He had a sense, not for the first time in the months since January, that he was watching a sandcastle crumble in front of him in the tide, and that he was trying to hold it together with his hands. Or — maybe that was how he’d been feeling since August, and that was why he’d gambled in the first place. He missed, with a sudden fervent energy, the safety of Ester’s rooms in London, the safety of a vague cloudy haze he’d dunked himself in fully to dull feeling. This — he felt all of it.

”Desdemona,” Art said, still in that high-pitched almost-desperate tone, ”Dez. Please. Please let me try.”

If she was done, if she was really truly actually finally done, could he do anything about it?

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She paused for a long moment—too long, really, given she had known her answer since he had shown up on the doorstep.

Possibly since the day they had met.

“Alright.” It was as much a plea as it was permission.

  

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Arthur exhaled, all of his breath coming out at once. He loved her so much and so suddenly that the overwhelming knowledge of what he had to do — what he had to do — was overtaken by it, because the relief was that significant. ”I’ll find another lease,” Arthur said, ignoring for the moment that his credit was newly even more fucked, that he was in debt, ”And we can take it from there.”

And he would have to stop gambling. He might have to find something else to replace it, but he would have to stop gambling.

He was under no illusions that Perpetua would let him stay here — he would not even suggest it — but he could hide out at Fitz’s a while longer and get things together and then maybe by May they could be something like a family again.

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“Where—where will you start?” she asked, hoping ardently he had actually come with a plan and not just promises. Promises were too easily broken.

Arthur Pettigrew

  

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"I'll look at some of the rowhouses in South Bartonburg," Art said. He'd had to find new places to live before, he could do it again — he wasn't as worried about the finding of a new place as he maybe ought to have been. They'd be okay. She'd agreed to let him try.

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"But," she began before hesitating a moment. "But the finances..."

Desdemona desperately wanted to believe he could do it.

  

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"We can do it," Art promised — he wouldn't tell her that he was borrowing money from Ben, or that his confidence wasn't entirely earned. They could do it, if he was careful. "I promise, Dez."

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"You must stop," she insisted. "Stop the cards, the fights—I love you, Arthur," Dezzie allowed imploringly, "but it has been a long time since you were 'gentleman' enough for it to be a suitable hobby."

She knew, of course, that his gambling had brought him—and his mother—down in the world; while some gambling was suitable to a man of means, and particularly one of leisure, Art had neither the money nor the self-control.

  

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Arthur swallowed, and, after a beat, nodded. "I know," he said. He knew he needed to stop. He was trying to stop. He was definitely going to try to stop. He just didn't know what he'd do to get there. "I'll stop. I love you, too."

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The look she gave him was pained, in spite of his agreement. Art, she knew, wanted to do whatever it took. It was one of the best things about him. Wanting, though... wanting would not always be enough.

But it was something.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand.

  

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Relief settled in Art's lungs and spread through his body, and he took Dezzie's hand.

He could do this. He could.

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