She had time. She still had time.
And shereallydidn’t want to do this next part. Which was why she’d put it right in the middle of a harried, important, unrelated task.
That always made the unpleasant ones easier.
She sucked in a briny breath of morning air as she approached the row of squat houses against the wharf, counting the fourth one in from the right and giving a cursory rap before pushing inside.
The smell hit her with all the weight of a swinging repair crane, like the Ballast out near Ship Street had just decided to collect the cargo in her chest.
Sawdust, linseed oil, whiskey, and overcooked egg yolk.
And there at his breakfast, looking utterly stunned in the middle of the room, was her father.
He stared for a solid minute, fork aloft, gray-haloed yolk speared on the end until he managed to croak out, “Elizabeth?”
“No,” she said with a sigh. “You’re still alive, I’m afraid. It’s just Libba, your daughter.”
He blinked several times, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes, and gave his gray head a shake so hard, it made his jowls wobble. “Christ, girl,” he muttered, his Scots brogue almost entirely gone these days. “You look just like her.”
Libba bunched up her nose, squinting down at her absurd outfit and then quickly deciding it was not worth the follow-up questions. “I don’t have long,” she said. “I need a favor. Happy to do one in return.”
Her father sighed, dropping his fork and running fingers through his thick, gray hair. “I haven’t seen you in years.”
“And you don’t have to again,” she said quickly. “Or you can. I can start coming for Wednesday dinners. I just need your signature on a legal form.”
“What form?” he asked, so wary, he sounded, for a moment, exactly like Malcolm. “I read anything I sign, and you had better too.”
“All right, be calm,” she said impatiently. “The days where you could initiate parenting have passed, I’m afraid. I am in the process of assisting a friend… a… an employee,” she corrected, seeing her father’s face immediately shutter, “in getting his papers in order. He does not have a registered surname. It turns out I cannot give him mine without your consent.”
He stared.
Outside, the ropes creaked.
“So can I have it?” she snapped. “Your consent?”
He hesitated. “Wednesday dinners, you say?”
“Faither!” she snapped, exasperated. “Yes, if that’s what you want.”
“With Malcolm?” he asked again, averting his eyes down to the plate.
Libba frowned.
She couldn’t promise Malcolm.
“I can’t go giving my name to someone I’ve never met,” he continued, as though he knew she wouldn’t answer that second bit. “Bring this… this employee by. For dinner. We’ll talk then.”
“Fine,” she said. “Stop overcooking your eggs. You’ll make yourself sick.”
And then she departed before he could respond.
She walked briskly, shaking her shoulders and hands and withdrawing the rose oil to dab the salty dryness from her lips and dab her eyelids and cheeks.
She should have told Hattie everything some weeks ago, when she’d had the opportunity. She should have, because nowthat she’d deceived her, she couldn’t very well do it now. And Ruby couldn’t keep a secret. And Monica would frown at her until she was a puddle of contrition.
Malcolmcouldn’tknow.
Errol wouldn’t understand.
