When a Rake Falls by Sally Orr Page B

“What exactly is the nature of huddling? I mean scientific huddling, of course.”
    She cleared her throat. “Sorry. Hoarse. It’s the altitude, you understand.”
    â€œYes, my throat is dry too. Not to mention my nose. Funny thing noses. I know a song—”
    â€œNo songs, please. If we reach France safely, even I will sing with you.”
    â€œWe would make such a pretty duet—”
    â€œThis is important. To huddle effectively, people must maximize bodily contact and minimize the air spaces between them. Also, it is best if your limbs are brought in close to your chest or under you. In other words, sit in the smallest ball possible next to me, our shoulders touching.”
    â€œBut wouldn’t one big ball of us both be better?” Nothing would have made him happier now than holding her in a warm, friendly hug.
    Her blue eyes resembled large, dark orbs. “Yes, but—”
    â€œCome sit in front of me, and I’ll wrap my arms around you.” He’d hold her and have a chance to physically demonstrate his fondness and gratitude.
    She gulped. “It would not be proper to—”
    He whispered into her ear. “I can confirm, my pretty miss, that pigeons do not tittle-tattle and can keep secrets. Besides, unlike the language of duck, no human can speak pigeon. So it would be difficult for the pigeon to start a scandalous on dit .”
    She bit her upper lip to stifle a laugh, but then she gave him a brilliant smile.
    Her restrained gaiety filled his heart with affection. Her nose and ears were red, so she must have been very cold, but she had not complained. And now with her vibrant smile, he noticed a dimple for the first time. Nothing more alluring than dimples, even a cold one. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
    She gasped. “I realize, under the circumstances, proper behavior is difficult, but let us try to observe the proprieties. Call me Miss Mountfloy, please. I’ll call you…Parker. Is that acceptable?”
    â€œMy friends call me…” He gulped. His friends called him “Whip.” An obscure joke made by schoolboys, but he did not want her lovely—now pale—lips to call him that nickname. He certainly was not going to tell her that London’s newspapers had once called him “Piglet Parker.”
    Her head was cocked to the side, waiting for his answer.
    â€œYou are the captain, so you choose. Parker, Boyce, Madman—I will answer to them all.” He stood and looked down at her. “I must get the pigeon. He will want to huddle too.” He moved to the far side of the basket and reached for the pigeon’s cage. Then he noticed the butterfly. It was no longer resting on one of the boxes, but lay lifeless on the floor. Its pale yellow wings were folded on top of each another. Boyce carefully picked up the little creature. Now he felt very low. If he had not insisted upon this journey to France, this little fellow would be settling in for the night on top of some big, shiny, green leaf. He tapped a wing gently to see if it would move, but it remained still. He sighed and carried the butterfly to the edge of the basket. “Farewell.” The breeze caught the little creature and lifted it from his palm. The butterfly disappeared into the night.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she asked.
    After grabbing the pigeon’s cage, he returned to her side. “The butterfly is dead.” He couldn’t help but wonder how their journey would end. His ambition had brought them up here, and there would be consequences to his decision. Hopefully, their future would be nothing like the butterfly’s. He sat next to her and patted the floor in front of him.
    Following a second of hesitation, she moved to sit in the space between his legs and twisted to arrange the oilcloth around both shoulders. Then she settled back upon his chest. “Remind me to record the animal’s death