Richard took the opposite chair. “Tell me.”
Marcus hesitated, not from reluctance, but because the memory felt delicate, as though speaking it aloud might disturb the careful work that had begun. Still, he answered.
“She understands him,” he said. “Not fully. No one can yet. But enough to meet him where he is, rather than where the world insists he ought to be.”
Richard’s expression softened. “And you?”
“I did nothing.”
“You brought him there.”
Marcus glanced toward the hall. “I am afraid of hoping,” he admitted quietly. “I know how easily it can break.”
“Hope does not break,” Richard said. “People do. And they mend.”
Marcus stared into the fire and let the words remain where they fell.
Jameson stood in the doorway. “My lord, Mrs. Dove-Lyon has sent a note. She asks whether tomorrow’s hour should remain the same.”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “Tell Theseus it will.”
Jameson inclined his head and withdrew.
The fire snapped softly. Richard rose. “I will leave you to your thoughts.”
Marcus did not stop him. When silence returned, it no longer pressed. It felt like something settling into place.
After a time, he went upstairs and paused at Henry’s door. The boy slept on, his face relaxed, the blanket rising and falling with each breath. Marcus stepped inside and sat beside him.
He touched the worn fabric of the woolen dog, remembering the day Grace had stitched it, laughing when she admitted theears had come out uneven. Henry had carried it everywhere since.
She would have known what to do.
Marcus drew a careful breath.
He could not be Grace. But he could be present. He could learn. He could try.
He crossed once more to the window. Afternoon had slipped into early dusk. Lamps along Grosvenor Square began to glow, their soft light catching on iron railings and bare branches.
Henry shifted and settled again.
Marcus watched the square until the last of the light faded. Then he stepped away and drew the door partway closed as he left. Not shut. Never shut. Just enough to let a small boy breathe easily in the dark, and enough for a father to hear him if he called.
Marcus descended the stairs with a different certainty in his step.
Chapter Six
Lila stepped outof the Lyon’s Den and pulled the door closed behind her.
The afternoon light had softened while she had been inside. Covent Garden moved around her in its usual, indifferent rhythm. Carriages rolled past the square. A flower seller called half-heartedly to passing couples. Somewhere down the street, a violinist scraped through a lively reel that did not quite manage cheer.
Lila paused on the pavement long enough to settle her gloves.
“Steady,” she murmured to herself, though whether the instruction was meant for Henry or for her own thoughts she could not say.
She started toward the corner, keeping a measured pace.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s establishment disappeared behind her quickly, the blue-washed brick blending again into the crowded row of shopfronts and lodging houses. A young messenger boy darted across the street carrying a parcel twice the size of his chest. He nearly collided with her.
