Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The last thing I remember is the inn at Castleton. James. 

"I'm here to follow you."

"Of course you are."

I'm awakened by a strange cacophony of sounds. 

James is sat right in front of me, lying really. He's not dressed in his usual finery, but instead, in a loose black long-sleeved shirt with some kind of geometric design on the back. Black trousers. And there's a thin gold chain on his neck, is that--

No. I catch my breath again, heart beating quickly. It's no Collar; it's just a necklace.  

James is lying in front of me on his stomach, and he's pressing keys at some sort of magic, glowing object with sounds coming out of it. Not magic. Laptop, my brain supplies, somehow. As I come to, the details of the room come into focus.

A strange white room, we're seated on a mattress on the floor, a strange bed that feels like a large animal skin filled with air. We're in no inn of Castleton. As I study the perimeter, I find it's relatively empty in here, nothing much except for some kind of equipment jumbled in the corner. And, through some gauzy lace curtains on a single, high window, I can see the familiar grey skies that cover London.

"Will."

James speaks. He's not looking at me.

"Will, hey, Will," he says, knocking my elbow with his wrist. "I think I've got something. You want to hear?"

James glances up, those blue eyes piercing into me. I'm struck by the graceful beauty of him, his hair cut differently, shaved close to the neck, but the top still in a smooth wave to the side. A thin gold ring in his nostril that I don't remember.

"Will," he says, his voice softer as a gentle smile falls upon his face, as though we're something familiar. "Are you there?" 

He gives my arm a pinch.

"Hey, space cadet." He's still smiling. "You're so cute when you've just woken up. So do you want to hear the song or not?"

I glance down at the laptop--its screen filled with an array of lines and shapes I don't understand. "Yeah, sure."

He presses a button, and sound plays. Various rhythms play over each other, but James' eyes are fixed on me, watching my expression carefully, waiting for my response.

"Turn that down, James! No one wants to listen to your rubbish."

We're interrupted by a voice from the open doorway. Glancing up, I see Cyprian pass by the doorway. Where are we?

But James needs no further answer. Instead, he slams his laptop shut and jumps up from the bed, moving to the doorframe to yell back at Cyprian, "No one asked you, you prick!"

And then, James turns to me, and in a calm voice explains, "Will, please excuse my step-douche. He has no taste in music."

"And please excuse my step brother James," I hear Cyprian say as I rise to my feet and move to the doorway for a better view. "He's upset that his dad married my mum six years ago, and he still hasn't gotten over it. I'm Cyprian, by the way. Who are you?"

He's sitting on a large sofa in the center of the room. Cyprian looks different than I saw him last. His hair is still long, but he's wearing a tight-fitting white shirt underneath some sort of grey jumper, and blue trousers. 

"This is my French tutor Will," says James, giving a noticeable groan. "Remember?"

Cyprian doesn't seem convinced by this, replying with a doubtful, yet innocent, "Your tutor?"

"Oh, please. They were probably making out before we got here."

We're interrupted again by someone coming down the stairs after Cyprian, a familiar voice. A warm sense of relief floods over me at the sound of it. 

"Violet!" I call upon seeing her.

It's her, setting down her bag and sitting on the sofa next to Cyprian. Her clothes are similar to Cyprian's, but her trousers are torn at the knees. Has she been back to working at the docks?

Noticing me, she gives a puzzled expression. "Hi," she says blandly. 

"It's good to see you again," I tell her. I'm smiling, genuinely happy to see my dear friend once again.

But Violet seems less enthused. "It's good to see you too," she answers after a long pause, lifting a doubtful eyebrow. Clearly, it hasn't been quite as long since the last time she saw me as I've seen her.

Cyprian wrinkles his brow, turning to Violet as though he's affronted by this. "Violet, you know him?" 

James' eyes are upon me as well. 

Violet passes me a cursory glance. "Er, yeah, he's just in my chem lab." When Cyprian doesn't seem eased by this, she elbows him in the ribs. "Go on, put the telly on. They're live-streaming the team challenges."

Cyprian gives looks to me once more, warily, but ultimately abandons his concerns to do what she says, turning on the television so they can watch some kind of sport. For a moment, I study the strange figures--people dressed all in white and poking each other with metal sticks in a way that resembles swordfighting. I stand there in the doorway trying to make sense of it, when suddenly, James grabs my elbow, pulling me back into the makeshift bedroom. He closes the door behind him. 

"Don't worry about them. Let me show you again."

I turn my attention to James and nod.

We sit down on the air bed, and he plays the song again. I listen to the strange sounds with all their alien qualities, trying to parse meaning from it, but James turns it down before it's over.

"Tell me what you think," he says. "And be honest."

"I--"

"It's okay," he says, breaking into a laugh. "I can already tell you don't like it."

Beneath his smile, I can sense some pain. "Erm, no," I tell him, "It's not that I don't like it," I tell him, trying to sound positive,  "but maybe it needs...something." 

James blue eyes are wide, listening to me with interest. "Alright. Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe if you take out the--" I do my best to replicate, "ker-chunk, ker-chunk and replace it with something, I don't know, smoother?"

James considers this for a moment, and then, without saying anything, he presses a few buttons on his laptop. He plays a few measures, hearing it this time with that strange clunking taken out. Next, he pulls out something from the side of the mattress, something I swear looks to be a subset of keys from a pianoforte. James plays on the keys and plinks out a tune, slowly at first, as if trying to find the notes. He plays it again at tempo, and when he presses a button on his laptop, and the recorded melody plays over the speakers. A few more technological manoeuvres and the piano is looping over the song. 
 
"What do you think?" he asks me. "Like that?"

It's an improvement. "Yeah, like that."

And suddenly, he smiles back at me. Something akin to the sun coming out from behind clouds. 

"Brilliant!" He beams. "And that's why you're the best boyfriend."

Before I can make out what's happening, he's leaning towards me, pressing his lips to mine. 

It's too fast, too much, all at once. The world falls away from me, and I'm suspended in air. I feel as though if I let go, I might sink through this air bed straight through the floor, deep into the earth. 

James doesn't notice anything. No, he just goes back to pouring over his laptop, lying on his stomach with one foot twitching idly in the air.

I'm slowly coming to again, remembering sights and sounds, the feeling of the carpeted ground beneath my feet. I don't know what to say, other than, "I thought I was your French tutor."

James tosses me a salacious grin over his shoulder. "That's right. Oh! By the way, can I get your French notes? My dad is actually going to ground me if I get another C in that class."

I blink back at him. "My notes?"

"Right."

I follow his line of gaze to a bag on the ground. This bag, which must be mine, because despite its ratty exterior, it still has the monogrammed initials W.K. embroidered on the front. 

"Yeah," I tell him. "Just a second,"

I open one of the enclosures. There are so many pockets. And, after some digging, I pull out a stack of papers, the top one labeled Passé Composé vs. Imparfait, with a name and date at the top.

Will Kempen, 8/11/23.

"Are you alright"?" asks James, ever astute. He still has a kind of smirk on his face, swiping the the papers out of my hands, no further permission necessary. "You've been acting weird today."

I shake myself out of it, acting as normal as possible. "Yeah, it's just...it's 1823?"

A small laugh percolates from his chest. A single strand of blonde hair has fallen loose over his forehead. "What's 1823?" he says, shaking his head.

"The year. 1823."

"The year for what?" 

"The current year." And when he doesn't seem to follow, I add, "1823. This year. It's currently 1823."

James bursts out laughing. 

"Oh, Will, darling," he says, leaning over to place a hand on my forehead. "Are you alright? How long has it been since you've eaten? I suppose we have been sitting here a long time, haven't we."

Before I can say anything, he hops off the bed and swings open the door to the other room.

"Hey Cyps, did Dad say anything about dinner?"

Cyprian doesn't look up, his eyes focused on the television. "Don't call me Cyps, and he said he was going to be home late, so we're on our own for dinner." 

"Bollocks." James turns to me. "I guess we could walk down to the chip shop then. What do you want to do?"

To the what? James must know what he's doing. "Okay?"

"Right then. Cyprian, we're going to the chip shop. Do you want anything?"

Cyprian shoots him a dirty look. "No, not while I'm training. I only eat salads."

"Oh, of fucking course. Sorry I asked." 

Cyprian doesn't answer, ignoring him to watch the athletes on the screen.

But Violet looks up, significantly less affronted than Cyprian. "Yeah, we'll make some salads," she says. "Thanks, James." 

And without a second beat, both her and Cyprian are back to watching the television as one of the competitors scores a touch on the other. They both cheer.

My attention is broken as James tosses a jacket at me. I catch it at the last second--it's dark blue corduroy with white shearling interior, well-worn and comfortable when I put it on. 

"Alright, then," he says. James is wearing some kind of black jacket with a lot of those strange fastenings. Zippers. "Let's get out of here." 

We climb the stairs out of the basement, and before leaving, James calls back, "We'll be back never!" 

"Fine by me!" Cyprian calls back, and I can hear a laugh from Violet. 

***

We're just at the top of the stairs as he closes the door behind him, and it shuts a bit too quickly. 

"Oh fuck me," he says, clutching his hand, and I see it--the edge of the door jam somehow sliced open his thumb. He winces in pain, holding his other hand underneath to catch a small drop of blood that falls from it. 

He seems singularly distressed by this. As I stand there in the corridor, James squeezes past me to a small room. There, he opens up a compartment behind a mirror above the sink, and starts rummaging through its contents. 

"Don't tell me we're out," he says, more to himself as he searches the shelves, pick up an item or two, then replacing it and shutting the mirror. 

"What are you looking for?" I ask.

"Funny," he says, his voice a deadpan, as he sweeps past me and turns around the banister up the stairs. 

It's at this point that I get a better glimpse of the house. The walls are a deep rose pink, the sitting room lined with furniture to match in a floral pattern, topped with perfectly arranged doilies. 

James appears from the top of the stairs, sauntering down them with something in his hand. 

"I found one in Cyprian's room," he says, winking at me cheekily. "Don't tell him." 

He sticks the small bandage to his thumb, before tossing the leftover scraps of paper in the corner behind a fern as I stand there a bit uselessly.

Nearly out breath, but in good spirits, he places a hand to my shoulder and says, "Let's go."

***

James and I walk down paved streets as the sky darkens, lights hesitantly illuminating themselves to bathe the street in an orange glow. James and I seem to be walking on a small track to the side of the road, but not on the road itself, even though there are no carriages in sight.

"Fuck, it's cold out," says James. "At least it's not fucking raining."

I give a nod. My jacket seems to be keeping me warm enough. 

"So you really think it's 1823?" says James, giving me a sideways grin, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. 

"No," I tell him. "I was only joking."

"Well, yeah," replies James. "What, and do we all get around in with horses and carriages now?"

I shrug. "Right. Wouldn't that be a laugh."

James looks rather amused, linking an arm around mine to me along the side of the street. "C'mon. I'm so hungry."

We're about halfway down the road when I hear something coming, a sort of, low rumbling. in the distance. I look up, just to see something that's not quite a carriage, but made of metal, zooming past us on the main part of the road. 

James notices how I've stopped, just stood there with my heart racing. 

"So, erm, those are cars," James says with a laugh. "Come on."

We make it to the shop a few blocks away, and as I enter the small, bright room, I'm welcomed by the heavenly aroma of fried potatoes. I find my nerves are calmed in an unbelievable quickness. James orders for both of us, a couple of kebabs and some chips to share. He speaks to a man behind the counter, who spends half the time yelling back at his coworker in another language, but one I vaguely remember from my time on the docks, but not one I understand. 

We sit there at one of the wobbly tables, waiting until our order is ready. James is leaning on one hand on the table, always tapping his foot, talking about music things. MIDI conversions. But in the moment, all I can focus on is how underneath the table, his little finger is finding mine, entwining my little finger is his. He asks me if I think the Remo Spoxe hi-hats are any good, and I nod.

The counter man calls out our order, and James proactively jumps up to retrieve the brown paper bag, the food within slowly leaking a translucent hole in the bottom. 

"Hey," he says, turning to me. "Want to go to our spot and eat?"

***

James leads me up a hill to an overlook. We sit down on a bench, we can see down the grassy hill below to the street, houses, and beyond that--

A thousand glittering lights, too bright for the night sky. I sort of stare at them in wonder. It's not 1823. Has it been longer? A hundred years? A thousand?

For a moment, we just sit there, practically inhaling the kebabs. I hadn't realised how hungry I was until we sat down. 

James is talking about his music again. "Vocal samples are so overdone," he says, pulling a chip from the bag in my hand. They remind me of the hot potatoes I used to get at the docks sometimes, but better. "I wish I could just get a live vocalist. But who would we get to do that?"

I shrug, putting another hot chip in my mouth. 

"Well," James continues pointedly, "I did try MC-ing over my tracks once. That was until Cyprian took my microphone away, the prick."

I just nod along quietly.

And then, he turns to me with an interest. "I don't suppose you could sing, could you, babes?"

I nearly choke. Swallowing down the mouthful of fried potato, I tell him, "I don't know if--"

"Relax," says James with an easy grin. "I'm only kidding. Will singing, what a riot." 

He casually places a hand on my shoulder, and all I can think is that it's so warm. I seem to remember how he complained about the cold earlier.

"Actually, Will," he says, dropping his hand and his gaze as he digs for something in his pocket. He holds out a palm-sized, rectangular object. "Did you forget something? I think you dropped your phone earlier."

I look at him, his earnest blue eyes, and down at the item. Slowly, I remember something of a similar size and shape poking me from my own jacket pocket. I pull it out. 

"I think this is mine," I say holding up the thing. The phone.

James' eyes dart to it for a second, and then he puts the other phone away. "Yeah, you're right."

He doesn't bring it up again.

***

The sky is pitch dark as we walk back to the house. When we enter, I'm surprised to see, sitting in the front room, is Jannick, clearly alive. He's wearing little spectacles as he reads a book. James hardly gives him any greeting as he begins to climb the stairs. 

"Hey Dad, can Will stay over? Okay, thanks."

James isn't even looking at him.

I stand there, completely still at the base of the stairs. Jannick studies me over the top of his spectacles. 

"Good evening, sir," I greet politely. 

"Will." He just gives a nod and returns his attention to the book, paying me no further attention. 

James glares back at me like I've wronged him, and motions for me to hurry up. I climb up the stairs after him. 

***

The bedroom is somewhat messy, with clothes piled on a chair in the corner, colorful pictures tacked up all over the walls. There's only one four-poster bed.

I'm trying to imagine both of us fitting on that thing when I see James pull out a rolled-up mat and unfurl it in a quick motion, spreading it out on the floor rather hap-hazardly. He tosses a blanket on top. 

And without another word, James is striding out the door and disappearing into the room next door. 

I use this moment to take in my surroundings. A small desk lamp lights the room in a warm glow. On the far wall, I can see a desk and a bookshelf, lined with all sorts of unfamiliar titles. James' family must be well-off enough to afford so many books. I wander over, reading from one of the spines.

Heartstopper, Volume 4.

After a few minutes, I wonder what has been taking James so long. I wander over to peek into the other room, the door sits ajar enough that I can see him; he's brushing his teeth. He spots me in the mirror for a second before leaning over the sink and spitting out.

"Can't you wait any longer, Will? I'm almost done," he says, wiping his mouth to reveal a tiny smirk on his lips, a lock of blond hair fallen over his forehead. His nose-ring glints in the artificial light.

"Oh," I reply. "Right. Sorry, I'll wait."

When he's finished, I'm left alone to wash up in the small room. I splash water over my face and look into the mirror. My own dark brown eyes stare back at me. 

When I return to the bedroom, James is already in bed, dressed down to his undershirt and his short little drawers. Following suit, I strip out of my outer layers. I settle down onto the mat on the floor, and pull the blanket over myself.

Just before I can close my eyes, however, James turns towards me. 

"You're actually sleeping on the floor? Get in here."

My eyes go wide. He kissed me earlier, and there was the hand-holding, and now he wants me to...

"C'mon, I don't bite."

James' lips curl into a smile. 

After some internal deliberation, I rise, and as I approach the bed, he moves over. He pulls back the quilt to make room for me as I slide in next to him. The sheets are soft and clean. It's all quite comfortable. 

"Will," he says calmly. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes." I reply, and when his expression doesn't change, I add, "Yes, I'm alright."

"Alright?"

"Mmm."

"Okay." James studies me for a moment, his expression still serious. "Well, goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

He leans over and turns out the light, plunging the room into darkness. And then, in the dark, I can feel him move towards me, his head fitting into the curve of my neck, and one arm wrapping around my waist. 

I lie there frozen in shock for a moment, but what's more shocking is how quickly I fall asleep after that. 

***

Sleep is blissful, deeper than I've ever had. 

I awake slowly to the soft grey light of morning. For a minute, I wonder if I'm back at the inn at Castleton, but as the details come into focus, I recognise the room James showed me to last night.

James. 

My eyes open wide, and I turn over, slowly facing the other direction to see if--

James is lying in the bed next to me. Except, he's not asleep--he's staring right at me. 

I clear my throat. "Good morning--"

"Who are you?"

"What?"

His expression is unchanging; he watches me carefully. 

"Who am I?"

James nods.

"I'm Will," I tell him. The Dark King, reborn. "Will Kempen?"

James' expression remains serious. "And who am I?"

"You're James?"

Nothing.

"St. Clair?"

"That's my name?" he replies.

"Yes."

He frowns, sitting up slowly. I'm wondering what I possibly could have said wrong when he says, "You were acting like you've never seen a phone before."

I swallow, remembering the strange conversation from last night. You dropped something. With a sense of calm reassurance, I tell him, "I know what a phone is--"

"What's going on?" he demands, something strange in those blue eyes. Is he worried? "Will, you can tell me."

Before I can answer, he lifts a hand, and takes mine in his, squeezing it gently. His bandaged thumb brushes against my palm--his thumb that still hasn't healed from a minor scratch.

"You can trust me," he says. "We've told you things we haven't told anyone else. You've even told me about your mum."

Mother? I've told him about her?

"Be honest," he says, still clutching my hand. "Will, do you think you're living in the 1800s? Do you think it's 1823?"

I look to him, to his sincere eyes that make me want to fall into him, an endless pool. 

"No."

James breathes out a sigh, but before he responds, I tell him,

"Last I remember, it was 1821."

"What?" James stares at me from the other side of the bed. "You're serious? Okay, tell me something only someone from the 19th century would know."

"What do you mean? Like--"

"Who's the prime minister?" He watches me carefully, blinking those bright blue eyes.

"Right now?"

"Right. The prime minister of England."

"Well, don't you mean the king?" I ask. "King George III passed away, and the Prince Regent has succeeded him as George IV."

James is very quiet. He shakes his head. Muttering to himself, he says, "You've got to be--" He's rubbing his face with one hand. "If this is some joke you're playing on me I swear--but why else would you jump at the sight of a car?"

Before I know it, he takes both my shoulders in his hands. "Will! Tell me you're not playing me, I--"

"I'm not playing you. I'm telling you the truth."

He looks me in the eye, sitting over me. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"We were stopped at a roadside inn at Castleton."

"Castleton? Where's that?"

"In Derbyshire?"

"Derbyshire?" He frowns. "What were we doing all the way up there?"

I stare back at him. There's no way I can explain this all at once. "Just visiting. But we lived in London."

"London, okay," says James. He squints in confusion. "And you knew me?"

"Yes." I meet his gaze. "And you know me here...how did we meet?"

"Well, we were in French class," James explains. "You caught me cheating off your test, and after class, you pulled me aside to tell me you wouldn't turn me in so long as you could tutor me." 

I frown. "What's this French class you keep telling me about?"

"French class?" James lifts an eyebrow. "At school?"

My eyes meet his. "School for what?"

"'School' as in, the normal place for a seventeen-year-old to be during the day?"

I just stare back at him. "I go to school?"

Before James can answer, we're interrupted by a loud beeping noise, James' phone buzzing and shaking like it's haunted.

"Bugger," he says, picking up the thing and silencing it. "We should probably be getting ready, or we're going to be late."

He's already pulling back the covers, exposing me to the sobering draft of cold air in the room. James flicks a switch on the wall and some overhead lights come on, practically blinding me.

"I think Barbara put your school shirt in the wash, but you can just borrow one of mine," he says, metal hangers clanging against each other as he leafs through his wardrobe. "Here," he says, pulling down a white button-up shirt and tossing it at me. "You'll probably want to shower, too."

"What?"

***

The shower is quite enjoyable--warm water rushing down my body on all sides. James shows me how it works, and then leaves me alone to my devices. I can almost forgive him for hauling me out of bed so quickly. He told me not to use up too much hot water, but after a few minutes, I've noticed that I've already been standing here for some time, soaking it in. I look towards the little soaps and bottles lining a nearby shelf.

***

James paced about his room, lost in thought. He could hear the shower running in the other room, and soon, he would have to take Will to school. Will had never been to school. James pulled out another shirt from his wardrobe, barely even registering the weight of it in his hands.

"Hey, James?"

He looked up to see Cyprian stood outside the doorway to his room, perfectly made-up in his school uniform. 

"What do you want?" James cut at him, instantly shaken from his reverie.

"Did you take my body spray?" his step-brother asked, sounding confused in his usual air of innocence about the world. "I can't find it anywhere."

"No, why would I want your body spray?" James answered, his face scrunched up in disgust. "It smells like arse."

Before Cyprian could reply, James slammed the door shut in front of him, and breathed a sigh of relief to be alone again. 

Except, he hadn't shut the door. The door was shut, but something wasn't quite right. He remembered his hand moving toward the door, and the feeling of the surface against his hand. But from where he was standing, he was too far away to reach it. It was almost as if he hadn't touched it at all.

James hurried to the door and opened it, peeking out into the upstairs corridor. He wondered if perhaps Cyprian had seen it, too, but Cyprian was gone, left down the stairs to eat breakfast. 

James turned back into his room. It had been nothing.

***

After the shower, I dress in the clothes James has given me, and I return to the bedroom, where he looks me up and down and gives his approval. 

"Good enough," he says, approaching me to tuck in my shirt at the waist a bit more. 

I should probably tell him off, that I can tuck in my own shirt, but instead I just stand there. He's finished pretty quickly, anyway.

"There, you're the exemplar of school dress codes," he says flatly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I'm going to shower, but Barbara's probably making breakfast downstairs if you want to go eat. It's just, I wouldn't say anything to her about the whole," and here he gestures with his wrist, "being-from-the-past thing."

"I won't," I tell him.

"Good," says James looking satisfied. He lightly pats the side of my face, and walks away before I can protest.

***

When I make my way into the kitchen downstairs, I'm greeted by the aroma of fried eggs. A television is blaring in the corner, a woman in a suit speaking in an even, formal tone. Cyprian sits at a table, his hair tied all the way back, focused on the phone in his hands. In front of the stove stands a middle-aged woman with the same olive complexion as Cyprian, and her smile warms at the sight of me. 

"Will, I heard you had stayed over. How are you, love?"

"I'm fine, thanks. How are you, Mrs. St. Clair?"

The woman blinks, as if surprised. Cyprian glances up at me with a blank expression. But the woman, Barbara, her eyes crease as she laughs a little. "I suppose James is rather invested in his music, isn't he?"

I manage a smile back, making it seem I've made another joke. Ignoring it, I decide to sit down across from Cyprian. The television is still on in the background. 

"Following the State Opening of Parliament last Tuesday, King Charles and Queen Camilla were booed by protesters holding signs saying, 'Not my King'--"

"There you are, love," says Barbara as she sets down in front of me a plate of fresh eggs and beans on toast. She pours me a cup of tea as well, then frowns. 

"Did you borrow James' shirt? I just had yours pressed yesterday. Well, no matter, you can pick it up later," she says, flicking a hand. "Speaking of James, where is he?"

"He's probably still doing his hair," says Cyprian, without looking up from his toast. 

"Oh, won't you be nice, darling," says Barbara, sitting at the spot beside him. She looks to me with a kindly expression. "Will, how are James' French lessons going?"

Cyprian shoots me a glance at this. "Oh," I say, turning to Barbara, "Very well. Très bien," I add.

"Oh, how lovely," replies Barbara with a kind smile. "You two seem to get on quite well."

"Yes," I reply.

James still hasn't appeared by the time we've finished eating. Barbara refuses to let me help her with the dishes, even though I haven't asked in the first place, and Cyprian is gathering his belongings, including a tall bag with all his fake swords clinking about inside.

"There you are," says Barbara as James appears from the corridor, his hair loosely combed back in a way that somehow still looks put together. "I saved you some toast."

"Thanks, mum, I'll take it with me," he says, picking a piece off the plate. He grabs my arm, steering me towards the front of the house. "Come on, Will, or we're going to miss the bus."

"Well, I could drive you all, if you'd like?" says Barbara.

"No," James and Cyprian answer in unison. 

Barbara doesn't seem offended by this, however. "Alright then, have a lovely day at school!"