Chapter 3

The Nose did seem a bit Familiar

Mrs. Macchiato adjusted the frills of her peach-colored dress, precisely matched to the parasol and wide-brimmed hat she carried. If she were about to entrust her daughter’s romantic future to a man and his bird, at least she would do so impeccably dressed.

At the counter, Maurice was concluding an appointment with a pair who had, until that afternoon, regarded themselves as the glowing embers of a slow-burning courtship.

The lady – Miss Percival – was adorned in violet lace, the sort that whispered of provincial theatre and unfulfilled destiny. Her posture was impeccable, as though every vertebra had been trained to aspire. Her companion – Mr. Webley – was gentle, pale, and spoke in tones soft enough to lull wild animals into confession.

“Well,” Miss Percival said with the tragic poise of one born to deliver bad news beneath moonlight, “it seems we share more than an affinity for poetry and melancholy. We also, as of this morning, share a great-grandfather.”

Maurice did not flinch. He merely inclined his head with the gravity of a clergyman officiating an annulment.

Mr. Webley cleared his throat. “My mother called with the family bible. Pages seventy-four through eighty-two were… illuminating.”

“A curious twist,” Maurice replied, hands steepled like an academic. “Love, like ancestry, often travels in circles—occasionally overlapping in the most inconvenient places.”

Miss Percival sighed. “We considered eloping anyway. But then… then I asked him about the painting.”

“She means the portrait,” Mr. Webley confirmed, visibly wilting. “The one with the nose. It’s the same nose. My nose.”

“Which, of course,” she continued, gesturing vaguely toward her own features, “is also my nose.”

Kodao, silent until now, emitted a short, wheezing hiccup—something between a sneeze and a judgment.

“And so, we must part,” she concluded, “with civility, grace, and no more shared lineage than is strictly necessary.”

Mr. Webley nodded gravely. “And, if I may add…” He hesitated. “I’ve also come to suspect that my interests may lean in a somewhat different… direction.”

Miss Percival tilted her head, unsurprised. “I always suspected you preferred Whitman to Wordsworth.”

Maurice placed a hand on his heart. “Ah,” he said. “Then let us celebrate, not mourn. For while love may have misfired in form, it has clarified in truth. And what, dear friends, is more romantic than the moment a heart finds its truest compass?”

He reached for a small piece of parchment and penned something quickly. “For you,” he said, handing it to Mr. Webley. “A tea shop in the next town. Wednesday evening. There is a baker there with gentle hands and a tragic backstory.”

Miss Percival blinked. “Do you always meddle so gracefully?”

“I don’t meddle,” Maurice replied, already turning away. “I merely facilitate fate’s finer points.”

The pair left together but apart – talking amicably, already composing poems about doomed affection and the cruel arithmetic of bloodlines. Kodao ruffled its feathers and gave a slow blink, as if to say, Well, that could have gone worse.

Maurice, ever the optimist, dusted off the counter and turned to his next clients with a smile already prepared.