“You can’t have it,” Evander said immediately, feeling possessive of the old rocking chair the very moment Alfred had come along and stolen it right out of his head. Saying so had sounded incredibly, plaintively childish, though, even – or perhaps especially – when it was directed to his brother. Besides, Alfred wouldn’t understand the reason, so he bit his tongue and changed tack. “I mean, it’s still there –” he clarified, clearing his throat, with a slight, self-scolding, shake of his head; he leant back in his chair, eyeing Alfred suspiciously.
“What would you even do with it?” Even if Evander hadn’t already mentally claimed it for the baby’s nursery, he probably would have been peevish about the request: he wasn’t sure he would entrust anything of – material or sentimental – value to his brother unless he was sure he’d never need lay eyes on it again. (There was not a great deal of logic in this instinct, but there was nevertheless some vague fear of the possibility that anything Alfred owned might sometime, somehow, someday end up on a boat – and more than likely never survive the endeavour.)
“What would you even do with it?” Even if Evander hadn’t already mentally claimed it for the baby’s nursery, he probably would have been peevish about the request: he wasn’t sure he would entrust anything of – material or sentimental – value to his brother unless he was sure he’d never need lay eyes on it again. (There was not a great deal of logic in this instinct, but there was nevertheless some vague fear of the possibility that anything Alfred owned might sometime, somehow, someday end up on a boat – and more than likely never survive the endeavour.)
