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Calling
It was raining and there was a fire in the study the day Rupert turned ten and a half, the day after which nothing was the same.
He sat in the polished leather chair by the hearth, like one of Father's visitors from London, the ones Mum fussed about feeding, who always finished the fancy biscuits, leaving no leftovers for Rupert's tea. The leather stuck to the backs of his knees. Mum stood behind Father's chair, her lips pressed too thin to see. She looked sad; Father looked only at the heavy book on his knee.
"Once into every generation..."
It was raining and there was a fire in the study the day Rupert turned ten and a half, the day after which nothing was the same.
He sat in the polished leather chair by the hearth, like one of Father's visitors from London, the ones Mum fussed about feeding, who always finished the fancy biscuits, leaving no leftovers for Rupert's tea. The leather stuck to the backs of his knees. Mum stood behind Father's chair, her lips pressed too thin to see. She looked sad; Father looked only at the heavy book on his knee.
"Once into every generation..."
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