“Oh yes, yes of course,” Mrs. Hammett replied, allowing herself to be maneuvered.
Just before she disappeared, she cast one last glance over her shoulder, her eyes bright with interest.
Then she was gone, and the quiet of the room returned.
Henry slipped his hand into Lila’s.
She glanced up for only a moment.
Marcus was watching the boy with an expression she had not expected to see on the face of the man London still called Wolf.
Unprotected warmth.
The look unsettled her more than gossip ever could.
“Miss Edgewood,” he whispered, “may I practice again later?”
Her smile softened. “You may.”
Marcus watched her, not the music, not the lesson, but the way she steadied Henry without drawing attention to herself. The way her hand rested lightly at his shoulder, never claiming credit for what the boy was learning to do on his own.
It struck Marcus that this, too, was courage.
Chapter Nine
Henry’s small handfit into Marcus’s as they walked the short distance home, the boy’s steps lighter than they had been in weeks. The late-morning air carried a soft warmth, enough to draw Henry closer to Marcus’s side. Marcus slowed without thinking, matching his pace.
“You weren’t too tired after all,” Marcus said.
Henry shook his head. “I liked being out. And the music shop.” He glanced up, tentative but hopeful. “They didn’t mind that I asked questions.”
Marcus felt the familiar tightening in his chest and let it pass.
“People who mind questions,” he said quietly, “are not worth asking.”
Henry considered that, storing it away with the care he brought to new melodies. After a moment, he said, “Miss Edgewood never minds. She always answers them.”
Marcus let the name settle between them. Henry spoke it with a certainty Marcus did not yet trust himself to share. He looked down and found Henry studying him with the same focused attention he brought to unfamiliar music.
“Are we going to see her again?” Henry asked.
Marcus exhaled. There it was, the question he had anticipated and still felt unprepared to meet.
“We will,” he said. “But not every day.”
Henry nodded, accepting the boundary without pressing it.
They crossed the lane as Wolfton Hall came into view, sunlight stretching clean lines across the stone façade. Henry’s grip tightened, just slightly.
“Are you cold?” Marcus asked.
“No,” Henry murmured. “Just… thinking.”
Marcus squeezed his hand, not reassurance exactly, but acknowledgment. Henry leaned into him the way he once had, before everything had fractured.
Inside, the house gathered them in. Not silent, but quietly expectant. Mrs. Pritchard stood in the corridor, her expression softening at the sight of Henry’s relaxed shoulders.
“Good day, my lord. Young master,” she said. “Did you enjoy your outing?”
