Chapter Thirty-Three
Lila slowed just inside the door of the Lyon’s Den. Her hand loosened on her reticule before she noticed it had happened.
The room moved as it always had. Voices carried. Footsteps crossed the floor. Music threaded through the space. Yet none of it pressed against her the way it usually did.
She had felt it already, she knew. Out on the street. Walking beside Marcus, the familiar vigilance had eased by degrees, not gone, but no longer held tight in her chest.
Here, it settled. The air lay warmer against her skin. Sound stayed where it belonged.
Henry sat at the pianoforte, feet swinging beneath the bench. He held himself straighter than she had ever seen him, eager, not only to play, but as if the music itself were waiting and he meant to meet it halfway.
His small hands hovered, trembling with anticipation. The care he brought to the moment made her heart pinch. Lila softened her voice to match his brightness.
“Float to the note, Henry,” she murmured. “Don’t jump. Let it find you.”
He nodded quickly, already searching for the first chord. His left foot swung beneath the bench, a small, unconscious pendulum of enthusiasm.
Behind them, near the window, Marcus stood watch. Not looming. Not crowding. Simply present. A quiet sentinel.
She had grown used to that presence faster than she wished to admit.
One hand braced behind him on the sill, his posture would have appeared relaxed to anyone who did not understand the way he moved. Lila understood. She felt the vigilance beneath the calm, the readiness he carried without allowing it to dim the light of the room for his son.
Henry found the next chord, and Lila smiled.
“There,” she said softly. “You kept it.”
Henry beamed. “I felt it this time,” he whispered, pleased. His gaze slid sideways, not to her, but to his father.
Marcus’s expression softened at once. “You did well,” he said, his voice warmed with pride.
Henry glowed brighter still.
“May I do it again?” he asked, his fingers already lifting.
“Of course,” Lila said.
He played the measure again, smoother now, surer. Marcus’s quiet approval settled over the moment like a steady warmth.
Every so often, Lila felt Marcus’s gaze rest on her. Not with concern. With something quieter. Something that caught her breath before she could stop it.
It stirred something within her. Not fear. Not longing. Something deeper. Something dangerously close to hope.
They paused to let Henry rest his hands. Lila poured him a small glass of water from the pitcher Bessie had left on the table. He accepted it with both hands, sipping with solemn care.
When he finished, he looked up at her with shy resolve. “Miss Edgewood,” he said, “may I keep another song today? I think I’m ready.”
She smiled. The expression felt fragile, but honest. “Yes, Henry. I believe you can.”
His joy was immediate and unguarded, the kind that made her forget, for a moment, the heaviness waiting beyond the door.
Marcus drew a slow breath before speaking from behind them.
“Miss Edgewood,” he said, “may I have a word with you after the lesson?”
Her pulse skittered. She kept her eyes on the music.
“Of course.”
Henry sensed the shift at once. He glanced between them, curious and bright.
“Is it about my new song?” he asked. “Because I can work harder.”
Lila’s heart softened. “This part is for your father and me,” she said gently.
“Oh.” Henry considered this, then nodded with solemn importance. “I can wait in the hall. I’ll stay where Mrs. Dove-Lyon can see me.”
Marcus crouched to meet his son’s eyes.
“Before you go,” he said, “know this. You played well today.”
Henry’s chest lifted with pride.
Something inside Lila tightened, then eased, as she watched Marcus give his son that steady warmth, that honest praise, without hesitation. Fierce and tender, both at once. She turned back to the music before the rest of the thought could form.
“Let’s play it once more,” she said.
Henry pressed the keys again, slowly, determined. The line was smoother this time. The hesitation gone.
When he finished, Lila laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. “You kept it,” she whispered.
Henry looked up at both of them and, reached for Marcus’s hand.
“Papa,” he said, “will you listen again tomorrow?”
Marcus stilled for the briefest moment. Then he closed his fingers around his son’s, steady and warm.
“I will,” he said.
The lesson ended soon after, but no one moved to leave at once. Henry lingered, straightening sheet music with the earnest care of someone who believed order helped music behave. Marcus remained near the window, watching them with a gaze that was too intimate for a room shared by three.
At last, Henry tugged Marcus’s sleeve. “Papa,” he said, “may I wait in the hall while you talk? I won’t go far.”
Marcus considered him. “Stay where Mrs. Dove-Lyon can see you.”
Henry nodded solemnly and slipped out.
Silence settled behind him, soft as falling cloth.
Lila gathered her courage. “Marcus,” she began.
He stepped toward her. Not hurried. Not abrupt. Just enough that she felt his warmth, his attention.
“Lila,” he said quietly, “we cannot go on pretending nothing is happening.”
Silence stretched between them. Not avoidance. Consideration.
She met his gaze.
“No,” she whispered. “We cannot.”