"Performance? You think he's basing your future prospects on grades?" I scoffed.

"Not grades," she said. "Just how you are . . . with me."

"I'm sorry could you repeat that? There was this horrible ringing in my ears."

"How you are with me," she smiled. "Sorry."

"I was almost wondering . . . ." I swallowed my anxiety. "I was almost wondering if you weren't telling him that we were spending time together."

Confirmation as she looked away.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," I half-lied. "I understand why it's awkward."

"Not awkward-impossible."

We were quiet for a while as we walked. Everly pulled on my sleeve as we came upon the southern portion of the The Mall.

"I need to sit for a moment," she said.

"Want to sit on the lap of Hans Christian Anderson? His statue is coming up."

She smiled weakly. "Somewhere cooler than bronze statues."

We sat in the grass under a large Elm where she sipped ice-cold lemonade, humming every time she took a sip. I brushed her hair away from her hot forehead, as I asked, "Good day, Everly Anne?" She pressed the condensation from her cup to her flamed cheek. "Good day, Callum Andrew."

Eventually we found statues of Hans Christian Anderson, and Shakespeare, but it wasn't until we reached the Gapstow Bridge she started to show interest in storytelling.

"I never knew my mother," she said. "She died giving birth to me."

We stopped on the bridge, looking down to the water below.

"What do you think she was like?" I asked. "Does Timothy ever tell you about her?"

"He can't talk about her. No."

I nodded. "Yeah, Andrew doesn't like to talk about my mother, either."

"I feel sorry for your father," she said. "Having to watch your mom die slowly like that."

"Do you feel sorry for your father, Everly Anne?"

She looked up at me. "Sometimes it's hard to feel sympathy for someone so cold. It would be like trying to form a relationship with Hans over there," she laughed lightly. "I'd like to believe that before she died he was softer, that there was this underlying man who felt and had warmth inside of his heart, but I've never seen him that way. It's all business. It's all routine. You know we don't even celebrate Christmas? My nurses give me things, but I've never been given a gift from Timothy. Not even for my birthday."

"It hurts you," I said, touching her cheek softly. "It's okay if it hurts, you, Everly. You can be sad in front of me, you know. I won't judge."

"What about you, Callum? Is it okay that it hurts you?"

"It wasn't for a long time. No."

"What made it okay?" she asked.

I pushed her long hair back, over her shoulders. "What do you think?"

"I think you still can't go to Theater Night. I think it still hurts."

"It'll always hurt." My hands ran down her arms. "But while my father chooses to mask his pain, and your father chooses to deny his pain, I choose to walk with you every day. I choose to lessen the pain, and perhaps a bit of the pointlessness in Julep's death, by finding happiness. She fought every day to stay alive for one more day. Don't I owe her at least that? To fight every day to stay alive just one more day?"

She looked away for a moment. "Sometimes I feel like I owe him that too."

I turned her face back to mine. "You don't owe Timothy shit. It's completely different. You didn't kill your mom, Everly Anne."

She exhaled harshly, as if she was trying not to cry. "I certainly didn't keep her alive."