“Ain’t much we can do but wait,” she said.

“Suppose you’re right.”

“Be thankful for it, though.”

“As we all should be.”

They stood close to each other in front of the closed door as they spoke; it was not the first time Lady Mae had noticed his hair, or his hands, or the way his jawbone moved when he was trying to watch his words. He’d answer her questions if she asked them, but she didn’t often know how to ask them, how to whisper the what now and what then and will you always. Sometimes Arbuckle would lose himself; his words flowed free, and Lady Mae found herself in the books he read, in what he imagined, in what he wished for. She, too, had imagined. Had they wanted the same thing? Or did he still see her as the child he taught all these years?

“You okay?” he asked and brought his hand up to her temple, brushing her skin with his thumb from the corner of her eye to her hairline. His eyes never left hers, and he looked at her like he always had. But this time his hand lingered by her ear, and he gently tucked her hair behind it before taking his hand away. It was a simple gesture, one of kindness and concern, but whatever the meaning behind it made no difference, for Lady Mae felt not for the first time a fluttering against her chest and a heat between her legs. “Seems a little better,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“Your mama’s worried about you—we working in here or the kitchen?” He slung his satchel from one shoulder to the other.

“Here, I suppose,” she said and pointed at the sofa. “What’d she say?”

“Says it weren’t never like this for her—not this bad. Reckons things are getting worse over time. Residents acting up more than usual.”

He put his satchel on the table in front of the sofa and opened it, taking out a notebook, a case of pencils, and two small books. Lady Mae made sure the door was latched and joined him, sinking down into the cushions and letting her leg lean up against his.

“She was quiet over breakfast. Think there’s something she ain’t telling me.”

“Sure there’s lots of things she ain’t telling you,” he said as he straightened the items neatly in row.

“That ain’t what I mean—it seemed like, I don’t know—”

“I can tell you she’s worried,” he interrupted. “Says she wants me to watch over you.”

“She asked you?”

“Aye. I obliged, of course.”

Lady Mae slapped her hands upon her knees hard enough to make Arbuckle’s eyes go wide. “Don’t need no minder. I ain’t no baby.”

“No, you ain’t,” he said, shaking his head. “But you’re just as much my family as my pa, and so is your ma. I’d be right to oblige.”

There was thickness in her throat. Though she could cry in front of him, she did not wish to and thought of the rain, of what was for dinner, of the way the wind sounded at the windows. She bit her lip and swallowed quickly and asked, “She seem different to you today?”