Atticus grit his teeth as he heard his brother following him. Why wouldn’t the other understand that this conversation was over? He was quite aware how cryptic his words were and they were remaining as such - this was a very well kept secret with no one outside Anthony knowing. And he supposed father, but he’d taken it to the grave with him.

He spun angrily and glared at his brother as he felt him tug on his arm. He wrenched it out of his grasp. “I’m not having this conversation with you Basil, so leave me alone. I will see you at your party.” Atticus was well aware Basil deserved some kind explanation, but that wasn’t a here or now conversation. “It was eight years so it doesn’t concern you. We’re here, in the present and what’s done is done.” Maybe had he not been at his boiling point Atticus would have offered him more.

But he couldn’t. He was well aware that he’d make the correct choice - there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for his brother - but sometimes the thought would creep up on him: what if he’d picked differently?

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