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The crowd shifts in their seats and applauds wildly, cheering and
hooting and braying and yelping and roaring.
Sophia’s husband slumps back, exhausted, the tension seeping out of
him slowly.
“Are you all right, darling?” Sophia whispers.
“I’m fine. Don’t fuss over me,” he snaps abruptly.
“I don’t understand,” she says, shaking her glossy head. He’s never
snapped at her. Not once. “Surely there’s a hundred better pantomimes than
our moving-in day!”
“They must like you,” her husband grumbles. “They must like you a
great deal.” She has never heard such a tone in his voice. It makes her quail
and shrink away from him. Just an inch. Not so anyone would notice. But
she pulls away, and she knows he feels it. “I’m leaving,” her husband snarls
suddenly.
His expression is unreadable, faraway. He doesn’t even look at Sophia.
She can’t stand it. The loss of his regard. Please look at me again, she
thinks, I’ll die if you don’t, I will. But it does no good. He stands up and so
does Mr. Semengelof in the front row, their sight lines connecting over the
heads of the crowd bustling toward the next activity.
“What’s wrong, my love?” Sophia squeaks in a rising panic. He has
never been cross with her, not even so much as irritated. She has never
given him cause.
“Nothing,” he snaps. “My own foolishness.” He shakes his shaggy
head. “I shouldn’t have come, that’s all. Not with work at such a critical
stage. I’ve no time for frivolities as you do, wife. I allowed myself this
idleness to please you and now I shall have to make it up. I will not be
home tonight. Nor tomorrow, I expect. Don’t wait for me.” He takes her
face in his hands and for a moment she finds the old version of him there,
warm and kind and eager. “Enjoy yourself, Soph. Eat everything you can.
Dance as long as you wish. Be happy. Savor it all. It’s for you.” He touches
the tip of her nose lightly with his fingertip. “But no gossiping.”
And then he is gone. Sophia is enveloped by the herd of everyone she
loves and there is a waterfall of ice cream and everyone has a spoonful for
her to try, a hundred colors, as sweet as cold kisses.
Mrs. Palfrey appears suddenly, holding up a bowl of apples swimming
in honey and cinnamon. She draws one out on a long silver fork. It drips