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I love you, she thought, testing out its weight. She glanced at Theo, in case he had heard her somehow, and watched him lift Emmy to be level with his eyes; he squinted at her, examining her small face. “Why do you look guilty?” he asked. Emmy replied with a series of rapid blinks.

I love you, she thought again, wrapping the man and the baby up in it, and knew that the ground below her had permanently shifted.

There was a rap at the door, and Maggie turned, wary. If it was Sam, she would slam the door in his face, she swore to God she would. Sending similar threats up to the Almighty, she yanked the door open, prepared to shoo away whoever was intruding

Tom stood in the doorway, his hat in his hands. He looked pathetic; she had never seen him look pathetic before. “Oh,” she said. She was at a loss. “Come in,” she stepped aside and waited for him to enter. He remained still, continuing to turn his hat around in his hands.

“Should I?” he asked quietly.

“Of course you should,” she said, waving away his uncertainty. “Come, I’ll make us some tea. I was afraid you were the reverend for a moment. I’m not sure what I would say to him at this point.”

Tom set his hat down on the table next to the door and yanked at his jacket. “Yes, I heard. That’s part of why I’m here. Are you all right? I thought maybe you would have castrated him by now.”

She smiled and slid her arm through his. “I’ll leave that to you. You’re much scarier than I am.”

Tom shrank at that, his shoulders slumping. “I’m not scary.”

She elbowed him. “I’m only teasing,” she said, giving him a squeeze. “Come upstairs.”

He hesitated. “Is Bridge home?”

“Oh.” Maggie glanced at the steps. “Yes, I believe he’s reading in the library.”

Tom tapped his fingers on his arm, distracted. “He won’t want me up there.”

“Tom,” Maggie said, her tone softening. “I don’t think there’s anywhere else he would rather have you.”

Tom snorted, slowly leading them up the stairs. He avoided the left side of the fifth step, where it creaked under weight, and opened the door at the top as quietly as possible.

“Did you just want to check in after Sam’s awful campaign or is there something else?” Maggie got to work in the kitchen, setting the kettle on and collecting clean mugs for the tea. Her brother sat down heavily at the table, running his finger along a groove in it and looking like he didn’t belong. “Either is fine, you know. I’m happy to talk about anything you want, or if you just want a chat, that’s fine too.” She knew she was borderline babbling, but she would do anything to avoid the empty feeling in her chest.

“I just missed you,” he said, folding his hands in his lap awkwardly. “The inn is fine, but it isn’t very homey.” His smile was small and strained. “And their tea blend is awful.”

“I get this from the Archer shop,” Maggie said lightly, pouring the boiling water into the teapot and dropping the infuser in. “Lou swears by it.”

Tom’s eyes brightened a bit. “I’m glad you two are getting on better.” He paused. “Would you say you’re friends?”

A curious question. “With Lou? Yes, I’d say so. She’s … well, not warmed, exactly, but I know I can rely on her, and her me.” She poured the too-weak tea into mugs and set one down in front of Tom, sliding into a chair.

Tom stared into his tea. “I’m sorry I was unfair about her. I’m glad you have a friend.”

Maggie smiled. “I have many friends, Tom. We all have friends.”

Tom startled Maggie by leaning his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands. They sat quietly for a moment before she reached over and rubbed his back soothingly, leaning in. “What is it, Tom? What’s wrong?”

“Why are you here?” Bridgers’ voice broke in, wavery and thin, and Maggie looked up to see him glowering in the kitchen, a small, redheaded tantrum waiting to be thrown. His arms were crossed and he looked more like an angry child than a grown man.

“I came to speak to my sister,” Tom said smoothly, straightening in his chair. “Surely that’s allowed.”

“Of course it’s allowed. I don’t make the rules. And if I did, they wouldn’t forbid you from seeing Maggie as often as you like.” He lifted his chin in an act of … defiance? “You can see her twenty-four hours a day, if that suits you. Move into her room and tell scary stories around a campfire.” He strode past them and grabbed a pan from the rack, turning and marching back out to the hall.

“Bridge, what are you doing with that pan?” Maggie asked, reaching for a patience she didn’t really feel.

“It’s personal!” came his voice, huffy. His door closed loudly, and Tom sank into his seat.

“He isn’t really going to use that pan for anything, you know,” he said, nodding towards the hall.

“I assumed not.”