Chapter 1
“Agnes?”
“Hmm?”
Billy sinks down onto the floor opposite Agatha, crossing his legs before him. “Would you really protect us if we were in danger?”
“’Course I would. Why d’you ask?”
At Agatha’s side, Irena gurgles, hands waving through the air in the direction of the toys that hang from the plastic hoops connected to her play mat. The teething ring grasped in her left hand tumbles free as her fingers loosen around it, rolling out of her reach before coming to a stop against Agatha’s thigh. Absently, Agatha picks it up and holds it out to Irena, barely looking up from the book she has open in her lap.
Irena cooes out a sound of delight as she grabs for the ring, face softening from the expression of distress it had briefly morphed into. She pulls the ring from Agatha’s grasp and immediately shoves it into her mouth, drool beginning to drip down her chin. Agatha smiles down at her, faintly amused by the whole display.
Billy watches, taking note of just how reactive to the infant Agatha is. He’d never really thought of her as the maternal type, but when he thinks about it, she had been almost like a second mother to them in Westview He frowns, a vague memory resurfacing. “Your name’s not Agnes, is it?”
Only then does Agatha look up to meet his eye. “No,” she confirms, “my name’s not Agnes."
“What is your name then?”
“Agatha.”
“Huh.” He looks her up and down, thinks that the name Agatha fits the woman before him much better than the name Agnes did. Agnes, when he thinks about it, had, as an individual, been a little two dimensional, able to be boiled down to a few key points. She’d been little more to them than the next door neighbour who always seemed to spend more time at their house than at her own. She’d been sweet and soft and full of humour, always able to make them laugh.
Agatha, on the other hand, was dangerous and feral, intelligent and quick to react, though she was more than just those things. She was patient and gentle - with him and Tommy and Irena, at least - with a sarcastic streak that could border on mean if it weren’t so funny.
She’s frowning at him with what he thinks might be concern. “What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” he says, shrugging self-consciously. “Agatha just suits you better than Agnes.”
Surprise flickers across her face. He’s never really noticed just how expressive her face is, though he supposes that that may be because he never really paid much attention to her. “Really?”
He nods, but refuses to meet her gaze, instead choosing to stare down at the carpet and pick at a stray thread that lingers there. “’Agnes’ makes you seem like you could be harmless, but you’re not.”
A shadows passes unseen across Agatha’s face. “I’m sorry.”
He looks up at her, confused. “For what?”
“For holding you and Tommy hostage, in Westview.”
He blinks slowly at her, unsure of how to react. “Okay.”
She smiles, but it’s a strained unhappy thing. “I don’t expect forgiveness, or for you to accept my apology, but it’s impotant that it be said either way.”
He nods, feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He isn’t relieved, per se, but it feels like a step towards something big has been taken.
“Do you believe her?” Tommy asks. He’s openly sceptical of what Billy’s told him about the conversation he’d had with Agatha, though Billy’s not a hundred percent sure why. Of the two of them, Tommy had always liked Agatha - back when she’d been playing the role of Agnes - a lot more than Billy had.
And yet, here they are, their roles apparently reversed.
Billy bites down on his bottom lip, hesitating. He twists around on the spot, peers through the shelves to where Agatha still sits on the floor. She’s pulled her hair up into a messy bun much like the one she’d worn the last day they’d all spent together back in Westview. She’s hunched over Irena’s play mat, most likely playing with the infant.
“I don’t know,” he says, “I want to.”
Tommy huffs. “Why?!”
Billy turns back to face his brother. “She’s different.”
“Well, yeah, duh,” Tommy bites back. “She held us hostage.”
Billy’s hackles rise. “She’s apologised!”
“So?! It’s not like you’ve forgiven her!”
“Shh!” Billy hisses, shifting marginally closer to Tommy. “Keep your voice down!”
“Or what?! She’ll hear that you don’t believe her?!”
Anguish settles in the folds of Billy’s face. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, unshed tears thickening his voice. “Why’re you being like this?”
Tommy sticks out his chin, daring Billy to carry on down this route. “Like what?”
“Like . . . mean!”
“I’m not being mean, I’m stopping you from ruining your life!”
Billy scowls. “No, you’re not. You’re just jealous that there might be someone else that I like that isn’t you!”
Tommy scoffs. “Fat chance. Why would I be jealous of her of all people?!”
“Maybe it’s ‘cause I actually have something in common with her!”
Hurt flashes across Tommy’s face. “You’re choosing her over me?”
“What?! No, Tommy -”
But it’s too late. Tommy’s already staggering to his feet and turning away, disappearing into a streak of colour before Billy can even get up from the floor. He hears the library doors slam closed, knows it’s too late for him to make any amends.
“Are you okay?” Agatha asks, voice low and brow creased into a concerned frown.
“Why d’you ask?” Billy eyes her suspiciously. He thinks he might know where this is going, conflicting senses of dread and hope filling him at the prospect of a conversation he’s not sure he wants to have.
Agatha seems hesitant as she answers, “I heard you and Tommy.”
“Oh.” He looks down at his hands, turned palm upwards in his lap. “How much did you hear?”
“All of it,” she admits. “Do . . . do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Yes.” He frowns. “Maybe.”
Agatha reaches out towards him, slow and tentative. When he doesn’t pull away, she rests her hand against his knee and squeezes. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”
“Okay.”
It’s not much and it’s cliché as hell, but it is something.