She startled once.
“It’s only me,” Mrs. Denning called.
Lila opened the door.
Mrs. Denning held a folded newspaper under her arm. “A letter came for you. Delivered by messenger.”
Lila’s heart jolted.
She accepted the letter.
Plain paper. No seal. No signature.
Fenwick.
Mrs. Denning watched her carefully. “If it is trouble—”
“It is nothing,” Lila said too quickly. “A matter from the Lyon’s Den.”
The older woman’s gaze lingered, then she nodded and withdrew.
Lila closed the door and unfolded the page with unsteady fingers.
One line.
You owe me a conversation.
A thread of cold understanding slid through her chest.
She folded the paper, precise and controlled, then placed it in the bottom drawer. She owed Fenwick nothing.
She pressed her palms to the desk until her breathing slowed. Then she reached for music.
Not because she was calm. Not because she was prepared.
Because music was the one place her thoughts obeyed her.
Wolfton Hall – Later
Henry’s scales drifteddown the corridor.
Marcus listened from the doorway, arms folded, shoulder against the frame.
“Papa,” Henry asked between notes, “will Miss Edgewood be all right?”
Marcus knelt, resting a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “She will. Because she is careful.”
“And because we walk her home?”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “Because we walk her home.”
Henry nodded once. “I will keep the music for her.”
Marcus kissed the top of his head. “I know you will.”
As Henry returned to his scales, Marcus stepped back into the hall.
For the first time in many months, his purpose sharpened.
