#this hour

do anyone wanna look at me draw sketchbook live (traditional) bc im seriously panicking

If I am reading this right, it still appears they were in exile already. There was no invite no duty they were heading back to in England. So, they just basically show up with little warning to thank Canada for their vacation but had plans to continue living there? They were running low on funds and wanted to make threats to get a boost from Chuckie's wallet? In a way it wouldn't surprise me now if Harry doesn't join her. I do think he is bi and has a bf in Canada he is being prevented from.

could it have been otherwise? and what would count as a good answer to this?

This hour

This hour, while a child sleeps, before he wakes and those arcadian hours we make together— is it a continued arch, vaulted, open at both ends, is it a bending?—recommence. Yes, a bending. Light before you’d call it light bluing the sky. The old city below, a fidget toy’s string of buildings; doves calling and answering from ledges in the cavities; a low branching into divisions of memory; a hot afternoon’s lunch on the grounds of the museum, children at play in tethered circles; traffic and voices from the avenues carrying along the bright cold mornings on the lawns of big houses near the hotel; those who saw me home, whoever they were (though I know who they are), I also saw them home. I rode in their cars. I rode with the mother of the boy who lost all his words, she gave us a ride, the boys with their large eyes, sitting up high beside each other and smiling; the empty avenues of asphalt from the station to the new hospital to the corner we rounded and, past the galvanized fence, a school; the city narrows there; there is the river, suddenly; and then a spread of houses like a cowl on the head of the island; a journey whose meaning was as yet unknown though I know it sometimes; sheep on a patch of land at the convergence of two superhighways; no silence in the train; harvesters in orange and red slickers among the lettuces; swifts overhead; apricots flecked with rose; lichen spreading on corrugated iron; short-wave voices of those who are gone now remembered in the intonation of throwaway phrases; it should not follow but it follows; and are their fathers here; one of them is, white stubble where his razor didn’t pass that calls up his morning, the temperature of his cheek, and how luck befriended us then, and at this hour, which rests on a child’s sleeping.