He blinked in surprise. I can't take this, he signed, after setting the coat back against the bed. He handled it gingerly, as if afraid to wrinkle the fabric. Do you know how much this suit is worth? he asked. It's a- She caught his hands before he began to finger-spell Dolce. He'd told her he had been raised on a farm, not the moon, and apparently, his family's money had awarded him some fine fashion sense. She could nearly see the question forming in his mind: How in the h.e.l.l did a woman on a cop's lousy salary wind up with a fifteen-hundred-dollar designer suit in her closet?

Trust me, you don't want to know, she thought with a smirk. "I know what it's worth," she said, adding, "Jack-s.h.i.t to me, because I can't wear the d.a.m.n thing. It's been taking up s.p.a.ce in my closet for too long now and I'm sick of looking at it. It's yours."

She left the bedroom, walking down the short corridor into her living room, and he followed. "I have a hair appointment I have to go to," she said, turning around so he could read her lips. "It's just up the street. I have to get my hair set before the wedding tonight. You'll have to stay here while I go."

Melanie, her friend and the upcoming bride, had made an appointment for Lina, along with the other bridesmaids, at a very chic, expensive salon downtown. However, Lina had promptly canceled it and made one of her own, with Keyah Reynolds at the A Cut Above beauty parlor, where she'd been a regular customer for the last five years. Keyah was an older, heavyset black woman who doted on Lina like a mother and had seen her through countless relaxers, extensions, dye jobs, curler sets, and shampoos-not to mention her breakup with Jude.

Lina didn't like the idea of leaving Brandon alone while she went, but figured he stood less of a chance of bolting if he was at her apartment, in an area of town unfamiliar to him, and without any of his belongings, or a way to return to Jackson's to claim them.

She also had a double-key dead-bolt on her front door, and Jackson's apartment had the turn-bolt style. Brandon could easily let himself out at Jackson's if the urge to flee hit him, but at Lina's, once he was in, he was stuck fast unless he knew how to pick locks.

She sure as h.e.l.l wasn't taking him to the beauty shop with her. Keyah oversaw a group of a half-dozen other stylists, and Lina could only imagine-and cringe-to think of their reception of Brandon if she brought him with her-a good-looking white boy, tall and lean, built like a brick s.h.i.t-house.

Christ, I'd never hear the end of it. She winced to think of all the "look-who-has-jungle-fever-now" cracks she'd have to endure.

"I have closed-captioning on my television," she said, because Brandon looked around her living room, his eyes round and somewhat hesitant. "There's food in the fridge and beer, too. Help yourself. I won't be gone long. Maybe a couple of hours. I'm going to change my clothes before I go." She eased past him and headed toward the bedroom again. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. "Make yourself at home."Chapter Eight

Make yourself at home, Brandon thought. Right.

Lina had just left to go to her hairdresser's, and he stood alone in her living room, feeling awkward and uncomfortable in her absence. Being at Jackson's was one thing, but this was something else entirely. He knew Jackson as well as any family. Lina was still very much a stranger to him.

That's not true, he told himself. And you know it.

He walked around the room, curious, trying to relax. Her entertainment center was lined with framed photographs, and he stood for a while, admiring them. One was of Lina surrounded by a group of women, all of them laughing as they enjoyed a night on the town, dressed in miniskirts and slip dresses, holding brightly colored drinks with little paper umbrellas poking out the tops.

Another showed Lina in her police uniform, a close-up shot of only her face and neck, the front of her shirt. There was a man in the picture, with his arm hooked around her neck. He, too, wore a police uniform; Brandon could see the edge of his name tag in the shot: R Morin. He was white, his dark blond hair cut short beneath his hat He was turned toward Lina in profile, with nothing really distinguishable about his face because he was planting a huge kiss on her cheek. She laughed in the photograph, her mouth spread in a broad, beautiful grin.

Another picture was of a tall, wiry, older black woman; Lina's mother, apparently. Lina and Jackson stood on either side of her in the picture, arms around her, all of them dressed in shorts and T-shirts, standing beneath a stand of palm trees and smiling.

He lifted in hand another of Jackson, a soft smile lifting the corners of his mouth. It was an older picture, taken at the farm in Kentucky. Brandon recognized the brick facade of Jackson's guest house in the background, the portable basketball hoop in the driveway.

I remember the first time I saw that hoop, Brandon thought fondly. h.e.l.l, and a basketball, too, for that matter.

Jackson had come to work on the farm as Brandon's teacher when Brandon was ten years old. Brandon remembered standing side by side with Tessa in the yard behind the great house, watching a yellow rented moving truck roll slowly past, following the narrow private lane twining through the horse farm, back toward the staff housing on the back acreage. A small car was towed behind it, an older model, nondescript brown sedan with dents in the fenders and an out-of-state license plate.

It was springtime and warm, the dogwoods all in bloom, the air heady and thick with the perfume of their blossoms. Brandon remembered watching the truck, puzzled but unalarmed, wondering if Diego, the farm manager, had hired another person to join the ranks of the Kinsfolk. The Mexican migrant workers who minded the farm never arrived with moving trucks; to have more than the clothes on their backs and a few meager possessions was a rarity.

Caine came outside to call them for breakfast, but Brandon didn't even notice his sister turn at the sound of his voice. He was too busy watching the truck, his hands hooked over the top plank of the white rail fence surrounding the yard. When Caine approached, smacking Brandon in the back of the head hard enough to knock him face-first into the fence, Brandon sucked in a hissing, startled breath. He felt the grain of the wood mash against his bottom lip from one side, the edge of his teeth from the other. He stumbled back, his hand darting against his mouth, even as Tessa rushed to his defense, shoving Caine back. Her brows were narrowed, her small hands clamped into angry fists, and her mouth moved in a soundless, furious barrage.

Caine seemed unoffended and amused by her fire, and when he turned his dark, narrow gaze from her toward Brandon, Brandon shrank back, shying against the nearest fencepost, lowering his eyes to his toes. He drew his fingertips away from his lip and saw blood smeared.

When Tessa led him into the kitchen, he watched the silent flurry of activity that ensued. The large s.p.a.ce, encompa.s.sing an adjacent informal dining room as well, was crammed with people, everyone moving and jostling about, their mouths flapping as they laughed and talked. Brandon had seven uncles, his father's brothers, all of whom lived in the great house with their respective families. Although Sebastian n.o.ble had only one wife, several of his brothers had two and three apiece, and a half- dozen children besides. More than seventy people total called the great house home, and that morning, at least half seemed to be jockeying for elbow room and breakfast around the tables while his mother, Vanessa, and his aunts flanked the industrial-sized stove and microwaves, fixing eggs, toast, bacon, and cups of milk.

While the men of the Brethren took care of business and finances, the women tended to homes and families. Wed in their mid- teens to Brethren males often two or three times their age in arrangements preordained by the Elders, women were the Brethren nurses, housekeepers, cooks, and teachers. They had no say in the rules or governing of the clans, no place or voice among the Council. They sated their bloodl.u.s.t after the Brethren males had taken their turns, typically feeding on the least-desirable human stock. The seeming chaos of that morning was nothing unusual or new to Brandon's mother, Vanessa, and she maneuvered through it gracefully, juggling a bottle for baby Emily, a dishrag, and plates of scrambled eggs.

Tessa shoved her way across the room toward Vanessa, her mouth moving as soon as she and Brandon were across the threshold and into the small, adjoining mud-room to stomp the dew off their shoes. To judge by the disapproving glance Vanessa shot toward Caine, Tessa had tattled on his bullying in the yard. Caine stood across the room, arguing back in his own defense, from the looks of his surly, scowling facial expression as he spoke.

"You always take his side!" Brandon could read his brother's lips clearly. "You never listen to me, you or Father! You only ever pay attention to him!"

He jammed an angry forefinger emphatically toward Brandon, and Brandon cut his eyes to the floor. All the while, toddler Emily ran full tilt and revved up around the kitchen, her mouth hanging open in a happy, soundless squeal as she chased three of her smaller cousins, all in diapers, all leaving trails of fallen Cheerios in their wakes.

While Tessa wrangled Emily, hoisting her in a bear hug and hauling her toward the table, Vanessa drew Brandon aside and squatted in front of her son. Although he tried to keep his shame-faced gaze pinned on his toes, she hooked her fingertips under his chin, forcing his head up. She dabbed at his lip with a wet washrag and he didn't miss the shadow that momentarily clouded her dark eyes, or the way she shook her head slightly as if to say, Not again, Brandon.

Such calamity was nothing less than a daily occurrence for Brandon. The bullying from his older brother was nothing new, and it seemed Brandon presented his parents with a never-ending array of cuts, sc.r.a.pes, bruises, and abrasions meted out by Caine.

Caine seemed to delight in tormenting Brandon, in using his fists and feet to drive his younger brother farther and farther into the shy, meek sh.e.l.l that he'd erected around himself over the years. That morning had been an atypical public display; ordinarily, Caine took care to make sure no one was around to bear witness, and Brandon's injuries were often discounted as simple, clumsy mishaps he'd brought upon himself.

Even though she'd scolded Caine, Vanessa's movements were jerky and abrupt, her expression displeased, as if she considered Brandon partially to blame as well. She had her hands full with her four children, and all Brethren women were expected to help with the rearing of their kin, so she had little time or patience for shenanigans between her boys. "Why can't you stick up for yourself for once, Brandon?" she said. "Your brother would leave you alone if you did. You're supposed to meet your new teacher this morning and now you're all banged up and-"

Something from behind them in the melee that was the n.o.ble family breakfast a.s.sembly distracted her, and she first turned, then pulled away from him, marching over to break apart a tussling match that had broken out between two of Brandon's cousins.

Brandon didn't know what a teacher was, and didn't want to risk further frustrating his mother by asking. His mouth cleaned up, he sat, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast at the table. He didn't eat his breakfast, feeling sullen and unhappy, and didn't miss his mother's exasperated glance as she sc.r.a.ped his untouched egg and bacon into the trash can.

Brandon's father, Sebastian, came to his room to get him shortly after breakfast. Tessa and Caine were downstairs on the first floor with the other school-aged n.o.ble children for their daily tutelage, while Emily and the younger children played together in the nursery. Usually Brandon-unable to speak, hear, or read and write beyond the kindergarten level-spent the day in the nursery, too, but Vanessa had proven sore with him for not eating his breakfast and had directed him to his room with a stern look and a demonstrative finger pointing up the main staircase.

Brandon was delighted that Sebastian came to his rescue. It was an unexpected treat. Although Augustus n.o.ble owned the Thoroughbred farm, most of his time and attention was diverted toward the Bloodhorse distillery. Sebastian, however, oversaw the day-to-day business affairs of the farm. He kept an office in the main horse barn, and that's where most of his time was spent. While Diego, the farm manager, tended to the care and upkeep of the animals and grounds and supervised the staff, Sebastian managed the bookkeeping and records. It was a full-time obligation, one that left him little time for playing with his deaf-mute and lonely son.

Brandon cherished those rare occasions when Sebastian was able to make time for him. They would spend hours in the barns, watching as the Kinsfolk and farm hands brushed and curried the Grandfather's prized Thoroughbreds, grooming each until their dark, satiny coats gleamed in the summer sunshine. The Grandfather had practice fields upon which the horses would be exercised daily. There was always a tremendous amount of activity surrounding the barns and exercise yards, plenty to fascinate and entertain Brandon. He loved the smell of the horse barns, the sweet fragrance of fresh hay intermingling with the spicy, musky scent of horse dung and sweat. Sometimes his father would let him feed treats to the horses, handfuls of dried corn or special feed pellets, and Brandon delighted in the sensation of their loose, velveteen lips tickling against his outstretched and upturned palm, the slight, delicate sc.r.a.pe of their teeth as they nibbled the food he offered.

Brandon's handicaps hadn't mattered to Sebastian; he'd been able to speak to his son through his mind, and most times, even this had proven unnecessary. All it took was a smile or a nod, a simple hand gesture in beckon or a doting pat and Brandon understood him perfectly.

That day, however, they hadn't gone to the horse barns or the exercise fields. Sebastian had taken Brandon in his pickup truck and they'd driven together toward the staff houses. Sebastian had pulled to a stop in front of one of the modest brick bungalows reserved for the Kinsfolk to use, in a portion of the farm where the Brethren weren't allowed to feed during the bloodletting ceremonies. Brandon was surprised to find the yellow moving van parked here, the back door raised and left standing wide. A clutter of brown cardboard boxes surrounded the metal loading ramp of the truck and the yard. The little brown sedan had been unhooked from tow behind the van and now sat parked in the driveway.

You're supposed to meet your new teacher this morning, Vanessa had told him. Brandon blinked at his father in hesitant confusion, and Sebastian had smiled, motioning with his hand as he climbed out of the truck. Come on.

Brandon followed, standing shied somewhat behind his father's hip as they walked into the bungalow together. Trapped in his world of helpless silence, Brandon had become painfully withdrawn over the years, timid and shy. The Brethren seldom met strangers as it was, because few outside of farm staff were ever allowed onto the farms, much less into the great house, and when Brandon first caught sight of Jackson standing in the living room of the guest house, he'd nearly been paralyzed with anxious fright.

He hadn't known Jackson's name, of course. Although he could communicate in rudimentary fashion with his family, such things as introductions were lost upon him. All Brandon had known was that the man shaking hands with his father was black-the first African American he'd ever seen up close and outside of television-and enormous, quite possibly the largest man Brandon had ever seen. Tall and thick and strapped with muscles, the man had been bigger and broader than Sebastian and had towered over Brandon. His head was shaved bald, his coffee-colored skin gleaming, and although his face had been kind, his mouth stretched in a broad smile, Brandon had still shrank behind Sebastian, hooking his fingers desperately against his father's pant leg, frightened when he'd offered the boy an outstretched hand.

Sebastian patted Brandon's head, easing him reluctantly forward, nodding in encouragement toward the black man's proffered hand. This is your new teacher, Brandon, Sebastian told him inside of his mind, not illuminating matters in the slightest for the boy. His name is Mr. Jones.

Brandon had accepted the shake, wide eyed and hiccuping for breath. When the man had closed his fingers around Brandon's hand, he nearly swallowed Brandon's whole.While Sebastian and the man had spoken together again, Brandon had retreated once more behind the shelter of his father's leg.

The longer they stood there, however, the more curious Brandon became, and his gaze eventually wandered, traveling slowly, inquisitively along the boxes and bags stacked around the modestly furnished room. Several had already been unpacked, and Brandon saw books and boxes of crayons atop the coffee table. He drew away from his father and went to look more closely, wondering if the large, dark man with his father had children. The idea of a new possible playmate appealed to him. None of the Kinsfolk had children, nor did few, if any, of the farm hands. The Grandfather disapproved of having children outside of the Brethren on the property.

He peeped inside a box left opened beside the coffee table and found it filled with coloring and activity books, hardbound storybooks, boxes of crayons, packages of markers, and more. He looked at the books on the coffee table, lifting each curiously in turn. He recognized the pictures on some of the covers, stories he remembered from his childhood, before he'd lost his hearing. He couldn't read well enough to maneuver his way through the books on his own, and of course, no one could read to him now, but he still remembered them fondly, and flipped through the pages of Where the Wild Things Are-once his favorite-almost forlornly. Sebastian still read to his children every night; Tessa and Emily would tussle for position on his lap, while Caine would sit on the floor by his feet. Brandon would sit with them, and would watch his father's lips move, his mouth opening and closing without understanding much of what he offered. Even with such close proximity, he would feel utterly alone in those moments, as if he watched his family helplessly through a picture window, unable to join them.

A ball on the floor by the coffee table drew Brandon's gaze. He set the book aside and picked it up, studying it carefully. He'd never seen a ball like this; it was made of thick, orange rubber, and felt somewhat heavy to him. Its surface was pebbled, rough and fascinating beneath Brandon's fingertips, scored with grooves that marked it like the segments of a peeled orange. It smelled funny to Brandon's keen and sensitive nose, like the rubber sole of a tennis shoe. Brandon dropped it and smiled hesitantly as it bounced back up again, slapping against his hands.

Sudden movement out of the corner of his eye startled him, and he shrank back, dropping the ball as the black man stepped into his line of sight. He was smiling, but Brandon shied, looking around in wide-eyed anxiety for his father, frightened that he would be scolded for snooping in the man's belongings.

To Brandon's dismay, he realized the living room was empty. Sebastian was gone, and with a sudden shudder of bright, strangling terror, Brandon darted for the nearest window. He shoved the drapes aside and watched his father's truck drive away.

He's leaving me! Brandon had thought, confused and frightened. Why? What did I do? Where is he going?

He turned around and pressed himself back against the window sill, wondering if Sebastian was punishing him for not eating his breakfast or for the scuffle that morning with Caine. When the large black man approached him, Brandon scrambled back along the wall, pressing himself into a corner of the room, his breath hitching, tears welling in his eyes. The big man realized his distress and stopped, his brows lifting, his expression gentle. He folded his long legs beneath him and smiled again. He moved his hands in the air, not casual gestures, but motions that seemed deliberate and purposeful to Brandon, even though he had no idea what they meant. He watched, momentarily transfixed, as the man's long fingers seemed to cut and dance in the air, and when the man drew his hands still, Brandon blinked at him uncertainly.

The man continued to smile, not seeming the least bit impatient or irritated. He stood and went back to the coffee table. He opened a box of markers and Brandon saw him lean over, writing something quickly against a sheet of construction paper. He stood again, and came back to Brandon's corner, forcing the boy to recoil in bright new alarm.

The man genuflected again and then patted his hand against his chest. He held the sheet of construction paper out toward Brandon, pointing so the boy could see the neat, block letters written there. Mr. Jones.

It took Brandon a moment of conscientious effort to decipher the words, combining the letters in his mind. He looked from the page to the man, and again, the man patted his chest and then tapped his fingertip against the sheet demonstratively.

His name, Brandon realized with a smile. That's his name.

This is your new teacher, his father had said. His name is Mr. Jones.The man smiled with him, but when he rose to his feet, Brandon's fear instantly returned. Unbothered, the man walked away again, leaning over to lift the strange orange ball in hand. He turned to Brandon and held the ball out, offering it to him, his brows raised as if in invitation or inquisition. Brandon shook his head, shying back again. He'd been able to figure out the man's introduction, but this was something more complicated and he didn't understand.

Mr. Jones held out his free hand to Brandon and flapped at him in beckon. Come on. He turned around and walked across the living room, heading for the front door. Brandon watched him bounce the ball as he went, dribbling it in tandem with his stride, a seemingly effortless act that again, left Brandon mesmerized with momentary wonder.

Mr. Jones walked outside, leaving Brandon alone in the living room. After a minute of timid hesitation, Brandon's curiosity got the best of him, and he scurried outside.

He found the man standing in the driveway, in a circ.u.mference of blacktop cleared among the stacks of boxes waiting to be brought into the house. He stood facing a tall metal post that had been mounted on wheels. A broad fibergla.s.s backboard crowned the top of the post, and affixed to this was a loose-webbed basket that dangled down over the ground. It was not a permanent fixture on the grounds, and Brandon figured the man had brought it with him in the moving van.

Mr. Jones bounced the ball easily on the ground in front of him. He looked over his shoulder and smiled to see Brandon. He nodded toward the basket, encouraging Brandon to come closer. Brandon watched as he caught the ball between his hands and then threw it effortlessly away from him, arcing it skyward from head level. It sailed toward the pole, and then bounced off the backboard, dropping neatly down through the basket. It bounced against the driveway, and Mr. Jones jogged forward to retrieve it.

Brandon smiled in curious wonder until the man turned, holding the ball out toward him. You try it, the gesture seemed to impart, and Brandon took a hedging step back, shaking his head. He was terrible at games, slow moving and clumsy. He was seldom, if ever, invited to play in such activities among the other Brethren children because no one wanted him on his or her team.

Mr. Jones nodded, walking toward him, holding out the ball, apparently unwilling to take no for an answer. Brandon continued shaking his head. Mr. Jones pressed the ball between Brandon's hands and then stepped aside, nodding once toward the basket. Try it, he seemed to say.

Brandon blinked up at the post. He realized the only way to discourage the man was to prove he couldn't do it. Thus, he tossed the ball, stumbling forward with the effort. The ball fell short, bouncing against the blacktop without even grazing the rim of the basket. Brandon dropped his gaze to his toes, hunching his shoulders, certain the man would scold him. A moment pa.s.sed, then two, with nothing, and Brandon risked a wary, hesitant peek. He watched Mr. Jones walk over to retrieve the ball and then bring it back. He held it out, smiling, not a hint of aggravation in his face. Try again, that smile seemed to suggest.

Brandon tried for the better part of the next half-hour, unable to accomplish what Mr. Jones had done effortlessly and in one try.

No matter how many times he missed or how frustrated Brandon became with himself, Mr. Jones didn't show even a fleeting hint of irritation or impatience. He kept offering the ball to Brandon time and again, always with that gentle smile and an encouraging nod to try once more.

Finally, just as Brandon was about to stumble with fatigue, not to mention burst into demoralized, unhappy tears, he launched a shot toward the basket and blinked in utter astonishment as it sailed through the hoop. It fell through the basket and bounced against the ground, and Brandon gaped between it and Mr. Jones, his mouth spread in a broad, amazed grin. Mr. Jones grinned back at him and held out his hands, his fists closed, his thumbs raised. Good job! this told Brandon, as clearly as if Mr. Jones had spoken the words and Brandon had been able to hear them.

Brandon moved to retrieve the ball and try again, but Mr. Jones waved, staying him. He watched, puzzled, as the man cupped his hand lightly in the shape of a "C," as if he held a gla.s.s, and then mimed bringing it to his mouth. He glanced at Brandon, pointed, and then did this again. Brandon understood him and blinked in pleased surprise. The man had asked him if he wanted something to drink.

Brandon nodded eagerly, hot, tired, and thirsty, and Mr. Jones had smiled, flapping his hand in beckon as he'd walked toward the house. Come on.

Brandon stood at the breakfast bar dividing the guest house's kitchen and dining room. He watched as Mr. Jones dug among a large box on the countertop, searching for plastic tumblers. The man then rummaged through a large plastic cooler that he'd used to tote along some refrigerator staples, including a large bottle of lemonade. He poured some into two cups and offered one to Brandon, who gulped at it greedily.

He realized the man was watching him with kindly interest, sipping at his own lemonade, and Brandon paused, feeling awkward and uncertain. He blinked at the man, using the cuff of his hand to wipe a mustache of lemonade from his top lip.

Mr. Jones set his cup down and covered his ears with his hands. Brandon looked at him, frowning slightly, puzzled. Mr. Jones patted his hand against his heart and then covered his ears again. He did this twice more before Brandon understood his meaning.

He... he's like me, he thought in stunned amazement. It was the first time it had ever occurred to the boy that anyone else in the world might have suffered a handicap. But that seemed to be what this man was trying to impart with his gestures, that he, too, was deaf.

Brandon smiled, and Mr. Jones smiled, too. He lifted his cup in hand again and as he took a drink, he dropped Brandon a wink, pointed at him and then tapped his fingertip against his brow. You're a smart kid, he seemed to say, and Brandon flushed with happy pride.

You're supposed to meet your new teacher this morning, Vanessa had told her son, and Brandon wondered dimly if teacher was another word for friend.

As he stood in Lina's apartment, holding a picture of Jackson that well could have been taken on that very day so long ago, Brandon smiled. Jackson had indeed proven a friend to him. My best friend, in fact, he thought. Like Brandon, Jackson had not been born deaf. A congenital condition had caused the gradual but unavoidable loss of his hearing. Jackson had not been mute, however. From what Brandon understood, according to his father and Tessa, Jackson spoke remarkably well. This was how he had taught Brandon to read lips.

Jackson had been at the farm for about a year, Brandon-recalled, and one day happened to witness Caine and some of the older Brethren cousins bullying Brandon. It was nothing unusual; the group had sneaked out of the kitchen during the melee that was breakfast at the great house, and waited for Brandon to leave, crossing the yard for the fence line and roadway beyond to walk up to Jackson's house. Sometimes Sebastian would give his son a ride, but Brandon had come to so enjoy Jackson's company that more often than not, he wouldn't wait for his father and would set off on his own, the earlier the better.

As Brandon had tromped across the backyard that morning, he'd been carrying an armload of books Jackson had loaned him.

He neither saw nor sensed Caine and the others as they ducked around the side of the house and converged on him from behind. All he knew was that at one moment he was walking along, excited to demonstrate his reading progress to Jackson, and the next, he felt something hook the front of his shin-his brother's foot-sending him stumbling.

He fell to his knees, the books spilling across the gra.s.s. Now he'd realized his company, seeing a half-dozen pairs of legs stepping into a quick, tight circ.u.mference around him. He'd reached for Treasure Island and Caine had stomped his sneaker down heavily atop the cover, pinning it to the ground.

Brandon looked up and watched Caine's mouth flapping at him: What's all this, dips.h.i.t?

Jackson had been teaching Brandon to read, write, and sign, all of which the boy had picked up with phenomenal success. He'd been so desperate to communicate and so eager for the opportunity that he'd gladly devoted himself to the hours of necessary practice, both with Jackson and while home on his own at the great house.

Caine leaned over and s.n.a.t.c.hed Treasure Island in hand. Brandon scrambled to his feet. Give it back, Caine, he wrote on a page in the little bra.s.s-adorned notebook his father had given to him only months earlier. Sebastian had been flushed with pride upon the presentation, pleased with Brandon's progress.

Brandon reached for the book, but Caine held it aloft, beyond his reach, his brows narrowed, his mouth hooked in a thin, malicious smile. "Take it from me."

Again, Brandon reached for it, and again, Caine drew it away. "You want it?" he asked. "Go f.u.c.king get it." He shoved his free hand against Brandon's shoulder and pushed him roughly to the ground. Brandon landed on his bottom, his legs splayed, and he watched in wide-eyed horror as Caine chucked the hardbound book, throwing it like a frisbee with a deft flick of his wrist, sending it sailing up onto the roof of the back porch.

Caine laughed at the dismay on Brandon's face, and the cousins all joined in. At that moment, Jackson had appeared, striding briskly into the cl.u.s.ter of boys and seizing Caine roughly by the arm.

"What are you doing?" Jackson asked him. "Leave Brandon alone. Why did you throw that book?"

"Let go of me!" Caine cried. He jerked his sleeve loose from Jackson's grasp and danced backward, his dark eyes flashing hotly, his cheeks ablaze with twin patches of angry, humiliated color. He snapped something at Jackson, spittle flying from his lips, his small hands balled into fists. Brandon hadn't understood what he said at the time; it was a word he'd never seen spoken before, but he'd recognized the sounds, at least in part. It had started with an N and ended in an R.

Jackson's hand swung around, and he slapped Caine across the face, snapping the boy's cheek toward his shoulder. It was a restrained blow, considering the man's strength, but it sent Caine stumbling sideways nonetheless. He blinked at Jackson in stunned surprise, and Brandon blinked along with him, as did all of their cousins. Then Caine's face flushed brightly with new rage, and he shouted again before turning and bolting for the back door.

Brandon had been terrified. When the other boys were gone, fleeing after Caine, he looked up at Jackson, stricken. Jackson had struck Caine. He would be fired now, of that Brandon had no doubt. Caine would tell their mother, who would in turn, tell Sebastian, and Sebastian would fire Jackson.

They'll make him leave. I'll never see him again. Brandon's eyes filled with tears with this realization. He's my friend, and they'll make him leave!

Jackson squatted in front of him, his expression softening. You OK? he signed, pointing first to Brandon and then finger-spelling the pair of letters. Brandon nodded. His eyes were still flooded however, his expression aghast, and Jackson smiled at him gently, pressing his palm against his cheek as if to rea.s.sure him.

Don't worry, he signed to the boy. It's alright.

He began to gather the fallen books, motioning to Brandon to help. When they were finished, Jackson stood, helping Brandon to his feet. He led the boy into the house. Sebastian had been waiting for him in the kitchen, with Caine at his side and in tears, hiccupping and yowling.

Sebastian had sent Brandon out of the kitchen, but Brandon had lingered in the doorway, hiding at the threshold, struggling to glean any hint of their conversation. He couldn't see enough to read lips and follow along from his vantage, however, but was amazed when, at length, Sebastian gave Caine a sharp shake by the shoulders, his expression stern as he offered some kind of remonstration. Caine seemed as surprised by the rebuke as Brandon, and he tried to sputter out some reply.

"Apologize to Mr. Jones!" Sebastian said, turning his head enough for Brandon to watch his lips move clearly. "Then straight upstairs to your room to wait for me while I get out my belt!"

Brandon's eyes had widened more. Their father seldom threatened to spank them, much less actually saw it through. Whatever Caine had done, whatever he'd said out in the yard, it must have been horrible indeed.

"Why are you taking his side?" Caine had bawled. "He hit me, Father! Brandon fell! I didn't do anything to him. He's lying to-" "I said apologize!" Sebastian snapped, giving Caine another swift shake. Caine started to cry again, and he mumbled something in Jackson's general direction. His brows were furrowed all the while, his mouth turned in a sullen, disagreeable frown.

What did Caine say? Brandon asked Jackson, as the two had walked together back toward his house. He'd watched as only moments earlier, Jackson had climbed carefully up onto the roof of the back porch to retrieve Treasure Island.

Never you mind, Jackson signed back.

They walked along in silence for a moment, but Brandon's curiosity remained piqued. I know it was something bad, he signed.

Daddy's going to spank him for it.