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If there was one person on whom Susanna could count to help solve a problem, it was her husband. Unfortunately, in this particular case, he was being no help whatsoever.
"Can't you just ask him if something's wrong?" Figaro proposed hesitantly.
"I've tried!" Susanna dropped impatiently down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. "And clearly something is wrong! But all he does when I ask him what's wrong is shake his head. You remember what it was like being a boy his age; your guess is going to be much better than mine as to what's making him so upset."
Susanna folded her arms impatiently and leaned back against the headboard of the bed with a huff, and her husband did the same, albeit less huffily, his chin tilted pensively. Their bedchamber was filled with so many memories after all these years, some breathtaking, some heartbreaking; but for whatever reason, tonight Susanna found herself remembering how Figaro had carefully measured out the width of the room on their wedding day, over a dozen years ago now, to make sure that this very headboard would fit perfectly.
"In theory," replied Figaro thoughtfully. "But, remember, I didn't grow up with a sharp-eyed and inquisitive mother constantly asking me how I was feeling. Who knows if I would have had the words to express my thoughts clearly to her, when I was eleven!"
Upon being presented with the concept of a tiny Figaro trying to explain his boyish problems to Marcellina (God rest her soul), a small snort involuntarily escaped Susanna. She and Marcellina had warmed considerably towards each other over the decade that Marcellina had been Susanna's mother-in-law, but Susanna still would also be the first to note that the woman had never had the strongest sense of tact, towards sensitive children or anyone else.
"I just hate that it's our own son, and for once, I don't know what to do," she confessed in a small voice.
And it rankled, having to admit that. Susanna and Figaro, armed with their charm and wit and absolute confidence in one another's abilities, were known for being the ones to help others solve their problems around the estate. Need to figure out the surest way to wheedle back into Her Ladyship's good graces? Susanna could help with that. Need a substitution of some sort to help cover the fact that half the shipment of wine wouldn't arrive until after the party that evening? Figaro could help with that. Need to convince His Lordship to keep his wandering hands off the new maid? Both Susanna and Figaro could definitely help with that. No matter the proximity of their bedchambers, the Count had learned his lesson long ago when it came to Susanna, and she was all too happy to do what she could to rescue her younger colleagues from their master's grasp. It helped, of course, that she had long since outgrown his tastes, what with the fine laugh lines that had come in around her eyes and the way her figure now held its weight, so many years and one child later. Whenever she mentioned this, though, Figaro always scoffed and said that, while he was eternally glad Susanna was left in peace, it only proved His Lordship's stupidity tenfold that he had lost interest in the most gorgeous woman on earth, whose beauty only increased with every passing year.
"Oh, Susannetta." Figaro reached an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned her head against him, comforted by his solid presence. "Don't you worry, my dear. He'll tell us when he's ready. We'll figure it out, I promise."
And, since there was nothing more to be done that evening, Susanna simply kissed him and then snuggled further into his embrace as he put out the light, trusting him as she always did.
Her Ladyship was an early riser, and Susanna didn't see her son until midday, when she encountered him in the kitchens around lunch.
"There you are!" she exclaimed. "I've been looking all over for you! Have you eaten?"
Tonio nodded, solemnly, as was his wont these days. Susanna searched his face, hoping to see a flicker of the laughing child he had once been, and although his expression remained as somber as ever, she still took quiet delight in cataloguing how beautifully Tonio mapped the best of both herself and Figaro: her eyes, Figaro's dimples, her nose, Figaro's smile. The little physicalities Tonio had picked up from them both over the years, like Figaro's habit of whistling softly under his breath when he was irritated, or her own full-throated laugh when she was amused. Tonio, noticing his mother's scrutiny, lowered his head as if ashamed, and Susanna suddenly found herself realizing she would do just about anything to see Figaro's broad grin grace their child's face once more.
"Come on," she said, taking his hand. "I have an hour or two at leisure right now, unless Her Ladyship rings for something."
The gardens at this time of year were stunning, bees droning lazily between the vibrant blooms that poked their heads from within the box hedges. Susanna kept a hand pressed lightly against her son's back as they ambled slowly along the gravel walks, in and out of the indigo shadows of the spiralling cypresses, the dry heat in the air stupefying. As she often did when wandering the gardens, Susanna found herself missing her uncle, who had been found sleeping eternally amidst his beloved flowerpots with a bottle in his hand, the month before his namesake's birth. She smiled as she watched Tonio close his eyes and breathe in the scent of the roses, thinking they would have gotten on well.
"Tonio," she said, and when he opened his eyes, she gestured him towards a shaded bench that sat in a little alcove by a wearily burbling fountain. "I know I keep asking, but your father and I really are worried that something's wrong. Won't you tell me what it is?"
Tonio seemed to shrink back into himself as he dropped his gaze again, and the sight made Susanna's heart ache.
"I swear I won't be angry," she pressed on, chiding herself for how quick her temper sometimes could be. "Even if you've done something that you think might land you in trouble, we'll work it out, you and me and your Papà. I promise."
Tonio didn't respond, and when his shoulders began to tremble, Susanna wrapped an arm around him and kissed the top of his head.
"Have you..." He choked on his words, and Susanna squeezed him just a bit tighter while he searched for the ones he needed. "Have you ever felt like you didn't fit right?"
"I think everyone feels that way sometimes, my love," Susanna replied, trying not to let a warm chuckle enter her voice.
"No," Tonio insisted. "Not with other people. I mean, with yourself. Within yourself."
In her youth, Susanna might have responded immediately and decisively, but time and patience had taught her that silence is sometimes the wisest policy.
"Everyone keeps talking about how I'll be a man soon," Tonio continued miserably. "And Papà always sounds so proud when he talks about the man I'll be. But... but it scares me, when everyone talks like that. It makes me feel sick. I don't want any of that. That's not who I am, or who I want to be. And I don't know what to do."
"Oh." Susanna didn't know what to do either, even with this new information, and she felt even more helpless than she had the previous night. If her son feared the passage of time, that was a force that not even she and her cunning husband could outsmart. "Well, who would you want to be, then, my love?"
Tonio blushed, not looking at her.
"I'd want to be more like you," he admitted quietly, reaching out and touching the fabric of Susanna's skirt. "Even though I know I can't be."
The wind rustled the cypresses, and Susanna caught a sharp but fleeting whiff of the pine grove just out of sight. What a gentle breeze will sigh tonight under the pines of the grove. She closed her eyes and remembered that day, when she and Figaro had boldly untangled a thousand intricate webs to clear a path to their happiness. And, when she opened her eyes, she somehow knew exactly what her child needed.
"Come," she said, standing and smiling at Tonio, "I have an idea."
Susanna no longer fit all of her old dresses, but for one reason or another, she had kept them—at first, in the hopes that she'd one day be able to make use of them again herself; then, just in case a daughter would ever want to inherit them; and finally, long after Figaro had given up suggesting she give them away, simply because that half of her wardrobe would have felt too empty without them. When she flung open that rarely used door, she coughed for a moment at the small cloud that the disturbance kicked up, scolding herself for not dusting her own belongings more thoroughly.
"See anything you like?" she asked Tonio. "You're welcome to try it on, if so."
Tonio glanced at her, confused, perhaps a bit frightened. But when she continued to smile at him, her arms akimbo, he tentatively reached out a hand and tugged down a dress.
"Everything's a little too long for you," Susanna sighed, and she turned her back so that Tonio could awkwardly clamber into her dress and so that she could rummage in a dresser on the other side of the room. "But I think I have some pins that we can use to hike up some of the length... yes, here we are."
She helped Tonio tug the dress on straight and do up the back, then made him stand still while she pinned the excess fabric up. His feet were already as large as her own—she guessed he'd be at least Figaro's height, when he stopped growing—and she let him pick out a pair of her shoes, then laughed when he asked if he could try on the little hat with which she once had tried to monopolize Figaro's attention in this very room. Inevitably, her thoughts turned towards how she and the Countess had dressed Cherubino up later that day, smoothing down the skirts of his dress, coaching him in how to lower his eyes coquettishly even as he grinned wickedly back at them; a sharp pang struck somewhere beneath her ribs as she remembered her friend, and she pushed the memory aside and smiled at Tonio with even more determination. Once she had straightened out all his finery, she turned him towards the mirror in the corner of the room.
"There," she said. "You look absolutely beautiful. How do you feel?"
She had wondered if it would be too bold to use the feminine form of 'beautiful' in addressing Tonio, but he clearly had not minded, if he had even noticed. Susanna felt her heart flutter strangely as her child took a hesitant step towards the mirror, one hand outstretched towards his reflection in wonder, a tentative smile dawning across his face. On her whirlwind wedding day, she and the Countess had dressed a boy in girls' clothing to confuse, to distract, to turn him into something he was not. It had never before occurred to Susanna that the exact same gesture might instead reveal who a person actually was, that it might help her child finally feel like he belonged in his own skin, as perfectly fitted and aligned as his parents' bed behind him.
"I feel..." A tear trembled down Tonio's cheek, but his body shook with amazed laughter. "I feel so free, Mamma."
He flung himself into Susanna's arms, both of them laughing, she kissing him on the forehead with her nose bumping the little hat she had worn on her wedding day. And that was how Figaro found them, when he trudged into his bedchamber.
"What mischief are you two up to?" he grinned at them, dropping a stack of books onto a chair by the door. "Playing dress-up? You make a very pretty girl, Tonio."
"Yes," replied Susanna firmly, "she does."
Figaro glanced at his wife, confusion etched across his expression, but she held his gaze seriously, willing him to understand her as he always had. Her grip remained firm but gentle on her child's shoulder, reassuring, far more confident than Susanna dared to feel, for all she trusted her husband. After a moment that felt like an eternity, Figaro's expression shifted, his breath catching in a soft sound of revelation.
"She does," he agreed emphatically, and Susanna felt the tension drain from her child's shoulder beneath her fingers.
"You're not disappointed in me, Papà?" Tonio asked tremulously. "For not being the son you always wanted me to be."
"Oh, gracious, no," sighed Figaro, seating himself heavily on the edge of the bed; Susanna supposed it was a lot to take in, even for someone as adept at adjusting to unexpected familial revelations as her husband was. "I've always thought I'd be just as happy with a daughter, and now I can say conclusively that that's the case. I couldn't be more proud of you any which way, my dear; the most important thing is that you're happy. Would you prefer to go by something other than 'Tonio' now, by the way? And does this mean you'll move all of those dresses out of your mother's wardrobe?"
Tonia—as she would ultimately decide to call herself—laughed and threw her arms around her father, and Figaro winked over her shoulder at Susanna. She knew that plenty of negotiations lay ahead of their family: how to ease the rest of the estate into the habit of recognizing Tonia for who she really was (Her Ladyship would be a ready ally; His Lordship, less so), what to do when Tonia outgrew all of Susanna's shoes, how to navigate the inevitable complications when Tonia's voice and body began to change. But she and Figaro would come to their daughter's aid as steadfastly as they came to the aid of the rest of the estate, and they would do so as often as needed, without hesitation or reserve. For now, it was enough to know that she and Figaro were still an unstoppable team, one more problem handily resolved, Figaro's contagious smile once more gracing their child's face. And, as Her Ladyship was ringing for her, Susanna merely grinned and blew her husband a kiss as she stepped out the door.