Page 132 of Pansies

“My boyfriend could do it.” Gothshelley sailed majestically into the workroom in a cloud of taffeta. “He’s got his licence.”

“You have a boyfriend?” asked Alfie, surprised.

“Oh, what? You think just because I’m fat I’m sexually undesirable? I’ll have you know, some boys like their milkshake extra thick.”

“I didn’t mean that”—he flailed frantically—“it was more your personality like.”

She gave him a cold, hard stare. “What do you mean? I’m winning.”

“Okay,” said Fen, quickly. “Fine. Have him come in tomorrow with you so I can meet him. And Alfie, we’ll need orders in place if we’re going to make this work.”

All thewe’s in that sentence turned interior bits of Alfie to mush. He reached into his pocket and produced a list. Handed it over. Earned himself one of Fen’s pointiest looks.

“For fuck’s sake. What if I’d said no?”

“I was intending to be incredibly persuasive.” He flicked a glance at Gothshelley. “And, no, it wouldn’t have involved kissing with tongues. Well, mebbe, a bit.”

She was hunched over her phone. “This isn’t your time,Alfred. I’m texting my boyfriend right now. And, awww, look what he sent me.”

She turned the screen so he could see. Something awful was on it.

Alfie flinched. “What the fuck is that?”

“That’s our kitty, the Marchioness of Mitternacht, Lady of Shadows, Bringer of Sorrows, Singer of the Ceaseless Requiem. Except he’s put a Day of the Dead filter on her face. Isn’t she adorbs?”2

Fen was studying the list. It was mainly old clients of his mam who had been only too happy to hear from Alfie. And it could have been a lot longer, except he hadn’t wanted to overwhelm their resources.

“Okay,” Fen said finally, and there was, somehow, thislightnessin his voice that Alfie hadn’t heard before, “we can definitely do this.”

Gothshelley raised a hand. “I bagsy any funerals.”

“It won’t be sustainable in the long term,” Alfie admitted. “But it could be. With better suppliers and a bit more staffing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gothshelley trained a death glare on him.

“I mean, it doesn’t make sense for your highly trained workers to do stuff someone, um, less skilled could do.”

The death glare diminished a shade. “Actually, that does make sense. Fen, can we have a minion?”

“I think they’re called trainees,” said Fen. “And no.”

“I promise to look after it. Feed it and water it and clip its little claws.”

“One thing at a time, maybe?”

“If you say so.” She sighed. “I’m so exploited.”

Then trudged out again.

Fen was very still and very quiet, still holding the paper.

“Um,” Alfie asked, “did I overdo it?”

An odd little smile. “Maybe? I’m not sure. I suppose I’d kind of settled into not trying. Just waiting for Pansies to quietly die. And now that it might not…”

“It’s still your choice. You can let go. Or keep going. It’s always been up to you.”

“Yes. But this is the first time I’ve really wanted to stay.”

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