But invisibility could be armor. Being seen was sometimes a privilege. Sometimes a risk.
She returned to the desk and opened her portfolio. Her fingers traced the edges of Henry’s music. The small tune he had drawn in careful notes. The fragile confidence he carried like a flame cupped between his hands.
He would arrive by midmorning, bright and uncertain in equal parts. Wolfton would stand by the window, not trusting himself to sit too near. Lady Hammett would watch for any opening.
And Fenwick—
Her breath tightened.
Fenwick lingered at the edges of the Lyon’s Den more often than she liked. He had a way of turning stillness into pressure. Of smiling as though he knew something she would rather he did not. He wanted to be near her. He wanted her attention. He wanted something she refused to name.
A woman’s room in a boarding house could be undone by a single word placed in the wrong ear.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and straightened the papers on her desk. She would not allow Rosehaven House to become another stage for someone else’s story.
She gathered her music, tied the portfolio closed, and drew in a steady breath.
Today, she would teach Henry. Today, she would keep her composure. Today, she would choose which pieces of herself she allowed others to hear.
And she would not, she vowed silently, let anyone else decide the shape of her life.
Not Fenwick. Not Lady Hammett. Not even the wolf who had looked at her and told her she was not invisible. Certainly not him whose presence unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and stepped back into the corridor as Rosehaven House hummed fully awake.
Morning had come.
And she would meet it on her own terms.
Chapter Twelve
Henry’s hand waswarm in his as they neared Cleveland Row. The morning brightened without warming. Clouds shifted like pale sails overhead, and a restless breeze tugged at the hem of Henry’s coat.
Marcus adjusted his pace without seeming to. Henry did not cling the way he once had, but the signs remained. A lift of the shoulders when a carriage rattled past. The slight inward turn of his elbows when strangers drew too near. The careful hesitation when another pedestrian approached.
They would work through it. One morning at a time.
“You remembered your practice book,” Marcus said, light as he could make it.
Henry patted the small portfolio tucked under his arm. “I kept the notes.”
“So you told me.”
Henry’s mouth curved, pleased with himself. “Do you think I will play two songs again?”
“I think,” Marcus said, “Miss Edgewood will know what you are ready for.”
They reached Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private black door set into pale stone, the brass lion’s head knocker polished to a warning shine. It gleamed like an invitation and a threat in the same breath.
Theseus opened before Marcus lifted his hand.
“Good morning, my lord. Master Henry.” His expression warmed when he saw the boy. “Miss Edgewood is expecting you.”
Henry stepped inside with quiet purpose. Not the rigid caution of their first week, but not yet the careless stride of a boy unburdened. Marcus followed, feeling the familiar shift as the door closed behind them.
The Lyon’s Den held its own temperature. Its own watchfulness.
The music room door stood slightly ajar.
