Chapter Four
The house woke the following morning quietly, as if unwilling to disturb what had settled overnight.
Marcus had slept only in shallow intervals, the kind that never let him rest. Yet when he rose, the familiar edge of dread did not meet him at once.
It waited farther back, less certain of its claim.
Even the act of dressing felt altered. The dark coat, the muted cravat, no longer armor, simply habit.
When he stepped into Henry’s room, the boy was already awake.
Henry sat cross-legged atop the covers, the woolen dog tucked beneath his arm. His eyes lifted at once. Still cautious. But clearer.
“Good morning,” Marcus said.
Henry nodded. “Is my lesson today?”
“It is.”
The boy swallowed, shoulders drawing up as if preparing for something he could not yet name. Marcus crossed the room and crouched so they were level.
“You don’t need to be brave all at once,” he said quietly. “Only enough to come with me.”
Henry reached for his hand. “I can try.”
It was enough.
They took breakfast together in the small morning parlor. Neither spoke much. Henry ate half a roll and a slice of apple. Marcus managed tea. The quiet between them felt different today, not the weighted silence of grief, but something held in reserve, like breath before a note was struck.
When the clock chimed the quarter hour, Marcus rose.
“Shall we?”
Henry nodded and pressed the woolen dog to his chest once before setting it carefully on the chair.
Outside, the sky held the pale uncertainty of early spring. Clouds drifted thinly across a reluctant blue. Grosvenor Square had already found its rhythm: a gardener sweeping leaves, a boy chasing his dog along the walk, carriage wheels rattling over stone. Henry edged closer to Marcus’s side.
“Remember,” Marcus murmured. “Just enough bravery.”
Henry nodded again.
The walk to Cleveland Row felt shorter in daylight. The lane of the Lyon’s Den looked less secretive with the sun touching its blue-washed brick. Even so, something about the unmarked door slowed Marcus as they neared it.
Henry’s fingers tightened around his.
Marcus looked down. “You are not alone.”
The grip strengthened in answer.
Theseus opened the door before Marcus could knock. “Good morning, my lord.” His gaze dipped. “Young master.”
Henry slipped half a step behind Marcus, peering out only enough to see the man’s face.
“Good morning, Theseus,” Marcus said. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon expects us.”
“She does.”
The scent of beeswax, polished wood, and lingering smoke wrapped around them as they entered. Henry stiffened at the sound of laughter echoing faintly from deeper in the house.
“It’s only voices,” Marcus murmured. “Nothing more.”
Henry drew a careful breath and accepted it.
Bessie’s parlor door stood slightly ajar, as though she already knew precisely when they would arrive.
“Do not dawdle in the hall,” her voice called. “Bring them in, Theseus. I have not grown any younger waiting.”
Henry startled. Marcus squeezed his hand.
“It’s just Bessie,” he whispered. “She speaks that way to everyone.”
They stepped inside.
Bessie sat in her customary armchair, spectacles perched low as she finished reading a letter. Her silver-streaked hair was pinned in its usual stubborn crown. When she looked up, her gaze sharpened, before it softened unmistakably.
“Well,” she said. “If it isn’t my favorite pair of solemn faces.”
Henry blinked, uncertain whether the greeting was meant kindly. Marcus bent slightly toward him.
“Say good morning.”
Henry stepped forward and bowed. “Good morning, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“That will do nicely,” she said, warmth settling into her voice.
Before Henry could retreat again, a soft knock sounded at the doorframe.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” a young woman asked. “Is now still—?”
Lila Edgewood stepped into the room and saw them.
Her presence altered the air with something quiet and steady. Her gown was modest, her hair gathered simply, but the calm she carried reached Marcus not as a display but as reassurance.
She dipped her head. “Good morning, my lord. Master Henry.”
Henry’s fingers tightened in Marcus’s again, but he did not hide his face. Not entirely.
Lila did not approach. She let her smile remain small, an invitation rather than a demand.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon has told me a little about you,” she said to Henry. “Only good things.”
Henry’s breath caught, but he stayed where he was.
It was more than Marcus had hoped for.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Lila asked gently. “It’s quieter there. We can begin just by listening, if that feels easiest.”
Henry looked up at Marcus.
“Go on,” Marcus said. “I’ll be just downstairs.”
Henry nodded, once in uncertainty, once more in resolve, and followed her from the room.
When the door closed, Bessie said nothing at first. She studied Marcus with a gaze that missed little.
“Well?” she asked at last.
He exhaled. “She’s different from what I expected.”
“Because you expected someone who would fix everything for you?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Because I didn’t realize how much hope frightens me.”
Bessie leaned back, her expression shifting into something close to pride. “Then you are human after all.”
The sound that left Marcus might have been the ghost of a laugh.
“Go upstairs,” she told him. “Sit. Wait. Let the boy have five minutes where he is not carrying your worry and his own.”
The truth of it struck deeply.
He inclined his head. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this.”
He climbed to the small receiving room Theseus had prepared. The fire was modest, the chairs unassuming. He sat. Not pacing. Not bracing. Simply waiting.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty.
Quiet footsteps finally approached.
Lila stood in the doorway, her hands folded loosely before her.
Marcus rose at once. “Is he—”
“He’s well,” she said. “We stayed in the music room. He listened. He chose which sound to begin with. A small step. But a brave one.”
Marcus’s breath thinned. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” There was no triumph in her tone. Only steady respect. “He has a careful heart. But a strong one.”
Marcus nodded, words momentarily out of reach.
“I’m available again tomorrow, if that suits you,” she said.
“It does.”
Henry stood beside her. Quieter than usual, but not pale. Not trembling. Something in him had loosened.
Marcus extended his hand. Henry took it at once.
This time, the boy’s grip felt different.
Not fear.
Connection.
Marcus met Lila’s eyes once more and gave a quiet nod.
“Tomorrow.”