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Norman tries to do his best to act like he’s not quite literally about to fall face-first on his desk (and the mountain of work there) by the time Emma comes to his office.
“Come on,” she says, not leaving room for an argument as she drags him by the sleeve of his shirt. “Enough of work for tonight.”
“I really should…” he starts, feeling torn.
“I want to show you something,” she adds and often that’s all Norman needs to make a decision, a few words from Emma.
They sit on the sofa as she hands him a book that was stowed under her arm. “I realized just now you have never seen them,” she explains, with a complicated smile.
It takes Norman a moment to realize — it’s not the book itself that’s important, it’s about what is tucked away between its pages.
Pictures, taken back at the Grace Field house.
He goes through them, feeling as photo by photo, the tension bleeds out of his frame, replaced by something lighter, warmer. The pictures are a little dark, but still look pretty good. They make him smile, some — outright chuckle; there’s also one of Phil, who seems to be reaching up and taking hold of the camera, that momentarily makes his features twist, before he smooths them out into something calmer, but determined.
He finally pauses at the photo of him laughing at Emma, caught by surprise with a funny expression. He remembers that moment, of course he does.
“Thank you,” Norman says at last, knows Emma will understand all he hasn’t said. Then, carefully and pointedly, he notices, “Ray isn’t in any of these.”
A needless statement; it’s because he was the one taking the pictures, of course.
But they both know that’s not really the only reason.
Ray probably didn’t want them to have physical reminders of him after they escaped.
Emma hums in agreement, a small furrow between her eyebrows. He can tell it’s something that’s been bothering her, too. “If only we still had a camera…”
Norman tilts his head to the side, wondering. Then he smiles.
“I think,” he says, “I may be able to do something about this.”
…
A few days later, before breakfast, Emma gathers as many members of their family as she can without raising suspicions. She knows the word will spread to the rest fast enough.
“Norman got us a present,” she says, holding up an off-brand camera. That earns her some excited and surprised cheers. “I think it’d be nice for it to rotate between us. Everybody is encouraged to take pictures of whatever and whoever they want,” she adds with a smile, passing the camera to a startled Nigel, “but the more of them with Ray, the better. However,” she holds up her finger, “don’t let him catch you in the act!”
“Is that like... a secret project?” Ivet asks curiously.
Emma lets her smile stretch into a grin. “Yes, it’s exactly like that. And we’re very good at these, aren’t we?”
…
“Rossi, you’re up next,” Don calls out.
The boy parts from the group to come stand at the doorframe. Ray, with a tape measure in hand, goes about taking the measurement as the others wait.
“123.4 cm,” he then announces.
Sonia writes it downs, says, “Oh, that’s almost two centimeters taller than the last time we measured you back at the shelter.”
The kids cheer happily, though Don can tell Mark is a little jealous — seems like he’s the shortest among the seven-year-olds now, after Alicia. He understands the sentiment and makes a mental note to talk to him about it, remind him that he will hit his growth spurt later, no need to get discouraged so early on.
“Your turn now, Dominic,” Ray says.
Dominic, so good at being stealthy and quiet, now tries to discreetly wriggle and stand up on his toes, to make himself appear taller. Eventually Paula just shoves him down, with a gentle but steady hand on the top of the boy’s head.
“I don’t get why you tried to fool around,” Ray chastises him, but he sounds proud, kind of. “You’re at exactly 132 cm now.”
“Oh, that’s so tall!” Mark calls, looking awed, and the others aah in agreement.
Don feels moved and he has to wipe at the corners of his eyes; he won’t be crying over something like this, but still… “Gosh, all of you guys grew so much while we were away!”
Sonia looks warmly amused as Dominic himself notices, “You are the ones who got even taller, though.”
“Yeah, most of us. Except for Emma,” Ray snickers.
“You’re lucky she’s not here yet,” Don comments as he looks around the corner, to make sure she and Gilda haven’t arrived yet.
Jemima looks between them and says, “You should get measured, too.”
“Yeah, we’re curious!”
They exchange glances with Sonia and she states, “We were going to do that later, anyway.”
“Go first, Ray, I’m curious myself,” Don adds. Ray shrugs and hands him the tape, taking the empty spot by the doorframe.
Don has to pull out the tape almost to the end and meets some trouble along the way, accidentally smacking Ray in the elbow with the tape as it rolls back in — “Sorry about that!” he apologizes as Ray grumbles — but eventually, he announces, “Woah, you’re 170.6 cm!”
The kids get even louder and more excited, hearing that (impossible to them at the moment) height. Don looks to Ray expecting to see — he isn’t sure, a pleased half-smile, perhaps something smug. But instead, Ray looks shocked, just for a second, and then his expression shifts into something Don can’t quite name. It all lasts for a brief moment before Ray stretches his arms out and puts his hands on his hips, addressing the younger kids, “Well, that shows you, doesn’t it? When we tell you to eat the sprouts, what should you do?”
“Eat them,” they reply in varying degrees of enthusiasm.
As they flank Ray, demanding to be put to sit on his shoulders, Paula suddenly appears beside Don, tapping his back. He almost gets a heart attack, but then he sees what she’s holding — a picture, snapped as Ray was being measured, his face a mix of sheer surprise and mild exasperation at getting smacked with the tape. Don didn’t even know she had the camera now.
“You’re good,” he says, honestly impressed. Paula just huffs, as if he’s stated something obvious.
…
It’s late in the evening as Violet finally grows sick of reading and researching, deciding to take a walk around before heading to the bed. The camera Zack passed to her earlier that day hangs from her shoulder by the strap attached to it; she hasn’t used it yet and she doesn’t think she will. She has a hard time deciding what’s the kind of thing that is worth taking a picture. It doesn’t seem like her kind of thing, anyway.
Just as she wonders if she should look for and Emma and remind her about sleeping, she passes by one of the common rooms. She pauses a few steps later, and then actually goes back, peeking into the room again.
There must be almost thirty kids gathered there, a lot of them from the shelter, but some from other plantations, roughly eight and younger. Most of them are sitting on the floor, with blankets around their shoulders or even already wearing pajamas, while two of them, probably self-appointed, stand in front of a rather confused Ray and a clearly amused Oliver.
“You want me to what?” Ray asks, sounding dumbfounded.
“Read to us!” a girl calls, pushing a rather big book up in the air and onto Ray. “Chris told us you’re really good at it! And you even do different voices!”
“I don’t —” Ray starts, but then another girl — Alicia, Violet realizes — speaks up from where she’s sitting at the front of the group, “Come on, Ray, don’t be such a spoilsport!”
Ray glances at Oliver, looking for support, but the older boy just says airly, “You should do it. We can finish our conversation later or tomorrow, that’s fine.”
It seems as if Ray is still about to protest, but the standing boy tugs at his sleeve with what, Violet imagines, must be a very hopeful and pleading expression, as she can pinpoint the moment Ray relents. He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh and says, “Alright, but not for long. You kids should be going to sleep soon, anyway.”
The chorus of excited noises travels across the room as Ray takes the book from the girl. He looks a little surprised once he sees the title. “Oh, I read this one when I was younger. It’s pretty good, actually.” He’s smiling now. “You guys like fantasy, huh?”
He settles into the armchair as the kids huddle closer, very keen on listening.
Violet knows Ray is good at telling stories; she heard a few over the months they spent travelling and searching, usually after someone (almost always Emma) whined and asked for a change from oppressing silence or gloomy prospects. And as he starts to read from the book, Violet, despite being rather tired, finds herself linger, sitting down in the doorway, partially hidden from view.
Oliver is the only one who seems to notice her later, looking up from his armchair on the side after she takes the picture. She sends him a half-smile before walking away in the direction of the bedrooms.
This was a scene worth memorializing, Violet thinks.
…
Gilda is standing on the side, watching the scene unfolding in front of her.
“You can roll them in different ways — Gillian, don’t even try it!”
The girl yelps as Pepe smacks her sneaky hand with a spatula. She withdraws it away from the plate, rubbing at it with mock hurt written across her face.
“That was rude,” she mumbles.
“That was justified,” Ray corrects, hard at work with a mixing bowl in his hands. Both he and Pepe are wearing aprons. “You’re here to learn something about cooking, not just to eat.”
Gillian and Nat exchange looks and simultaneously ask, “But why just us?”
“Because you two are the only ones among the older of us who I wouldn’t trust to boil the water without setting a fire to everything,” Pepe replies. He’s exaggerating a little, but he takes cooking seriously and is strict when it comes to it, Gilda knows.
“What Pepe meant,” she adds from her place because both Gillian and Nat look comically offended, “is that while your talents lay elsewhere —” Nat proudly shows his profile, while Ray pinches the bridge of his own nose for a second — “you need to know your way around the kitchen, too.”
“So get your aprons and we will teach you how not to fail so miserably,” Ray adds as they grumble.
Gilda is here mostly to supervise and placate, so she watches with a faint smile as the four of them try to make their pancakes work. They’re popular and simple enough — there’s no way it would go wrong, right?
Well, Gilda is glad she didn’t say it out loud because Ray would make her eat her own words, as barely twenty minutes later their small nook in the kitchen looks like a post-battle landscape, complete with a broken plate, smoke still weakly smouldering from one of the pans, and everything being covered in the pancake batter. Ray looks as if he took the most damage with it, as it even drips from his hair.
“Well,” Nat says at length, gripping the bowl tightly — the front of his apron is red, thankfully only from the fruit insert.
“But at least,” Gillian adds, conciliatingly holding up the plate, “we made this one pancake perfect. Wanna try it? Pepe? Ray?”
Gilda snaps a picture of this moment, feeling fond. Then she hides the camera in one of the cabinets for the time being and goes to help, before things turn even more disastrous.
…
“Should I make another?” Jemima whispers.
Anna smiles. “Sure. Ray’s hair has gotten quite long, huh.”
She watches as Jemima carefully reaches over and takes a fistful of hair on the top of Ray’s head, tying it into a small, adorable ponytail. On the other side, Ivet is putting a few more clips into his hair. Ray is soundly sleeping between them, completely unbothered, side of his face pressed to the table scattered with papers and books.
Ivet was the one who came to her, asking if she had the camera now. Following the younger girl into one of the vacant rooms, Anna found Jemima already absorbed in the task of “making Ray look cute”. Even Anna herself couldn’t say no to such opportunity and she made one short, now loose-looking braid on the side of his head.
Truthfully, they don’t make any particularly loud noises or move abruptly, but still, Ray must be exhausted, to have fallen asleep like this and not be awaken by their well-intended manhandling.
Once they deem the task as completed, Anna brings the camera up for a picture. Ray twitches in his sleep as the shutter goes off, but he remains asleep, unaware.
The girls crowd around her to see how the photo turns out. They gush quietly as she shows it to them.
“Cute,” Ivet says.
“Yes,” Anna agrees diplomatically. “You did very well.”
…
Thoma and Lani don’t even plan on stalking Ray as the camera comes into their hands, it just happens they run into a perfect opportunity. Thoma is vaguely aware of some voices ahead of them, but he’s engrossed in inspecting the camera; only as Lani suddenly drags him back behind the corner, he opens his mouth, annoyed.
Lani shushes him and whispers, “Look,” so they peek their heads from around the corner.
“That’s not important now. Your hand is so cold!” Hayato exclaims worriedly, his bare fingers closed around Ray’s wrist. He then proceeds to take Ray’s hand between the both of his, looking up at him intently.
Ray is clearly taken aback and his body language suggests he’s about to tear his hand away at any second, but for some reason, he doesn’t. Thoma thinks he hasn’t seen such a strange and funny expression on Ray’s face in a while.
“What are you doing?” Ray asks slowly, carefully.
“Warming it up, of course,” Hayato answers with a bright smile.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense if he gave Ray his gloves instead?” Thoma mumbles, to which Lani nudges him in the side, and gestures to the camera hanging from around his neck.
Another moment passes. Lani swears he can see the heat progressively crawling up Ray’s face.
“Are we just going to… stand here like this?” he asks, voice uncharacteristically feeble.
Hayato actually seems to consider the question for a second. “We can go sit down, if you prefer.”
“Ray’s hand must be real clammy by now,” Lani mutters to himself. “Gross.”
Thoma stealthy snaps the picture and they immediately run back where they came from, giggling quietly to themselves. There’s a smart risk, and a risk not worth the hassle, and then there’s the kind of risk you take in order to achieve something unparalleled — like, to escape into the world full of demons or to catch Ray embarrassed.
…
It’s one of those too-rare nights when Norman leaves his office, not as William Minerva, but as one of them. To talk, fool around.
Predictably, try as he might, he’s the first one to fall asleep, curled up on the floor, getting his suit crumpled. Emma giggled softly at that, but Ray doesn’t think she’s in any position to laugh, as not even half an hour later she was also fast asleep, stretched on the carpet.
Others have already left, either to rest or cause some trouble, and as Ray picks up the chess figures from the floor, tucking them back in the box, he has a tempting idea kick his friends and tell them to go move to the beds. In a moment.
He’s putting the chess away when something in Emma’s drawer catches his eye. He pulls out the book, opening it where a corner of some photo he doesn’t recall stands out.
What he finds is unexpected.
Ray stares for a long moment at the photos tucked between the pages, quite an impressive number of them.
“So that’s what you idiots have been up to, huh,” he finally says to himself. He’s noticed everybody acting a little sketchy and sneaky recently, and he swears he could have heard a shutter once or twice, but he never actually caught anyone red-handed.
Shows how good they are, he guesses.
He finds the camera under Don’s bed; it’s a little different from than the one he had at Grace Field, but the mechanism must be the same.
He goes back to where Emma and Norman lay sleeping, brings the camera up, and pauses. There’s a silver touch of space between them, where their game was spread out. As he lays down (just for a moment), he finds himself fitting there quite comfortably. Maybe the floor isn’t so bad, after all. He lifts the camera, above the three of them, finger on the button; it's uncomfortable to hold it like this, the angle is ridiculous and he can’t see if it’s going to come out any decent, but that doesn’t matter.
Ray lets his eyes fall half-closed. He’s smiling as the shutter goes off.