The hope in Thomas’s eyes flickered and went out. He nodded once—too quickly—and turned back to the soldiers with the mechanical precision of a child who had long since ceased to expect anything.
Miss Weston’s expression did not alter, yet something shifted behind her eyes. Disappointment, perhaps. Or anger. Or something more disquieting—understanding.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said evenly. “We shall not detain you.”
Dominic turned to leave. He had taken no more than three steps down the corridor when her voice halted him.
“Your Grace.”
He stopped, though he did not turn.
There was the faint sound of movement behind him—soft, deliberate. When she spoke again, her voice was lower.
“The boy believes you dislike him.”
Dominic’s hand came to rest against the wall.
“He does not understand absence,” she continued quietly. “He only knows that you are never there, and he has concluded that the fault must lie with him.”
The words struck deep. Dominic stood motionless, unable to move forward or back.
“I do not—” His voice faltered. “I do not dislike him.”
“Then perhaps,” she said, still in that same calm, unwavering tone, “you might consider allowing him to see that. Before it is too late.”
He did not answer. Could not. He walked away instead, his footsteps echoing down the empty corridor, and did not stop until he was safely enclosed within his study.
The whisky decanter stood where he had left it. He poured himself a glass, his hand unsteady.
He believes you dislike him.
He does not understand absence.
Before it is too late.
He drank. The burn did nothing to thaw the cold that gripped his chest.
***
That night, Dominic found himself standing outside Thomas’s room.
He could not have said how he came there. One moment, he had been in his study, watching the fire sink into embers; the next, he was climbing the stairs in darkness, drawn by some impulse he neither trusted nor understood toward the very wing he had avoided for months.
The door to the boy’s room was closed. No light showed beneath it. Thomas would be asleep—ought to be asleep—unaware of the man lingering beyond the threshold, unable to summon the courage to cross it.
Dominic raised his hand. Let it hover there, suspended, without touching the wood.
Beyond that door lay a child who had lost everything. A child who believed himself unwanted. A child who bore William’s name, William’s blood—the only remnant left of a life cut short—and Dominic could not bring himself to turn the handle.
Coward, he thought with sudden bitterness.Pathetic, broken coward.
He had stood in the breach at Badajoz. Had fought in close quarters, steel against steel. Had carried wounded men through fire and smoke and chaos.
And he could not open a door.
His hand fell to his side.
He remained where he was for some time, listening to the quiet, imagining the small figure within—curled beneath the covers, perhaps dreaming of faces that would never return.
