18.

March 30, 1922


Bill sat at one end of the kitchen table, his feet wrapped around the legs of his stool. In front of him was an enormous wooden bowl into which he was steadily peeling potatoes. He had already done enough to feed a small army, but he'd found that, at the right pace, the repetitive chopping rhythm almost managed to distract him from the constant, all-encompassing pounding in his head. At his elbow was a cup of chamomile tea long since gone cold and cloudy. He'd had a go at actually drinking it, but after four sips he'd decided it was wiser not to tempt fate. He was just beginning to feel like he might remain upright when the front door clanged open and he put one hand to his head to keep it from rolling into the pile of potato peels.

Miranda and Bernard burst into the kitchen in a flurry of raindrops and church bells, their arms full of boxes and brown grocers bags. Styb followed behind them, barking at their heels. Bernard set his packages on the counter while Miranda took off her coat and kerchief. She caught sight of Bill and beamed.

"Bill! Hello! We brought you some lunch!"

Bill pressed his lips together into what he hoped resembled a smile. "Thank you."

Bernard shooed Styb away and began rummaging through the bags. "Mandy, do you have the rolls?" he cried, and Bill winced and dropped his potato.

"No, Da," Miranda replied, "I've only got the tripe and garlic."

Bill swallowed thickly, blanching; he set his focus on his next unsuspecting victim. "I've got them," called a voice, and Bill's knife stuttered and hit the chopping block.

Dom strode into the kitchen, fresh-faced and chipper, drizzle on his collar and three wrapped parcels in his arms. The kitchen door banged shut behind him while Styb began to leap at his knees. Dom set the bags next to the chopping block; Bill twisted to avoid his elbow and then bent back to his work.

"Orlando sent you some of that braided bread, Bill," said Miranda. "He said it was your favorite."

Dom glanced at the tottering mountain of potato peels and the cup of cold tea. "He's got lunch already, I'd say." He picked up a small sack—white paper printed with Bloom's Fine Grocery and Baked Goods in black script—and held it in front of Bill's face.

"Hungry, then?"

Miranda turned away from the pantry and frowned. "Bill, love, are you alright? You look a bit pale."

Bill snatched the bag from Dom's fingers and gave her a thin smile. "I'm fine."

But it was too late—she had already rolled up the sleeve of her Sunday dress and was pressing her wrist to Bill's forehead, peering into his eyes. "You're not ill, are you? Is it your head?"

Dom pulled a roll apart with his long fingers; he shoved half of it in his mouth and spoke around puffed cheeks.

"You look a bit ill-used, to be sure. Rough night, was it?"

If Bill had been running a temperature, it would have cooled instantly under the glare he leveled at Dom. Dom grinned at him merrily, chewing with his mouth open. Bill's hand tightened on the paring knife.

"Leave him be, you two," said Bernard. "He likely just went a bit heavy last night, as half the pub did. Don't be fussing over him, Mandy."

Dom tilted his head. "Aye, I do seem to remember you going a bit heavy," he said. "Got into the wine, didn't you?"

The dull half-memory lingering in Bill's head, blurred with sleep and hangover, flared into violent life at Dom's words with the smell of sweat and the sound of glass crunching beneath his feet. His stomach churned and he swallowed, choking back a lump of bile; he placed his palms on the table to steady himself and took a breath until the wave passed. He felt Miranda's hands on his shoulders and he stood abruptly, sending the wooden bowl clattering into his teacup.

"I don't feel well. I think I should go lie down."

Bernard turned from the sink, eyes widening in surprise. Miranda's face was pinched with worry. Dom's smirk vanished, his eyebrows first rising and then drawing down and in. Finally Bernard spoke.

"Aye, lad, you go on. I'll send you up some tea in a bit. You just get some rest and you'll be fine. And don't trouble yourself over last night, alright? We've all taken a bit more than we should have, in our time."

Bill looked at the faded bruise on Dom's lower lip. His head gave a sick throb.

"Aye," he said. "More than I should have."

He looked away before he could see Dom's expression. He set his stool neatly in place, took the back stairs to his room, and vomited up four sips of chamomile tea before he went back to bed.