“Do you know that Olive thinks those are mushrooms?”
He burst out laughing. “Mushrooms!”
“Yes.”
He snorted. “What kind of mushroom is so . . . elongated?”
“Well, actually, there is a variety of mushroom calledPhallus impudicus, better known by its colloquial name: the common stinkhorn.”
“Nice try, Clem.” Clementine knew a great deal more about the natural world than Archie did, and they both knew he was by no means a scholar, but she was going to have to do better than that to fool him.
“I am entirely in earnest! During Mother’s illness, I developed an interest in traditional healing. It was misguided, of course, but in my grief, I thought perhaps I could find a way to restore her to health. Can you imagine the hubris required to believe I could achieve what her doctors could not?”
She scoffed, but hecouldimagine it. He knew the pain of grasping at anything that might cure one’s beloved mother, even if what one was grasping at was ultimately an illusion—or a delusion.
“As such, I developed a particular interest in fungi,” Clementine went on, “and I can tell you with certainty that thePhallus impudicusis long and white and has a menacing-looking black, bulbous head that produces a most unpleasant slimy excretion.”
He still was not entirely sure she wasn’t mocking him. “Hmm. ThePhallus impudicus. Is it poisonous?”
“I am not certain, but it reportedly stinks to high Heaven—like rotting flesh, they say—so even if not, I imagine it would be unpleasant to, ah . . . put thePhallus impudicusin one’s mouth.”
Again he burst out laughing. Clementine did not share his amusement. Perhaps he was taking too much for granted. Clementine might still be the sly, witty friend of his youth, but that didn’t mean she necessarily knew what she was saying. He didn’t have the impression that gently bred young ladies were bequeathed a great deal of information on this particular subject—although in some ways, one could hardly call Clem, she of the wilds and the wind, gently bred.
And, if shedidknow what she was saying, if shewasmaking a concerted attempt at humor by bringing up thePhallus impudicus, was the bit about putting it in one’s mouth purposeful or accidental?
Goodness, being friends with the grown Clementine Morgan was a great deal more complicated than being friends with the girl version of her had been.
He swallowed his mirth. She, however, chose that moment to join in. Her high, lilting laugh soothed his worries. Soothed some hidden, inner part of himself, too. Gave him that same feeling the inaugural Earls Trip toast always did, that sense of haven, of balm, the delicious relief of setting down one’s burdens and knowing they would stay surrendered for the next little while.
He tilted his head back to examine the heavens. Clementine’s lantern was casting a decent amount of light, so tonight’s celestial tableau was not as breathtaking as last night’s had been, but that wasn’t disappointing in the least, so suffused was he with that feeling of remedy. “How goes the embroidery?”
She huffed a little, frustrated sigh.
“The thrill of the new worn off?” he teased.
“I must admit embroidery is a more challenging pursuit than I always believed.”
“Ah. Is it the pain of the embroidery itself that drew forth that sigh, or is it the fact that you didn’t award your sister enough credit when it came to the difficulty of her favorite pursuit?”
She grumbled, and he struggled not to find it adorable. “You know me too well, Arch.”
He was glad, unaccountably glad, she thought that the case. That all those missing years, all his neglect, hadn’t created a chasm between them too deep to bridge.
“I’m sorry I stopped writing you back,” he blurted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You used to write to me at school. I have recently had cause to remember that you continued to do so afterward, but I . . . had difficulty replying.” He hadn’t phrased that well. He didn’t want to make himself seem illiterate. “I found the environment at home less conducive than school for keeping up correspondence, but I regret that I didn’t—”
“Oh, Archie, do not give it a moment’s thought. Letter-writing is easier when one is young, don’t you find? And I think it’s entirely usual for people to fall out of touch as they grow up. It doesn’t even require distance. Olive and I grew apart, too, and we were right there under each other’s noses the whole time.”
Her absolution relieved him, but he still felt regret. “Hence the sisterly exchange.”
“Hence the sisterly exchange—which isn’t really an exchange, at least not yet. I’ve been embroidering for several days and I have yet to come up with anything for Olive to do.”
“Perhaps instead of showing Olive the stars, you ought to charge her with a more active task, something with a degree of difficulty. Just to even the scales, you understand. Stargazing doesn’t require any skill. What about climbing a tree? Do you still do that?”
“No,” she said wistfully. “It has been years since I’ve climbed a tree. One can hardly detour from the path in Hyde Park and shimmy up an oak.”
