Instead, he gripped the sill until his knuckles whitened and forced himself to look away.
He was not his father, but the capacity for destruction was in him all the same.
The only safety was distance.
He closed the curtain, shut out the view, and returned to his study, the whiskey, and the comfort of his own unassailable misery.
He kept the windows closed after that.
The first time they dined together after the disaster, Felix dressed as if for a funeral. Black suit, black tie, crisp linen as white as chalk. He was early to the table, hands folded and unmoving, and he waited in silence as the clock ticked through the minutes.
The dining room seemed so much darker, so much grimmer that night with its oil portraits of scowling ancestors, ceiling so high it made voices vanish, and a table long enough to guarantee distance. The footmen moved with precision; their faces trained to blankness.
Rose arrived exactly on time, her gown the color of old parchment, her hair pulled back so tightly it sharpened every angle of her face. She did not hesitate at the threshold. She walked to her place at the far end of the table and seated herself, her back perfectly straight.
Felix stood, bowed, and sat again. He did not know why he bothered. Rose was already smoothing her napkin across her lap; her eyes fixed on the silver.
The soup course arrived. Felix watched the steam curl upward, lost in the way it blurred and then revealed the room beyond. When he finally met Rose’s gaze, it was through a haze of heat.
She was the first to speak.
“Did you receive the bill from the draper’s?” she asked, her voice soft and remote.
“I did,” Felix replied. “Your choices are excellent. I approved the sum.”
A nod. “Thank you.”
The soup was carrot, and far too sweet. Felix ate it anyway, spoonful after spoonful, as if by the mechanical process he could grind away the silence between them. The second course—sole, pale, and shivering under its crust—appeared. The staff poured the wine, vanished.
Rose took a small bite, then set down her fork. “Lizzie is teething again. The nurse thinks it may be her molars.”
Felix said, “She was fussy this morning. I heard her from the corridor.”
Rose’s mouth quirked at that, but not enough to be called a smile. “She is brave.”
He wanted to say, you were a child, how could you be brave? But the words stuck. He said, “She takes after you.”
Rose went still. “That isn’t possible, Felix. I’m not her blood. She has nothing of me in her.”
“Blood is only the beginning, Rose. The rest is who holds her when the room is dark.” He stepped closer. “You did not give her your features, perhaps, but you are giving her your spirit. A child mirrors the one who guards her.”
He paused, his gaze softening. “A child imprints on whom it loves most. She is a Carden, certainly, but she is becoming yours.”
Another silence. Rose tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Felix watched her hands, their efficiency, the way she never allowed herself to fidget.
They made it halfway through the roast before Rose spoke again. “Has David written?” she asked.
Felix shook his head. “I told him not to.”
“Why?” The question was gentle, but the undertone was sharp. She was testing for weakness, and he felt it.
He sipped his wine. “There’s nothing to say.”
Rose considered. “He wrote me a note, weeks ago. To ask after Lizzie. He is very fond of her.”
“He always has been.” Felix stared at his plate, picking at the edge of the meat with his knife. “He’s fond of you, too.”
Rose was silent for a long time. At last, she said, “I’m sorry if you feel?—”
