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Chapter Text

September 2010

“To be quite honest, Claire, I don't find it acceptable.”

A familiar grey sickness settled deep in my gut. The roots of my hair prickled; they were already damp from my hot and sticky hike across the city in its autumn humidity, and now I was sweating all over again. “I'll have it with you first thing on Monday.” I swallowed the hot lump of tears that swelled in my throat. Another weekend lost to work; another three nights of snatched, broken sleep. Resentment pushed like a repelling magnet against the idea of turning on my laptop and seeing the shit that no doubt waited in my emails, the stack of documents I'd have to wade through before I could even start writing the summary my client wanted.

“We were supposed to receive it yesterday afternoon.”

“I apologise. I...” Guilt squirmed like a ferret in my stomach. My neck burned hot and then ice-cold. What could I say? That more and more often, I'd crawl through the door of my grubby, airless little bedsit on an evening and find myself mentally and physically incapable of doing more work? That there was so much of it, towering over me like a great tsunami, that I kept forgetting deadlines and even entire pieces of work? That I felt like I was held together by fraying threads, and any minute now I'd fall apart and cry and cry, and never be able to stop? “I've been having some personal problems.” God, I hated myself for lying. “I'll make up the time over the weekend. It'll be in your box on Monday.”

A pause at the end of the line. “Alright.” Paul's voice was softer. “As long as it is first thing.”

“Eight o'clock,” I promised, knowing it wouldn't be, hating myself even more.

“Alright,” he repeated. “In that case we'll leave it there. Enjoy your evening.”

“You too.” Bastard, I thought as I hung up – but it wasn't his fault that I'd screwed up my schedule for what felt like the twelfth time that month.

An unopened bottled of wine stood on the counter. Even the thought of doing more work made me feel faint and wobbly. Don't drink by yourself. Not like this. Another breath. In. Out. My lungs felt too small, and I was sick and cold all through my body. Light-headed, I sat down on my bed and scrunched a hand into the covers. They needed washing, which meant a trip to the launderette. Another job to do. Jesus, I was useless. What was I doing, letting everything pile up like this? I should boot up my computer, make a start, even just for an hour or two – but the thought made my throat close over. I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't –

Stop. I closed my fingers around my Blackberry. Talk to someone. You'll feel better. Not my mother, though. I'd tried that. She didn't understand. Lucy? Puneet? I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the dial button. They were both so busy – and it seemed ungrateful to go whining to them, when Puneet was working two minimum wage jobs to make ends meet, and Lucy's shifts at the hospital could last well over the scheduled twelve hours. They liked to hear about my supposedly glamorous life, the designer shoes, the flashy clients, the exclusive parties at Canary Wharf. They'd never seen my strange, converted room over the garage that passed as a home, nor seen me on my worst days, when the polished, professional veneer held – just – but inside I was sobbing and shaking like a lost child. I couldn't tell them. It wasn't fair.

I flicked back up through the alphabet, reached Harrison's number, and pressed 'dial' before I could change my mind.

He picked up almost straight away. “Hey, Claire!”

I closed my eyes. The enthusiasm in his voice was the mental equivalent of ibuprofen. “Hey yourself.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah.” The lie was automatic. I couldn't tip my misery into the joy and excitement of his first days at university. Suddenly I remembered my freshers' week with the clarity of a restored film – the giddy freedom of it, delighting in the discovery of new interests, new friends, new perspectives. “Just tired. It's been a long week.”

“Living the life?” I could almost see his good-natured grin.

“Something like that. What are you up to?”

“Well...” Now he sounded sheepish. “I'm trying to make an omelette, but it's turning into scrambled egg.”

My mouth twitched. “Are you stirring it?”

“Yes.”

“Stop,” I suggested, now laughing properly.

In the background I heard another voice – deep, male, well-spoken – and Harrison's semi-muffled response of, “Piss off, Theo.”

“Theo?”

“My room-mate,” he explained. “No – dude – seriously, get off – it's nothing like that, she's my cousin!”

There was a scuffle and a string of curses, followed by a thud that I presumed was the phone being dropped.

I shook my head fondly. “Harrison, are you still there?”

More scrabbling, and then - “Hello, Harrison's cousin.”

“Hi.” My smile stretched. “I guess this is Theo?”

Harrison's irate tones echoed down the line. “Give it back, you idiot...”

“In a minute.” Theo sounded like a mischievous, more innocent version of the public school brigade that formed most of my client base. “What's your cousin's name?”

“Claire,” I heard Harrison respond resignedly.

“Hi, Claire,” Theo said.

I could hear the smile in his voice too. “Hi. Nice to meet you. Kind of.”

“Where are you on this fine evening, Claire?”

“I'm in my flat.” If you could call it that. “In London.”

“Ah! I went to school in London. The Big Smoke.”

I giggled a little. The kid sounded like he belonged in a period drama. “Do you miss it?”

“Not really,” he replied candidly. “I was born and raised in the country; I never liked London much.”

“Me neither,” I replied, unthinking.

“Well, in that case, Harrison's cousin Claire, you should come north and visit us in Scotland...”

“OK, dude, seriously, enough.” Harrison grabbed the phone back. “Sorry, Claire.”

“Don't be. He sounds nice.”

“He's alright.” I imagined Harrison's face, shooting a teasing smile at his friend. I knew the lukewarm endorsement hid more affection than he was letting on; I'd rarely heard that kind of laughing banter between him and his peers at school. “Look, Claire, I'm sorry, I need to sort dinner out -”

“It's fine.” My mood, briefly lifted, dimmed again. “You out later?”

“Probably. I'm around tomorrow, though, if you want to talk.”

“OK. Cool.” I swallowed, not wanting to let him go, knowing I had to. “Don't let your omelette burn.”

A rueful chuckle. “Too late for that.”

“Oh, dear.”

“It's Theo's fault. If he hadn't nicked the phone, I could have watched the food while I talked.”

I smiled at Theo's yelp of outrage. “Have a good night, guys.”

“Thanks.”

“And make sure you behave.”

“We'll behave.” Harrison's voice was angelic. “We just might not behave well.”

“Don't do anything too idiotic, please. You haven't even been there a week.”

“Yes, mother.” He paused. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“You too.”

I heard Theo's enthusiastic call of, “Goodbye, Claire!” Smiling, I shook my head again, and hung up.

Chapter Text

January 2011

The familiar metallic bong! sounded over the train's intercom.

“We are now approaching Edinburgh Waverley. Passengers leaving the train here are reminded to take all personal belongings with them...”

I didn't need reminding; I'd been cradling my leather backpack since Newcastle. The train was full of day trippers heading for the January sales, and suited office workers bound for the city's financial district. I felt a cool whispering on the back of my neck. Just a few months ago I'd been one of their crowd, and now...now I wasn't sure what I was.

Don't be so melodramatic, I told myself, taking a long, slow breath to calm the eels wriggling in my stomach. I was here for a nice, relaxing long weekend with my cousin, and if I happened to like the look of either Edinburgh or St Andrews, I could throw in an application for their English Masters programmes. There was no need to get wound up.

As the train slowed down, it pulled past Georgian town houses and glowering stony hills. Sunlight bounced off the rugged crags. Beams of gold lit slate-grey spears of volcanic rock, and scrubby grass tufts clung defiantly to the railway's edge. The sky was the kind of streaked, hazy blue that promised sunshine and delivered rain. Around me, the other passengers started patting down their jackets and reaching up for their bags, and in my pocket, my mobile gave a sharp, insistent buzz.

At the top of the steps above Waverley – by the shopping centre. See you soon! H xx

I smiled and slid the old Nokia back into my jeans. It was nice to have a phone that was only a phone – a blessed relief from the constant flood of emails that had set my Blackberry beeping and flashing almost twenty-four hours a day.

As I stepped onto the platform the air was thick and bitter with diesel. The nerves in my stomach softened and warmed. I'd seen Harrison over Christmas, of course, but it was hard to talk properly with small cousins getting underfoot and various adult relatives pressing us for details of our (non-existent) love lives. It would be good to catch up – and to see him in what he clearly now considered his natural habitat.

I gripped the straps of my backpack and squeezed onto the escalators. As I was lifted out of the dim Victorian splendour of Waverley, currents of cool Scottish air danced down the chute to greet me, trailing with them the melancholy drone of bagpipes. Bars of winter sunlight tilted through gaps in the rooftops and warmed my face. Opposite the station, a window display was decked in a riot of tartans; a smile split my face, and then I heard a familiar voice calling my name.

“Claire! CLAIRE!”

Harrison perched on a wall to my left, waving frantically. Next to him was a blue-eyed, tousle-haired boy of about nineteen, dressed in faded red trousers and a waxed jacket, also waving.

I grinned and waved back.

“Hey.” Harrison hopped off the wall as I approached, and he folded me into a tight, warm hug.

“Hey yourself,” I replied – but my voice was lost in the folds of his duffel coat. I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek against the scratchy fabric for a moment, then held him at arm's length and inspected him. “You look good,” I said approvingly. It was true; instead of his usual scruffy trainers and faded hoodie, he wore sharp jeans and chocolate brogues, and a collared shirt peeped from under his coat.

“So do you,” he replied.

I lifted my eyebrows. I knew he was lying. The blonde dye in my hair was half grown out, my skin was a mess, and my clothes were a size too big.

He gave the top of my arm a hesitant squeeze, then turned to the boy next to him. “This is Theo.”

“I guessed.” I held my hand out. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”

“You too.” He tilted his head, blue eyes wide and puppyish. “Can I hug you? I feel like I know you already.”

I laughed and let him put his arms around me, held him close for a moment, breathed in the sharp, outdoorsy smell of the wax on his jacket. He was sweet. I wondered how much influence he'd had on Harrison's new, smarter dress sense, and as I stepped out of the hug I flicked my eyes from one of them to the other, wondering if they were anything more to each other than room-mates – but no. That wasn't the way Harrison spoke about him. I was getting as bad as my Grandma.

“So,” I said, turning to face up the street towards the Scott Monument. “What now?”

Chapter Text

I woke up earlier than either Harrison or Theo. The thin, pale green curtains of their student dorm room did nothing to keep out the morning light – although Harrison was snoring softly, and Theo was sprawled on his front, one arm hanging limp over the side of the bed. I smiled, suspecting they'd both sleep for a good while yet.

My head still felt thick and fluffy, but my body was too much in the habit of early starts to sleep any longer. As quickly as I could I wriggled out of my sleeping bag, wincing as my aches and bruises from the night before twinged. I made a mental note never to play Ratchet Screwdriver with members of a university rugby team again.

I edged the curtains open just a little, careful not to let the sunlight spill onto Harrison or Theo – and I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a squeal.

We'd arrived back from Edinburgh to find St Andrews cloaked in a low, thick sea-fog. As we'd made our way to St Salvator's Hall we'd barely been able to see our own feet – but now the fog had lifted, and a fat, lazy sun smiled down from a sky of clear aquamarine. The late winter light soaked the tumbledown walls of the castle and leapt fleet-footed across the North Sea waves. The grounds of the hall swept down to the clifftop walkway. Snowdrops bloomed and nodded in their beds, their heads bobbing in and out of the shadows cast by the birch trees above, and groups of golfers in caps and bright sweaters dragged their caddies along the coastal path.

I pressed my lips together, my throat closing up. Yes, I thought. This is it. This is the place. I'd thrown speculative applications in the direction of Oxford and Cambridge, but I wasn't expecting anything to come of them. None of the northern red bricks appealed, and I didn't want to go back down south. Edinburgh was a wonderful city, but I'd loved St Andrews ever since Harrison sent me those pictures of him and his friends in the snow-covered quad, and this...this was magical.

I grabbed my clothes and padded to the girls' bathroom. The boys were still sleeping when I got back (although Theo was in danger of rolling out of bed entirely), so I left them a note, pocketed an apple and a muffin from the refectory, and set off to explore.

Chapter Text

The show wound its way through the ridiculous sequence of events that passed for its plot. The daughters' number, with its light, crisp harmonies and its polka-dancing up and down the aisle, kept the energy fizzing. I wished I could see all the choreography, but had to content myself with bobbing up and down in the wings. Ariana had joined me, waiting for her big entrance as Mabel; Mark stood behind us, and laughed softly as we joined in with the final chorus, unable to resist.

Theo's first solo ballad, had the lyrics been slightly less absurd, would have been truly moving. His sweet tenor married winningly with his innocent face and ragged costume, and he even managed to summon a tear or two – though that might have been due a shoe hitting him in the face. The daughters, disdainful of his clumsy suit and piratical past, flung their footwear at him. One of them, unfortunately, got too enthusiastic.

“Oh, bless him,” Ariana whispered, smothering a giggle as the daughters gasped. “He's such a little heartbreaker!”

“He wishes.” But even I felt a pang at his forlorn expression as he inquired whether even one of the girls might consider marrying him.

“Not one?” he sang sadly.

“No, no, not one!”

“Not one?

“Kill it,” I whispered to Ariana.

“No, no -”

“Yes, one!” Her clear, high soprano carried over the chorus and orchestra like cool wind on a summer's day. The auditorium seemed refreshed as she floated onto stage; a breath rippled through the audience; I caught Mark's eye, and he smiled.

“She's wonderful,” he said admiringly.

“She really is.” I smothered my ungenerous pang of jealousy – it was just a fact that Ariana had an excellent singing voice – and concentrated instead on Roosevelt getting ready in the wings on the other side. His Major-General hat was on cock-eyed; I signalled to Rosie, who spotted the issue and fixed it immediately. “Right.” I turned back to Mark. “You're on again in a minute...”

I got out of the way so that the pirates could leap back onto the stage and kidnap the daughters. Mark led the charge, and I giggled as they chased around the set, in and out of the wings, and even into the orchestra pit (I was pretty sure that hadn't happened in any of the rehearsals, but no damage was done and the audience loved it, so hopefully Xander would let it slide). The Major-General's famous patter song had the audience on their feet by the end of it, thanks in part to the extra verse. Xander hadn't approved it, but I knew the boys had been hard at work all week on the St Andrews-themed lyrics, referencing Chariots of Fire, golf tourists, Raisin Weekend, the Royal Wedding and the upcoming Olympics. From there it was a wild tumble of nonsensical dialogue and chaotic choreography until the end of Act One. The audience cheered us off, and after the lights went up and they'd vanished into the bar, we allowed ourselves a little squealing and bouncing.

“You were all fantastic!” Rosie beamed. “Theo, your solo was adorable...is your eye OK?”

“I think so. No permanent harm done, anyway.”

“Sorry, Theo,” called Kemi, who had flung the errant shoe.

He grinned. “You were supposed to aim to the left of me!”

“I know. I'm sorry; I'm a really bad shot, I was asked to leave the netball team at school...”

“I can get some ice from the bar?” Rosie offered, brushing Theo's tousled hair aside.

“Thank you.” He looked like he was going to take her hand, and then thought better of it. I bent down and busied myself with my shoe. “There's no point, though. By the time you've managed to get there, it'll be time to go back on.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“OK. Mark, how's the tattoo?” She made her way over to him, a half-shy, half-mischievous smile on her face. “Did it stay put?”

Mark caught my eye. Theo, failing entirely to keep his jealousy off his face, turned to talk to Roosevelt about the rugby.

“I'm sure it's fine.” I crossed the room to join Mark and Rosie. “It's a transfer; it shouldn't smudge. Though I wish you'd tell me what you're planning,” I added softly to Mark as Rosie went to check on the policemen.

He smiled enigmatically. “Oh, you'll see soon enough.”

The second half somehow went even better than the first, and the pantomime incompetence of the policemen threatened to halt the entire production as the audience shrieked and wept with laughter.

Chapter Text

September 2012

“I'm sorry, remind me why you bought these?”

Rosie blinked innocently. “I was out there for the whole summer. It's called cultural appreciation.”

“Bullshit,” snickered Theo. “Mark, don't do it; look at the packaging. Those things are going to be lethal.”

“No, please; at least try one.” Harrison's eyes gleamed. “I mean, you're immortal, right? It won't hurt you. Not permanently. It's only right you should check that they're safe for the rest of us...ow!” He scowled as I elbowed him in the ribs.

Maglor sighed and opened the packet of cinnamon sweets that Rosie had brought back from Florida. “'At any price I will do my duty.'”

I raised my eyebrows. “To quote you, I'm not sure those are words to live by.”

“To quote you, we only live once.” Maglor tipped a handful of the bright red sweets into his mouth, chewed a few times, swallowed – and coughed.

“Oh, God.” Harrison shook with laughter. “Dude...I'm so sorry...”

Mark was turning red; I poured him a glass of water and pushed it into his hands.

Luc, who until now had been sitting quietly on the window ledge, leaned forward, his dark eyes full of concern. “Mark, can you sing? What did those do to your voice?”

Mark sipped the water, took a wavering breath, and tried a few short phrases. “'Oh, better far to live and die, under the grave black flag I fly...'”

It was a pathetic croak, nothing at all like his usual rich, warm tenor. The boys fell apart laughing – even Luc, even after everything – and Rosie covered her mouth and blushed with deep mortification. I took Mark's hand and tried hard not to giggle.

“It'll be alright,” I assured him, doing my best to control the tremors in my voice. “You've a whole week until the Sweeney Todd auditions. You'll be absolutely fine.”

Chapter Text

"I'm going to miss the long nights."

Claire gave Rosie a gentle smile. "Me too. It's strange how quickly it shifts, once the autumn sets in."

"Mm." Rosie picked up a white cockle shell, and ran her thumb over its silky interior before slipping it into her pocket. "Claire?"

"Yes?"

"You know when you stayed with Theo over the summer?"

This time the look in Claire's eyes was sharper. "Yes?"

"Did he say anything?"

Claire blew over the top of her chai latte. "Well, we didn't spend the whole time in silence."

"No, I mean..." Rosie moved her hand to tuck her hair behind her ears, forgetting, as she often did, that it was short now. "I'm just not sure I should have told him about Kaito, that's all. It's not like anything happened."

"And yet you came home with bobbed hair and a tattoo."

"Only a tiny one." She brushed her fingertips over the eight-pointed star etched into her skin.

They wandered on without speaking, watching the light turn crimson and burn in the smoke-soft clouds.

"Do you wish something had happened?" Claire said eventually.

"Yes." It was safe enough to admit it now, two months afterwards, with an ocean between them.

"And Theo? Do you wish something had happened with him?"

"I don't know. That night, before we went home for summer...I thought..." She bit her lip. "And then there was Glasgow. You know, when we went away, after exams."

"I know. He told me about that, a little." Claire linked their arms. "Honestly, we didn't talk about Kaito much during the summer. Theo mentioned him once, I think, but he was more preoccupied with the other thing."

"The Mark thing?"

"Mm."

"You really didn't know about that?"

"No, of course not!"

Rosie nodded, then bent to pick up a pebble and flicked it out into the bay. "Nothing's ever easy, is it?"

"No," Claire agreed. "No, it never is."

Chapter Text

April 2013

The balcony wouldn't fit all six of us at once, but with the doors propped open and the landing sky light unlatched, there was a flow of cool, salty air through the flat and a clear view of the ruined cathedral.

"It had better not let the rain in," Rosie commented, eyeing the sky light critically.

"It won't. It's only drizzling." I straightened the picnic blanket I'd laid out on the carpet. "It would have to be blowing a gale to get in through that gap."

"Have you heard from the boys?"

"Not yet." I checked my phone again, though I hadn't felt it buzz. "I told them we'd changed plans and to come back to the flat."

"It's a shame about the beach," Rosie sighed. "Though at least this way we can't get sunburned."

"We'd struggle to burn in the rain - and you tan nicely anyway," I pointed out.

"Maybe." She preened a little. "But Harrison doesn't, and neither do you."

"Hey!"

Downstairs the front door opened - just one of the boys, I thought, listening for chatter and hearing nothing. That made sense; their lectures were all in different places, they wouldn't necessarily get home together. "We're up here," I called, and went to pull the cork out of the bottle of rosé I had chilling on the sideboard.

"D'accord, j'arrive."

Luc. I smiled. Officially he had a shared room in halls; in reality, his supposed roommate was paying a long way under the odds for single occupancy accommodation - and that was fine by us.

"Hein?!" Luc's voice was scandalised as he joined us on the landing. "What are you doing to this wine?"

"It's a spritzer," Rosie informed him, her innocent air doing nothing to hide the curl of mischief in her smile. "Wine, soda, ice, lemon, mint, strawberry..."

"Why would you do this?" His brown eyes were utterly mournful.

"It's not expensive wine," Rosie assured him.

"That does not make it better."

He retreated to Harrison's room to put his things away. By the time he emerged, Harrison and Theo were back too, each of them holding a glass of something pink and fizzy - though Theo's, I knew, held only grenadine and lemonade.

"Santé," grinned Harrison, tilting his glass towards his boyfriend.

Luc pulled a face at him. "Traitor." He went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine, without the trimmings.

"Where's Mark?" Theo asked, looking around as though he expected him to pop out of a wall.

"Tesco's, I hope." I checked my phone again. "He said he'd pick up food on the way back from Younger Hall."

On cue, the front door opened again; the boys called out greetings, and I smiled again as I felt the familiar warm touch on my mind.

"Where have you been?" Theo demanded as Mark ducked under the archway onto the landing, his dark hair damp from the rain.

Rosie elbowed Theo in the ribs. "You only got back five minutes ago!"

"I know, and I'm hungry..."

Mark lifted an eyebrow, but his mouth was curved in amusement. "I'm afraid it's nothing exciting." He lifted sausage rolls, crisps, hummus, cheese and olives out of the carrier bags and onto the sideboard. "I didn't think anyone would want to cook."

"Definitely not." I went to help him, and he placed a light kiss on the side of my head. "We were meant to be having a picnic anyway, so this is perfect."

"Make yourself useful, bud." Harrison threw a wadded-up napkin at Theo. "Go grab the plates."

"Get them yourself!"

"Don't squabble," Rosie said automatically.

Outside, the clouds thickened and the sky rumbled. Good-natured banter flew back and forth as plates were retrieved and food was passed around; Mark settled himself on the rug, watching with an air of tolerant serenity; Rosie handed him a drink, and when Luc saw what it was, he made a pitiful noise in the back of his throat.

"Et tu, Marce?" he sighed, staring at the spritzer with disappointment.

Mark smiled, and shrugged one shoulder. "When in Rome."

Chapter Text

October 2013

“I just wish I'd learned all this as a kid,” Harrison sighed, working slowly through the steps Mark had shown him.

“Don't look at your feet.” Mark corrected his posture and lifted his chin so he was facing straight ahead. “You're overthinking. And you're not bad; you've got a strong sense of rhythm, and years of show choreography behind you.”

“I learned the basics of ballroom at school,” Theo put in. “It hasn't made a lot of difference.”

“You're still a better dancer than I am.”

Theo shrugged. “I can't sing like you.”

“If the mutual admiration society is quite finished?” Mark interrupted, folding his arms and lifting one eyebrow.

Harrison grinned. “Sorry, sir.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “I know this doesn't come as naturally to you as the acting and singing.” He crossed the room to reset the CD player. “But your competition for this course may well have spent three or four years studying the performing arts full time. Possibly more. Your voice is excellent, and I don't say that lightly – but we can't rely on that being enough.”

“Wow, dude.” Theo leaned back in his chair. “Way to make him feel better.”

“I'm being realistic.”

“This coming from an Elf?”

“Leave it, bud.” Harrison took a breath, stretched, and settled into position. “He's right.”

Mark nodded. “From the top, then.”

Chapter Text

January 2014

“No.”

“Claire...” Rosie wheedled.

“No.”

Maglor put his head around the door, hair still damp from the shower. “What are you refusing to let them have or do now?

Claire rolled her eyes. “You make me sound like such an ogre!”

“No comment,” grinned Harrison.

“They want to play Never Have I Ever,” Claire explained.

“The non-drinking version,” Rosie added, with an apologetic glance at Theo, who simply shrugged.

“And what exactly does that involve?” Maglor asked, settling himself in the armchair.

“Well we all take turns listing things that we've never done – so Mark, you might say, “never have I ever played Never Have I Ever.” And normally, people who have done that thing have to take a drink. But you can do a forfeit instead.” Mischief crept into Rosie's pretty smile. “Like taking a dare. Or removing clothing.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “Sounds dangerous.”

“And now you see why I said no.” Claire closed her book. “Fine. If it stops you crawling the walls while we're snowed up, then let's do it. But no stripping off.”

“Spoilsport,” Theo pouted.

“Alright." Rosie bounced in her seat. "I'll go first – and if you have done the thing, raise your hand, and then everyone else gets to decide what your forfeit is.” She thought for a moment, and then brightened. "Never have I ever stolen anything.”

Maglor's eyes widened slightly. Claire shivered – nothing to do with the cold – and she raised her own hand.

“Claire!” Rosie gaped at her, as the boys made noises of disbelief. “What did you steal?”

“Sweets from the corner shop when I was six,” she lied.

Harrison tilted his head, frowning slightly. The others fell to discussing what her forfeit should be; Maglor, meanwhile, got quietly and unobtrusively to his feet, and left them to their game.

Chapter Text

February 2018

Harrison paused by a basket of giant stuffed dinosaurs. “Definitely need one of these.”

“Harrison!” Claire ran a hand through her hair in exasperation – though she was laughing. “You need storage, and chairs, and...and bath mats, and things. Fluffy toys can wait.”

“Bath mats? Really, Claire?” He grinned, and picked up a blue stegosaurus. “Stop being so miserable.”

“This place makes me miserable.” She sighed, and consulted their list. “I feel like I'm going to need Ariadne's thread to get out.”

“Nah, just follow the yellow arrows.” Harrison paused, hummed a few bars of Follow the Yellow Brick Road, and then shook his head. “Mmm. Doesn't scan.”

“You needed to sing it to realise that?” Claire teased.

“Oh, shut up.” Harrison put the dinosaur into the trolley they were pushing, and nudged her in the ribs. “Come on. I'm getting hungry.”

As they moved out of the bedroom section, a young, female voice made a tentative sound behind them. “Excuse me?”

They turned. The speaker was a fair, freckled girl of about thirteen or fourteen, blushing so furiously that Claire half-expected the girl's hair to turn pink too.

“Can we help you?” Harrison asked.

“Are you – are you Harrison James?”

“Yes,” he said, looking mildly surprised.

“I...” For a moment her voice seemed to give up on her, but she took a breath and summoned a little more courage. “I sing too. I really like you. I mean – I saw you in Oklahoma. On YouTube,” she added, looking at the floor. “I couldn't go to New York.”

Harrison was turning red too, Claire realised, and hid a laugh.

“Please could you sign this for me?” the girl asked, holding out a stubby IKEA pencil and jotting pad. Her blush deepened even further. “Sorry; I don't have anything else...”

“No, it's fine. Of course I will.” Harrison recovered his composure and took the paper and pencil from her. “What's your name?”

“Allie.”

“And your favourite show?”

“Phantom. But I like 42nd Street too.” She bit her lip. “I'm saving up for tickets.”

“Then maybe I'll see you at a performance one of these days.” He scribbled something on the pad and handed it back. “There you go. Good luck with your singing.”

She shook her head. “I'm not very good. I just enjoy it.”

“Then keep doing it. And don't let anyone tell you that you shouldn't.”

At that, the girl smiled. For a moment, under the cold show room lights, Claire caught a glimpse of the same fire and flare that had begun to show in Harrison at around the same age – and then Allie's mother was calling her over to the bedding section. Allie gave a strange half-bob and a giddy wave, and darted away.

“Wow.” Harrison watched her for a moment, and then turned back to their trolley full of cushions and throws. “Well, that's a first.”

Claire slipped her arm through his. “You might have to get used to it. Two leading roles in major musicals; an interview in a national newspaper; a slot at the Royal Variety show...”

“That's a whole cast slot. It isn't mine.”

“Even so.” Gently, she squeezed his arm. “I'm not saying you'll need to hire a security detail any time soon, but people will occasionally recognise you. It goes with the territory.”

Harrison glanced over his shoulder again, looking faintly dazed. “Blimey.”