March brings unexpected visitors to Blackwood.
I'm teaching the Romantic poets—Wordsworth's relationship with nature, how he found God in daffodils—when Vlad appears in my classroom doorway. His expression makes my stomach drop.
"Family emergency," he says simply.
My students exchange glances as I follow him out. In the hallway, he explains: "The Fitzgeralds are here."
"Who?"
"Eleanor Fitzgerald and her daughters. Father's latest move—he's brought in 'suitable' candidates for me to marry."
"He can't seriously think—"
"He can. He does. They're in my office with Leo, who's currently entertaining them by being himself."
We find Leo indeed being himself—which means he's sprawled in Vlad's chair, telling the three women about his extensive collection of first edition books "acquired through morally questionable means."
Eleanor Fitzgerald looks like old money incarnate—pearls, Chanel suit, expression of permanent disapproval. Her daughters, Victoria and Catherine, are beautiful in that carefully constructed way—like dolls manufactured to specification.
"David," Eleanor rises. "How lovely to finally meet you."
"Mrs. Fitzgerald." Vlad doesn't take her extended hand. "This is Jasmine Johnson, Devon's mother."
The temperature drops perceptibly.
"Ah yes," Eleanor's smile could freeze hell. "The... situation."
"My family is not a situation."
"Of course not. How modern of you." She turns to her daughters. "Victoria just finished her MBA at Wharton. Catherine's completing her law degree at Yale."
"Fascinating," Leo drawls. "Can either of them play Chopsticks?"
Victoria laughs—tinkling and false. "Leopold, you're so amusing."
"It's a gift and a curse."
"We're here," Eleanor continues, "because your father suggested we visit Blackwood. Victoria's always been interested in... education."
"Have you?" I ask. "What's your teaching philosophy?"
Victoria blinks. "Oh, I don't teach. I meant education as an investment opportunity."
"How romantic," Leo mutters.
The door bursts open. Devon runs in, covered in paint from art class, and freezes seeing the strangers.
"Dad, I painted the—" He stops, assesses. "Who are they?"
"Visitors," Vlad says carefully.
Eleanor gasps softly. "The resemblance is extraordinary."
"I look like my dad," Devon says proudly, then looks at me. "And I have Mom's stubbornness."
"How... charming," Catherine manages.
Devon studies them with those too-intelligent eyes. "You're here because of Grandfather Theodore, aren't you? He wants Dad to marry someone appropriate."
"Devon—" I start.
"It's obvious. They're wearing interview clothes, not visiting clothes. And they keep looking at Dad like he's a prize at a fair." He turns to Victoria. "He won't marry you. He loves my mom."
"Devon, that's enough," Vlad says, but he's fighting a smile.
"Is it?" Devon crosses his arms—pure Dickenson attitude. "Uncle Leo, are these ladies staying for dinner?"
"God, I hope not," Leo says cheerfully.
Eleanor stands abruptly. "We should go. This was... illuminating."
"Very," Victoria agrees, looking at me with barely concealed disgust. "Good luck with your... arrangement."
After they leave, Devon climbs into Vlad's lap. "They were mean."
"Yes," Vlad agrees. "They were."
"Grandfather Theodore sent them?"
"Probably."
"He really doesn't like us, does he?"
"No, baby," I say softly. "He doesn't understand us."
"That's sad for him." Devon yawns. "We're awesome."
That evening, Leo finds me in the library.
"They'll be back," he says without preamble. "Or others like them. Father won't stop."
"Why do you care so much? About protecting us?"
Leo is quiet for a long moment. "When we were young, Vlad protected me. From Father, from Mother's expectations, from my own worst impulses. That night six years ago? The cousin he nearly killed was hurting me, not some random girl. I was too drunk to fight back, and Vlad..." He shrugs. "Vlad became someone else to save me. Someone violent and terrible and nothing like who he really is."
"Leo—"
"He never told anyone it was me. Let everyone think he was defending some stranger, because he knew what Father would do if he found out his precious Leopold needed defending." His smile is bitter. "So yes, I care. I owe him everything. And despite my general terribleness, I pay my debts."
"Does he know you know?"
"Of course. We're brothers. We know each other's secrets." He stands. "Tell him the Fitzgerald meeting was recorded. I have everything—their snobbery, Devon's brilliant takedown, their obvious unsuitability. Father won't be able to use them."
"You're not as terrible as you pretend."
"Don't spread that around. I have a reputation to maintain."
Later, I find Vlad in Devon's room, reading him The Secret Garden.
"The robin showed Mary the key," Vlad reads, "and Mary knew that however the robin had come by it, the robin believed it was to be her key."
Devon's already asleep, but Vlad keeps reading. I sit beside them, my two dark-eyed boys, and think about keys and gardens and the secrets we keep to protect each other.
Tomorrow will bring new challenges—Theodore's next move, the Fitzgeralds' certain gossip, the world's opinion of our unconventional family.
But tonight, in this room with rain against the windows and Devon safe between us, we're exactly where we're supposed to be.
The robin has shown us the key. Now we just have to be brave enough to use it.