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John wakes from a nightmare in the warmth of his bed. It was not one of his worse nightmares. The ones with Hickey or the creature tend to have him screaming and thrashing about in his sleep. Last night’s nightmare was just the one where he gets lost in a snowstorm on his way from Terror to Erebus.
He is happy to find that he is warm, safe, and comfortable. The life he lives now seemed so unattainable to the man he was on the expedition. It is a blessing to be content, to be sated, to be warm. To be loved.
He prays, thanking God for the miracles that led him to now. Afterwards, he lets his eyes fall shut, sinking back into a sleepy daze. It's a syrupy sort of morning: smooth and slow and sugar-sweet. He sinks into the warmth of the sun coming through the window and the man sleeping at his back.
His waking must have come with some movement, because George stirs, murmuring. He talks in his sleep. Laughs sometimes, too. John finds it incredibly endearing that even in sleep, he has so much to say. John became used to it while they shared a tent during the long walk out, and missed it during the stretch of time George was gone.
George presses closer, trying to wrap his arms and legs around him. He smiles, turning over so he can see the man he would marry, if such things were possible. George’s hair is a mess, his thin curls frizzed up and sticking out. He’s grown a few strands of white hair, which luckily blend in well with his natural colour. John, on the other hand, cannot hide the grey growing in his hair and beard. Dr Goodsir said the stress from the Arctic was a likely culprit for most of the crew’s premature greying.
George nuzzles into John’s neck, tickling him. He squirms, further waking his beloved. George groans, blinking blearily.
“Good morning,” John whispers, brushing some of the hair from his face.
In response, George kisses the hollow of his throat, bringing a blush to John’s cheeks. It has taken a few years for him to get used to… to all of this. Loving a man, initiating affection, accepting affection in turn. It still overwhelms him, sometimes.
George rolls away, taking the blankets with him. He stretches out, yawning. John sits up, being very careful when he stretches so he doesn’t hurt his chest, which still pains him terribly some days.
“I dreamed of you,” George says, propping himself up on an elbow and gazing at John with adoration.
“Was it a good dream?”
“A very good dream.”
It takes John a moment to register the euphemism. Once he realises what George is implying, he makes a flustered squawking sound and hits George with one of the innumerable pillows he insists they sleep with.
“Ow! Scoundrel!” George shouts, trying to bat the pillow away but tangling himself in the bedding instead. “Is this any way to treat a lover?”
“Hush, you.” There is no real bite to his words, and John stands so he can hide his flushed face. He splashes cool water from the basin onto his cheeks, hoping that will take the colour down. He pats away the water with a towel. “We have chores to do today. No time for… for that.”
George makes an unhappy noise before he joins John in washing up and putting on his dayclothes. John would rather stay in bed, too, but by the angle of the sun coming through the window, it is late morning already.
John strips out of his nightshirt and into his cotton undershirt quickly. He hates to expose the scars marring his chest. It isn’t vanity that keeps him from it. Rather, he hates the reminder of what happened to him, and the vulnerability he feels when the air touches his skin.
He pulls on a simple green waistcoat, the lightest he owns, in preparation for the hot day ahead. George dons the delicately embroidered blue waistcoat John had made for his birthday last year. He wears it as often as possible. Once dressed, they head downstairs to make breakfast.
The lack of servants is incredibly inconvenient, mostly for George, who has never known a life without stewards, maids, and cooks. But it is a small price to pay for privacy, and John actually finds it fulfilling to have responsibilities. It reminds him of the better parts of living in Australia. Out on his own, cooking his own meals and cleaning the house himself. He’s happy to do the chores around the house as long as George handles everything else: the writing of letters, the buying of groceries, the arranging of social visits.
They enter the kitchen, passing by the second room, where John stays when guests are over, to hide the true nature of their relationship. They’ll need to air it and the guestroom out this week to prepare for George’s sister and her husband’s approaching visit.
“Shall we have eggs for breakfast?” John asks. “And toast with marmalade?”
“I'll bother The Ladies,” George says, making for the kitchen door.
The Ladies are the hens they keep in the back garden. They used to have individual names, back when John treated them more as pets, but after the fourth hen was killed by an exceptionally clever fox that kept sneaking its way into the henhouse despite their attempts to thwart it, it was decided they would be better off keeping emotional distance from the hens.
George started paying a local boy to clean up the henhouse when the fox gets in. Neither he nor John can stand the sight of blood anymore.
John accompanies George out to the back garden, heading to the spring house for milk. He can hear the moment The Ladies spot George, because they all begin to squawk in loud protest at being bothered for their eggs. The morning air is thick with the scent of heather and damp earth. The rapidly warming air has begun to dry the mud from last night’s thunderstorm, but John steps carefully anyway.
He's more careful about tracking mud into the house now that he is the one who must clean it. Each time he sees mud crusted on the kitchen tiles, he feels a pang of guilt for the times the maids had to clean after him when he was a rambunctious child.
The spring house door shrieks when John opens it, protesting hinges sticking stubbornly. They'll have to oil them again. John has to duck to get through the opening and crouch while walking inside. The house was built for much smaller men (or women, more likely). It is several degrees cooler inside, making John break out in goosepimples where his sleeves are rolled up.
He cannot stand the cold anymore, even the only relatively minor chill of the springhouse. He does not linger like one usually would on a hot day. He finds the milk quickly and leaves, sighing in relief when the sun and warm air hit him. The door sticks several times as he tries to shut it. His temper flares, as tends to happen in situations like this. Patience is a virtue that John does not possess much of, and he is seconds away from shouting when George finds him.
“The Ladies weren't all too happy with me,” he says, handing John a basket with a few eggs in it. “I think they prefer you. Maybe I need to start bribing them with breadcrumbs.”
Without mentioning John’s mood, George pulls the door shut, stumbling backwards when he finally gets it closed. John is very grateful for him.
George takes the basket back and leads the way to their little cottage, talking the whole time. “I suppose we'll have to oil those hinges again. They oughtn’t stick like that so soon after oiling. If this continues to happen, I'll replace them myself. We can repaint the door then, too. What colour would you like? I think yellow would be cheery.”
“I'd like blue,” John says.
“Blue it is!” George declares. He holds the kitchen door open for John, shutting it firmly behind them. He sets the basket of eggs on the table.
John busies himself with starting a fire in the stove and cutting up bread. “We’ll need more of this soon,” he tells George, gesturing to the dwindling rye loaf. They attempted to make bread themselves once, but it had ended terribly, and not even The Ladies would touch it. Now, they get their bread from a baker in town.
George hovers in the kitchen as he always does. Some might find this behaviour irksome, but John appreciates the company. He can listen to George jump from one subject to another all day long. Plus, he never refuses to help when John needs a pair of hands to slice vegetables or clean a pan.
Besides, he understands that, for whatever reason, George cannot eat unless he has seen the food prepared. It is likely related to his aversion to meat. John suspects much but asks little. There are things George might never tell him, things he is ashamed of. John understands shame. He lets George hide in it. He will tell John eventually, just like John eventually overcame his own shame.
John hums as he works, cracking eggs into a pan on the stove while George rambles about a Greek philosopher he read about the other day, putting the kettle on to boil. He can’t help smiling at the way George speaks so animatedly, hands fluttering in the air as he recounts the differences between Ascetism and Cynicism, a topic John is only passingly familiar with and therefore happy to learn.
Eventually, George picks up another tangent as John sprinkles a few dried chives from the garden over the eggs.
“I’m so lucky,” George says suddenly, sidling up behind John and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck.
“Are you?” John asks, feigning ignorance.
“Yes. I live with the man who makes the best eggs in the world.”
John snorts, flipping the eggs with practised ease. “You say that every morning.”
“And every morning, I’m right.” George leans his chin on John’s shoulder, watching the eggs sizzle. His fingers curl into the fabric of John’s shirt, tugging lightly, just enough to feel possessive without being constricting.
The eggs look perfect when they are done. Runny, golden yolks, whites crisp at the edges. George holds the plates out for John to slide the eggs onto. He sets the plates aside, and they spear the bread on long forks to toast over the stove.
George stops toasting his first. He prefers a softer toast, whereas John likes his borderline burnt. They slather their toasts with butter and marmalade. The kettle whistles. John takes the plates to the little kitchen table they use much more often than the one in the dining room, while George pours water for their tea.
Finally, they are both sitting at the table, breakfast and steaming cups of tea laid out in front of them. They stir milk and sugar into their cups. Once everything is ready, they pray.
They pray silently before every meal now. John prays the same every time. He thanks God for saving them. He stews in the memory of what it was like to starve and asks that no one else ever have to feel it.
He suspects George prays for much the same, but he hasn't pried. There are some things that stay between a man and the Lord.
Breakfast is peaceful. A lavender-scented breeze drifts through the open window. This year is the first they have managed to keep the flowers alive. They’re tall and full now, attracting fat little bumblebees to gorge on their nectar and lazily bump into the window panes like drunkards coming home from the pub.
“We’ll have to air out the bedrooms today,” John says. “This might be our only break from the rain for a while yet. We’ll need to dust the bedding and hang it to dry.”
“Or,” George says, finishing off the last of his toast. “We could laze about and read?”
John glares at him. George just watches him with that particular softness that makes John feel like he’s something precious. It’s embarrassing. He looks away. “We have plenty of time to laze about when the rain returns.”
George sighs, loudly sipping his tea. “If only it would rain forever.”
“You’d hate that.”
“Hmm. That I would. We ought to have moved to Calcutta. It’s warm all year, and much drier, so I’ve heard.”
“No thank you. I’d rather deal with the rain than the cobras,” John says. He had his fill of venomous snakes while living in Australia. Even Australian snakes were not as feared as the cobra.
“I suppose you’re right. I have a cousin-by-marriage who lived in Ceylon for a time, and the poor chap woke up to one in his bed. He didn’t move for fear it would bite him, and he stayed frozen for an hour or so before it finally left his bed and he could call the servants to kill it. Sounds just terrible. Did you know they are still venomous after they’ve died?”
“That does sound terrible,” John says, taking a large gulp of his tea to wash away the thought.
“Speaking of terrible, we ought to do something about the mice in the cellar before Henrietta arrives. She’s deathly afraid of rodents. She’d faint clean away if she saw one in the house.”
“You could have brought this up earlier,” John sighs.
“I'm sorry. It slipped my mind completely. I only just now thought of it because I was reminded of how I used to find the dead mice the street cats left and hold them by the tail to chase her with. I was a horrid little brother,” He says this, but he is smirking into his tea as he does. “I even taught my nephew to do it.”
John has always had a good relationship with his siblings. He cannot imagine chasing any of them with a dead mouse (or picking up a dead mouse in the first place), though George is younger than his sister and brothers by many years, so maybe that has something to do with it.
“We could get a cat,” he suggests, finishing off his toast.
George practically jumps up and down in his seat, spilling a little tea on the table in his excitement. “Oh, could we? I’ve always wanted a pet of my very own, but I never had the chance! I don’t know why I haven’t thought about this before! What sort of cat should we get, do you think? I’ve always thought Persian cats are particularly lovely.”
“If we would like to get a cat before your sister visits, we might have to ask around the village. We’d have to travel to Perth at least to find someone selling a specific type of cat.”
“No, you’re right. I suppose it doesn’t matter much what sort of cat you have, anyway. They’re all well enough mousers.” He only then notices the tea he spilt, taking out a handkerchief to mop up the puddle. “Just last week, when I was at the pub, Hamish McPherson was trying to get the Kennedys to buy a kitten off him. One of their cats had a litter. Perhaps they still have a few unsold?”
John hopes so. He knows farmers sometimes drown the kittens, unable to care for them all. “We can head down to the McPhersons’ place today and see.”
“Splendid! Oh, what shall we name it? I suppose it all depends on whether it's a boy or girl…”
George rattles off name ideas as they clear the table with practised ease, fingers brushing when they pass the marmalade jar, shoulders bumping as they stand at the wash basin. George rinses off the dishes, flicking suds at John, who splashes him in turn. They would continue their little skirmish, but neither particularly wants to clean dishwater off their floor or make more laundry for themselves, so they stop. John dries the dishes as they are handed to him, placing them back in the cupboards where they belong.
The last plate is cleaned, and John takes it, attempting to dry it with the now-sodden dishcloth. He succeeds only in smearing water about the plate. His temper flares, which happens much more rarely these days, but still occurs when he is frustrated. He scrubs at the plate, and if the cloth were any coarser, it would be scratched.
“John,” George sighs, gently taking the plate from him. “Don’t hurt yourself. We can let it dry in the air. Look, I’ll put it in the sun.” He places the dish on the counter where the sunlight pours through the windows.
“But- but-” George catches his wrist, taking the cloth with his other hand and draping it over the basin to dry. Before John can pull away, he presses a kiss to his knuckles. He can feel the smile on George’s lips. Immediately, the irritation melts out of him.
George straightens up, still holding John’s hand and looking at him like he is the most precious thing in the world. “My pretty John.”
John has to turn away. His face burns, but his heart skips a beat.
George suggests they visit the McPherson farm as soon as breakfast is cleaned away, but John, fearful the pleasant weather might sour, insists they at least air out the rooms first. They open up the windows, replacing the stale scent of dust with the sun-warmed breeze. Then they take the linens from the beds, which they carry outside to shake the dust from and hang on the wash line.
They start with cleaning John’s room. George dusts the wardrobe, chair, and dressing table, while John transfers some of his belongings from their shared room. The essentials will be kept there until their guests arrive and he must move them. Once the room is clean enough, they replace the linens and move onto the guestroom, which they clean much more vigorously.
John kneels to scrub the hearth tiles and polish them with beeswax while George removes dust from the divots of the furniture with a rag.
George leans over him to wipe the mantel, and his thumb briefly brushes the tender hollow behind John's ear where the hair grows grey. They've developed a language of stolen touches: a straightened cravat adjusted unnecessarily, a handkerchief "dropped" near the other's feet. It thrills John just as much as any overt gesture of affection, which he suspects is why George remains coy even in the privacy of their shared home. When George moves away to shake the dusty rag out the open window, John mourns his closeness.
The last thing they must do is replace the linens in their own room. John fluffs the pillows into shape while George folds the comforters at the foot of the bed. He sets the blankets aside, and John catches the mischievous glint in his eye before his lover’s fingers curl around his wrist, pulling him backwards with surprising strength. He stumbles, the mattress dipping beneath him, and before he can protest, George is upon him, pressing him into the freshly fluffed bedding with a laugh.
“May I kiss you?” George whispers, face just inches from his.
John doesn’t wait to answer. He grabs George by the lapel and pulls him down, slotting their lips together. He tastes of marmalade and tea. George shifts to cradle John’s face. His thumbs– rifle-calloused yet tender– smooth over the high points of John’s cheekbones where the sun has freckled them. He finds the freckles unsightly, but George spends hours tracing constellations between them.
“My beloved,” he murmurs against his lips, and the endearment curls around John’s heart like ivy, tightening sweetly. He wishes to say something back, but words fail him as they always do. He’s still unaccustomed to this, to treating the desire swelling in his chest as a blessed gift and not the evidence of his wickedness.
But George is patient, always patient, and though John cannot speak, his actions speak for themselves. When John deepens the kiss and presses against him, the sound George makes is half-swallowed, reverent.
John burns each moment of this into his memory: the private collection of a man who once thought this love a sin. It is so far from sin, he sees that now. It is as innocent and precious as the love between a man and his wife. If only he had realised it sooner. Then all his days could have been this.
George pulls back first, his pupils blown wide, lips kiss-reddened. The happiness in his eyes spills into John, filling his heart to overflowing. He tries to pull him back down, but George only rests his forehead against John’s and promises, “Later.”
He lets George help him up, fingers lingering a second too long as they straighten each other’s rumpled clothing and mussed hair. The newly-made bed is in disarray, but it matters little when there is no one to see it but them.
They shut the windows in case the rain begins again, and John scrounges out a basket large enough for a kitten. He stuffs a seldom-used blanket inside. George, meanwhile, searches for his coin purse, which he frequently loses. Once it is found, they begin their walk toward the McPherson farm.
Their cottage is a good distance from the village, hidden by the hills and trees. A well-worn footpath leads to the main road (more of a cart path) that leads to the village. The sun is high in the sky, beating down on them with feverish heat. Sweat sticks their undershirts to their skin uncomfortably. It is a relief when the wind blows or when they walk beneath the shadow of the trees that grow in little thickets beside the road.
Unseen birds sing from copses and coppices. The tall grasses growing at the side of the road susurrate in the breeze, and the gravel crunches underfoot. Life and sound are all around them, something that still seems strange even after all these years home. The Arctic was lifeless and still on the march out, and John remembers how he wept when he saw trees again.
They can tell when they are near the farm, because some of the cows have wandered onto the road again. Occasionally, one will travel as far as the cottage, and they must escort the poor thing back to the farm. The McPhersons are always apologetic, but not enough so, it would seem, to fix the broken fence the cows are escaping by.
The cows are the woolly, reddish type often found in the Highlands. They’re friendly creatures, and they come sniffing about the two men when they are close enough. One of them licks John’s head, which he tolerates only because they are so darling.
They’ll have to let Hamish know his cows have escaped again. Luckily, they follow George and John to the farm. Such curious, sociable animals are easy to lead.
The farmhouse comes into view. It’s an old building: a stone crofter’s house with a thatched roof. Linens billow from the wash lines like sails on a ship, and chickens peck about in the grass below, squawking and taking startled flight when the sheets undulate too close to them.
George strides ahead, already calling out a cheerful greeting. The hens scatter in his wake.
Mrs McPherson comes out the front door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hae the kye got oot again?”
“Yes, but they only made it down the road,” John answers. Mrs McPherson is from up north. George still hasn’t achieved a grasp on the Highland way of speaking yet, so John is the only one who converses with her.
Hamish McPherson appears in the doorway now, stomping out toward his wayward cattle. “Dratted cows! I’ll repair the fence, I swear it!”
“They weren’t far down the road this time,” George says. “We ran into them quite by accident! Actually, we came this way to see if you still had kittens.”
“We have them, yes.” McPherson leads them into the farmhouse, shooing his sons out to help his wife with the cows.
It smells of bread and peat smoke inside the farmhouse. The eldest daughter is knitting with a gentle clacking of bone needles, but she moves when they enter, letting them see inside the basket that holds her yarn. This is where a grey tabby cat lies with her squirming kittens. The tabby stares at them with grass-green eyes, unimpressed.
“Oh, just look at them!” George exclaims. There are three kittens left. Two are grey, just like their mom, but the third is a soft orange colour.
“The ginger one’s a stout mouser already,” the daughter says. “She was hunting before she could barely see.”
George slowly reaches toward the basket, letting the cat sniff him. She must find him satisfactory, for she bumps his hand with her head. He pets the orange cat now, smiling as she tooths at his hand. She chirps out a tiny meow, prompting such a tender expression from George that John has to turn away. He is afraid sometimes that his love for George is obvious on his face.
“She’s sweet,” George whispers. He brushes a knuckle along the kitten’s spine. The tabby mother watches, tail twitching, but makes no move to intervene.
“We’ll take that one,” John says. He’s seen love in George’s eyes enough times now to recognise it.
"Mind the milk bowl with that one," McPherson advises, nodding to the kitten. "She’s bold enough to tip it."
They pay for the kitten and then tuck her into their basket, bidding the family farewell before they walk back up the road. In the short time they were inside, dark clouds swallowed up the sky. The sweltering heat is cooling now, and chill gusts make John wish he brought his coat along.
George walks in slow, measured steps to avoid jostling the cat. He murmurs nonsense into the basket, cooing at her like she is a human babe. John supposes this is the closest they will get. A pang of sorrow hits him, and for a moment, he has to blink away the sudden sting in his eyes, grieving the life they could have had. He always wanted to be a father.
They are halfway home when the sky opens up, unleashing a torrent of rain. George lets out a startled laugh, clutching the basket tighter to his chest and bending forward so he can protect the poor cat with his body. John helps him tuck the blanket over her, shielding her from the rain.
As soon as the kitten is secured, they take off running, whooping like schoolboys. They are drenched to the bone within moments. The rain soaks through John’s waistcoat, plastering his shirt to his scars in a way that makes him feel naked. They slip on the muddy path, reaching for the other to steady themselves, laughter nearly drowned out by the sheer noise of the downpour.
They crash through the garden gate, boots sliding on wet grass, and stumble into the kitchen in a flurry of dripping clothes and breathless giggles. The kitten protests loudly from her woven prison, tiny claws scraping against the basket's interior. George frees her from the basket, careful not to drip on her.
She sits on the kitchen rug, cleaning her little face quite elegantly. John reaches out, strokes a single damp fingertip down the kitten's spine. She arches into the touch, purring like a little engine.
“We ought to name her,” John says. He cannot think of names, but George came up with several when they were cleaning.
“I have to think on it,” George says, stoking a fire in the stove to drive the damp away. “I need to get to know her better. A name is very important, you know. I can’t go naming her something that doesn’t fit.” He unties his cravat and unbuttons his waistcoat, draping both over a chair.
John stands close to the stove, letting warmth seep back into his freezing limbs. It’s a pleasant heat. The kitten stretches out in front of it, basking in it as though it were a sunbeam.
“You’ll catch a chill,” George says, fussing over John. He helps him remove his cravat, waistcoat, and shirt.
John removes his boots and trousers too, dashing to the sitting room for blankets. He finds their two heaviest quilts and drapes one around himself, banishing the cold. When he returns to the kitchen, George is bare and shivering before the stove. He accepts the quilt gratefully, bundling himself within it.
They sit on the rug, cuddled together as they let their skin and hair dry in the heat of the stove. George nestles into John’s side, head resting on his shoulder. It's cosy, and John feels himself grow drowsy beneath the overwhelming warmth and comfort they’re sharing.
Outside, rain beats on the gabled roof, and thunder rolls over the countryside. The sound of a summer thunderstorm will always be relaxing to John.
The kitten climbs into the nest of their blankets. She sniffs around, inspecting the quilts and the men. She must find them satisfactory, because she settles in George’s lap, where a bit of blanket folds over to make a cave for her to hide within. George strokes her once she is curled up, and she purrs contentedly.
She blinks up at them, her eyes reflecting the firelight in twin crescents of gold. John reaches out, letting her sniff his knuckles before scratching gently behind her ears. Her purr deepens, vibrating through his fingertips like a second heartbeat. He loves her so much already.
The kitten stretches, her tiny claws pricking through the quilt, and George hisses in mock outrage. “Vicious creature,” he chides, but his fingers never stop stroking her. “We should name her something fierce,” George says after a while. “Diana. Or Boudicca.”
John huffs a laugh. “She’s the size of a teacup.”
“All the more reason. The world will underestimate her. Or at least, the mice might.”
“She’s hardly larger than a mouse.”
They sit like this for a while. George speaks softly, moving from one topic to another. John has never understood how he can go from talking about visiting an opium den in China to recalling the time a classmate of his got stuck in a tree. The two topics seem entirely unrelated, but George once explained that a memory will remind him of a conversation will remind him of another memory will remind him of a book he once read, and so on. By the time he has finished his anecdote, the next topic is so far removed from the original one that even he has trouble tracing back its roots.
John doesn't mind. He likes that George is full of stories. He wants to hear them all.
The kitten sleeps, ears flicking as she dreams. John wonders what a cat dreams of. Much more pleasant things, he assumes, than men do. He grows tired as well, dozing off to the sound of his lover’s hushed voice and the rain pattering on the windowpanes.
He doesn't fully fall asleep, but he is in that liminal space between sleep and waking, George’s fingers carding lazily through his hair. The kitten’s purr vibrates against his thigh up until it doesn’t. A thump, then the skitter of tiny claws on stone jolts him awake. He blinks just in time to see an orange streak launch across the room.
The kitten is a blur, darting about the kitchen, her tail puffed like a bottlebrush. She halts abruptly, pupils blown wide, then bats at George’s abandoned cravat dangling from the chair.
George doesn’t even try to stifle his laughter. He presses his forehead to John’s shoulder, shoulders shaking. John allows himself to laugh, too. She looks ridiculous trying and failing to attack the fabric. She even jumps up for a better swipe and misses her mark, tumbling clumsily on her back, though like all kittens, she is on her feet again in less than a second.
“I can not imagine how she will catch mice if she can’t manage to conquer fabric that’s staying completely still,” John laughs. At least her instinct to attack is intact. John has seen cats that will watch a mouse walk right by and never lift a paw. She may not be capable of catching the mice just yet, but she will certainly scare them away.
She abandons the cravat and instead contemplates the counter, scooting back while low to the ground. She is obviously calculating the angle of her jump, but neither man is quick enough to intercept her before she has launched herself onto the countertop, tipping over the jar of marmalade by the wash basin. The lid, which John ought to have screwed on more tightly, pops off, giving her access to the preserve. She immediately shoves her snout in the jar, trilling as she licks the orange jelly.
"You," George informs her solemnly, "are a menace." He wraps his quilt tighter and stands.
The kitten chirps. She shakes her head violently, flinging sticky droplets off her fur. George scoops her up, uncaring that she wriggles in his grip, mewing all the while.
“Well,” George says, wiping marmalade from her whiskers with his thumb. She licks that, too. “I suppose we’ve found her name.”
“Marmalade?”
“Lady Marmalade. It fits her perfectly. She's orange and sweet.” George presses a kiss to the top of her tiny skull, right in the soft spot between her ears.
“If we want a name that fits, we might name her Trouble.” John scoots aside to let George sit beside him again, this time wiping the cat’s face with the cloth from the washbin. She is quite displeased by this and makes her displeasure loudly known.
“Lady Marmalade Trouble Hodgson,” George declares.
“What? Why is she a Hodgson? Why not an Irving?”
“She doesn't have the temperament of an Irving. You're all far too serious.”
“I suppose that's true.”
George sets Lady Marmalade down, and it seems her short-lived burst of energy has burned up all her stamina, because she curls up to sleep again, snuggled between John and George.
They really ought to get up, dress, and finish their chores: reply to their post, clean the rainwater from the kitchen floor, start dinner. But it is warm here, and George is beside him, and Marmalade is sleeping with her head tucked against John’s lap. He can’t get up and disturb the sleeping cat.
John lets his eyes fall shut. Responsibilities can wait. For now, he just wants to enjoy this happiness he has built for himself. For most of his life, he wondered if life was worth the pain and hardship. Why live on earth where God is far? Why not wait to find joy in Heaven?
Oh, how wrong he was. Joy was always near. He just needed to allow himself to feel it.