Oscar set Henry upright. “This is not a circus,” he declared. “You are not to throw yourselves from the furniture. Do you understand me?”
Clara, who had been winding up for her own leap, froze with one foot in the air. She glared at Oscar, blue eyes all challenge and no remorse.
“It’s our room,” she said.
Oscar ignored the provocation, turning his attention to Henry. “If you jump again, you may break your neck, or your nose, or both.”
Henry’s chin quivered. “But Clara said?—”
“I do not care what Clara said.” Oscar’s voice came out too sharp, and Henry recoiled as if he’d been struck.
Clara descended from her perch in three quick hops, planted herself between Henry and Oscar, and leveled her most devastating scowl. “You’re the worst uncle in the world,” she announced.
“Perhaps,” Oscar said, “but I am the only one you have.”
At this, Henry’s composure cracked. The tears started, slow and silent at first, then escalating into loud, hiccupping sobs that seemed to shake his whole body. Clara wrapped her arms around him, shooting Oscar a look of pure venom.
Oscar ran a hand through his hair. What in God’s name was he supposed to do now? He had faced Parliament, the magistrate’s bench, and even the occasional belligerent bull, but nothing in life had prepared him for the raw, destructive force of a child’s heartbreak.
He tried, “Henry, you are not in trouble. I merely do not want you to die.”
Henry shrieked louder.
Oscar reeled back, feeling like the veriest monster in England. He was opening his mouth—ready to apologize or perhaps to abdicate the title of Uncle entirely—when Nancy swept into the room in a flurry of skirts and determination.
She kneeled at once, gathering the twins in, one on each side, as if to shield them from gunfire.
“Henry, Clara—what happened?” Nancy demanded, voice all business.
Neither child answered, but Henry’s sobs slowed to a lower gear as he clung to her. Clara’s face was dry, but she would not look at Oscar.
Nancy shot Oscar a look equal parts confusion and accusation. “Did something frighten them?”
Oscar squared his shoulders, forcing his own voice steady. “I found them climbing the dresser. Henry was nearly injured. I attempted to correct the behavior.”
“By what method?” Nancy asked, arch.
“By explaining the consequences of reckless conduct,” Oscar replied. “Clearly, it did not take.”
Clara piped up, “He shouted. At Henry.”
“I did not shout,” Oscar said, feeling the heat climb his neck. “I spoke firmly.”
“He shouted,” Clara repeated, as if daring him to contradict her.
Nancy smoothed Henry’s hair, then looked up at Oscar with a glare that could flay paint from walls. “Surely you do not intend to treat children like a battalion of soldiers, Oscar.”
Oscar bristled. “It is not unreasonable to expect discipline.”
“Not when it is earned,” Nancy countered. “But discipline without affection is tyranny.”
Henry sniffed. “Are you going to send us away?”
Oscar nearly flinched. He bent to one knee, a move that felt deeply undignified, but he did it anyway. “You are not going anywhere,” he said, keeping his voice as gentle as he could manage. “This is your home.”
Clara regarded him, eyes narrowed. “Until you change your mind.”
Oscar shook his head, not trusting himself to speak further. Every word only seemed to make things worse. He looked to Nancy for help, but she had a face like a locked gate, and she was not opening it for him.
