozen.”
By the time we reach the flat, SJ’s already flung the door open and darted inside like a man on a mission. I step in behind him, Lucy still in my arms, and immediately take in the chaos.
Miranda’s on the floor, half inside the cupboard under the sink, wedged awkwardly with one arm clamped around something beneath the pipes.
She’s drenched. Not mildly damp—sopping.
Her ponytail is stuck to her neck, her jumper looks like it’s been through a car wash, and there’s a tea towel doing precisely nothing besides clinging to her forearm like it’s lost the will to live.
“Don’t panic,” she mutters without looking up. “Everything’s under control.”
Something gurgles ominously beneath her.
SJ gestures grandly. “See? Flood.”
Miranda glances up, noticing me and Lucy in the doorway. “Oh. Good. You brought an audience.”
“You alright down there?” I ask, trying to assess whether she’s stopped the leak or simply drowned it in sarcasm.
“I’ve created a temporary solution involving a hair bobble, a spatula, and blind faith. Don’t question it.”
Lucy stares, wide-eyed. “You look like a plumber princess.”
Miranda blinks. “That’s... unexpectedly flattering.”
“It’s the sparkles,” Lucy explains, pointing at the water beading on her sleeves. “You’re shiny and fixing things. That’s princess work.”
Before Miranda can reply, Lucy suddenly gasps again, dramatically enough that I instinctively tighten my grip on her.
“Look at the kittens!”
Sure enough, both cats are perched at the far end of the open plan like tiny, judgemental spectators.
Twinklesocks is sitting on the cat tree, tail flicking, watching Miranda intently as if grading her plumbing technique.
Thor is crouched beside the sofa, ears alert, tracking every movement like he’s about to pounce on the leaking pipe.
“They’ve been there the whole time,” SJ says, a little proud. “They like drama.”
“I know the type,” I mutter, stepping closer with Lucy still clamped in my arms. She’s pink-cheeked, wide-eyed, and zipped up to the neck like a very short, extremely alert burrito.
I set her down and peel off her coat. Mine follows, both hung hastily over the nearest chair. She darts over to the kittens without hesitation.
“Right,” I say, scanning the puddle situation. “SJ, would you mind keeping Lucy and the cats away from the wet area? Your mum and I need to sort this before it escalates into a full aquatic event.”
SJ nods immediately, serious as anything. “Do you want to see my new Lego castle?” he asks Lucy.
“Yes! Does it have traps?”
“Obviously.”
He scoops up both kittens—one under each arm—with practiced efficiency, then leads Lucy off toward the hallway. “We’ll go to my room,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ve got a blanket fort and stickers.”
Lucy gasps. “I love blanket forts.” And just like that, they’re gone.
I glance at the spreading puddle, then nudge open the side door.
“Back in a sec,” I say, grabbing my coat from the chair. “Just going to shut off the mains.”
Miranda looks up from under the sink, one arm still elbow-deep in catastrophe. “Of course it’s outside. Why wouldn’t it be outside? That makes perfect sense.”
“I didn’t build this place,” I say. “I just wrestle the stopcock.”
She blinks. “That sounds rude.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What are you? Ten?”
She snorts under her breath, but I catch the faint flush rising along her cheekbone. Flustered. Still a bit damp. Still trying to act like she’s got the upper hand when she’s half-stuck under a cupboard with a soaked sleeve and a cat paw print on her back.
I step outside into the cold.
The panel’s half-frozen and stubborn as hell, but eventually gives way with a judder and a metallic creak. I twist the valve hard. Pipes groan in protest, then fall quiet.
When I return, Miranda’s sitting back on her heels, shaking out her wrist. There’s a streak of something unidentifiable across her forehead and her hair’s doing that wispy, static thing from being both wet and annoyed.
She looks like she’s survived a mild hurricane and is now trying to style it out.
“Sorted,” I say, peeling off my coat again and chucking it back over the chair. “The flood has been demoted to light damp.”
“Thank fuck,” she mutters, dragging her sleeve across her brow. “I was one dish towel away from declaring maritime law.”
I crouch down beside her and peer into the cupboard. The pipe’s still weeping, but no longer sobbing. A thin trickle pools gently beneath it.
“I think we can patch this,” I say. “Towel, tape, wishful thinking. Should hold until we get someone competent.”
She grabs a roll of duct tape off the counter and passes it over without ceremony. “We’re aiming for functional, not pretty.”
“That’s been my motto since Year Nine.”
She grins, quick and involuntary.
As I reach into the cupboard, her arm brushes mine. Just a moment. But warm. Solid. Enough.
“You know,” she says, voice slightly steadier now, “I’d planned on using tonight to finally put the clean bedding on and watch Bake Off in peace.”
“And instead, you got me in your cupboard with a wrench.”
“Living the dream.”
We work in companionable silence for a minute or two. She passes things when I ask—torch, cloth, tape—and occasionally mutters encouragement like I’m on The Repair Shop and about to cry over a broken vase.
When I lean back, the leak’s been bandaged in what can only be described as plumbing cosplay. Not elegant, but secure.
I wipe my hands and glance over. “There. The worst of it’s handled.”
Miranda exhales. She slumps back against the cupboards. “Thanks,” she says quietly.
I nod. “Wasn’t going to leave you to do battle solo.”
She gives a small smile—barely there, but real. A loose strand of damp blond hair has fallen across her cheek. Without thinking, I reach over and tuck it behind her ear.
She stills.
I don’t quite move my hand fast enough.
“Stress like that,” I say, my voice lower than I intended, “doesn’t help with… tension.”
There’s a beat.