The Fowl Twins

It was their thing.

Their gesture.

No one had ever forced it upon them until now.

Myles lifted his hand, and the closer it moved to Beckett’s wrist, the stronger the attraction grew until the scars synched and the twins felt a wave of contentment wash over them, smothering their anxiety somewhat.

Artemis Senior felt jealous of their Zen calm. ‘I wish I had a mystical scar,’ he said. ‘Better than yoga. Now promise you will do as I say.’

‘We promise,’ said Myles, a little too quickly.

Artemis Senior zipped his top up to his chin. ‘One last desperate roll of the dice, eh, son? Now do it properly. Say the magic words.’

‘We will do as you say,’ said the twins in unison. ‘Wrist-bump promise.’

Their father was satisfied. ‘And so it shall be.’

Myles lowered his hand, coming out of their shared mindset into the real world.

‘And now I suppose we must seek out Mother in the main house and get busy with our chores.’

Myles said the word chores with the contempt he usually reserved for Einstein.

‘Just you, Myles,’ said Artemis Senior, and the angry slash in his brow softened. ‘Beckett has a job to do.’

A person didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what that job might be, but Myles was a genius and so he figured it out all the faster, and his heart ached for his brother.

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