“Did you?” Her smile warmed. “Then come show me.”
Henry darted inside.
Marcus followed more slowly.
Lila stepped aside for him, her gaze lifting at once toward the corridor. A brief check. A habit. She masked it, but not enough to miss.
“Fenwick has not returned,” she said quietly.
“Good.”
“But that does not mean he is finished.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened. “I am aware.”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon believes he may present himself as considerate. As though concern for propriety grants him excuse.”
“That man does not understand propriety.”
“No,” Lila said softly. “He understands possession.”
Silence stretched between them, weighted and alert.
Henry’s voice carried from the music room. “Miss Edgewood, I can do the third bar!”
Lila’s shoulders eased. “I should go to him.”
“Miss Edgewood.”
She paused.
“You are not alone in this.”
Her breath caught, visible only in the slight lift of her shoulders. She nodded and moved on.
Marcus took his place by the window.
Lila sat beside Henry, her posture composed, her voice steady. A hand near his wrist, guiding without taking hold. Henry’s notes wavered, corrected, then brightened.
“Float,” she reminded. “Loose wrist. Yes, there.”
She clapped once, softly. “Perfect.”
Henry glowed.
Lila laughed softly, the sound light with relief.
Marcus felt it settle in the room like warmth after a long winter.
She leaned closer to Henry, adjusting the angle of the music.
“Again,” she said.
Henry obliged.
Marcus watched the two of them. The boy’s concentration. Lila’s calm patience. It struck him that she carried the same steadiness she asked of the music. Not force. Balance.
For the first time, Marcus wondered how long she had lived that way.
