Ruth did not mean a single kind word she said, and Zechariah knew it.

What else was he to do but treat said sarcastic words as the God-given truth?

“I am glad you can finally see reason, Ruth,” Zechariah congratulated. “It looks as though I will need that extra money, seeing as how much you have left to it. So down in your luck are you that you are stuck in trousers! The shame.”

The face he wore when he rolled his eyes belonged more on a gossiping operetta starlet than the dour barrister he played (… with more than a dash of exasperated sincerity) in the papers.

“What?” Zechariah said with a disbelieving look. “Hardly. You are in your prime – I was shocked she could even still carry!”

He had no idea how old Kitty was, beyond too old for their young Uriel. Was she actually early thirties? … Nah. Oh, God. He would be thirty in three years.

Zechariah inexplicably felt the corners of his eyes and mouth, glancing in the carriage reflection.

Though his poker face had only grown stronger with time, British living, and media exposure … the faintest telltale color flushed in his cheeks. Surely, it was not that difficult to picture Zechariah, a man of careful grooming (less careful flogging) and a romantic nature, with a woman!

“I suppose I can invite her over with your watchful eye to keep us out of trouble.”

As if he would ravage anything in a skirt that posed no threat of getting arrested for wearing it.

And if he had to make certain both Ruth and Sonia were swimming in drink to get Ruth to can it about that for just one peaceful bar? Then it was time for the prayers of wine and of enough.

Brows arched high when Ruth mentioned a bicycle. Ah. She was one of those types these days. He suspected similar of Nesah, for what were his sisters going to do but revolt against men under a man’s roof? Not that he dared interrupt their rebellion.

Thank God Fater was too far away to yell at them. (It was a toss-up whether he yelled at Zechariah or Ruth more, though she had won by time being yelled at accumulated over the years thus far.)

“I believe Nesah was holding revolutions in the guest room,” he said dismissively. “Perhaps she stashed a bicycle in there, too.”

He folded his arms behind his head at the thinly veiled accusation.

“I cannot say I have not felt the inside of a skirt on British soil.”

Is this what he spent his impressionable years going to school for? Euphemisms so thick Oscar Wilde could hang himself with them? Apparently.

The look he fixed upon Ruth was unimpressed. Yes, yes. Dark beauty, hills, Germany this and Germany that. He had heard it all before, and his eyes had rolled back into his head those times, too. That was – until the excuses came.

And then? Oh, then Ruth was center stage. Zechariah steepled his hands under his chin.

“A vacation, from dark, beautiful, unrivaled Germany,” Zechariah reiterated, dripping with skepticism.

He sat up suddenly, as though hit by a sudden realization.

“Is it a man?” Zechariah ventured with an utterly knowing look, then put a hand to his chin in deep, deep smug thought. “Wait, wait,” he said dramatically. “Is it a woman? Is that why you are here wearing trousers? Did you steal them from her husband?”

Those trousers would look ridiculous(ly amazing) on a man and he knew it.