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She met him without a shred of fear. "Perhaps not. But someone had to make it."

He turned away, unable to bear the sight of her.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

When he spoke again, he did not look at her. "Then I suppose I know not to trust you again."

The words hung between them, unthinkable. He heard her draw a single, trembling breath. He had meant them to wound, and they did, in the way a knife wounds—deep, silent, irreparable.

She did not plead, or weep, or ask him to take them back. She stood straight, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and dignified. "Very well, Your Grace."

She turned and left, closing the door without a sound.

Julian collapsed into the desk chair. He pressed his fists to his temples and cursed himself, cursed the world, cursed every word he had just said. He wanted to tear the ledgers in half, burn the house down, destroy something, anything, that was not already lost.

He sat that way for an age, time gone blank, until a memory crashed through the dam he had built inside himself.

They stood in black upon the snowy ground. The churchyard in Inverness was silent but for the sound of crows and the crunch of ice beneath Helena's boots. He had never seen her so thin, or so hollowed. Her eyes, when they looked at him, were empty.

"Are you satisfied?" she said. Her voice broke on the word. "You have buried him in the cold, thousands of miles from home."

"There was no other option," he whispered. "The roads were impassable—he could not be transported⁠—"

"You could have tried," Helena sobbed. "You could have moved heaven and earth, but you left him here, and you left me here. You could not save him, and you would not even bring him home."

She flew at him then, fingers clawing at the lapel of his coat. He caught her wrists, holding them as she beat at him, until at last she collapsed against his chest, fists striking weaker and weaker until she could only weep. "You couldn't protect him! You couldn't protect him, and you refused to bring him home, and you have taken everything from me!"

He tried to speak, but the words died. He could only hold her upright, his own body shaking with the effort of containing what he felt. She tore free, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and spat at the ground between them. "I will never forgive you, Julian. Never. You have ruined this family, and you are not even sorry."

He watched her go, her black dress a wound in the white snow.

The memory dissolved, giving way to the last time he saw her. In the Ravensmere foyer, her bags packed. He had stood on the stairs, a coward, not daring to descend.

"Are you truly leaving?"

"There is nothing left for me in this family," she said, and turned her back on him forever.

Julian found himself at the window, fingers digging into the sash. He stared out at the square, but saw nothing, not even the sky. The world was reduced to noise and sorrow, the only thing left alive inside him the echo of the pain he had just inflicted on Adelaide.

He did not move, even as the light vanished from the window and the sky turned to a bruised, unnatural violet.

* * *

A sharp knock shattered the silence. Julian straightened so violently he nearly overturned the chair.

"Enter," he called, voice breaking.

The door swung wide. Mr. Danvers stepped in, and his usual composure was gone—his hands trembled as he gripped the handle, and his voice pitched higher than normal.

"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace."

Julian barely heard. He scanned past the butler's shoulder, as if Adelaide might be hidden behind him. "What is it?"

Danvers drew a breath, steadying himself. "It is the duchess, sir. She rode out several hours ago. Alone. She did not inform the staff of her destination, nor did she request a groom or companion."

Julian blinked, the meaning of the words draining into him in slow, ugly increments.

Danvers continued. "I thought at first she intended only a brief outing in the park. But the weather has turned, and she has not returned. Her horse was observed near the West Road, heading north."