Marcus knelt before him and reached for the buttons of his coat.
“You may leave the blanket,” he said quietly.
Henry shook his head once.
Marcus let it be. He had learned which refusals were fear and which were certainty, and this was the latter. Some things were not obstacles but crossings. You went with the child, or you went nowhere at all.
“Very well,” he said. He fastened the last button and smoothed the wool flat. “We’re going to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She’s found someone who may help with your lessons.”
Henry’s brow pinched. “A tutor?”
“A music teacher.”
Henry studied his hands as though the answer might be written there.
Marcus waited. Richard had once called it the quiet method, leaving space until whatever coiled tight inside the boy loosened on its own. Marcus had learned that silence, used well, could be a kindness.
After a long moment, Henry whispered, “Do I have to go?”
“No,” Marcus said at once. “But today would be a good day to meet her.”
Henry nodded. The movement was small, but it was there.
Marcus stood and offered his hand. Henry took it immediately, his fingers cold and sure, as though the choice had never truly been in question.
Outside, Grosvenor Square lay washed in pale spring light. Henry blinked against it, never loosening his grip. Marcus adjusted his pace without thinking, matching the boy’s careful steps.
When the carriage arrived, Marcus lifted him inside and sat beside him. The wheels rolled on. Henry leaned just enough to rest against his arm, not clinging, not retreating. Simply there.
A few streets passed before Henry spoke again. “Will she be kind?”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “And patient.”
Henry’s shoulders eased, the smallest release of breath marking the difference.
Cleveland Row came into view. Marcus stepped down first, turned, and helped Henry to the pavement. The boy hesitated, his eyes fixed on the unfamiliar street.
“It’s all right,” Marcus murmured. “I’m with you.”
Henry nodded and followed him inside.
Theseus bowed. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon is expecting you, my lord. And you too, young master.”
They walked the corridor Marcus had crossed alone the day before. Now the space felt altered, measured instead by Henry’s careful breathing at his side.
Bessie met them at her parlor door.
Henry’s grip tightened.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice warm without being loud. “Master Henry. I’m glad to see you.”
Henry dipped a careful bow. “Good morning, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Something in Marcus’s chest drew tight and then eased.
Bessie opened the door wider. “Miss Edgewood is inside.”
Henry’s breath caught. Marcus rested a steady hand on his shoulder.
