Noon at the Carstairs Household, Maida Vale.

Angela Carstairs, 22 years old.

"Raf?" she called out as the door slammed shut behind her. "Alright up there?"

The redbrick terrace house, invisible to muggle eyes, was all barebones on the inside. They were still living at Silas' flat in St.John's Wood, which her cousin had generously offered as their roost while they were pulling this place together. He was in Mexico on Ministry work so they hardly saw him anyway.

       "Eh?" Raf the Goblin peered down the stairs into the foyer, hands in coverall pockets. "Oh, s'you missus. All good!"

Somewhere behind him, there was a rather lot of clanging and banging.

Cantankerous fellow but he and his team came highly recommended - the ground floor was all fixed up, everything promised to be done long before winter.

"Lovely," she waved distractedly. "I'll be in the kitchen then," Angela collected the mail off their makeshift hallway table - a stepladder - and crossed through the living room, into their small yellow kitchen.

It reeked of paint and varnishing charms. She shed her coat before going about making a pot of tea. Edgar was away on tour but they agreed to check on the house today and ask Raf to change a few more things.

Angela pulled a stool over to the counter and sat with her back to the garden door as she started opening envelope after envelope. Impatiently. She was waiting to hear back about a particular...

Ah. The witch smiled, despite a tense brow, and read the contract her lawyer had drawn up.

Edgar Carstairs, 22 years old.

Edgar arrived at their home-in-progress to find his wife sitting prettily and deep in thought - she didn't notice him come in, which was rather a surprise as he'd musically announced himself. Honey I'm home!

But he did not mind.

Angie was nice to look at when she didn't know you were looking: tapping an unlit cigarette against the kitchen counter, eyes downcast. Even in the simple affair of a blouse and slacks, she outdressed his own t-shirt and jeans.

"Not bad news, is it?" he closed the kitchen door to shut out Raf's maddening sounds.
       "Mm?" Angela roused dreamily. "Oh. No.Not exactly, darling."

To his upset, her smile did nothing to disperse that serious wrinkle in her brow. Edgar leaned against the other side of the counter and smiled worriedly at his wife.

They hadn't seen one another for two weeks. This last year had been a busy one, now that he finally established the theatre troupe and was able to book shows wherever they would have him. It felt like he only had a few nights at a time with his Angel - to make love, to dream about their future, disparage the state of politics.

"Not exactly...?" he raised his eyebrows slightly.

At this, she stuck the unlit cigarette between his lips. Edgar smiled around it, fond.

       "I have some news," Angie announced softly after he lit up. "It comes in two parts. Promise you won't be angry."
"Angry at you?" he laughed a cloud of smoke, incredulous. "Never, Angel."

His reassurance didn't seem to help. She studied his face for another second longer and then slid across the parchment she had been brooding over. He recognised her lawyer's watermark.

Edgar tapped some cigarette ash into her saucer and started skimming the contract over. He felt her eyes still on his face but there was nothing he could do to stop himself from worrying his bottom lip in confusion.

Angela Carstairs, 22 years old.

       "This..." her husband's lighthearted teasing all but disappeared. "Angie, this is..."

When he looked back up, his mismatched eyes carried a grim expression.

"The old curio museum," she nodded somberly. "In Covent Garden. They're shutting down."
       "That's a generous offer you've made."
"It's really quite a conservative number," Angela replied stiffly. "I know the owners."
 
Edgar laughed. It was his humourless, disbelieving laugh.

He stood back to draw on his cigarette and lean against the icebox cabinet. "We agreed," the wizard began testily. "We agreed you wouldn't put anything down for me. You already bought the bloody house."

This was, of course, nonsense. As progressive as he might seem - using terms like wix and opening his troupe to just about anyone - Edgar was touchy about using her money to get ahead. He dressed it up differently: as wanting to get things done on his own steam, earn the respect of the circles he ran in.

"If I don't make an offer," she reasoned coolly, "someone else will."
       "Hell, Angie. Let them!" Edgar exclaimed, too loud.

Angela breathed in and shook her head, hair getting in her face. He was back at the counter, talking smoke. "I thought you were fine with the troupe. You told me you were fine, that we could handle this."

She lifted her chin slightly.

"Your troupe isn't going anywhere," her voice came out detached, like it always did when she was trying not to cry. "It's better, Edgar. For them, too, it's stable. They can get paid as much as they ought to be. You have an audience and they will come."

He bit his bottom lip again - he always did that, sometimes until it drew blood.

       "You can't make me do this," he said, calming down. "It's money down the drain."

Why couldn't he simply...? Angela didn't meet his gaze, she was certainly going to cry and she was set against being the kind of woman who used tears to get what she wanted.

Edgar Carstairs, 22 years old.

Edgar hated it when she did this - going cold all over without looking him in the eye, like a demure statue. She might as well be a statue because he knew she wouldn't react to anything else he said.

It had been entirely out of order, what she did - not when they had already agreed.

"Angie. Angel..." he touched the back of her hand and startled when she pulled back. "Angela?"

His wife crossed her arms around her middle, adding another barrier between them besides the kitchen counter. When she finally met his searching gaze, it was with a wary countenance. Almost as if she didn't trust him.

That hurt.

       "I said two parts," her manner was stilted. "I'm pregnant."

He looked down at her crossed arms, back up at her face. Then he put out the cigarette and came around the counter. She shook her head, pushing him away, shoulders hunched up defensively.

"Angie!" Edgar protested despairingly and clasped both her hands in his when she tried to shove him away again.
     "I can't!" she cried out, voice thick with tears. "I can't do it!"

But she stopped fighting. They both looked down at her manicured hands in his own. Angela was crying quietly, in her way, and he knew she would hate it if he watched.

"Talk to me," he asked after the minutes rolled on by. "I need you to talk to me."

Angela Carstairs, 22 years old.

She ended up crying after all. Pathetic.

"I can't do it," Angela talked through the tears and tried not to think about how it came out, all uneven. "Not like this."

He didn't have a clue. Everything fell on her when she went to see a Healer about missing her menses last week. All their plans, their fanciful dreams, starting a family. It was terrifyingly real.

"I know we agreed," she paused to sniffle back the snot dripping down her top lip. "I know. But I can't d-do it. You don't understand. My mother. My father..."

Oh none of this was coming out right! Angela made a frustrated sound and, deftly, grabbed his fingers to pull his hands in towards her. Settling his palms flat against her belly. She glared at him.

"This thing you and I made. This... this baby," Angela fought with the word, foreign taste in her mouth. "It needs to know it's loved. Right? It does. And I can't, Edgar. I'm like them, I don't know how to show it. Do you understand?"

He looked lost. And worried. Did he think she was mad? Maybe she was.

"You can't be somewhere else all the time," she let go of him. "I'll ruin it. I will. I know myself."

Edgar Carstairs, 22 years old.

Wordlessly: Edgar gathered his wife into his arms, let her press her face against his shoulder. Everything she said - every single thing - he wanted to contradict.

Of course she could do it, of course she's nothing like her parents. Of course she won't ruin it. It seemed bizarre that she would think that of herself. Who was this woman?

But she was right about one thing. Angela knew herself and she knew herself better than anyone else could. She wasn't flighty.

"Okay," he murmured into her hair, always jasmine under her natural scent. "Okay, it's fine. We'll do it like this, then."
       "I'm sorry," her words came out all muffled and wet.

There was something so endearing about how she sounded that he couldn't help laughing. Edgar pulled back, hands on her shoulders, staring her fondly in the face. If there were tears in his eyes too, neither commented.

"Sorry for what?" he pulled a face. "Giving me everything I ever wanted? Come on now, Angie. That's not like you."

It was no small thing. Half his nomadic troupe were likely to quit and he didn't know how to run an actual theatre as a business. There was a chance they might flop. Audiences were fickle.

But Angela was giving him a soft look. The one that meant: I love you.

She glanced at his shoulder, suddenly and charmingly apologetic. "I've got snot all over you."

"I don't mind," Edgar replied. He was going to be a father.